No. 4 Imperial Lane

by Jonathan Weisman

  Though he was not an attentive husband, João was a conscientious doctor. He treated Elizabeth like his most important patient, making frequent rounds, ensuring proper nutrition and hydration, preparing for the best care available. As promised, the hospital in Luanda was a far cry from Bissau’s. It had obstetricians, well-trained nurses, a real maternity ward. And João apparently had been forgotten by the Portuguese army, which had brought him to Angola, installed him in this fine hotel, and seemingly lost interest in him. It was a temporary lapse, no doubt, but he had no intention of raising his hand, not with his first child on the way. Professional courtesy for the wife and firstborn child of the new doctor ensured fawning service for Elizabeth. She found she was spending far more time than necessary making the final arrangements for her approaching due date. She had nothing else to do. Easily available, chatty Portuguese cabdrivers and an obliging hotel doorman made trips to and from her obstetrician’s office a painless diversion. João sometimes came along to check on the state of medicine in the Province of Angola.

  “How does the heartbeat sound today?” he’d demand of the day’s nurse.

  “Strong and steady, Doctor Gonçalves.”

  “Have you considered an X-ray, just to be sure?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Doctor Gonçalves. Do you insist?”

  “Let’s check the fetal heart rate tomorrow. I’ll make my decision then.”

  Elizabeth would watch her husband through these interrogations, aghast. She was aware there was a time when his knowledge and forcefulness would have filled her with admiration, even desire. Now he just seemed a bully.

  The actual birth was something less dramatic than Elizabeth had at once feared and hoped for. The initial contractions hurt; even young Elizabeth knew that was coming. But when they were frequent enough, she was put to sleep. If Europe was beginning to cotton to natural childbirth, or at least cognizant partum and an epidural, colonial Portugal remained fond of general anesthesia, which kept the mother nice and quiet. Elizabeth awoke, groggy, sore, with a nasty tear that no one had warned her about, a husband napping beside her, and a beautiful baby girl in the arms of the nurse standing over her.

  The nerves of motherhood would wait, the worries over her marriage, her larger displacement in the world. At that moment, she belonged.

  “Cristina,” she murmured, her arms reaching out to her daughter, almost weightless in her delicacy. She nuzzled the infant’s face to hers, bathed it in tears, then, guided by the hands of a flaxen-haired nurse with olive skin, brought her to her breast. For the first time, she felt the welcome pain as her baby latched on, then the letdown and the moment of maternal understanding. In that instant, she loved that child like she had never loved anything before. João stood to put a hand on her sweat-drenched hair, another on the baby. She didn’t notice.

  At almost twenty-two, Elizabeth was not experienced enough to worry about whether she could handle the sleepless rigors of infancy, nor was she mature enough to cope with a difficult child. Cristina, as it turned out, was a delight. The first two weeks, she was almost silent. Even after she truly awoke to life beyond the womb, she took it all in with quiet, wide-eyed wonder. Physically, she was her father’s girl, with a long, delicate face, high cheekbones, black hair, dark, dark brown eyes set along an aquiline nose. She was the kind of baby that won gasps from passing mothers, not squeals of playful laughter.

  Both parents delighted as Elizabeth shed pounds by the stone, fat coursing from her belly into her milk and through plump breasts to the voracious, growing baby they adored. Elizabeth was convinced João’s youthful appetite for sex had disappeared without complaint as she closed down to his desires. At first, she felt guilty. Not much later, she figured her husband had overcome the fears he confided at the restaurant in Bissau. The pickings were far more tempting here, and he still had long, unexplained absences in the Luandan night. She surprised herself with her acceptance of it. In this moment, she had all that she wanted.

  When he was there, he was all she could hope for in a father. He loved his daughter joyfully. The family, now looking and feeling complete, strolled along the bay with a pram purchased at an upscale department store. They sat in the cafés together, João gallantly shielding his breast-feeding wife and baby from view and then showing them off to the housewives and swing-shift bar girls taking in the southern African sun. The girls discreetly acted as if they were meeting the young doctor for the first time, hiding the knowing blush on their cheeks or suppressing the giggles of a carnal recall.

  Once out of the hospital, Elizabeth took it upon herself to make contact with her protector. She found the address he had left for her and nervously drafted a letter to the general, telling him all was well and thanking him profusely for relaying her father’s message. She promised to write to Hampshire, and she did. In fact, she decided to reconnect. She dashed off letters to Hans, to Cousin Victoria, to her parents, even to her childhood tutor. She was happy and proud. She had something to express beyond fear or regret or confusion.

  With the healthy birth of Dr. João Gonçalves’s child came the inevitable end of the Portuguese army’s indifference to his sloth. A note greeted him one afternoon at the hotel front desk after a particularly long lunch in the sun, typed on medical corps letterhead.

  Major Gonçalves, your presence is requested at Medical Aid Service headquarters, 23 November 1971, 0800 hours. Colonel Hugo Calheiros, commander, Angolan Medical Corps.

  “Have a seat, Major Gonçalves. I am Colonel Calheiros,” he said, sitting heavily in the functional chair behind his nondescript desk. “I gather you’re having a pleasant time in Luanda.”

  João couldn’t tell if that was a question or an accusation. He leaned to the latter and blushed. Calheiros’s smile was even and sustained; João saw it as lascivious.

  “Well, sir, it has been eventful. I had my first child.”

  “Yes, we know, congratulations, and please, no ‘sirs.’ We’re both doctors. I’ve done my duty addressing you as ‘Major.’ Can I call you João?” Calheiros asked.

  “Of course,” João said, smiling with relief.

  “We know a great deal about you. This is the military, after all. Your experience in Guiné makes you highly valuable to us. You know the real Africa, not this,” he said, gesturing vaguely to Luanda’s city center below. “You know how it smells. You’ve seen tropical diseases, parasites, you’ve treated combat wounds and trauma, and”—he paused for effect—“you’ve seen combat.”

  Calheiros smiled in a patronizing way; strange, João thought, in the context of the conversation.

  “I have to admit I’ve grown a little soft since I’ve gotten here.”

  “We’ve noticed. We have been watching, João. Don’t think the secret police operate only in the metrópole. We need you now, João. Your orders have come in. You’ve seen things most doctors in theater haven’t. Don’t be deceived by Luanda, or even Nova Lisboa, where we’re going to send you. There’s a real war going on. We’re winning it, and unlike in Guiné, we have a reason to fight. For a lot of us, this is home, the only home we’ve ever known. I was born in Lobito, to the south of here. I can’t imagine leaving this continent. But it’s a hard fight.”

  “I’ve heard bad things about Nova Lisboa,” João said.

  Calheiros laughed.

  “You’ll love it, or at least your wife will. Trust me on that.”

  João had a week before the family was due to report to their new home. Elizabeth decided it was time to meet the general.

  “Dear General Costa Gomes,” she wrote in English, hoping that was not too presumptuous. “My husband and I will be leaving in seven days’ time for Nova Lisboa and his new post. I would very much like to make your acquaintance in person before our departure. If it is not too much trouble, would you mind sharing a cup of tea with me? Sincerely, Elizabeth Bromwell Gonçalves.”

  It was the first time she had referred to herself that way. She liked the sound of it. Rath
er than wait for the post, she bundled Cristina up, had the doorman hail a cab, then rode to the imposing fortress above Luanda Bay, Fortaleza de São Miguel. That was, in fact, not where the offices of the top leadership was. Those offices were on the grounds but beyond the forbidding walls, in a far lovelier, orange-hued colonial building with gracious windows and plantation shutters, a veranda on the inland side, a garden framing the ocean view on the other. Her request to have a letter hand-delivered to the general was greeted with more amusement than suspicion. She did not wait for a reply before heading back down the hill.

  The general sent word to the front desk that afternoon that he would be at the Café Ultramar, near her hotel, in the morning at eight and would be pleased to meet. João offered grudging admiration for her initiative. He, too, saw the merits of the meeting and promised to watch the baby.

  She had never seen General Costa Gomes, but he was easy to pick out by the quantity of brass on his chest. She stood out too, washed-out and awkward amid all of that Latin insouciance. As she approached, he stood regally and offered to kiss her hand. The general lacked the battle-hardened bravado of Spínola, no monocle or white gloves, no flash behind the tinted glasses. His strengths were political, outward modesty masking a knack for ingratiation and an ability to find the seams for advancement. He had grown up in the impoverished north of Portugal, Trás-os-Montes, “behind the mountains.” Like many other poor boys, he never conquered the sense that he did not belong and did not deserve his success. In a singularly reticent autocracy, that only assured his continuing ascent.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, senhora. You remind me much of your father,” he lied graciously. “Please sit. I’d order you tea with milk, but that is one thing I would not recommend in southern Africa.”

  “Thank you, General, I have long given up on the milk.”

  “Very wise. That explains your good health.”

  A waitress had already approached, and she let Costa Gomes order tea for her, Earl Grey, from the shipping port of Goa, no longer under Portuguese control but alive in the imperial memory.

  “I only have the vaguest understanding of how you came to Luanda, senhora. I know of your husband. Military doctors are much prized in these wars of ours. I don’t doubt the wisdom of General Spínola’s campaign for hearts and minds, only his timing. We’re already down to the dregs of conscription, the dullards who could not find a way to escape. Our young doctors are scattered to the winds—Britain, France, the United States. You’ll have to tell me why Doctor Gonçalves showed up, especially with his King’s College degree.”

  “I expect it was something dreadfully old-fashioned,” Elizabeth said. “Duty, or some such.”

  “I expect it was something more primal than that, his father for instance.” Costa Gomes laughed softly, sipping his second espresso. “It is amazing what men of a certain background will do not to disappoint their fathers. It is even more amazing the valiant lengths their women go to see the best in them.”

  “I suppose so,” Elizabeth said.

  “I gather I should not put you into that category?”

  “Which?”

  “The bit about striving to please your father.” His tone sounded a touch reproachful.

  “No, daughters are different. They have mothers. There are only two kinds, the ones who cannot leave and the ones who cannot stay.”

  “Ah, and I can see which one you fancy yourself to be.”

  Elizabeth looked down at the table sheepishly. Family duties were different in Britain than in Portugal. Costa Gomes might have gathered that during his time at NATO Command, Norfolk, but that didn’t mean he accepted their equivalence. Elizabeth felt the flush of guilt on her face.

  “Senhora, I don’t mean to pry. We have all seen love sweep up the young. It is a swift river at your age. Your current happened to be an especially strong one.”

  He smiled at his cleverness. She did not meet his insistent gaze.

  “When I was your age, I was swept to Macao by a more blunt force, the Portuguese military. I’ve told your father I’d look after you…”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Elizabeth blurted out, so rudely she gasped. “I, I, I’m sorry. That was quite forward.”

  “Senhora, you’re speaking to a man who talked his way out of the gallows and into a command in southern Africa. They called it sedition, you know. I didn’t like the fascists all that much, but when it came to it, when I had to grovel, I convinced them I did. I do not stand on ceremony or pride.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I ask a…a favor?”

  Costa Gomes tried on a beneficent little smile.

  “Ask away, my dear. Just as long as you know I don’t have to agree.”

  “João, my husband, has already been through a lot, in Guiné. It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s him.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, captivity hardened him. I’m just starting to see the contours of the gentleman I married begin to re-form. I’d hate to lose that again.”

  “Elizabeth, this is war. Doctor Gonçalves’s experience in Guiné is very valuable to his country at the moment. That hardness may not be so great in a husband, but it is in a fighter. I will keep you and your daughter safe. But your husband, he belongs to the Portuguese army.”

  Two days before leaving Luanda, João was summoned to Costa Gomes’s office for a briefing.

  “Doctor Gonçalves, I don’t know what to make of you. Your generation has all but forsaken the cause. The intellectuals, the doctors, they no longer bother to burn their draft notices. They board a train to Paris or Rome without even opening the envelope. I have no doubt you could be in London right now, on salary with the National Health Service, holding a pensioner by the balls and telling him to cough.”

  To João, the conversation was going from bad to worse. He could defend his decision and speak of his love for the motherland or some such crap Costa Gomes wouldn’t believe, or he could stay quiet and let the general have his truth, that João Gonçalves showed up because doing what he was told—by his government, by his father, by the woman in his bed—was almost always the easiest thing to do. He stayed quiet.

  “Your wife loves you very much,” the general continued. “She asked that I protect you.”

  “I did not ask for that,” João said hotly. They were the first meaningful words to pass through his lips, and they came out angrily. He had encouraged Elizabeth to reach out to the general. He figured it was best to have such a man on their side. But not for protection. Elizabeth may have been well meaning, but she had humiliated him, and General Costa Gomes was rubbing it in.

  “Sir, I apologize, but I want you to know I gave my wife no message to deliver you about my status. I am grateful for your kind offers to watch out for my family. But I have every intention of serving as a military physician. I’ve seen combat…”

  Silence fell as Costa Gomes appraised the doctor. He seemed pleased he had a soldier sitting with him, angry but contained, the mooring of his wife loose and distant.

  “Good, Major. I told Senhora Gonçalves as much. Nova Lisboa has three bull’s-eyes painted on it. That has more to do with our three enemies and their hatred of each other than anything we’ve done, but we can’t be caught in the crossfire. They’ve already got a name for it, Huambo, as it was called when it was just a cluster of thatched mud houses and an open-air market. God help us if the three of them reach the city together.”

  Husband, wife, and child reported to the airstrip at seven in the morning, their belongings packed in three overstuffed duffel bags that João and the cabby managed while Elizabeth pushed the pram. They were escorted to a Do-27, a turboprop that looked like a private plane a sportsman might own for quick fishing trips. Angola was full of them, German castoffs. The Portuguese would have liked something a little more substantial, but the Americans were souring on Caetano’s colonial policies. NATO assistance was drying up.

  At just over five hundred kilometers away, Nova L
isboa was not a hop, a skip, or a jump from Luanda. It was a long-enough flight for anticipation to build. Elizabeth envisioned a war zone, or at least a city besieged, enveloped in fear, beset by shortages and dreading the end—something like Bissau but with more white people. The small plane rose above the coastal plain, flew over impenetrable forests, and then skimmed over the lush green grasslands of the highlands. They touched down on the tarmac and stepped into the first temperate air Elizabeth had felt in over a year. An army driver took the family by jeep into a city neither had expected. The wide, graceful Avenida Cinco de Outubro led them past kilometers of modern, nondescript, but tidy apartment blocks. They traversed the Jardim Américo Tomás, drove past a vast outdoor theater, empty in daylight but capable of seating a thousand or so. A towering Florentine fountain graced an expansive central park with winding paths through subtropical flowers. Clutches of young mothers held the hands of their children or pushed strollers through the Parque Infantil. The art deco Cinema Ruacaná and Club Nova York awaited the night’s revelers. It was all immaculate. What were missing were the Africans. A few Angolan women waited at bus stops or tended sidewalk fruit stands, but Nova Lisboa was a white city, a colonial construct, beautiful but doomed, built on sand. Elizabeth suffered a few moments of liberal guilt, but then she turned to João and smiled. He smiled back.

  The jeep approached the gates of a large military compound not far from the center of town. A Zona Central do Comando Militar, a large sign proclaimed, “Central Military Zone Command Center.” Two Portuguese soldiers lifted the barrier and waved them through. This was not a city in panic. The barracks and buildings of the base were arranged in tidy rows of uniform white structures, all but indistinguishable from one another. The driver pulled up to one of the last and helped João carry the duffel bags into a little anteroom. The base commander stepped out of his office, and with a pleasant smile, extended a hand to the new doctor.