Free The Book of Chameleons by José Eduardo Agualusa Page A

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.’

The Fruit of Difficult Years

     

     
    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