Free The Book of Chameleons by José Eduardo Agualusa

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 eBenevides, 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 youthink?) 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