“And stop apologizing the whole time. There’s nothing tragic about all this. You don’t know anything about me, I’ll tell you a bit. As you’re looking at the dolphin, I’ll tell you about that. You have to go back seventeen years, during the Angolan war. Portugal sent tens of thousands of soldiers out there, more even, and in among all those young conscripts was Francisco, my father’s best friend’s son. But Francisco had hardly landed before he was killed by a grenade, deep in the jungle, in an ambush near Luanda. His body was repatriated, and our whole family went to his funeral. It was snowing that day, that’s rare here but it was January. We all filed past the hole in the ground, to throw in a red carnation. The engraving on the marble gravestone read “1948–1968,” and when I saw those two dates, I started shaking and crying. I didn’t know Francisco, I’d never even met him, but I just couldn’t stop. A girl came over to me and took my hand, she cried with me. She was a cousin of Francisco’s, Delfina, she was just sixteen, almost the same age as me, she didn’t know anything about me, but thought I must be Francisco’s girlfriend. She didn’t let go of my hand for the whole ceremony. When we had to head back to Lisbon we quickly exchanged addresses and phone numbers and promised to meet up. We both already knew that we were in love. Yes, don’t look at me like that, Vincent, the great love of my teenage years was called Delfina. She was from a military family and went to school at the Instituto de Odivelas, a very strict, very Catholic boarding school with the motto Thought, Courage and Devotion. We had to hide. In 1962 when they wanted to put one of the leaders of the Communist Party in prison, they used the excuse that he was homosexual. The Odivelas district was a really long way from where I lived, but every evening I used to take the Eléctrico M, and then a bus, and I would meet Delfina in the Instituto’s old chapel, which had one door that didn’t lock properly. Sometimes we could even stay there all night, hiding in the refectory. One night, another girl gave Delfina away, and we were caught. The insults were appalling, there were physical blows, I was hounded out, the Mother Superior dragged Delfina up to her room by her hair, Delfina screaming, calling me to help her. I don’t know what happened after that but that night Delfina fell from the third floor. ‘She walked on the roof and slipped’ was the story given by the management, who never mentioned the earlier scene to her family. A tragic accident. But it wasn’t true. Delfina had also slit her wrists with a razor, I discovered that later. I can tell you what happened. They beat her, insulted her, belittled her, and humiliated her to the point where she slit her wrists and threw herself out of the window. Or maybe they even pushed her out to disguise her suicide. I went to see her father to tell him everything, and he was horrible too. His daughter couldn’t have been a lesbian, it was unthinkable, in fact he couldn’t even say the word. I wasn’t allowed to go to Delfina’s funeral. The following day, I went to my love’s grave with my sister who knew everything and hadn’t left my side since Delfina died because she was so frightened I would kill myself too. There were flowers everywhere, and even a bouquet of white roses from the Instituto de Odivelas, I spat on it and threw it as far as I could, and I screamed like an animal in that cemetery. Then I sang a song by Antonio Botto, you might know it, Delfina really liked his work. I can still remember it:
Envolve-me amorosamente
Na cadeia de teus braços
Como naquela tardinha …
Não tardes, amor ausente;
Tem pena da minha mágoa,
Vida minha!
Wrap me lovingly
In the chain of your arms
As you did that evening …
Don’t be long, my absent love,
Take pity on my pain
Life of mine!
“I went and had the dolphin tattoo done that same evening. The guy refused at first, he didn’t do tattoos on women, I was too young, the skin on wrists is too thin, but I told him the whole story, in tears, and he eventually agreed. He didn’t want me to pay.”
I looked in silence at the dolphin as Manuela stroked it with her finger.
“I—I would never have known. You’re so …”
“Don’t, please. Without meaning to you’re going to say something stupid and offensive.”
I nodded. She was right. She smiled.
“You certainly don’t have much luck with women. You’re thinking: first a bitch, then a dike …”
“I—I never said that, Manuela.”
“No, I’m saying it. Anyway, Delfina was the only girl I’ve ever loved, the only girl I’ve kissed and touched even. It was because it was her. Things aren’t that straightforward, you see. I’ll tell you an important truth which you might find useful: having luck with women doesn’t exist. What does exist is knowing when a woman is giving you your chance, and seizing it. But you never see anything, Vincent. You should never have dared take my hand before I gave you a sign that meant yes, you can at least try.”
I looked away.
“And there you go again, with your hangdog expression. You’re—”
“Hopeless, is that what you were going to say?”
“I’m not that pessimistic anymore. But you’re too on edge to spot the tiny signs. You project your longing for love onto some poor girl, and the effect this has is inevitably the exact opposite of what you’re hoping. Because it’s monstrous and clingy, that longing imposed on someone when they haven’t done anything to provoke it. They want only one thing and that’s to get away. And believe me, I know a lot about women.”
She looked at her watch. “I have to go, I’m sorry. I’m already late.”
“Can I call you? I’d like to.”
“Sorry, Vincent, but I don’t give out my number that easily. But we’ll see each other again. Why don’t you tell me how I can get hold of you. Do you have a business card?”
I started laughing and, slightly surprised by my reaction, Manuela laughed too.
The Ilbassan civilization on the high plateau of Holtepo has more gods than all other civilizations combined. Where some peoples might believe in a rain goddess and would dance to secure her favor, the Ilbassanians think there is a goddess for each raindrop. So they don’t exhaust themselves jigging about over something so small.
I was translating this tale of Montestrela’s when Irene called me. She was flying out in a few hours and just wanted to say goodbye. I initially thought of saying I was busy but didn’t want to run away from the situation.
“I can come by your studio if you’re working. I won’t disturb you for long.”
I hardly had time to tidy the place before Irene knocked on the door. She came in and with her came that heady, candy-smelling perfume. She was wearing her red dress and coral necklace.
“So this is where you live. It’s not bad for someone who wants to write. It’s light, not too out of the way. What a wonderful view …”
She walked over to the window and leaned on the top rail of the little balcony to look at the Tagus. I moved closer, slowly, until I was right behind her, I breathed in the smell of her, the sensual acidity of her sweat. Irene stood motionless, so did I.
I need only have taken one step and our bodies would have touched. Hers wouldn’t have avoided mine, she would have leaned forward very slightly, and her buttocks would have moved back, pushing against my penis. I would have wanted her but wouldn’t have done anything. Just pushed my body against hers until she felt me against her. She would have moved, gently, spread her legs, slowly. Her right hand would have touched my thigh, moved up toward my erection, she would have squeezed it through the fabric. She would have unbuttoned my jeans, they would have dropped to my ankles. I too would have slid my hand over her legs, touching her silky, milky skin, realizing with amazement she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. She would have bent over even further, offering herself, and, in that position, I would have taken her soft, moist cleft, my stomach smacking against her ass, my penis going back and forth inside her, harder and harder, without a single word spoken, looking at her buttocks but also, to
avoid coming too quickly, the ferries on the Tagus. All at once she would have moved away, turned around, and knelt down. She would barely have licked the tip of my penis and cupped my balls before I ejaculated on her cheek and in her hair.
“You’re right, it’s a lovely view. If you lean out a bit, look, you can see the big statue of Christ the King. Can you see it?”
Irene left almost immediately. Her goodbye kiss landed on the corner of my mouth.
Her plane took off at eight o’clock and flew over Lisbon. I think I saw it.
DAY NINE
VINCENT
Cátia Moniz called me at about ten o’clock in the morning. The book was already done, the glue had dried, and even my cards were ready. Cátia Moniz. I really couldn’t get used to it.
I stopped off at the hotel early. Antonio’s bags were already in the lobby. He had found a seat on an afternoon flight to Mexico City. I had very little time left. I wanted him to come to the printers with me to pick up Contos aquosos. We agreed to meet for lunch near my studio and it was only as we were having coffee that I said: “By the way, I had Montestrela’s book rebound at the printers on the rua da Barroca. It’s weird: the girl who works there looks very much like Duck.”
Antonio looked at me intently, took a deep breath.
“Okay, what are you playing at, Vincent? What have you been playing at this last week?”
“Nothing. It’s the nearest place where you can have a book bound, I go there yesterday and I come across this woman—”
“Stop.”
I thought he was going to punch me.
“Vincent … the day before yesterday, a picture. Today, book-binding. That’s a lot of coincidences and a lot of chance occurrences.”
“I promise you—”
“Why would you go stirring up shit like that? Isn’t your own shit enough for you, that you have to go meddling in other people’s? Do you really think that in the last ten years I haven’t had time to track her and my son down? I’ll tell you the whole story, because you’re obviously dying to hear it, and then, then, listen to this, Vincent, you’re going to pick up your fucking book from your fucking printers and you’re going to leave her the hell in peace, and me too. Do you get it? Once and for all. Otherwise I’ll break your legs, okay?”
“But—”
“Shut up.”
WE’RE AT 42 rue Saint-Maur in Paris. It’s the summer of 1974. A young woman has just come through the gate and under the porch. On her chest, in a baby carrier, she has a one-year-old boy, maybe a little older. When the concierge, who’s cleaning the courtyard, asks who she wants to see, the woman says Flores, Antonio Flores, with a strong Portuguese accent. Second floor on the left.
Antonio knows nothing about what happened in Pragal, the birth, the hidden baby, the shame. In the chaos following Salazar’s downfall, Duck must have run away to a distant relation in Paris. How she found his address, Antonio doesn’t know either. It doesn’t matter. She was never given the letters he’d written. He’d moved so many times that not all of those she’d written to him could have reached him. Duck climbs the stairs. She climbs quickly, she’s in a hurry, she’s carrying the child in her arms. There is no name on the left-hand door, just a Rolling Stones sticker shaped liked a mouth. The doormat is a hedgehog. She shows it to her baby, saying, “Olha, Vitor, ouriço, ouriço. Look, a hedgehog.”
“Riço,” Vitor mimics.
Duck rings the bell but it’s not working. She hesitates, then knocks on the door. It isn’t Antonio who answers the door but a tall, flat-chested young woman with long blond hair, wearing a man’s white shirt and jeans. She’s pretty, she smiles kindly to the attractive girl on her doorstep and her tiny little boy. Duck starts to have her doubts. Was this really the second floor, do they count floors differently in France? She’s not sure.
“Antonio Flores?” she asks.
Antonio? No, he’s not here. This evening, yes. Come back. At about eight o’clock? Duck can’t help seeing what the place looks like. It’s a very small one-bedroom apartment, you can see the double bed from the door. She takes a step back. She feels cold. She shivers. Would she like to leave a message? No, she wouldn’t. She doesn’t want to write a single word that this girl could read. She goes back down the stairs, looks for the letterbox. Both names appear in the window: Antonio Flores—Agnès Mangin. Idiota. Idiota. She’s put the baby back in his carrier, Vitor’s so heavy already, she kisses his fine hair. Duck goes out onto the street, walks toward the blinding sun, almost running, still intoning Idiota Idiota Idiota in a hissing voice Vitor doesn’t recognize.
When Antonio comes home and Agnès tells him that a pretty dark-haired girl came by with a baby, he gets it. Agnès gets it too. She leaves him. She doesn’t leave him because he hid this woman and child from her, she leaves him because he abandoned them.
Antonio sets out to find Duck. Does he ever find her? Yes, but much later. Antonio is evasive about the dates, ambivalent. The truth would only prove his fickleness. In any event, Vitor is no longer a baby.
Duck says: If you’re no longer you, I no longer want you. Those are the words. Antonio doesn’t understand. How could he no longer be himself? She says exactly the same thing again. If you’re no longer you, I no longer want you. He says: Don’t say that, I love you. She replies that he has no concept about the words he’s using. She also says that stains have permanently soiled the whiteness that they shared for many years apart, but that these years had added up because they’d been walking in opposite directions. She talks in metaphors, Antonio just tells her again that he loves her, he doesn’t know what else to say. Oh, then he does: Vitor needs a father. You’re wrong, she says, he has one now. He asks to see his son, their son. She corrects him: my son. Then, controlling herself, not softening but conciliatory: our son. She agrees, he can see him, because Vitor has a right to know, and she doesn’t want any secrets. She also tells him she’s pregnant, that she’s happy to be having a child with the man she loves. Antonio cries, he cries over what could have been. She cries too, but in her case it’s over what couldn’t have been. They’re not the same tears.
ANTONIO’S ANGER IS still there, very much alive, but the violence has dropped.
“So. There isn’t a Duck anymore. There’s Cátia Moniz, and she needs to be left alone.”
“I didn’t intend to—”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t know how you went about it, but you didn’t go into that printers by chance. Who do you think you are to go inventing my destiny?”
I sighed. Of course. Antonio didn’t want to go back to Duck any more than Ulysses did to Penelope. What is the Odyssey but the chronicle of an adventurer who loves Circe the magician and Calypso the nymph, who is promised the hand of Nausicaa, and who, despite appearances, constantly defers his homecoming? A man whom the gods forcibly deposit on the shores of Ithaca one night, and he’s so angered by his fate that he engages in the most pointless and bloodthirsty of massacres, when merely uttering his name would have been enough to make all the suitors give way.
I didn’t go to the airport with Antonio. We shook hands, coldly, and he climbed into a taxi. I bought Le Monde from the Santa Justa kiosk. It was two days old, dated September 20, and its leading article was about the Rainbow Warrior, the Greenpeace ship sunk by the French. At the bottom of the first page, an article by Umberto Eco reported Italo Calvino’s death following a stroke on the night of September 18. Calvino was sixty-two years old. I had a naive but arresting thought: this man I had so often read would no longer write, his oeuvre was complete. There would never be another “latest book by Italo Calvino.”
I went to pick up Contos aquosos from the printers. The book was waiting for me, it was beautifully done. I wanted to congratulate Cátia Moniz, but the tall guy at the till told me I should have been there in the morning, that she never worked Saturday afternoons.
“I’ll let her know you’re pleased with it, don’t worry.”
I didn’t see her again.
EPILOGUE
One of my tacit rules in a novel is that every door opened as the fiction unfolds should be closed at the very end. It is a sort of courtesy to the reader, for whom nothing should remain in the shade. Alas, this rule is very poorly matched with the realities of life, where nothing is so limpid, and nothing hermetically closed. But as I said this was a novel, I’ll agree to comply with the rule, by rearranging the chapters which, until now, were in an arbitary order.
I’ve come across Antonio every now and then when I’ve gone to the newspaper. We have a relationship like co-workers, nothing more, but it has improved. He hasn’t seen Irene again, she left the archive department for a job as an iconographer for a magazine, and the last time we talked about her he struggled to remember her name. Vitor is growing up and looks like him. He still has a picture of him in his wallet. We never mention those nine days spent together, but, at his request, I gave him the charcoal portrait I did of Duck.
I’ve seen Irene three or four times on my annual trips to Paris. The last time we met, a sort of erotic game was instigated. I touched her breasts, they weren’t as firm as they must have been a few years earlier. Two paltry victories.
Aurora left Lisbon for Berlin. I heard that she was awarded a European grant for the Arts and Culture, and she moved there. Antonio saw her face on a poster for a concert at the Salle Gaveau: the Wang-Oliveira duo. As for Karamazov, he fell under the spell of another young woman, a redhead who treated him badly.
Pinheiro died in prison in 1990 while serving a thirteen-year sentence for the murder of the grocer’s wife. None of the other killings could be ascribed to him, and, as the saying goes, he took his secrets to the grave. Fate has not yet brought me in contact with Dr. Vieira, whose card I kept for a long time.
I ordered more furniture from Custódia as soon as I moved into a bigger apartment in the Castelo district. He never gave me a favorable price, quite the opposite. But he wasn’t going to get rid of me that easily. I like to think that I’m the only person stopping him from closing his business. One time when he was telling me about his grandchildren, I asked whether he’d made them any wooden toys.
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