Another Day of Life (9 page)

Zero hour: Sunday, October 19.

On Sundays, as I mentioned, the country is immersed in a state of nonexistence and manifests no signs of life. Today, however, informed by an incomprehensible presentiment, Comandante Farrusco has been hunting his driver Antonio since morning and in the end Antonio has appeared on his own, sleepy and unconscious with exhaustion. Farrusco orders him to get behind the wheel and in the same red Toyota jeep that I returned from Pereira d’Eça in, they drive along the road through the bush. A while later they spot something in the rays of the sun that could almost be a phantom but quickly materializes and assumes the shape of a drawn-out column of armored vehicles above which hovers a bulging, nearly motionless helicopter. Another moment and the nervous rattling of machine guns rings out. Farrusco is badly wounded, shot through the lungs. Antonio is hit in the leg but remains conscious. He backs up and rushes in the opposite direction with his severely wounded commander.

The column moves forward toward Pereira d’Eça. The soldiers ride hidden inside the vehicles, but it must be hot and stuffy for them because—contrary to orders—here and there, in more and more of the armored personnel carriers, the hatch opens and a young, tanned face appears.

And in Luanda? What can you do on Sunday in our abandoned city, upon which—as it turns out—sentence has already been passed? You can sleep until noon.

You can turn on the faucet to check—ha!—just in case there is water.

You can stand before the mirror, thinking: so many gray hairs in my beard already.

You can sit in front of a plate on which lies a piece of disgusting fish and a spoonful of cold rice.

You can walk, sweating from weakness and effort, up the Rua Luis de Camões, toward the airport or down toward the bay.

And yet that’s not all—you can go to the movies, too! That’s right, because we still have a movie theater, only one in fact, but it is panoramic and in the open air and, to top it off, free. The theater lies in the northern part of town, near the front. The owner fled to Lisbon but the projectionist remained behind, and so did a print of the famous porno film
Emmanuelle.
The projectionist shows it uninterrupted, over and over, gratis, free for everyone, and crowds of kids rush in, and soldiers who have got away from the front, and there’s always a full house, a crush, and an uproar and indescribable bellowing. To enhance the effect, the projectionist stops the action at the hottest moments. The girl is naked— stop. He has her in the airplane—stop. She has her by the river—stop. The old man has her—stop. The boxer has her—stop. If he has her in an absurd position—laughter and bravos from the audience. If he has her in a position of exaggerated sophistication, the audience falls silent and analyzes. There’s so much merriment and hubbub that it is hard to hear the distant, heavy echoes of artillery on the nearby front. And of course there is no way—not because of
Emmanuelle,
but the great distance—to hear the roaring motors of the armored column moving along the road.

“When the dawn breaks, to Thee, O Lord, the earth sings.” A bad sign—Dona Cartagina is singing the Office of Our Lady. Since morning the whole city has been staggering and trembling, and the windowpanes are rattling because the artillery has opened fire all out: boom, boom, bash, whammerjammer, zoom, zoom, and the horizon is full of martial crashing. Holden Roberto has announced that he will enter Luanda today. He’s asked the populace to remain calm. Yesterday his planes dropped leaflets, pictures of Holden with the caption GOD RULES IN HEAVEN HOLDEN RULES ON EARTH.

They must be attacking in great strength, because the firing has not slackened since dawn and it is almost noon. In the city there is panic and nervous running around and shouting. It is fifteen minutes by car to the front line. They may get in. Dona Cartagina wants to hide me in her apartment. She lives near here: Go three blocks and take a right. I’m supposed to go now, and she will show me the way so I’ll know. I’ll be her son, caring for his elderly, ailing mother. And why do you speak such strange Portuguese? they ask. Because I was born in Timor but I ran away from home and went to live in Burma. I served in the Burmese navy and so I speak that language better.

Show us your documents!

I left my documents on the ship, and you know yourselves that all the ships have sailed away.

Dona Cartagina orders me to burn my papers and pack my suitcase but I tell her no, there’s still time, they might not come today.

I call the Cubans; no answer.

I go downstairs, catch Oscar on the run, and ask him what’s going on. He doesn’t know and he’s running. An army truck goes down the street, then another one. Some women with bundles, on the trot. Finally, a patrol appears, looking for the enemy. What enemy? says Felix, as white as the wall. My skin tingles because at that moment I am sitting in front of the telex trying to make contact with Warsaw, but they might think I’m trying to contact Holden Roberto. I have already managed to ring through to the local central and transmit:

3322 TIVOLI AN
OB INT LUANDA AN
ESTIMADO COLEGA, PODE LIGARME COM
POLONIA NUMERO 814251 OK?

But they suddenly disconnect me and I breathe with relief, because one of the patrol has come up to me and wants to see what I have written, but I haven’t written anything yet, so he says, We have to be alert,
camarada,
because the enemy is outside Luanda. Yes,
camarada,
I say, and Felix says, Yes, for sure, that’s clear, and Oscar, suspended in mid-stride, also becomes a yes-man, anything to get them to lower their gun barrels or, better yet, leave.

In the end they moved out and I walked through the empty streets to
Diario de Luanda,
to Queiroz, who always knew a lot. Three people produced the newspaper. It had sixteen pages, of which Queiroz wrote eight each day. He thought they were shorthanded: It takes five people to put out a newspaper. He showed me the headlines that had been sent to the printer: “Everyone to the front! The hour of truth has arrived! We won’t yield an inch!” He told me that the situation was critical, that all the FNLA forces and five battalions from Zaïre and more mercenaries were attacking, and that the MPLA was sending units from the provinces to the battlefield outside Luanda, but there was no transportation and ammunition was running out.

I went back to the hotel and waited for Warsaw. The reception area was full of people who were afraid to spend the night at home and preferred to sit there and wait for whatever came next. The barrages were coming closer and closer and again there were trucks on the street with no lights.

Suddenly the telex lit up and the machine began:

3322 TIVOLI AN
814251 PAP PL

GOOD EVENING WE CANNOT CONNECT TRY EVERY FEW MINUTES BUT DID NOT MAKE CONTACT AND DO NOT KNOW WHY MACHINE KEEPS PRINTING BUSY SIGNAL PLEASE

YES BI BI THERE IS A WAR HERE AND TERRIBLE MESS YESTERDAY SHELL HIT CABLE AND BROKE LINE BUT FIXED TODAY

BI BI IS DUTY EDITOR THERE?

YES MOM MOM
MORAWSKI HERE

HEY ZDZICH LISTEN STORMING OF LUANDA UNDER WAY WE MAY LOSE CONTACT HEAVY ARTILLERY BOMBARDMENT WILL SEND WHAT I HAVE BUT YOU MUST BE PREPARED FOR LOSS OF CONTACT NOW MATERIAL OK???

YES SIR SEND BUT CANT WE DO SOMETHING RE YOUR SECURITY PERHAPS CAN ARRANGE AIRPLANE TO GET YOU OUT

NO TOO LATE EVERYTHING PERHAPS OVER TOMORROW NOBODY KNOWS WHAT WILL HAPPEN HERE WE ARE VERY WEAK ITS BAD BUT NOW MATERIAL AND CHAT LATER BECAUSE IM HOMESICK OK?

OK OK SEND

MOM MOM

(I sent “MOM MOM,” which means “just a moment,” because just then the voice of the MPLA chief of staff, Comandante Xiyetu, came over the radio to announce a general mobilization. I listened to the end and immediately typed:)

LAST MINUTE LUANDA PAP 2310 IN VIEW OF CRITICAL SITUATION WHICH HAS ARISEN IN ANGOLA GENERAL STAFF OF MPLA PEOPLES ARMY HAS ANNOUNCED GENERAL MOBILIZATION OF ALL MEN BETWEEN 18 AND 45 AS OF THURSDAY PM A MOMENT AGO. STAFF COMMUNIQUE STATES THAT ANGOLA HAS NOW BECOME VICTIM OF ARMED AGGRESSION ON WIDE SCALE. ENEMY HAS CAPTURED A RANGE OF IMPORTANT CITIES TODAY AND HIS OFFENSIVE IS CONTINUING. FIGHTING NOW UNDER WAY IN OUTSKIRTS OF LUANDA. SITUATION IS VERY SERIOUS AND STAFF COMMUNIQUE ORDERS ALL PATRIOTS TO TAKE UP ARMS AND GO TO FRONT TO DEFEND COUNTRY END ITEM

MOM MOM

RYSIEK: TELEVISION REQUESTED WE PASS FOLLOWING NOTE TO YOU: ON NOVEMBER 8 WE ARE BROADCASTING PROGRAM ABOUT INTERNAL SITUATION IN ANGOLA AND WE INVITE YOU TO APPEAR. FILM REPORT WOULD BE BEST BUT IT COULD ALSO BE DONE WITH STILLS AND INFORMATION RECORDED ON AUDIO TAPE OR EVEN A WRITTEN REPORT WHICH WOULD BE READ BY SPECIALLY HIRED ACTOR. WARMEST REGARDS.

LISTEN RYSIU I SENT THAT NOTE REALIZING HOW ABSURD IT ALL IS AT THIS MOMENT

DONT WORRY LISTEN TELL CZARNECKI: MICHAL IT IS GETTING VERY BAD HERE. ASSAULT ON LUANDA COULD COME ANY DAY WITH LOSS OF COMMUNICATIONS. THAT IS WHY I WANT TO SET IT UP LIKE THIS: IF YOU CANNOT GET THROUGH TO ME EVENINGS AT AGREED TIME TRY TO CONNECT MORNING OF NEXT DAY AT 7 GMT AND AGAIN AT 20 GMT AND AGAIN NEXT DAY UNTIL WE CONNECT AND GOD GRANTS WE ARE IN TOUCH OK. ARRANGE TO SUSPEND ANY POSSIBLE TRAVEL TO LUANDA UNLESS SOMEBODY IS PLANNING SUICIDE OK? HUGS RYSIEK

YES OK THANKS KEEPING OUR FINGERS CROSSED

THANKS OLD MAN BEST WISHES FROM LUANDA AND IM WAITING TO HEAR FROM YOU TOMORROW AT 20 GMT OK?

TKS GOODNIGHT

I stood up from the machine drenched in sweat but glad to have sent such fresh news, straight off the radio. After midnight I phoned Queiroz. The attack had been held off, but there were a lot of casualties.

At night I go onto the balcony, point the antenna in the direction of the bay, and search for distant stations with my transistor radio. Yes, normal life exists somewhere, and all you have to do is put your ear to the speaker and listen. One hemisphere is snoring and tossing from side to side while the other one is getting up, boiling the milk, shaving, and powdering. And then the other way around. A person wakes up and doesn’t think that the last day of his life could be beginning. A splendid feeling, but already so normal that nobody there pays any attention to it. Hundreds if not thousands of radio stations are working every second and a sea of words is surging into the air. It’s interesting to hear the way the world argues, agitates, and persuades; how it threatens, how it shams and lies; how everybody is right and doesn’t want to hear the other side. Right now the whole world is worried about Angola and here Paris, there London, Cairo, and Tokyo are talking about it. The world contemplates the great spectacle of combat and death, which is difficult for it to imagine in the end, because the image of war is not communicable—not by the pen, or the voice, or the camera. War is a reality only to those stuck in its bloody, dreadful, filthy insides. To others it is pages in a book, pictures on a screen, nothing more. I manipulate the transistor, which goes quiet because the batteries are running down (I won’t get new ones); I listen to what the distant radio stations are saying. Various voices are scattering ideas and suggestions. What to do with Angola? Call an international conference. Send in United Nations troops and let them separate the brawlers there. But who will pay for that, with the inflation we have? So let an all-black army go and the Arabs can pay for it. The Arabs don’t know what to do with money. The best thing would be to call on the Angolans to come to an agreement. Let them sign a ceasefire, let them divvy up the seats of power, let them make it up. Warn them that if they don’t make it up, they won’t get any more money. Make love, not war. A million-strong Cuban army stands on the border of South Africa. There, in the dry bush, among barefoot tribes fleeing in panic, in that place without roads, without lights, without schools, without cities—there, the fate of contemporary civilization is being decided. Give Vorster help; give him the green light. Endow him with moral support!

Great plans, global strategies.

Overseas they don’t know that it all comes down to two people here.

One of them is Ruiz, a congenial and lively Portuguese, the pilot of an old two-engine DC-3, the only plane that the MPLA has in Luanda. The machine was built in 1943; the motors spit gobs of soot, the wings are patched, the tires are bald, the fuselage is full of holes. Only Ruiz knows how to close the door, and it’s not easy for him. He flies this plane day and night; he is in the air around the clock. Ruiz flies to Brazzaville for ammunition, and then to a besieged city in the Angolan borderlands to drop off cartridge boxes and bags of flour and take the serious casualties back to Luanda. If Ruiz doesn’t arrive on time the cities will have to surrender and the wounded will die. In a sense, the fate of the war rests on his shoulders. Ruiz flies around Angola by memory because there are no air controllers; I don’t even know if his plane’s radio works. Often he himself doesn’t know who holds the airport where he is supposed to land. Yesterday it was still in our hands, but today it could belong to the enemy. That’s why he first flies over the airport without landing. Sometimes he recognizes the silhouettes of his acquaintances, so he descends and lands peacefully. Sometimes, however, they start firing on the plane, in which case he turns back and delivers the bad news to Luanda. In this country without transport or communication, Ruiz knows what’s happening on the fronts and which cities belong to whom. He takes off at dawn, makes several trips a day, and returns at midnight. Starved soldiers in Luso, the dying garrison in Novo Redondo, and the cut-off defenders of Quibala are waiting for his plane. Now Luanda, which can’t hold out without ammunition, is waiting. The best place to find him is at the airport, when he is inspecting the motors early in the morning. Trouble with one of the motors could ground the plane and change the course of the war. There are no spare parts, no mechanics. And the plane is needed constantly. In a moment, Ruiz disappears into the cockpit. The propellers rotate, the plane is lost in thick, impenetrable clouds of black smoke and, thumping, rattling, grinding, the decrepit pile of scrap heaves toward takeoff.

The second person on whom everything depends now is Alberto Ribeiro, a short, heavyset thirty-year-old engineer. The northern front stretches near Luanda, along the Bengo River. On the banks of this river stands the pumping station that supplies water to Luanda. If the station is out of action, there is no water in the city. The enemy knows this and constantly bombards it. Sometimes they hit the pumps and they stop working. Luanda can take five days without water, no more. In the tropics people can stand the thirst no longer, and epidemics break out besides. The only person who can repair the pumps is Alberto. Thanks to him, the city has water from time to time; it can exist and defend itself. If Alberto were killed in an automobile accident on the way to the station or hit by a shell, Luanda would have to surrender after a few days.