A General Theory of Oblivion by José Eduardo Agualusa Page A

stabbed her in the stomach. Sabalu saw his mother drop to the ground. He heard her voice, in a hiss:
    “Just run for it, son!”
    Filomena had arrived pregnant from São Tomé, attracted by the bright eyes, the broad shoulders, the easy laugh, and the warm voice of a young officer in the Angolan Armed Forces. The officer had taken her from Luanda to that city in the north, he had lived with her for eight months, been there for Sabalu’s birth, then went off on a mission to the south, which was supposed to last just a few days, but he’d never come back.
    The boy ran across the market, knocking over baskets of fruit, crates of beer, chirping wicker cages. A violent commotion of protest was erupting behind him. Sabalu didn’t stop till he had arrived home. He stood there, at a loss, not knowing what to do. Then the door opened and a crooked man, dressed in black, pounced on him like a bird of prey. The boy dodged him, rolled over on the asphalt, got up, and without looking back, broke into a run again.
    A truck driver agreed to take him to Luanda. Sabalu told him thetruth: his mother had died, and his father had disappeared. He hoped that once in the capital he’d be able to track down someone from his family. He knew his father’s name was Marciano Barroso, that he was, or had been, a captain in the armed forces, and how he’d disappeared on a mission somewhere in the south. He knew, too, that his father was a native of Luanda. His paternal grandparents lived on the big Quinaxixe plaza. He remembered hearing his mother mentioning the name. She’d told him that there, on that big plaza, a lagoon had grown, with dark waters, where a mermaid lived.
    The truck driver dropped him at Quinaxixe. He put a wad of banknotes in his pocket:
    “This money should be enough for you to rent a room for a week, and to eat and drink. I hope you find your father in the meantime.”
    The boy roamed around there, distressed, for hours and hours. He first approached an obese policeman positioned outside the door to a bank:
    “Please sir, do you know Captain Barroso?”
    The policeman fired a gaze at him, eyes sparkling with rage:
    “Move on, layabout, move on!”
    A woman selling vegetables took pity on the boy. She stopped a moment to hear him out. She called over some others. One of them remembered an old man, one Adão Barroso, who had lived in the Cuca Building. He’d died years ago.
    It was already getting late when hunger drove Sabalu into a small bar. He sat down, fearful. He ordered a soup and a Coke. When he left, a young man with a swollen face, his skin in very poor shape, shoved him against the wall:
    “My name’s Baiacu, kid. I’m the King of Quinaxixe.” He pointedat the statue of a woman in the middle of the park. “She’s my queen. Her, Queen Ginga. Me, King Gingão. You got any cash?”
    Sabalu shrank back, crying. Two other boys emerged from the shadows, flanking Baiacu, preventing his flight. They were identical, short and solid, like pit bulls, dull eyes and the same engrossed smile on well-drawn lips. Sabalu brought his hand to his pocket and showed him the money. Baiacu snatched the notes:
    “Ace, pal. Tonight you can crib with us, over there, where the boxes are. We’ll look out for you. Tomorrow you start work. What’s your name?”
    “Sabalu.”
    “A pleasure, Sabalu. This is Diogo!”
    “Which one?”
    “Both. Diogo is both of them.”
    It took Sabalu some time to understand that the two bodies constituted a single person. They moved about in unison, or rather, vibrated in harmony, like synchronized swimmers. They spoke, simultaneously, the same few words. They laughed common laughs. They wept identical tears. Pregnant women fainted when they saw Diogo. Children ran from him. Diogo himself, however, seemed not to have the least vocation for malice. He had the goodness of a Surinam cherry tree, which bears fruit in the sun, albeit discreet and infrequent, more out of negligence than any clear