THE REBEL AERIAL

In the first months of her isolation, Ludo only rarely went without the security of her umbrella when she visited the terrace. Later, she began using a long cardboard box, in which she had cut two holes at eye level for looking through, and two others to the sides, lower down, to keep her arms free. Thus equipped, she could work on the flowerbeds, planting, picking, weeding. From time to time she would lean out over the terrace wall, bitterly studying the submerged city. Anybody looking at the building from another of a similar height would see a large box moving around, leaning out and drawing itself back in again.

Clouds surrounded the city, like jellyfish.

They reminded Ludo of jellyfish.

When people look at clouds they do not see their real shape, which is no shape at all, or maybe every shape, because they are constantly changing. They see whatever it is that their heart yearns for.

You don’t like that word — ‘heart’?

Very well, choose another, then: soul, unconscious, fantasy, whatever you think best. None of them will be quite the right word.

Ludo watched the clouds and she saw jellyfish.

She had got into the habit of talking to herself, saying the same words over and over for hours on end: Chirping. Flocking. Twittering. Hovering. Flight. Chirping. Flocking. Twittering. Hovering. Flight. Chirping. Flocking. Twittering. Hovering. Flight. Chirping. Flocking. Twittering. Hovering. Flight. Chirping. Flocking. Twittering. Hovering. Flight. Good words, which dissolved like chocolate on the roof of her mouth and brought happy memories to mind. She believed that as she said them, as she evoked them, birds would return to the skies of Luanda. It had been years since she’d seen pigeons, seagulls. Not so much as one lost little bird. Night-time brought bats. The flight of bats, however, has nothing to do with the flight of birds. Bats, like jellyfish, are beings of no substance. See a bat streaking across the shadows and you don’t think of it as a thing of flesh, of blood, of concrete bones and heat and sensations. Elusive shapes, quick ghosts amid the ruins, they’re there, now they’re gone. Ludo hated bats. Dogs were rarer than pigeons, and cats rarer than dogs. The cats were the first to disappear. The dogs held out on the city streets for some years. Wild packs of pedigree dogs. Gangly greyhounds, heavy asthmatic mastiffs, demented Dalmatians, disappointed pointers, and then, for another two or three years, the unlikely and despicable mixing of these many and once-so-noble pedigrees.

Ludo sighed. She sat down facing the window. From there she could see only the sky. Low, dark clouds, and remnants of a blue almost completely defeated by the darkness. She remembered Che Guevara. She had grown used to seeing him, gliding along the walls, running across patios and rooftops, seeking refuge in the highest branches of the enormous mulemba tree. It had done her good to see him. They were closely related beings, both of them mistakes, foreign bodies in the exultant organism of this city. People had thrown stones at the monkey. Others would throw poisoned fruit. The animal avoided it. He would sniff at the fruit and then move away with an expression of disgust. Shifting position slightly, Ludo could look at the satellite dishes. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of them, covering the rooftops of the buildings like a fungus. For a long time she had seen all of them turned towards the north. All of them, except one — the rebel aerial. Another mistake. She used to think she wouldn’t die as long as that aerial kept its back to its companions. As long as Che Guevara survived, she wouldn’t die. It had been more than two weeks, however, since she’d last seen the monkey, and in the early hours of that morning, as she first glanced out over the rooftops, she saw the aerial turned northward — like the others. A darkness, thick and burbling, like a river, spilled down over the windowpanes. Suddenly a great flash lit everything up, and the woman saw her own shadow thrown against the wall. The thunderclap reverberated a second later. She shut her eyes. If she died here, like this, in a lucid moment, while out there the sky was dancing, triumphant and free, that would be good. Decades would go by before anyone found her. She thought about Aveiro, and realised that she had stopped feeling Portuguese. She didn’t belong to anywhere. Over there, where she had been born, it was cold. She could see them again, the narrow streets, people walking, heads down against the wind and their own weariness. Nobody was waiting for her.

She knew, even before opening her eyes, that the storm was moving off. The sky was clearing. A ray of sunlight warmed her face. From up on the terrace she heard a whine, a weak complaint. Phantom, stretched out at her feet, leapt up, ran across the apartment to the living room, ran up the spiral staircase, tripping over himself, and disappeared. Ludo raced after him. The dog had cornered the monkey against the banana tree, and he was growling, nervous, head down. Ludo grabbed him by the collar, firmly, pulling him towards her. The German Shepherd resisted. He made as if to bite her. The woman smacked him on the nose with her left hand, again and again. Finally, Phantom gave in. He let himself be dragged away. She tied him up in the kitchen, shut the door and returned to the terrace. Che Guevara was still there, watching her with light, wondering eyes. She had never even seen such an intensely human look in the eyes of any man. On his right leg she could see a gash that was deep and clean, that looked like it had been made just moments earlier by a machete blow. The blood was mixing with rainwater.

Ludo peeled a banana, which she had brought from the kitchen, and held her arm out. The monkey leaned forward, sticking out his muzzle. He shook his head, in a gesture that might have indicated pain, or distrust. The woman called sweetly to him:

‘Come on now, come on little one. Come, I’ll look after you.’

The animal approached, dragging his leg, crying sadly. Ludo let go of the banana and grabbed him by the neck. With her left hand she drew the knife she had at her waist and buried it in the lean flesh. Che Guevara gave a cry, broke free, the blade stuck in his belly, and with two big jumps he reached the wall. He stopped there, leaning against the wall, wailing, spattering blood. The woman sat down on the floor, exhausted. She, too, was crying. They stayed like that a long while, the two of them, looking at each other, until it started raining again. Then Ludo got up, walked over to the monkey, pulled out the knife and slit his throat.

In the morning, as she salted the meat, Ludo noticed that the rebel aerial was once again turned towards the south.

That aerial, and three others.

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