Out there on the veranda, hanging from the ceiling, are dozens of ceramic charms to ward off spirits. Félix Ventura brought them back from his travels. Most are Brazilian. Birds painted in bright colours. Shells. Butterflies. Tropical fish. The legendary bandit Lampião and his happy band of hitmen. When the breeze makes them tremble they produce a clear murmur of water; this is why whenever the breeze blows, as it always does at this time, thank God, you are reminded of the character of this house:
A ship (filled with voices) moving up-river.
Something odd happened yesterday. Félix invited Ângela Lúcia and José Buchmann to dinner. I hid right at the top of one of the bookcases, from where I could easily see what was going on but certain that I couldn’t be seen. José Buchmann arrived first. He came in, laughing, he and his shirt (printed with palm trees, parrots, a very blue sea), and like a hurricane he swept across the living room, down the length of the corridor and into the kitchen. He took a bottle of whisky from the drinks cabinet, opened the freezer and took two ice cubes which he dropped into a large tumbler, and poured himself a generous measure of the drink, then returned to the living room, all the while telling the story – shouting, laughing throughout – of how that morning he’d almost been run over. Ângela Lúcia arrived in a green dress, silently, bringing the last light with her. She stood opposite José Buchmann:
‘Do you two know each other?’
‘No, no!’ said Ângela, her voice colourless. ‘I don’t think so.’
José Buchmann was even less certain:
‘Oh, but there are ever so many people I don’t know!’ he said, and laughed at his own wit. ‘I’ve never been all that popular.’
Ângela Lúcia didn’t laugh. José Buchmann looked at her anxiously. His voice was back to that sibilant softness it had had in the early days. He told how a few days ago he’d been taking photos of a madman, one of those countless wretches who wander the city streets aimlessly, because he was fascinated by this man’s particular bearing. Very early that morning he – José Buchmann – had been lying on his front in the middle of the tarmac, waiting to get a good shot of the old man as he emerged from a sewer that apparently he’d made his home, when suddenly he spotted a car lurching towards him. He rolled over to the kerb, clutching his Canon, just in time to avoid an appalling death. When he came to develop the film he discovered that in the chaos of his escape the camera had taken three shots. Two of them weren’t any use. Mud. A bit of sky. But the last one clearly showed the stealthy metal of the car, and the indifferent face of the passenger sitting in the back seat. He produced the photos; Félix whistled:
‘Pópilas! It’s the President!…’
Ângela Lúcia was more interested in the piece of sky:
‘That cloud, do you see? It looks like a lizard…’
José Buchmann agreed. Yes, it did look like a lizard, or perhaps a crocodile; but of course we all see whatever we want to see in the fleeting image of a cloud. When Félix returned from the kitchen, carrying in both hands a broad, deep clay bowl, the two of them had settled back down. Buchmann wanted the chilli-pepper and the lemon. He praised the consistency of the manioc-paste. Bit by bit he recovered his broad laugh and Luanda accent. Ângela Lúcia turned her soft watery eyes on him:
‘Félix tells me you’ve spent a lot of time living abroad. Where?’
José Buchmann hesitated a moment. He turned to my friend, disquieted, in a plea for help. Félix pretended not to notice:
‘Yes, yes. You’ve never told me where you were all those years…’
He smiled sweetly. It was as though for the first time in his life he were experiencing the pleasures of cruelty. José Buchmann sighed deeply. He leant back in his chair:
‘I’ve spent the last ten years without any fixed home. Adrift across the world, taking photographs of wars. Before that I lived in Rio de Janeiro, and before that in Berlin, and earlier still in Lisbon. I went to Portugal in the sixties to study law, but I couldn’t stand the climate. It was too quiet. Fado, Fátima, football… In winter – which could happen at any point in the year, and usually did – a rain of dead algae would fall from the sky. The streets would be dark with it. People died of sadness. Even the dogs hanged themselves. I fled. I went first to Paris, and from there travelled with a friend to Berlin. I washed dishes in a Greek restaurant. I worked as a receptionist in a high-class brothel. I gave the Germans Portuguese lessons. I sang in bars. I modelled for young art students. One day a friend gave me a Canon F-1, the one I still use today, and that’s how I became a photographer. I was in Afghanistan in 1982, with the Soviet troops… In Salvador with the guerrillas… In Peru, on both sides… In the Falklands, again on both sides… In Iran during the war against Iraq… In Mexico on the side of the Zapatistas… I’ve taken a lot of photos in Israel and Palestine – a lot – there’s never any shortage of work there…’
Ângela Lúcia smiled, nervous again:
‘Enough! I don’t want your memories to pollute this house with blood…’
Félix returned 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.