Pilgrim of myself, I have gone to her, she who sleeps in a country blown by the wind. Alejandra Pizarnik The truth is sad when it is only one. Sadder still when its ugliness doesn’t have, like Zachary’s aerogrammes, the remedy of a lie. At that particular moment in Jezoosalem, the truth was that our father had gone mad. And it wasn’t the madness of benevolence and redemption. It was a demon that had taken up residence within him. —I’ll talk to him—Marta said, noting the general concern. Ntunzi didn’t think it a good idea. Aproximado, on the other hand, encouraged her to visit the old ranter in his lair. I would accompany the Portuguese woman to make sure that the situation didn’t get out of hand. The moment we entered the half-light of the room, we were brought to a halt by Silvestre’s gruff voice: —Did you request an audience? —I did. I spoke to the Minister, Zachary. Marta was playing her part to an extent that Silvestre couldn’t have anticipated. My father’s expression was tinged with surprise and suspicion.
