A General Theory of Oblivion Read Online Free PDF Page B

mercenaries at a distance and had notified her. The nurse drove to the site on her own. One of the men was still alive. A bullet had passed through his chest, on a miraculous, perfect course that hadn’t hit a single vital organ. A second projectile had gone into his mouth, shattering his two upper incisors, then perforating his throat.
    “I don’t understand what happened. Were you trying to catch the bullet in your teeth?” She laughed, her body shaking. The light seemed to laugh with her. “Yes, sir, those are some good reflexes. And it wasn’t even such a bad idea, either. If the bullet hadn’t found your teeth, it would have taken a different direction. It would have killed you or leftyou paralyzed. I thought it best not to take you to the hospital. They would take care of you and then when you were recovered they’d only shoot you again. So be patient, and I’ll look after you myself with what little resources there are. I just have to get you out of Luanda. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hide you. If the comrades find you, they’ll shoot me, too. As soon as possible we’ll travel south.”
    She hid him for nearly five months. By listening to the radio, Jeremias was able to follow the difficult progress of the government troops, supported by the Cubans, against the improvised, unstable alliance between the UNITA party, the National Front, the South African army, and mercenaries from Portugal, England, and North America.
    Jeremias was dancing on the beach, in Cascais, with a platinum blonde, and he had never been in a war, never killed, never tortured anyone, when Madalena shook him:
    “Come on, Captain! We go today or never.”
    The mercenary sat up in bed, with some effort. The rain was crackling in the darkness, muffling the noise of what sparse traffic there was at that time. They were to travel in a little old van, a Citroën 2CV, its yellow bodywork badly worn, eaten away by rust, but with its engine in perfect working order. Jeremias was stretched out on the backseat, hidden by various crates of books.
    “Books instill respect,” explained the nurse. “If you carry crates full of beer bottles, the soldiers will search every inch of the vehicle. Besides which, you’ll get to Moçâmedes without a single bottle left.”
    Her strategy proved correct. At the many checkpoints they passed through, the soldiers stood to attention when they saw the books,many apologizing to Madalena, and let her go on her way. They arrived in Moçâmedes on an airless morning. Jeremias saw, through a small hole in the rusty metal of the vehicle, a little town, dazed and spinning slowly about itself like a drunk at a funeral. Months earlier, the South African troops had come through here on their way to Luanda, easily crushing a troop made up of
pioneiros
and Mucubals.
    Madalena parked the van in front of a solid blue mansion. She got out, leaving Jeremias baking inside. The mercenary was sweating heavily. He could barely breathe. It would be preferable to get out too, he thought, even if it meant risking arrest, getting himself killed. He couldn’t push the crates aside. He started kicking at the metal. An old man came over.
    “Who’s in there?”
    Then he heard Madalena’s gentle voice:
    “I’m taking a little goat over to Virei.”
    “But Virei’s full of goats already! Ha ha! Imagine taking a goat to Virei!”
    When the van was moving again, a bit of fresh air began to come in. Jeremias settled down. They drove for more than an hour, bumping about along secret routes through a landscape that seemed, to Jeremias, to be made entirely of hard wind, stone, dust, and barbed wire. Finally, they stopped. A commotion of voices surrounded the vehicle. The back door was opened and someone pulled out the boxes. There were dozens of curious faces. Women with their bodies painted red. Some of them older. Others still adolescent, their breasts pert and nipples swollen. Tall lads who looked very elegant indeed, each