David Machado

The commandant's twice-lived night

As he opened the door to the block of flats, he came face to face with

the gloomy shadows on the stairway and shivered with fear. Swiftly, he

reached behind his back for the place in his belt where many years before

he used to keep the revolver they had given him in Moscow. Finding

it empty, he struggled for breath, sure now they were going to kill him.

He groped his way along the walls and tried the light switch several

times before realizing it was not working. Then, summoning up the old

guerrillero’s instinct, he kept quite still, controlled his breathing and

peered fearlessly into the darkness. He coughed twice and shouted so

that he could be heard all over the building:

 

I won’t see you kill me, you bastards. But you won’t see me die either.

 

He moved forward, one arm protecting his face, the other hand raised in

a fist, ready for an enemy to appear in front of him. Taking the steps one

at a time, as if each were the last, he climbed slowly up to the secondfloor

landing and banged on the door with the flat of his hand, in a sudden

attack of rage. The door was locked, just as he had left it the day before.

As the darkness and silence began to tighten like a vice around his chest,

somewhere, deep inside himself, he found the courage to fit the key into

the lock and turn it. He opened the door, went in, closed it behind him,

and paused, staring into the darkness, waiting for the first shot from the

past to tear into his flesh. He stood motionless for a couple of minutes

but as nothing happened, he dropped the keys onto the table, took his

coat off, threw it onto the back of a chair and, without bothering to switch

on the lights, crossed the corridor to the living room and slumped into an

armchair covered with tribal rugs, blustering disdainfully:

 

I’ll be here all night. You can come and get me any time you want.

His name was António Ferraz and he was a nurse at the San José

Hospital. Because of successive shifts he had had no sleep for over

thirty-six hours. And, as it happened, there was no one there to kill him.

He was so exhausted that he no longer knew whether it was morning

or afternoon and had no recollection of walking home over the hills, nor

of the fierce luminosity of nightfall at eight o’clock, which was the time

when he reached Bairro Alto, where he lived, and also the time when

he emerged from his lethargic state. In fact, there were reasons for him

to be on his guard long before he opened the door of the building and

confronted the foreboding darkness of the stairway. For as he crossed

the narrow streets of the still quiet quarter, he remarked upon the rows

of black soldiers saluting him solemnly from the other side of his remote

anxiety. And at one point, an unshaven officer with eyes like frosted glass

came up to him and said: ‘Commandant, we’re moving out into the bush

as soon as the moon rises.’ He said nothing and signalled with his hand

that he did not want to be bothered again for the rest of his life.

 

Sitting at home in the armchair, trying to blot out his memories with

the help of menthol cigarettes, he heard the soldiers set off on their

march northwards, then a choir of voices singing a rebita, and finally the

same officer calling out to him from the scrub at the edge of the jungle

‘Goodbye Commandant, we’ll meet you on the northern bank of the river,

in two days’ time.’ And then he listened to the impossible silence of the

African hills, on whose slopes the blood of the last battle still flowed. Until

the telephone rang, in Lisbon.

 

It was his mother’s voice at the other end and he realized with a start that

it was already Sunday, the day she always called. She explained to him

that it was not Sunday and that at eighty-two, she did not need a special

day of the week to talk to the only creature in the world who was close to

her. António said nothing else and waited. His mother took a deep breath

and then told him she had been feeling bitterly upset, without knowing

why, since first thing that morning and anxious, for some reason, to talk

to him. Prey to her fertile imagination, her thoughts had been wandering

to and fro, bobbing up and down on a sea of palpitations, certain that

something awful was about to happen. Finally, it dawned upon her that

the dreadful thing that was about to happen had already happened and

that the turmoil she felt inside herself was no more than a distant echo of

times gone by.

It’ll be twenty-three years, tomorrow morning, since you called me in tears

– she said – You were in Angola, lost in the middle of the war and me here

in Coimbra, just the same as always, unable to help you. First I thought

you’d been wounded, but soon afterwards I remembered I hadn’t heard

you cry since you were two and I understood it had been something more

serious than a gunshot wound.

 

She paused, waiting for her son to say something, but António remained

silent and she started again.

 

It’s just a memory, I know, she said – But take care of yourself anyway.

 

Laconically, he said goodbye to his mother and put the telephone down.

And at that very instant, he saw Captain Elias Vieira emerging from the

shadows of the room, face covered in sweat, his arm in a sling because

of the piece of shrapnel from the landmine that had almost killed him;

chewing on the same lump of tobacco as he had thirty years before. He

crossed the floor, limping on his left leg, just as António Ferraz had always

known him to do and tripping over everything in his path, with a look of

astonishment on his face at finding a living room set up in the midst of the

Angolan plateau. Even in the dark, it was impossible to mistake him for

someone else.

 

They had known each other since Elias was still a slave on the farm

which belonged to António’s father and they became friends one

afternoon when he was sentenced to fifteen lashes by the headman

for handing out revolutionary propaganda to the other slaves. At that

time António Ferraz’s innocence prevented him from distinguishing the

rebels from other people except by the colour of their skin, but, even

so, the punishment seemed to be too much for one man and he had

stepped in to defend him and a few days later the black man showed his

gratitude by leaving two books outside his room that changed his life:

Karl Marx’s Capital and a collection of Lenin’s speeches. Several years

later, when António Ferraz returned to Luanda after spending some time

as a volunteer in the Soviet Union – where he learned to fly and was

taught the more sophisticated aspects of the art of setting up a revolution

– he bumped into Elias Vieira, and the first thing he said was: ‘I’m back,

comrade, the whip is about to change hands.’ Elias Vieira turned a blind

eye to the light-coloured skin of his former boss, set aside four centuries

of tyranny and took him on campaign through jungles from one end of

the country to the other. Everywhere they went he was introduced to the

soldiers as Commandant Ferraz, just back from Moscow with a doctorate

in military operations and a proper grounding in the original communist

doctrine. From then on Elias became his right-hand man, his most loyal

protector on the battlefield and, at times, a steadfast confidant. Until the

day of the Commandant’s surreptitious and solitary desertion. Because

after that they had never met again, except in dreams.

 

It’s not time for us to sit down yet, Commandant – said the Captain Elias

Vieira he had involuntarily summoned – There are only four of us here and

the two of us have the first watch tonight.

 

António Ferraz lit up another menthol cigarette and glanced at his old

friend.

 

I was on duty at the hospital for forty hours – he snapped – And I haven’t

set foot in Africa for twenty years. I want peace.

 

And what are we going to do about this war, then, Commandant?

 

What war, Elias? The war’s over.

 

The captain stirred amongst the shadows of the room and crouched

down next to António Ferraz, with a smile on his face.

 

Commandant, you know perfectly well that this war goes on for ever – he

said. And then he added calmly: I’ll be waiting for you behind the bluff.

Don’t forget your weapon.

 

Then he rose and disappeared into the mists of the corridor. It was almost

ten o’clock and António Ferraz turned in the armchair to try to catch up

on some sleep, knowing quite well, however, that he would not succeed,

for although it had rained all day on the plateau, the evening air was

becoming warm and thick like a woollen blanket and the mosquitoes

had started biting mercilessly. Far away, down towards the kitchen, he

heard the gravelly voices of two soldiers who were eating their dinner.

The strong smell of boiled chickpeas and the sweetish fumes of brandy

brought some cheer to him. He felt an urgent need to get up from the

chair and join them round the fire, but he waved the impulse away with his

hand. He knew them both well. Their names were Inácio Montenegro and

Zeca Baião; they were from Benguela and had joined the guerrilla group

three months before. A year later, during the last battle he fought before

escaping through the jungle to the Congo, he would see them die, not far

from each other, killed by two deadly enemy shots.

 

Yet he heard them quite clearly, talking in the kitchen as they ate and later

on he heard them tuning up their guitars and playing isolated chords until

finally even he was unable to resist that crazy nostalgia any longer and he

called out:

 

Zeca!

 

Yes, Commandant.

 

Play one by Sofia Rosa.

 

And they played. And Commandant António Ferraz finally relaxed, if only

for a few moments. He dreamed of the patients at the hospital, coming in

through one door alive and leaving by another dead, until round midnight,

shaken gently by Captain Elias Vieira’s hand, he awoke from the soothing

effects of the endless song.

 

Three soldiers have arrived with one prisoner, Commandant, the captain

told him.

 

António Ferraz looked at the other man across time and answered from

the depths of his disturbed soul.

 

The prisoner here is me – he said – Leave me in peace.

 

Captain Elias Vieira explained that there was nothing else he would rather

do than leave him in peace, but there was nothing to be done because

the orders had come directly from the President and it was urgent to carry

them out. The message that had come with the prisoner was so short and

clear that António Ferraz would remember it for the rest of his life: with

no other justification but the President’s signature, the prisoner was to

be shot at dawn. The captain was about to say the name of the man who

had been brought there to die, but the Commandant stopped him in time.

 

I forbid you to say the name of that man again – he shouted – I’ve known

it for twenty years.

 

Very well, Commandant. But there’s still the other business.

 

Then António Ferraz stretched out his arm and switched on the lamp on

the small table next to the armchair, a pale light spread around the room,

and the horizon of the Angolan night glowed brightly. He rose to his feet,

carrying one of the tribal rugs from the armchair to protect himself from

the invincible winds of the plateau. He took a step forward so his eyes

were only a hand’s breadth away from Captain Elias Vieira’s face.

 

There is no other business – he said with a deep sigh. I know what you’re

going to say next, and I’m telling you now that when it’s six forty-two in

the morning, I will not fire another shot into the head of that poor bastard

who has already died once.

 

Captain Elias Vieira placed his hand on the Commandant’s shoulder and

squeezed it with affection.

 

I know how hard it is, Commandant – he replied – But there’s no one else.

 

António Ferraz knew as well as the captain that there was no one else.

The three men who had brought the prisoner were going to eat what

remained of the boiled chickpeas from dinner and then return to the town

on the other side of the valley; Inácio Montenegro and Zeca Baião were

too wet behind the ears to be given those ghastly orders; and Captain

Elias Vieira’s wounded hand prevented him from firing a weapon with the

grim accuracy that the task required. It was not the first time he had killed

a man; he had taken part in enough battles to know that at least one of

the bullets he had fired must have hit someone. But it was the first time

he had killed a defenceless man. He remembered the rosary of prayers

about the revolution he had learned in Moscow so many years ago, and

felt his heart palpitating as he recalled the recommendations regarding

the execution of traitors, enemy targets and other obstacles to the

implantation of the doctrine.

Above all, what he could not understand was why they were making him

kill the same man again, twenty-three years later, rather than leaving him

alone in peace with what life still remained to him.

 

He sat down in the armchair again, wrapped the rug around himself and

switched off the feeble light of the table-lamp. In the darkness of the room

he searched for the peace he had lost, but found only the catastrophic

turmoil of his memories. He repeated the same lament:

 

Leave me in peace, Elias – he pleaded – I’m drifting around on this

choppy sea and the only thing I want is to get to dry land. Let me sleep

today’s night, without memories of nights gone by.

 

Captain Elias Vieira’s face appeared out of the gloom like a sorry angel.

 

I’d like that, António – he said – But we both know that you need to die to

be still.

 

Then he disappeared once again into the shadows of the room, but

António Ferraz heard him add some useless advice: ‘Rest until dawn,

Commandant. I’ll do the watch by myself.’

 

The Commandant lit another cigarette, though he knew, deep down, that

not even the sweet taste of menthol would be enough to lay the ghosts

of the past, much less the certainty of what was going to happen in the

first minutes of the morning. He spent the next few hours trying in vain

to fall asleep, for every second was disturbed by the invisible sounds of

the jungle, the distant thunder of the sky, or the noisy laughter of Inácio

Montenegro and Zeca Baião. At three in the morning he saw a wild dog

pass by in the shadows between the television and the wall, and soon

afterwards clearly heard the voice of the prisoner reciting verses by

Arlindo Barbeitos to the clouds over the plateau. He was about to say the

final lines, himself, but realized that to do so would be to admit defeat

to his disturbed recollections of that distant day. He got to his feet and

shouted:

 

You can all stay there in the middle of the war. This time I am going to

desert sooner.

 

He wandered around the apartment as if he did not recognize where he

was, searching for a way out from that Angola of the past, but soon he

realized that the doors were closed for good, until the following day. So he

made his way to the bathroom, where the prisoner was finding solace in

the words of the poet, determined to knock it down and free the man who

had already died once, so that he would not have to take his life again.

Finding him in this state of restless anxiety, Captain Elias Vieira put his

arm around him to calm him so that he could sleep, and from the depths

of exasperation he answered that there was nothing he wanted more

but the shot he was going to fire in a few hours time prevented him. The

captain guided him carefully through the darkness, between the rocks of

the plateau and the English-style furniture he had inherited from his uncle,

sat him down again in the armchair and handed him the bottle of brandy

which used to keep him company when he was on watch, so that he

could recover from his torment. The Commandant drank without protest,

feeling the same burning sensation in his throat he used to feel back in

the old days, and pleaded once again:

 

Leave me in peace, comrade. Please.

 

The Captain nodded, got up and limped away into the darkness.

 

I’ll wake you up when it’s time – he said, before disappearing into thin air.

 

António Ferraz sat motionless in the African night of his apartment,

struggling with his disturbed thoughts.

 

He was sitting in the same position, still awake, when at about six in the

morning, Captain Elias Vieira appeared with a mug of coffee and a piece

of dry bread. He took a small bite of the bread, two sips of coffee and

then inconsolably threw the rest onto the beaten earth and boards below

his feet. When he handed the empty mug back to the captain, he was

given the revolver in exchange, the same one he had been presented with

in the Soviet capital, held up in both hands as if it were a thousand-yearold

museum piece. He looked at the gun and felt suddenly afraid. But he

picked it up nevertheless and rested it on his lap.

 

It’s time, Commandant, the captain declared.

 

He looked at his old friend, too exhausted to continue struggling against

this irresistible duplication of destiny and stood up with the revolver

hanging loosely from his hand.

 

Let’s go, he said. And moved forward in the darkness, followed by the

captain.

 

Zeca Baião was waiting for them at the bathroom door, still dazed by the

abruptness of the wake-up call, his stiff body position conveying a certain

solemnness. As soon as he set eyes on him the Commandant put an end

to any illusions he might have been harbouring.

 

There’s no reason to stand there like that, as if you were a minister, he

said – what’s going to happen here is the affair of hyenas. Open the door.

 

The soldier said nothing, lowered his eyes, took the rusty key out of his

pocket and used it to open the door. He freed the bolt from the chains

and left the door wide open. Inside, the darkness was blacker still and

the prisoner’s presence could only be perceived by the sound of his voice

murmuring Barbeitos’ verses to the tiles. Zeca Baião went in. And a few

seconds later came out with a black man, well over six feet tall, his hands

tied, bleeding from the brow. No one said a word and Captain Elias Vieira

signalled for them to follow him, at the same time as the first rays of the

new sun began to fill the plateau. They walked for about thirty yards and

then stopped. The captain forced the prisoner to kneel on the ground.

And on this side of time, harassed on every side by the onslaught of his

memories, Commandant António Ferraz pointed his revolver at the man’s

right temple and killed him, for the second time in his life, with the shot

that would destroy himself.

 

Then he sat down, trembling, in the armchair covered with tribal rugs in

his living room in Lisbon, picked up the telephone and dialled his mother’s

number, in Coimbra. The tears were running down his cheeks.