The Book of Chameleons Read Free

Dumas. And he sells them this simple dream.
    ‘Perfect, perfect.’ The foreigner smoothed his moustache. ‘That’s what they told me. I require your services. But I’m afraid it may be rather a lot of work…’
    ‘Work makes you free …’ Félix muttered. It may be that he was just saying this to try and get a rise out of him, to test out the intruder’s identity, but if that was his intention it failed – the foreigner merely nodded. The albino got up and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. A moment later he returned with a bottle of good Portuguese wine that he held with both hands. He showed it to the foreigner, and offered him a glass. And he asked:
    ‘And might I know your name?’
    The foreigner examined the wine by the light of the lamp. He lowered his eyelids and drank slowly, attentively, happily, like someone following the flight of a Bach fugue. He put the glass down on a small table right in front of him, a piece of mahogany furniture with a glass cover; then finally straightened himself up and replied:
    ‘I’ve had many names, but I mean to forget them all. I’d rather you were the one to baptize me.’
    Félix insisted. He had to know – at the very least – what his clients’ professions were. The foreigner raised his right hand – a broad hand, with long, bony fingers – in a vague gesture of refusal. But then he lowered it again, and sighed:
    ‘You’re right. I’m a photojournalist. I collect images of wars, of hunger and its ghosts, of natural disasters and terrible misfortunes. You can think of me as a witness.’
    He explained that he was planning to settle in the country. He wanted more than just a decent past, a large family, uncles, aunts and cousins, nephews and nieces, grandfathers and grandmothers, including two or three bessanganas , now dead, of course (or perhaps living in exile somewhere?); he wanted more than just portraits and anecdotes. He needed a new name, authentic official documents that bore out this identity. The albino listened, horrified:
    ‘No!’ he managed to blurt out. ‘I don’t do things like that. I invent dreams for people, I’m not a forger… And besides, if you’ll pardon my bluntness, wouldn’t it be a bit difficult to invent a completely African genealogy for you?’
    ‘Indeed! And why is that?!…’
    ‘Well – sir – … you’re white.’
    ‘And what of it? You’re whiter than I am…’
    ‘White? Me?!’ The albino choked. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.‘No, no! I’m black. Pure black. I’m a native. Can’t you tell that I’m black?…’
    From my usual post at the window I couldn’t help giving a little chuckle at this point. The foreigner looked upwards as though he were sniffing the air. Tense – alert:
    ‘Did you hear that? Who laughed just then?’
    ‘Nobody,’ the albino replied, and pointed at me. ‘It was the gecko.’
    The man stood up. He came up closer and I could feel his eyes on me. It was as though he were looking directly into my soul – my old soul. He shook his head slowly, in a baffled silence.
    ‘Do you know what this is?’
    ‘What?!’
    ‘It’s a gecko, yes, but a very rare species. See these stripes? It’s a tiger gecko – a shy creature, we still know very little about them. They were first discovered half a dozen years ago in Namibia. We think they can live for twenty years – even longer, perhaps. They have this amazing laugh – doesn’t it sound like a human laugh?’
    Félix agreed. Yes, to begin with he’d also been disturbed by it. But then having consulted a few books about reptiles – he had them right there in the house, he had books about everything, thousands of them, inherited from his adopted father, a second-hand book dealer who’d exchanged Luanda for Lisbon a few months after independence – he’d discovered that there were certain species of gecko that produce sounds that are strikingly like laughter. They spent some time