The Book of Chameleons (7 page)

Out of habit, and out of genetic predisposition (because bright light bothers me), I sleep during the day, all day. Sometimes, however, something will wake me up – a noise, a ray of sunlight – and I’m forced to make my way across the discomfort of the daytime, running along walls till I find a deeper crack, a deeper damper crack where I can, once again, rest. I don’t know what it was that woke me this morning. I think I was dreaming about something severe (I can never remember faces, only feelings). Perhaps I was dreaming about my father. The moment I awoke I saw the scorpion. He was just a few centimetres away. Motionless. Closed in a shell of hatred like a mediaeval warrior in his armour. And then he fell upon me. I jumped back, climbed the wall, in a flash, until I was up at the ceiling. I could hear quite clearly the dry tap of the sting against the floor – I can hear it still.

I remember something my father said once when we were celebrating – with only pretend joy, I like to think – the death of someone we disliked:

‘He was evil, and he didn’t know it. He didn’t know what evil was. That is to say, he was
pure
evil.’

That’s what I felt at precisely the moment that I opened my eyes and the scorpion was there.

After the episode with the scorpion I wasn’t able to get back to sleep. This meant that I was able to witness the arrival of the Minister. A short, fat man, ill at ease in his body. To watch him you’d think he’d been shortened only moments earlier and hadn’t yet become accustomed to his new height… He was wearing a dark suit, with white stripes, which didn’t really fit and which troubled him. He lowered himself with a sigh of relief into the wicker chair, with his fingers wiped the thick sweat on his face, and before Félix had the chance to offer him a drink he shouted to Old Esperança:

‘A beer, woman! Nice and cold!’

My friend raised an eyebrow, but restrained himself. Old Esperança brought the beer. Outside, the sun was melting the tarmac.

‘So you don’t have air conditioning in this place then?!’

This he said with horror. He drank up the beer in large gulps, greedily, and asked for another. Félix told him to make himself at home – wouldn’t he like to take off his jacket, perhaps? The Minister accepted. In his shirtsleeves he looked even fatter, even shorter, as though God had carelessly sat down on his head.

‘Do you have anything against air conditioning?’ he joked. ‘Does it offend your principles?…’

This sudden camaraderie irritated my friend even more. He coughed, a bark of a cough, then went off to fetch the file he’d prepared. He opened it on the little mahogany table – slowly, theatrically – in a ritual I’d observed so many times. It always worked. The Minister, anxious, held his breath as my friend revealed his genealogy to him:

‘This is your paternal grandfather, Alexandre Torres dos Santos Correia de Sá e Benevides, a direct descendent of Salvador Correia de Sá e
Benevides, the famous
carioca
who in 1648 liberated Luanda from the Dutch…’

‘Salvador Correia?! The fellow they named the high school after?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I thought he was Portuguese! Or a politician from the capital, or some colonial; otherwise why did they change the name of the school to Mutu Ya Kevela?’

‘I suppose it was because they wanted an Angolan hero – in those days we needed our own heroes like we needed bread to feed us. Though, if you’d rather I can fix up another grandfather for you. I could arrange documents to show that you’re descended from Mutu ya Kevela himself, or N’Gola Quiluange, or even Queen Ginga herself. Would you rather that?’

‘No, no, I’ll keep the Brazilian. Was the fellow rich?’

‘Extremely. He was cousin to Estácio de Sá, founder of Rio de Janeiro, who – poor man – met a sad end, when the Tamoio Indians caught him with a poisoned arrow full in the face. But anyway, what you will want to know is that during the years he spent here, running this city of ours, Salvador Correia met an Angolan woman – Estefânia – the daughter of one of the most prosperous slave-traders of the day, Felipe Pereira Torres dos Santos, and fell in love with her. And from that love – an illicit love I hasten to add, as the governor was a married man – from that love three sons were born. I’ve got the family tree here, look – it’s a work of art.’

The Minister was astonished:

‘Fantastic!’

And indignant:

‘Damn! Whose stupid idea was it to change the name of the high school?! A man who expelled the Dutch colonists, an internationalist fighter of our brother-country, an Afro-antecedent, who gave us one of the most important families in this country – that is to say, mine. No, old man, it won’t do. Justice must be restored. I want the high school to go back to being called Salvador Correia, and I’ll fight for it with all my strength. I’ll have a statue of my grandfather cast to put outside the entrance. A really big statue, in bronze, on a block of white marble. (Yes, marble – don’t you
think?) Salvador Correia, on horseback, treading with contempt on the Dutch colonisers… The sword’s important. I’ll buy a real sword – he did use a sword, didn’t he? Yes, a real sword, bigger than the one Afonso Henriques has got. And you can write something for the gravestone. Something along the lines of
Salvador Correia, Liberator of Angola with the gratitude of the nation and the Marimba Union Bakeries
– something like that, or something else, whatever, but something respectful – yes, hell, respectful! Have a think about it and get back to me. Oh and look, I’ve brought you some sweets,
ovos moles
from Aveiro – do you like
ovos moles
? These are the best
ovos moles
in Aveiro, though in fact they’re “Made in Cacuaco”, the best
ovos moles
in all Africa, in the whole world – even better than the real thing. Made by my master-patissier, who’s from Ilhavo – do you know Ilhavo? You ought to. You people spend two days in Lisbon and think you know Portugal. But try them, try them, then tell me if I’m right or not. So I’m descended from Salvador Correia –
caramba
! – and I never knew it till now. Excellent. My wife will be ever so pleased.’

Ângela Lúcia arrived just a few minutes after the Minister had said his goodbyes. The heat didn’t appear to bother her at all. She came in clean and composed, her braids reflecting light, with a fresh pomegranate glow to her tanned skin. A delight, in other words:

‘Am I bothering you?’

There was nothing in the question, or in the smile that accompanied it, to suggest that she would have minded if she were. It was, rather, a challenge. My friend kissed her cheek, shyly. A single kiss.

‘You’re never any trouble…’

She hugged him.

‘You’re so lovely.’

Later, after the night had drawn in, Félix made a confession:

‘One of these days I’m going to lose my head and kiss you on the lips…’

He wanted to grab her arms and push her up against the wall, as though she were one of those girls he brings home every once in a while. It would be difficult. I’d swear that Ângela Lúcia’s fragility is nothing but a ruse. This evening she switched roles, from dove to serpent, in the blink of an eye:

‘Your grandfather, him over there, in the picture, he looks a lot like Frederick Douglass.’

Félix looked at her, defeated:

‘Ah, so you recognised him? Well, what do you expect? That’s called professional distortion. I create plots for a living. I fabricate so much, all day long, and so enthusiastically, that sometimes I reach night-time so lost in the labyrinth of my own fantasies… Yes, that’s Frederick Douglass. I bought him in a street market in New York. But the person who brought over the big chair you’re sitting in was in fact one of my
great-grandfathers,
or rather, the grandfather of my adopted father. Apart from the bit about the portrait, everything I’ve told you about my background is quite true. Or at least, as much of it as I remember. I know I have false memories sometimes – we all do, don’t we?… there have been studies done by psychologists of this – but I think this much is true.’

‘I can believe it. But your friend José Buchmann, that story is completely made-up, isn’t it? You invented him yourself…’

Félix denied it vehemently. No, damn it! If it had been anyone else suggesting it he might have been offended – very offended, even – but thinking about it, it was in a way a sort of compliment, as no one but Reality could possibly have come up with someone as unrealistic as José Buchmann:

‘If you ask me, whenever I hear about something completely impossible I believe it at once. And don’t you think José Buchmann is impossible? Yes, we both do. So he has to be for real.’

Ângela Lúcia enjoyed the paradox, and laughed. Félix made the most of the moment to make his escape:

‘Talking about family histories, you know you’ve never told me yours? I know almost nothing about you…’

She shrugged her shoulders. Her whole life story, she said, could be summed up in just five lines. She was born in Luanda. She grew up in Luanda. One day she decided to leave the country and travel. She travelled a lot, taking photographs wherever she went, and in time she returned. She’d like to keep travelling, keep taking photographs – it’s what she knows how to do. There was nothing interesting in her life, save for the two or three interesting people she’d met along the way. Félix insisted. So was she an only child, or had she grown up surrounded by brothers and sisters? And her parents, what did they do? Ângela made a gesture of annoyance. She stood up. Then she sat down again. She’d been an only child for four years. Then came two sisters and a brother. Their father was an architect, their mother an airline stewardess. Her father wasn’t an alcoholic, he didn’t even drink, and no, she hadn’t ever been sexually abused by him. Her parents loved each other; every Sunday he would give her flowers; every Sunday in exchange she would give him a poem. Even in the difficult years – she’d been born in seventy-seven, a child of that difficult time – they’d never lacked for anything. She’d had a simple, happy childhood. Which
was to say, her life would never make much of a novel – still less a modern novel. You couldn’t write a novel these days, even a short story, without the female lead being raped by an alcoholic father. Her only talent as a child, she went on, had been to draw rainbows. She spent her whole childhood drawing rainbows. One day, when she turned twelve, her father gave her a camera, a basic plastic thing, and she stopped drawing them. She began to take photographs of rainbows. She sighed…

‘… to this day.’

Félix had met Ângela Lúcia at the launch of an exhibition of paintings. I think – but this is just supposition on my part – that he fell in love with her the moment they exchanged their first words, as his whole life had prepared him to give himself to the first woman who upon seeing him didn’t recoil in horror. When I say ‘recoil’, you must understand that I don’t mean this literally. When introduced to Félix Ventura there are, of course, women who do literally recoil, who take a step back while offering their hand; the majority of women, however, recoil in spirit – which is to say, they offer him their hand (or cheek), saying ‘A pleasure’, then avert their eyes and make some flimsy comment about the state of the weather. Ângela Lúcia had offered him her cheek, he’d kissed her, she’d kissed him back, then she’d said:

‘You know, that’s the first time I’ve kissed an albino.’

When Félix explained to her what he did for a living – ‘I’m a genealogist’ – which is what he always says when he meets strangers – she became interested at once.

‘Seriously? You’re the first genealogist I’ve met.’

They had left the exhibition together, and went to continue their conversation on the terrace of a bar, under the stars, looking out over the black waters of the bay. That night, Félix told me, only he had spoken. Ângela Lúcia possesses a rare gift, an ability to remain engaged in a conversation without hardly speaking at all. Then my friend had returned home, and said to me:

‘I’ve met a remarkable woman. Oh, my friend, I don’t have the words to describe her – everything about her is Light.’

I thought he was exaggerating. Where there is light, there are shadows too.

José Buchmann was smiling. A faint, mocking smile. We were in the luxury car of an old steam train. There was a canvas hanging on one of the walls, which lit the air with a faint copper-coloured glow. I noticed a chessboard, dark wood and marble, on a little table between us. I didn’t remember having moved any of the pieces, but the game was clearly progressing. The photographer was doing rather better.

‘At last,’ he said, ‘I’ve been dreaming of this for several days. I wanted to see you. I wanted to know what you were like.’

‘So do you think this conversation is real?’

‘The conversation, certainly; it’s just the setting that is rather lacking in substance. There is truth – even if there isn’t realism – in everything a man dreams. A guava tree in bloom, for instance, lost in the pages of a good novel, can bring delight with its fictional perfume to any number of real rooms.’

I was forced to agree. At times, for example, I dream that I’m flying. And I’ve never flown so truly, with such authority, as in my dreams. Flying on a plane – in the days when I used to fly by plane – never gave me the same feeling of freedom. I’ve cried in dreams over the death of my grandmother, but it was better than my waking crying. And in truth I’ve shed more authentic tears for the deaths of literary characters than I ever did for the disappearance of many of my friends and relatives. What seemed least real to me was that canvas on the wall behind José Buchmann, a melancholy composition, not because of its subject – it wasn’t clear what its subject was, which may be the greatest virtue of modern art – but because of the glow of its colours. Through the windows, evening was drawing in, quickly. We saw beaches rush by, and trees laden with coconuts, the big uncombed mane of the
casuarina
tree. We even saw the sea, out there in the
distance, burning in a massive fire of indigo blue. The train slowed to climb an incline, it panted like an asthmatic, an old mechanical beast, almost breathless. José Buchmann moved his queen forward, threatening my king’s knight. I sacrificed a pawn, which he looked at, absent-mindedly.

‘The truth is improbable.’

A lightning smile.

‘Lies,’ he explained, ‘are everywhere. Even nature herself lies. What is camouflage, for instance, but a lie? The chameleon disguises itself as a leaf in order to deceive a poor butterfly. He lies to it, saying
Don’t worry, my dear, can’t you see I’m just a very green leaf waving in the breeze
, and then he jets out his tongue at six hundred and twenty-five centimetres a second, and eats it.’

He took my pawn. I was silent, dazed by the revelation and by the distant brilliance of the sea. I could only remember someone else’s phrase:

‘I hate lying, because it’s inexact.’

José Buchmann recognised the words. He considered them a moment, assessing their solidity and their mechanism, their efficiency:

‘Truth has a habit of being ambiguous too. If it were exact it wouldn’t be human.’ As he spoke he became increasingly animated. ‘You quoted Ricardo Reis. Allow me, then, to quote Montaigne:
Nothing seems true that cannot also seem false
. There are dozens of professions for which knowing how to lie is a virtue. I’m thinking of diplomats, statesmen, lawyers, actors, writers, chess players. I’m thinking of our common friend Félix Ventura, without whom you and I would never have met. Name a profession – any profession – that doesn’t sometimes have recourse to lying, a profession in which a man who only tells the truth would be welcomed?’

I felt hemmed in. He moved a bishop. I responded, moving my knight. A few days ago I saw a basketball player on television, a naïve sort, complaining about journalists:

‘Sometimes they don’t write what I mean, they just write what I say.’

I told him this, and he laughed with pleasure. I was already beginning to find him less disagreeable. The train gave a long whistle, then a bewildered, long drawn-out howl, like a red ribbon stretched across the seafront. A group of fishermen on the beach waved to the train. José Buchmann
responded to their wave with a bold gesture. Just a few minutes earlier, when the train had made a brief stop, he’d leaned out of the window to buy mangoes; I heard him speaking to the fruit sellers in a tight, sing-song language which seemed to me to be composed exclusively of vowels. He told me that he spoke English – in its various accents – and a number of German dialects, Parisian French and Italian. He assured me, too, that he was able to discourse with as much self-assurance in Arabic or Romanian.

‘I can also speak Groan,’ he joked, ‘the secret language of the camels. I speak Grunt, like a true-born wild boar. I speak Buzz, and the Chirp language of the crickets – and even the Caw of the crows. On my own in a garden I could discuss philosophy with the magnolias.’

He peeled one of the mangoes with a Swiss army knife, cut it in half, and gave me the larger piece. He ate his piece. He told me about a small island in the Pacific where he’d spent a few months, in which lying is considered the most solid pillar of society. The Ministry of Information, a revered, almost sacred institution, was charged with creating and propagating inaccurate news. Once this information is on the loose among the crowds, it grows, takes on new forms, eventually forms that contradict one another, generating copious popular movements and making society more dynamic. Let’s imagine that unemployment reached levels that were considered dangerous. The Ministry of Information – or simply, The Ministry – would start circulating the story that there had been a discovery of deep-sea petroleum within the country’s own territorial waters. The possibility of an imminent economic boom would revive trade, expatriate technicians would return home, keen to be a part of the reconstruction, and before long new companies and new jobs would be created. Of course, things don’t always pan out as the technicians predict. There was this one time, for example, when The Ministry (who whatever their name may suggest have always been a politically independent body) launched an attack on an opponent, hoping to destroy his career, spreading a suspicion that he’d been having an
extramarital
affair with an English singer. The rumour grew in size and strength, so much so that the opponent ended up divorcing his wife and marrying the singer (whom he’d never met before this had all started), earning him massive popularity and seeing him elected some years later to the Presidency.

‘The impossibility of controlling rumours,’ he concluded, ‘is the main virtue of such a system. That’s what gives the Ministry its near-divine nature. Check!’

I could see that I had lost the game. I decided to take a risk and offer him up my queen.

‘Félix Ventura says that he believes in things when they seem impossible – and that’s why he believes in you…’

‘He said that?’

‘He did. But I don’t believe in you. In you or in Ângela Lúcia. Whenever two or more events stumble into each other and we don’t know why, we call it chance, coincidence. But what we call chance we should perhaps call ignorance. Aren’t you surprised that two photographers – a man and a woman – both of whom have lived in exile for so long, should return to the country at exactly the same time?’

‘I’m not, no. After all, I’m one of those photographers. But I do think it’s quite natural that you should be surprised. You see, my friend, coincidences produce amazement in just the same way, and with the same carelessness, as trees produce shade – checkmate.’

I knocked over my king (the white king), and awoke.