left. He said it, then said it again, firmly. He had no intention of wasting any more time on the matter. But José Buchmann insisted.
‘I’ve heard stranger things…’
‘Listen, the man’s completely barking. He’s flipped. You’ve been abroad for a long time, you don’t know what’s happened in this damned country. Luanda is full of people who seem completely lucid but suddenly burst out speaking impossible languages, or crying for no apparent reason, or laughing, or cursing. Some do all these things at once. Some are convinced that they’re dead. There are others who really are dead, but no one’s had the guts to tell them. Some think they can fly. Others believe this so strongly that they really can. It’s a fairground of lunatics, this city – out there in those ruined streets, in those clusters of musseque houses all around town, there are pathologies that haven’t even been recorded. Don’t take anything they tell you too seriously. Actually, let me give you a piece of advice – don’t take anybody seriously.’
‘Maybe he isn’t crazy. Maybe he’s just pretending to be crazy.’
‘I don’t see the difference. Someone who’s chosen to live on the streets, in the sewer, who believes that Russia will go back to communism, and who – on top of all that – wants people to think he’s crazy… That is crazy, in my book.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ José Buchmann seemed disheartened. ‘I’d like to get to know him better.’
Love, a Crime
‘We spent some tough years here.’
Félix sighed. The heat was stifling. Humidity clung to the walls. But he was sitting in the big wicker chair, sitting up straight, in a well-cut dark blue suit which drew attention to the shine of his skin. In front of him, nestling in a silk cushion, with a flower-patterned shirt and short red shorts, sat Ângela Lúcia, listening to him, smiling.
‘There was a time when I used to have to do everything for myself, as I couldn’t afford to pay a servant. I’d clean the house, wash clothes, cook, take care of the plants. And there wasn’t any water either, so I’d have to go and fetch it, with a metal can on my head like a grocer’s wife, from a hole someone had made in the tarmac – at the end of the road, at the bend by the cemetery. I was able to bear it all, for all those years, because I had Ventura. I used to shout, Ventura, go do the washing up! and Ventura would go. Or, Ventura, go fetch more water! and Ventura would go.’
‘Ventura?!’
‘Ventura – me. He was my double. At some point in our lives we all resort to a double.’
Ângela Lúcia liked Edmundo Barata dos Reis’s theory. She loved the idea of doubles. Together they watched several tapes showing the President. I think I’ve already told you Félix has hundreds of videotapes. They found, to their surprise, that in the older ones the old man signed documents with his right hand. Recently he’d used only his left. Ângela Lúcia also noticed that in some shots he had a small mole beneath his left eye, and not in others.
‘He may have had it removed,’ Félix pointed out. ‘Nowadays people get rid of all sorts of physical signs, as easily as you might wash off an ink-stain.’
Ângela was the one who noticed that the President with the mole appeared in earlier recordings, but also in ones that came later than those with the mole-less President.
‘It has to have been one of the doubles!’
They played that game all afternoon. After five hours, by which time night had closed in, they’d managed to identify at least three doubles – the one with the mole, one with a slight bald patch, and a third who – Ângela swore – had a calm sea-glow in his eyes.
‘I’m not going to argue with you on the subject of light,’ said Félix. That’s when he remembered the business with his double, Ventura: ‘Believe me. We spent some tough times here.’
The woman wanted to know how he’d managed to survive during that
‘I’ve heard stranger things…’
‘Listen, the man’s completely barking. He’s flipped. You’ve been abroad for a long time, you don’t know what’s happened in this damned country. Luanda is full of people who seem completely lucid but suddenly burst out speaking impossible languages, or crying for no apparent reason, or laughing, or cursing. Some do all these things at once. Some are convinced that they’re dead. There are others who really are dead, but no one’s had the guts to tell them. Some think they can fly. Others believe this so strongly that they really can. It’s a fairground of lunatics, this city – out there in those ruined streets, in those clusters of musseque houses all around town, there are pathologies that haven’t even been recorded. Don’t take anything they tell you too seriously. Actually, let me give you a piece of advice – don’t take anybody seriously.’
‘Maybe he isn’t crazy. Maybe he’s just pretending to be crazy.’
‘I don’t see the difference. Someone who’s chosen to live on the streets, in the sewer, who believes that Russia will go back to communism, and who – on top of all that – wants people to think he’s crazy… That is crazy, in my book.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ José Buchmann seemed disheartened. ‘I’d like to get to know him better.’
Love, a Crime
‘We spent some tough years here.’
Félix sighed. The heat was stifling. Humidity clung to the walls. But he was sitting in the big wicker chair, sitting up straight, in a well-cut dark blue suit which drew attention to the shine of his skin. In front of him, nestling in a silk cushion, with a flower-patterned shirt and short red shorts, sat Ângela Lúcia, listening to him, smiling.
‘There was a time when I used to have to do everything for myself, as I couldn’t afford to pay a servant. I’d clean the house, wash clothes, cook, take care of the plants. And there wasn’t any water either, so I’d have to go and fetch it, with a metal can on my head like a grocer’s wife, from a hole someone had made in the tarmac – at the end of the road, at the bend by the cemetery. I was able to bear it all, for all those years, because I had Ventura. I used to shout, Ventura, go do the washing up! and Ventura would go. Or, Ventura, go fetch more water! and Ventura would go.’
‘Ventura?!’
‘Ventura – me. He was my double. At some point in our lives we all resort to a double.’
Ângela Lúcia liked Edmundo Barata dos Reis’s theory. She loved the idea of doubles. Together they watched several tapes showing the President. I think I’ve already told you Félix has hundreds of videotapes. They found, to their surprise, that in the older ones the old man signed documents with his right hand. Recently he’d used only his left. Ângela Lúcia also noticed that in some shots he had a small mole beneath his left eye, and not in others.
‘He may have had it removed,’ Félix pointed out. ‘Nowadays people get rid of all sorts of physical signs, as easily as you might wash off an ink-stain.’
Ângela was the one who noticed that the President with the mole appeared in earlier recordings, but also in ones that came later than those with the mole-less President.
‘It has to have been one of the doubles!’
They played that game all afternoon. After five hours, by which time night had closed in, they’d managed to identify at least three doubles – the one with the mole, one with a slight bald patch, and a third who – Ângela swore – had a calm sea-glow in his eyes.
‘I’m not going to argue with you on the subject of light,’ said Félix. That’s when he remembered the business with his double, Ventura: ‘Believe me. We spent some tough times here.’
The woman wanted to know how he’d managed to survive during that
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