Read Online The Book of Chameleons by José Eduardo Agualusa - Free Book Online

black and white on matt paper. Almost all of them showed the same man: an old man, tall, slender, with a mass of white hair that tumbled down to his chest in thick plaits then disappeared into the heavy strands of his beard. As he appeared in the photographs – dressed in a dark shirt, in tatters, on which you could still make out a sickle and hammer on his chest, and with his head held high, his eyes ablaze with fury – he’d remind you of some olden-day prince now fallen into disgrace.
    ‘I’ve followed him everywhere these past few weeks, morning to night. Want to see? Let me show you the city from the perspective of a wretched dog.’
    a) The old man, seen from behind, walking along disembowelled streets.
    b) Ruined buildings, their walls pockmarked with bullet-holes, thin bones exposed. A poster on one of the walls, announcing a concert by Julio Iglesias.
    c) Boys playing football, tall buildings all around them. They’re terribly thin, almost translucent. They’re immersed, suspended in the dust like dancers on a stage. The old man is sitting on a rock, watching them. He’s smiling.
    d) The old man is sleeping in the shade of the husk of a military tank that’s eaten away by rust.
    e) The old man is standing up against a statue of the President, urinating.
    f) The old man, swallowed up by the ground.
    g) The old man emerges from the sewer like an ungovernable God, the unkempt hair glowing in the soft morning light.
    ‘I’ve sold this story to an American magazine. I’m off to New York tomorrow. I’ll be there a week or two. Longer, perhaps. And you know what I’m planning to do there?’
    Félix Ventura wasn’t expecting the answer. He shook his head.
    ‘But that’s crazy! You do realise how ridiculous that is, don’t you?’
    José Buchmann laughed. A serene laugh. Maybe he was just joking:
    ‘A long time ago, when I was in Berlin, I was surprised to receive a telephone call from an old friend of mine, an old schoolmate from my beloved Chibia. He told me that two days earlier he’d left Lubango, he’d travelled by motorcycle to Luanda, and from Luanda flown to Lisbon, and then from Lisbon he’d set off for Germany – he was fleeing from the war. He had a cousin who was meant to be meeting him, but there was no one there, and so he decided to try and find his cousin’s house – he left the airport, and got lost. He was anxious. He didn’t speak a word of English – still less of German – and he’d never been in a big city before. I tried to calm him down. Where are you calling from? I asked . From a phone box, he replied. I found your number in my address book and decided to call. I agreed: You did the right thing. Stay where you are. Just tell me what you can see around you, tell me anything you can see that looks unusual, that attracts your attention, so I can get a sense of where you are. Anything strange? I asked. Well, on the other side of the road there’s a machine with a light that goes on and off, and changes colour, green, red, green, and in it there’s a picture of a little man walking.’
    He told the whole story imitating his friend’s voice, the broad accent, the anxiety of the unfortunate man on the other end of the line. He laughed again – uproariously this time – till he had tears in his eyes. He asked Félix for a glass of water. As he drank he began to calm down:
    ‘Yes, old man, I know New York is a very big city. But if I was able to find a traffic light in Berlin, and a phone box opposite it, with an acorrentado – a man in chains… that’s what they call people from Chibia, did you know that?… If I was able to find a phone box in Berlin with an acorrentado inside it, waiting for me, I should in New York be able to find a decorator called Eva Miller – my mother! God, my mother! Within the fortnight I’m sure I’ll find her.’
     
    My dear friend,
    I do hope this letter finds you in excellent health. I realise that what I’m writing you isn’t really