The Book of Chameleons by José Eduardo Agualusa Read Free Book Online Page B

to the kitchen to prepare dessert. The two guests remained, seated opposite one another. Neither spoke. The silence that hung between them was full of murmurings, of shadows, of things that run along in the distance, in some remote time, dark and furtive. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they just remained without speaking, sitting there opposite each other, because they simply had nothing to say, and I merely imagined the rest.

Dream No. 4

     

     
    I saw myself wandering along a walkway made of planks of wood laid side by side. The walkway wound along, suspended a metre above the sand, disappearing into the distance between the taller dunes, and then reemerging up ahead, sometimes completely covered by the vegetation of the grasses and bushes, at other times totally exposed. The sea, to my right, was smooth and luminous, turquoise blue, the sort of sea you only find in tourist brochures and happy dreams, and there was a smell rising from it, a hot smell of algae and salt. A man was walking towards me. Even before I could make out his features I knew right away that it was my friend Félix Ventura. I could tell that the sun was bothering him. He was wearing impenetrable dark glasses, coarse linen trousers and a loose shirt – also linen – that flapped in the breeze like a flag. His head was covered with a lovely panama hat, but neither this nor his elegant outfit seemed enough to save him from the torture of the sun.
    ‘I’m a man with no colour,’ he said. ‘And as you know, nature abhors a vacuum.’
    We sat down on a broad and comfortable bench that had been planted on the walkway. The sea stretched itself out serenely at our feet. Félix Ventura took off his hat and used it to fan his face. His skin glowed pink, covered in sweat. I felt sorry for him:
    ‘In cold countries people with light skin aren’t so troubled by the harshness of the sun. Maybe you ought to think about moving to Switzerland. Have you ever been to Geneva? I’d rather like to live in Geneva.’
    ‘My problem isn’t the sun!’ he retorted. ‘It’s the lack of melanin.’ He laughed: ‘Have you noticed that anything inanimate gets bleached whiter in the sun, but living things get more colour?’
    Could he really lack a soul, lack life? I denied this vehemently. I’ve never known anyone so alive. It seemed that he had not only a life but several lives, in and around him. Félix looked at me carefully:
    ‘Sorry to ask – but could you tell me your name?’
    ‘I have no name,’ I replied quite frankly. ‘I am the gecko.’
    ‘That’s silly. No one is a gecko!’
    ‘You’re right. No one’s a gecko. And you – are you really called Félix Ventura?’
    My question seemed to offend him. He lay back on the bench and his eyes disappeared into the incredible depths of the sky. I was worried that he would leap into it. I didn’t know the place where we were. I couldn’t remember ever having been there before, in my other life. Massive cacti, some of them several metres tall, rose up between the dunes, behind us, they too dazzled by the limpid brilliance of the sea. A flock of flamingos slipped with fiery calm across the blue sky, right over our heads, and it was only then that I was totally sure that this was, in fact, a dream. Félix turned, slowly, his eyes moist:
    ‘Is this madness?’
    I didn’t know how to answer him.

I, Eulálio

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    The following night Félix asked Ângela Lúcia the same question. First, of course, he’d told her that he’d dreamed about me again. I’ve seen Ângela Lúcia say very serious things laughing, or on the contrary, adopting a sombre expression when joking with her interlocutor. It’s not always possible to tell what she’s thinking. On this occasion she laughed at the anxiety in my friend’s eyes, greatly increasing his disquiet, but then right away turned more serious and asked:
    â€˜And his name? So did the guy tell you who he is?’
    No one is a name!