with such violence. José Buchmann was surprised. Then he joined in, the two of them laughing. The three of us, laughing. One laugh drawing on another. At last Félix settled.
‘So, we have a fantasy president now?’ he said, wiping away his tears with a handkerchief. ‘Yes, I’d suspected as much. We have a fantasy government. A fantasy justice system. We have – in other words – a fantasy country. But do tell me, who has replaced the President?’
Edmundo Barata dos Reis shrunk back in his chair. He didn’t remind me of a God any more, he didn’t remind me of a warrior – he was a dog, humiliated. He stank. He stank of urine, of rotting fruit and leaves. He straightened himself up, and instead of replying to Félix’s question he addressed himself to José Buchmann, pointing at him… ‘That laugh – when I hear that laugh, old man, it’s as though I’m face to face with someone else, from long ago. From another time, an old time. Don’t we know each other?’
‘I don’t believe so.’ The photographer tensed.‘I’m from Chibia. Are you from Chibia?’
‘What are you talking about, old man? I’m pure Luandan!’
‘Then obviously not.’
‘It’s true,’ said Félix, ‘Buchmann is from the provinces, from the deep south. He’s a bush-man…’
‘A bushman? The bush here is more like a garden. And your gardens here in Luanda, such as they are – well, they’re really more like bushland.’
‘Take it easy. Down with tribalism. Down with regionalism. Up with people-power. Isn’t that what they used to say? All I wanted was for comrade Edmundo here to answer my question. So who was it that replaced the President with a double?’
Edmundo Barata dos Reis sighed, deeply:
‘The Russians, I think. Maybe the Israelis. The arms mafia, Mossad – I don’t know – maybe both.’
‘Could be – it would make sense. And how did you discover this coup?’
‘I know the double – I hired him! I hired others too. The old man never appeared in public himself – the doubles would always appear in his place. This one – Number Three – was always the best. He was the only one who could speak without arousing suspicions – the others kept quiet, we only used them for ceremonial functions when we just needed a body in the room. But Three was a special case, an extraordinary talent, a real actor. I watched him being trained – it took five months. He learned fast – how to move, how to approach people, the tone of voice, the protocol, the old man’s life story – the whole deal. By the end he was perfect. Or nearly perfect – this guy had one problem – or I should say, has one problem – he’s left-handed. It’s like looking at the President in a mirror. That’s how I noticed. Haven’t you spotted that the President has become left-handed all of a sudden? No, no, you haven’t noticed. No one has.’
‘When did you find out?’
‘A year ago, a little over a year ago.’
‘Were you still working for the security services then?’
‘What, me?! No, old man, I’ve been living the life of a tramp for more than seven years now. See this shirt I’m wearing? It’s become like a skin to me. It’s a shirt from the Communist Party of the U.S.S.R. I put it on the day they fired me, and I’ve never taken it off since. I swore I wouldn’t take it off until Russia went back to being communist. And now I wouldn’t be able to take it off even if I wanted to. Like a skin to me – you see? I’ve got a hammer and sickle tattooed on my chest now. That won’t come off.’
It really wouldn’t come off. Félix Ventura looked at him, dazed. José Buchmann smiled, as if to say ‘Well, isn’t he something?’ Edmundo Barata dos Reis resumed the posture of an old warrior. He shook his tough grey locks, roughly, spreading a revolting smell around him.
‘Soup?’ he asked.‘Don’t you have any soup?’ ‘He’s crazy!’ Félix Ventura said certainly, after Edmundo Barata dos Reis had
‘So, we have a fantasy president now?’ he said, wiping away his tears with a handkerchief. ‘Yes, I’d suspected as much. We have a fantasy government. A fantasy justice system. We have – in other words – a fantasy country. But do tell me, who has replaced the President?’
Edmundo Barata dos Reis shrunk back in his chair. He didn’t remind me of a God any more, he didn’t remind me of a warrior – he was a dog, humiliated. He stank. He stank of urine, of rotting fruit and leaves. He straightened himself up, and instead of replying to Félix’s question he addressed himself to José Buchmann, pointing at him… ‘That laugh – when I hear that laugh, old man, it’s as though I’m face to face with someone else, from long ago. From another time, an old time. Don’t we know each other?’
‘I don’t believe so.’ The photographer tensed.‘I’m from Chibia. Are you from Chibia?’
‘What are you talking about, old man? I’m pure Luandan!’
‘Then obviously not.’
‘It’s true,’ said Félix, ‘Buchmann is from the provinces, from the deep south. He’s a bush-man…’
‘A bushman? The bush here is more like a garden. And your gardens here in Luanda, such as they are – well, they’re really more like bushland.’
‘Take it easy. Down with tribalism. Down with regionalism. Up with people-power. Isn’t that what they used to say? All I wanted was for comrade Edmundo here to answer my question. So who was it that replaced the President with a double?’
Edmundo Barata dos Reis sighed, deeply:
‘The Russians, I think. Maybe the Israelis. The arms mafia, Mossad – I don’t know – maybe both.’
‘Could be – it would make sense. And how did you discover this coup?’
‘I know the double – I hired him! I hired others too. The old man never appeared in public himself – the doubles would always appear in his place. This one – Number Three – was always the best. He was the only one who could speak without arousing suspicions – the others kept quiet, we only used them for ceremonial functions when we just needed a body in the room. But Three was a special case, an extraordinary talent, a real actor. I watched him being trained – it took five months. He learned fast – how to move, how to approach people, the tone of voice, the protocol, the old man’s life story – the whole deal. By the end he was perfect. Or nearly perfect – this guy had one problem – or I should say, has one problem – he’s left-handed. It’s like looking at the President in a mirror. That’s how I noticed. Haven’t you spotted that the President has become left-handed all of a sudden? No, no, you haven’t noticed. No one has.’
‘When did you find out?’
‘A year ago, a little over a year ago.’
‘Were you still working for the security services then?’
‘What, me?! No, old man, I’ve been living the life of a tramp for more than seven years now. See this shirt I’m wearing? It’s become like a skin to me. It’s a shirt from the Communist Party of the U.S.S.R. I put it on the day they fired me, and I’ve never taken it off since. I swore I wouldn’t take it off until Russia went back to being communist. And now I wouldn’t be able to take it off even if I wanted to. Like a skin to me – you see? I’ve got a hammer and sickle tattooed on my chest now. That won’t come off.’
It really wouldn’t come off. Félix Ventura looked at him, dazed. José Buchmann smiled, as if to say ‘Well, isn’t he something?’ Edmundo Barata dos Reis resumed the posture of an old warrior. He shook his tough grey locks, roughly, spreading a revolting smell around him.
‘Soup?’ he asked.‘Don’t you have any soup?’ ‘He’s crazy!’ Félix Ventura said certainly, after Edmundo Barata dos Reis had
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