My dear friend,
I do hope this letter finds you in excellent health. I realise that what I’m writing you isn’t really a letter, but an email. No one writes letters any more these days. But to tell you the truth, I do miss those days when people communicated by exchanging letters – real letters, on good paper, to which you might add a drop of perfume, or attach dried flowers, coloured feathers, a lock of hair. I feel a flicker of nostalgia for those days, when the postman used to bring our letters to the house, and we were glad, surprised to see what we’d received, what we opened and read, and at the care we took when we replied, choosing each word, weighing it up, assessing its light, feeling its fragrance, because we knew that every word would later be weighed up, studied, smelled, tasted, and that some might even escape the maelstrom of time, to be re-read many years later. I can’t stand the rude informality of emails. I always feel horror, physical horror, metaphysical and moral horror, when I see that ‘Hi!’ – how can we possibly take seriously anyone who addresses us like that? Those European travellers who spent the nineteenth century travelling across the backwoods of Africa always used to refer jokingly to the elaborate greetings exchanged by the native guides when – during the course of a long journey – they happened to cross paths with a friend or relative in some favourably shady spot. The white man would wait impatiently, until after several long minutes of laughter, interjections and clapping had passed, he finally interrupted the guide:
‘So what did the men say? Have they seen Livingstone or not?’
‘Oh, no, they haven’t said anything about that, boss,’ the guide explained.‘They were just saying hello.’
I expect just that time-span from a letter. Let us pretend that this is a letter, and that the postman has just handed it to you. Perhaps it would smell of the fear that nowadays people sweat and breathe in this vast, rotting apple. The sky here is dark, and low. I keep making wishes that clouds like these might float over to Luanda, a perpetual mist which would suit your sensitive skin; and wishes too that your business carries on, full steam ahead. I’m sure it must do, as we all so need a good past, especially those people who misgovern us in our sad country, as they govern it.
I always think of the lovely ngela Lúcia (I do think she is beautiful) as I beat my way rather disheartened through the anxious chaos of these streets. Perhaps she’s right, perhaps the important thing is to bear witness not to the darkness (as I’ve always done) but to the light. If you’re with our friend do tell her that she did manage at least to sow the seeds of doubt in me, and that in the past few days I’ve lifted my eyes up to the sky more often than ever before in my life. By lifting our gaze we don’t see the mud, we don’t see the little creatures scrabbling in it. So what do you think, Félix – is it more important to bear witness to beauty, or to denounce horror?
Maybe my careless philosophising is beginning to annoy you. If you’ve read this far I imagine you’re beginning to understand what it was like being one of those European travellers I referred to earlier:
‘So what does this guy want? Did he find Livingstone or didn’t he?’
No, I didn’t. By consulting the telephone directories I was able to find six Millers called ‘Eva’, but none had been in Angola. I then decided to put an ad in Portuguese in five popular newspapers. Not one response. But then I did find my way onto the trail… I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Small World Theory, also known as Six Degrees of Separation. In 1967 the American sociologist Stanley Milgram of Harvard University set up an odd challenge for three hundred residents of Kansas and Nebraska. His hope was that these people – using only information obtained from friends and acquaintances by letter (this being in the days when people still exchanged letters) – would be able to make contact with two people in Boston, for whom they knew only their name and profession. Sixty people agreed to take part in the challenge. Three succeeded. When he came to analyse the results, Milgram realised that there were on average just six contacts between the originator and the target. If his theory was correct, I’m now just two people away from my mother. Everywhere I go I bring with me a cutting from the U.S. edition of Vogue, the one you gave me, which reproduced an Eva Miller watercolour. The report was signed by a journalist by the name of Maria Duncan. She left the magazine years ago, but the Editor still remembered her. After a lot of hunting around I was able to track down a telephone number for her in Miami, where Maria lived when she still worked for Vogue. My call was answered by a nephew of hers, who told me his aunt no longer lived there. After the death of her husband she’d gone back to the city of her birth, New York. She gave me the address. And would you believe the irony? – it’s a block from the hotel where I was staying. I went to see her yesterday. Maria Duncan is an elderly lady with scrawny gestures, purple hair, and a strong, certain voice that seems to have been stolen from a much younger woman. I suspect that loneliness weighs heavily on her – it’s an ill that befalls old people, and so common in big cities. She welcomed me with some interest, and when she learned of the reason for my visit became even more excited. A son looking for his mother – bound to touch any feminine heart.‘Eva Miller?’ – no, the name didn’t mean anything to her. I showed her the cutting from Vogue and she went off to fetch a box of old photographs, magazines and cassettes, and the two of us spent hours rummaging through it all, like two children in their grandparents’ attic. It paid off. We found a photo of her with my mother. And more importantly, we found a letter that Eva had written to her to thank her for sending the copy of the magazine. The envelope bore an address in Cape Town. I imagine Eva had been based in Cape Town before settling in New York. But I fear that in order to find her here – or wherever she now is – I’ll have to retread her whole tortured path. I fly to Johannesburg tomorrow, on my way back to Luanda; it’s just a step or two from Johannesburg to Cape Town. It may be a most important step for me. Wish me luck, and receive an affectionate greeting from your true friend,
José Buchmann
The Scorpion
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.
The Minister
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 ha
ve 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.’
The Fruit of Difficult Years
ngela 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 ngela 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.’
ngela 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? ngela 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 n
ever 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 ngela 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. ngela 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. ngela 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:
The Book of Chameleons Page 6
