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:
‘And his name? So did the guy tell you who he is?’
No one is a name! I thought, forcefully…
‘No one is a name!’ Félix replied.
The reply took Ângela Lúcia by surprise. Félix too. I watched him look at her as though looking into an abyss. She was smiling sweetly. She lay her right hand on the albino’s left arm. She whispered something in his ear, and he relaxed.
‘No,’ he whispered back. ‘I don’t know who he is. But since I’m the one who dreams about him I think I can give him any name I want, can’t I? I’m going to call him Eulálio, because he’s so well-spoken.’
Eulálio?! That seems fine to me. So Eulálio I shall be.