A General Theory of Oblivion by José Eduardo Agualusa Page B

determination of the spirit. Baiacu had earned himself some money by making Diogo sing and dance
kuduru
outside the big hotels. The foreigners used to be fascinated. They would leave generous tips. One Portuguese journalist wrote a small article about the
kudurista
, which included a photograph of Diogo, hisarms around Baiacu. Baiacu always carried a cutting of the article in his back pocket. He looked proud:
    “I’m a street businessman.”
    Sabalu started out by washing cars. He would hand the money over to Baiacu. The street businessman bought food for everyone. For himself he also bought cigarettes and beer. Sometimes he used to drink too much. He’d become a talker. He would philosophize:
    “The truth is the soleless shoe of a man who doesn’t know how to lie.”
    He became easily irritated. On one occasion, Diogo allowed some other boys to steal a small battery-powered radio that Baiacu had managed to extract from the backseat of a jeep that was stuck in traffic. That night Baiacu lit a fire by the side of the lagoon. He heated up a sheet of iron till it was red-hot. He called Diogo over, grabbed one of his hands, and held it to the metal plate. Both Diogo’s bodies twisted desperately. Both his mouths gave a high-pitched howl. Sabalu threw up, tortured by the smell of burned flesh and Diogo’s desperation.
    “You’re weak,” spat Baiacu. “You’ll never be king.”
    From that day on, to make Sabalu a man, at least a man since he’d never be able to transform him into a king, he started taking him along on short pilfering expeditions. These would happen in the late afternoons, when the bourgeois were heading home in their cars, languishing in traffic jams for hours on end. There was always some poor soul who’d roll down a window, either to let in some air, because the air-conditioning wasn’t working, or to ask someone a question. Then Baiacu would spring out of the shadows, his face spiked with pimples, his wide eyes aflame, and hold a shard of glass to his neck. Sabaluwould stick his hands through the window and take a wallet, a watch, any object of value within his reach. Then the two of them would race away into the confusion of cars and people shouting threats and the fury of car horns, occasionally gunshots.
    It had been Baiacu’s idea to climb the scaffolding. He instructed Sabalu:
    “You climb up, see if there’s a window open anywhere, and get in without making noise. I can’t do it. Heights make me really sick. Also the higher I go the shorter I feel.”
    Sabalu climbed up onto the terrace. He saw the dead chickens. He walked down the stairs and discovered an apartment that was stripped to the bone, without furniture, without doors or flooring. The walls, which were covered in inscriptions and strange drawings, scared him. He backed slowly toward the staircase. He told Baiacu there was nothing there. The next night, however, he climbed the scaffolding again. This time he ventured across the few remaining floor tiles. In the bedroom he found the old woman sleeping on a mattress. Clothes in one corner. The kitchen was the only place in the house that looked normal, apart from its walls that had been blackened by smoke. There was a heavy-looking table, marble-topped, an oven and fridge. The boy took out a bread roll that he’d brought in his pocket, he always had a bread roll in his pocket, and put it on the table. In a drawer he found a set of silver cutlery. He put it in his rucksack and left. He handed the cutlery over to Baiacu. The boy was impressed, and whistled:
    “Good work, kid. You didn’t find any dough, any jewels?”
    Sabalu said no. There was more poverty up there than down here on the streets of Luanda. Baiacu didn’t agree.
    “You’re going back tomorrow.”
    Sabalu just nodded. He asked for money to buy some bread. He put the bread, a stick of butter, and a bottle of Coke into his rucksack and scaled the building. When Baiacu saw him coming back empty-handed, he exploded.