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fed, even better slept, he had fully recoveredhis lucidity. In his case, unfortunately, lucidity proved itself an enemy of good sense. He would have been better off staying insane for five or six more years. Lucid now, his uneasiness returned. The country’s collapse pained him in his soul, as if this were an actual organ with blood flowing through it. It hurt even more from the fate of the companions he had left behind bars. Bit by bit he reformed old connections. Together with a young footballer, Maciel Lucamba, whom he had met in Campo de São Nicolau, he constructed an imaginative plan that would entail the rescuing of a group of prisoners, and their flight, on a trawler, to Portugal. He never spoke to anyone of the diamonds. Not even to Maciel. He meant to sell the stones in order to pay for part of the operation. He didn’t know to whom he might sell them, and he wasn’t allowed the time to give this any thought. One Sunday afternoon, while he was resting, stretched out on a mat, these two guys burst in suddenly and he was arrested. It pained him to learn that Madalena was detained too.
    Monte interrogated him. He was hoping to demonstrate the nurse’s involvement in the conspiracy. He promised to free them both if the young man revealed the whereabouts of a Portuguese mercenary whom Madalena had saved. Little Chief could have told the truth, that he had never heard of this mercenary. He thought, however, that any words at all exchanged with the agent would be tantamount to acknowledging his legitimacy, and so he merely spat on the floor. The stubbornness left him with scars on his body.
    For the whole time he was detained, he kept the diamonds with him. Neither the guards nor the other prisoners ever suspected that this humble young man, always so concerned about other people, could behiding a small fortune. On the morning of May 27, 1977, he was woken by a fierce din. Gunshots. A man he didn’t recognize opened the door to his cell and shouted that he could leave if he wanted. A group in revolt had occupied the prison. The young man made his way through the commotion calm as a ghost, feeling much more nonexistent than when he used to roam the streets disguised as a madman. In the yard, sitting in the shade of a frangipani, he found a highly respected poetess, a historic name from the nationalist movement, who, like him, had been detained just a few days after Independence, accused of supporting a strand of intellectuals who had been criticizing the party leadership. Little Chief asked after Madalena. She had been released weeks earlier. The police had been unable to prove a thing against her. “Amazing woman!” added the poet. She advised Little Chief not to leave the prison. In her opinion the revolt would be quickly stifled and the fugitives taken, tortured, and shot:
    “There’s a bloodbath on the way.”
    He agreed. He held her tight in a long hug, then left, dazed, into the torrential light of the streets. He considered looking for Madalena. He wanted to offer her his most profuse apologies. But he knew that this might cause her even more problems. Her house would be the first place the police would look for him. So he wandered the city, dazed, distressed, now following – at a distance – the groups of protestors, now accompanying the movements of the forces loyal to the president. He was walking this way and that, ever more lost, when a soldier recognized him. The man started to chase after him, crying “Fractionist! Fractionist!” and within moments a crowd had assembled to run him down. Little Chief was six feet tall, with long legs. During hisadolescence he had been an athlete. The months he’d spent in a narrow cell, however, made him shorter of breath. For the first five hundred meters he’d managed to get some distance between himself and his pursuers. He even believed that he would shake them off. Unfortunately, the commotion attracted yet more people. He felt his chest bursting. Sweat was