A General Theory of Oblivion

SOLDIERS WITHOUT FORTUNE

The two men were struggling to hide their nerves. They had thin beards and long, dishevelled hair. They wore brightly coloured shirts, bell-bottomed trousers and jackboots. Benjamin, the younger one, was whistling loudly as he drove. Jeremias — Carrasco — was sitting beside him, chewing on a cigar. They passed flatbed trucks transporting soldiers. The lads waved to them, drowsily, making a V for victory. The two men responded the same way.

‘Cubans!’ growled Jeremias. ‘Damn communists.’

They parked the car outside the Prédio dos Invejados and got out. A beggar was blocking the entrance.

‘Morning, comrades.’

‘And what the hell do you want?’ Jeremias scolded him. ‘You’ve come to the white men to ask for money? Those days are over. In an independent Angola, at the front line of socialism in Africa, there’s no place for beggars. Beggars get their heads cut off.’

He shoved him aside and went into the building. Benjamin followed. They called the elevator and rode it up to the eleventh floor. They found themselves, to their surprise, stopped short by the recently built wall.

‘What the hell? This country’s gone mad!’

‘Is this really the place? Are you sure?’

‘You’re asking me if I’m sure?’ Jeremias smiled. He pointed at the door opposite. ‘Here, in Eleven-E, this is where Ritinha lived. Best legs in Luanda. Finest ass. You’re lucky you never met Ritinha. Any man who met her could never look at another woman without a vague feeling of disappointment and bitterness. Like the African sky. If they make me leave this place, God, where would I go?’

‘I understand, captain. What should we do?’

‘We’ll fetch a pickaxe and break through the wall.’

They returned to the elevator and went back down. The beggar was waiting for them, accompanied by five armed men.

‘Those are the ones, comrade Monte.’

The man called Monte stepped forward. He addressed Jeremias in a voice that was certain, powerful, that contrasted with the leanness of his body:

‘Would you mind rolling up the sleeve of your shirt, comrade? Yes, your right shirtsleeve. I want to see your wrist …’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘Because I’m asking you nicely, all polite like a perfumer.’

Jeremias laughed. He pulled back his shirtsleeve to reveal a tattoo: Audaces Fortuna Juvat.

‘You wanted to see this?’

‘Just that, captain. Seems your luck has run out. Also, I do feel that two white men out on the street wearing Portuguese army boots in these troubled times seems a little too bold.’

He turned to two of the armed men and ordered them to fetch some rope to tie up the Portuguese mercenaries. They bound their hands behind their backs and pushed them into a very beaten-up Toyota Corolla. One of the men rode shotgun. Monte was at the wheel. The others followed behind in a military jeep. Benjamin dropped his head between his knees, unable to hold back the tears. Jeremias was annoyed, and nudged him with his shoulder:

‘Take it easy. You’re a Portuguese soldier.’

Monte butted in:

‘Leave the kid alone. You shouldn’t have brought him to our country. As for you, sir, you are no more than a whore in the pay of American imperialism. You ought to be ashamed.’

‘And what about the Cubans? Aren’t they mercenaries, too?’

‘Our Cuban companions didn’t come to Angola for the money. They came because of their convictions.’

‘And I stayed in Angola because of my convictions. I’m fighting for Western civilisation, against Soviet imperialism. I’m fighting for Portugal’s survival.’

‘Bullshit. I don’t believe that. You don’t believe that, even your mother wouldn’t believe that. Talking of which, what were you doing in Rita’s building?’

‘Wait, you know Rita?’

‘Rita Costa Reis? Ritinha? Great legs. Best legs in Luanda.’

They chatted happily about Angolan women. Jeremias did fancy the Luandan ones, however, he added, there wasn’t a woman in the world who could match the mulatta women of Benguela. Then Monte recalled Riquita Bauleth, born into one of the oldest families in Moçâmedes, named Miss Portugal in 1971. Jeremias concurred. Yes, Riquita — he would give his life just to be able to wake up one morning in the light of those dark eyes. The man sitting beside Monte interrupted the conversation:

‘This is the place, commander. We’re here.’

They had left the city behind. A high wall marked out a wide, open area. Baobab trees at the far end, and then a spotless blue horizon. They got out of the car. Monte untied the two mercenaries. He straightened up.

‘Captain Jeremias Carrasco … Carrasco, as in “executioner”? Well, I’m assuming that’s got to be a nickname … You are guilty of countless atrocities. You tortured and murdered dozens of Angolan nationalists. Some of our comrades would like to see you in a courtroom. But I don’t think we ought to be wasting our time with trials. The people have found you guilty already.’

Jeremias smiled.

‘The people? Bullshit. I don’t believe that. You don’t believe that, even your mother wouldn’t believe that. Let us go free and I’ll give you a fistful of diamonds. Good stones. You can leave this place and make a new life anywhere else. You’ll be able to get any woman you want.’

‘Thank you. I have no intention of leaving, and the only woman I want I’ve got at home. Have a good journey, and enjoy yourself where you’re going …’

Monte walked over to the car. The soldiers pushed the Portuguese men up against the wall. They took a few steps back. One of them pulled a pistol from his belt, and in a movement that was almost absent-minded, almost annoyed, he pointed it and fired three times. Jeremias Carrasco was lying on his back. He saw the birds flying high in the sky. He noticed an inscription in red ink on the bloodstained, bullet-pocked wall:

The struggle continues.