If you are reading these words, there are two possibilities. One: I'm dead, and you are receiving my memories along with all the proof I gathered about the crimes of my family throughout these years (in this case, I beg you to put up a good name for me, because I did my best). The second possibility is that I have accomplished my true objectives and now I'm able to publish my entire story. If it is the second one, please, be gentle with me on social media — I do care about my image, and anything you do will affect my future plans. So help me instead of causing more trouble.
I'm writing this on the seventh day of the fifth month of 2022. I just decided what I'm ought to do, so I better start documenting it. First, I'll tell how I got into this, and then I'll keep writing as long as my plan remains undiscovered. Don't worry, there's no chance anyone will find these words — although the details of how I'm doing this are better kept secret.
You might not even know my country yet, so I'll treat you like a child here. But feel free to do your own research. I'm just being nice, ok?
My beloved homeland is called Angravia, a subtropical island in the Pacific. It was colonized by the Portuguese in 1534, but they kept it secret because all the land discovered in this ocean belonged to Spain, as established by the Treaty of Tordesillas. When that pitiful treaty became irrelevant, they could have revealed the island's existence — but why would they? Turns out, it's really nice to have a secret island nobody knows about. I don't even know where to start explaining why.
Anyway, let's be quick. This dream couldn't last forever. The Americans discovered the island a few decades before occupying the Philippines — I'm not sure when, that's just what they teach here. They loved the idea. A secret island? Boy, they wanted some of that. And they took it — not by force, but through some dirty agreements with the Portuguese government, which, of course, was a pretty bad deal for anyone who wasn't American. I'd love to let history go here, but there's more.
The USA couldn't keep the secret forever, but they were pretty successful in convincing other governments to stay quiet. There was one, however, that wasn't so cooperative. When the Russians discovered it, they considered revealing the secret — but again, why would they? Secrets are always more useful as secrets than revelations. That's something the masses will never understand — always willing to believe their governments. Long story short, the Russians and Americans came to an agreement during the Cold War.
Neither would keep the island, but the new independent government would be led by communists. Sounds like a bad deal, right? But having the Russians in Angravia wasn't even close to a Cuba or Mexico situation. They managed it with good diplomacy. Good for us — no nuclear war so far.
That's where my family enters the story. My great-grandfather, Aldo Abreu de Azevedo, worked for the Americans as a telegrapher during the Cold War. A damn good one. He even invented his own secret code, which they used exclusively for matters related to the island. When the Soviets arrived, they already knew about his fame for conspiracy and his well-hidden ambitions. He was easily swayed. I honestly despise him. But he quickly built connections across the country — I don't even know how. He was just that clever and ambitious. Eventually, the KGB found no better puppet to lead the "independent" nation-state.
Now, enough history. Let's talk about me.
More precisely, me on this exact day I'm writing this. I call it the same day because I haven't slept yet. I need to write to make a strong commitment to myself.
I just came from a poorly frequented party thrown by my family, and I feel dirty. Lame-bloody-dirty. But that's how I always feel in this country. It's not even the reason for my decision.
Anyway, I was standing in the main hall at the Agata Palace — our capitol — after grabbing myself some assadiças, a delicious national dish.
Then I saw this woman coming my way. A young Asian woman with a Chinese flag lapel pin. I thought she was heading to the table behind me, but no — she came straight to me.
— Is it good? — she said.
I was too distracted by her cuteness to understand what she meant, so I just nodded.
— Very good — I said with a grin.
— Can I have some? I've never seen this kind of dessert before.
— Oh, this? Sure, go ahead. There's plenty.
She took the fork out of my plate and took a bite.
I was annoyed — but also probably flushed.
— I thought you were going to get it from the table like a normal person.
— What's it called? — she smiled, ignoring my tone. A tiny and delicate smile that made me even more gawky.
— Assadiças. It's like Italian straw, but we add peanuts here. Or bananas.
— What? How do I even spell that?
— Try to speak it like a snake. Use your tongue. Assadiças. — I repeated myself, but it didn't help. — You should also try the coscorão, and the Brazilian chocolate bombs. They're bloody delicious.
— Interesting choice of words — she smiled again.
I don't think she caught my bitterness in that comment — my despise for everyone in that hall, including her. Of course, it was just a joke, lady.
She was absurdly cute to me — but then again, almost every woman I see is absurdly cute to my eyes. That doesn't change the fact that she worked for a government that cooperates with the oppression in my country. I try not to hate everyone who cooperates with tyranny, but I do hate their ideals and actions. And that includes hers.
Absorbed in that thought, I suddenly got a bit stressed.
— What are you doing here? I mean, what's your job?
— I'm a secretary to the Chinese Ambassador. There he is.
She pointed to an old tiny man speaking with my uncle — not much different, to be honest. The main differences were the skin tone, eye size, and of course, the blue military uniform my uncle wore.
A lot of medals on his chest — yet he never even had military training.
— That poor senile gentleman? Your job isn't small at all then. Pretty important, actually. So why talk to me?
— Isn't it normal? To chat with people at this kind of event?
— No. Nobody chats with me, lady. And you know that. So tell me why you approached me already — I'm not a fool.
She sighed, keeping that forced grin and charisma. I wish she'd stop, but saying anything would've been pointless.
— The poor gentleman wants to see you — she whispered, still eating from my plate.
I couldn't help but laugh a bit.
— Okay... And why would that be?
— Ask him. Are you in a position to refuse an opportunity?
Yes. I was.
I was never ambitious and never saw any possibility of changing my position. My plan was always to flee the country and live a regular life with a regular job in any place other than Angravia.
But thinking more deeply, there's no way they knew my actual plans. If the invitation was real, perhaps this so-called opportunity could actually be a way to escape. The only setback would be the risk of my uncle seeing me as a conspirator if they caught me talking to the Ambassador. In that case, I might never leave the country — not alive, at least.
Listen, I'm 21 years old now. I no longer fear death. I mean it. My father died for being a decent man, and I always thought I'd share his destiny. So if I had to risk my life for a shot at independence — I was willing to. A little bit. Of course, the Ambassador could still be completely useless to that goal.
— Fine, I'll see him — I finally said. — Where?
She blinked like she was still trying to seduce me. I don't know if she ever actually was — but that's the impression I got.
— Wait on the beach at 4:00 a.m., next to the big rock. A car will pick you up.
— You know that rock has a name, right?
— I'm not good with names in your country.
— What's yours?
She sighed.
— Zhao Lian.
— Huh. Pretty common Chinese name.
— How would you know?
— Mine is Leo.
— I know you, Mr. Leonardo. Be there.
She was suddenly tired of me — not hiding it anymore. Maybe she never liked me in the first place. She was about to leave when I held her arm.
— You can't go yet. My family will get suspicious. You're far too important to be talking to me.
— Is that so? The Ambassador said it would be natural.
She pulled away politely and returned to my side.
— Maybe he underestimated how unimportant I am — and that causes suspicion.
— You being unimportant is what avoids suspicion, you weirdo.
The audacity of this girl!
I leaned in and whispered to her:
— Think about it. Why me? Why does nobody ever talk to me — suddenly approached by the Chinese Ambassador's secretary?
— I'm just one of his secretaries. A minor, insignificant one.
— That doesn't matter to my uncle. He's absurdly paranoid. I'm only alive because I made him like me and stayed out of his sight. I just couldn't avoid it tonight. Please. My life could be at stake.
— What do you want me to do?
— Simple. I made my uncle think I'm a pervert like him. I've been whispering to you for a while. They'll think I'm harassing you. You just have to sla—
She didn't wait for me to finish.
A well-placed slap turned my face red like she was truly offended. Then she stormed away. Surprised, I crouched in shame, letting my plate fall. I don't know if I was pretending to be pathetic or just being pathetic, but I forked one last piece of dessert from the ground.
I knew it had worked because my uncle didn't delay in approaching.
He laughed while tapping my back. I stood to face him. There was a hint of pride in his eyes.
— It doesn't matter, boy. Well done — he laughed, disgustingly. — You can try again later, right?
I swear, banalized evil is the worst kind.
He walked away, apologizing to the Ambassador:
— He's just a foolish lad. Nephew of mine. You know how nephews are, he-he!
A few hours later, I pretended to get drunk. And even though I don't usually get drunk, I think they bought it. I had been rejected, after all.
Then I staggered toward that big rock she mentioned — a sandstone tower formed by nature hundreds of millions of years ago. We call it Torre da Angra-Maior. A big name, indeed.
I can't deny I was afraid. I had never done anything so stupid and risky. But I was too fed up with the common bullshit I swallow on a daily basis. I knew the Ambassador might use me — but I'd never seen an opportunity like this before. I doubted there'd ever be another.
I don't know how it is in other dictators' families, but in Angravia, you don't just leave the family business.
I looked at my watch: 4:02 a.m.
And then the car arrived.
— I guess a two-minute delay is acceptable — I said, thinking no one would hear.
But the door opened, and I heard her voice:
— Your clock must have broken two minutes ago.
Zhao Lian got out and opened the door for me, pointing toward the distinguished gentleman inside. She whispered:
— Be polite.
I sat down. There was a seat between me and the Ambassador. In that seat, he held a box.
Zhao Lian spoke to the driver, and we departed.
But not before I say:
— She told me she was just the least of your secretaries, Ambassador. Now I'm not believing that.
The old gentleman grins at me. I'm not sure I can say his real name safely, so let's call him Xiao Lao.
— Indeed. She is, in fact, my most trusted agent in your country, Mr. Liu.
I laugh. I couldn't help it — the way he pronounces my name, as if trying to say Leo, makes me suddenly feel like a Chinese young man.
— She amuses you, Mr. Liu?
— Oh yes, Ambassador Lao, she is amusing. But forgive my frankness — why would you want to speak with me? You know very well how irrelevant I am on this island.
— Not at all, my dear. You are of the utmost relevance.
The way he speaks — calmly, politely, even gently — makes me like him instantly. And I have to remind myself that this could be a man just as dangerous as my uncle.
— You know, I can't even imagine how your life has been without your father, stranded by a thin wire held by your uncle — one that can end your life at any moment he wishes. You are a slave to your family, aren't you?
— Are you trying to humble me down? You don't need to.
He laughs — a polite and restrained laugh, slightly hoarse — and shakes his head.
— From now on, my dear, you need to start looking at me as your friend. You know, your uncle is very ill...
My uncle is ill?
I immediately suspect they're poisoning him. I wouldn't be surprised. But why? The Russians love how they control my uncle. Could there be a dispute between them and the Chinese?
I can't hold back the thought, and I say it directly:
— How long have you been poisoning him?
Mr. Lao looks suddenly confused, then annoyed. I can't tell if he's just bad at hiding his thoughts — like any other Chinese official — or if he's pretending to be. Both seem possible.
We briefly glance at each other.
Then he laughs.
— No, no, Mr. Liu. Why would we... How could we even do that? Didn't you say it yourself? Your uncle is absurdly paranoid.
I knew I could not trust that man, yet he was my only hope. As the car went into a tunnel, I started to lose consciousness.