by Liz Byrski
Isabel laid out her plans, or lack of them. There were places she wanted to see but didn’t know what to expect and what sort of accommodation to look for. The women’s network had contacts in Lisbon and Porto but she didn’t want to have to keep moving every few days. She wanted somewhere to stay for a couple of weeks while she sorted herself out, made the transition from one life to another.
Sara leaned back and crossed her legs, grinning broadly. ‘Would Cascais suit you?’
Isabel sighed. ‘It’s gorgeous here, it feels just right, but I have to be careful about the cost. I can’t afford hotels all the time and these look quite pricey.’
Sara poured a glass of water. ‘Would you be interested in sharing a two-bedroom villa? My housemate’s away for a while. Her mother’s sick and she’s gone home to England. She’s hoping I’ll find someone to take the room and cover the rent while she’s away. But of course she doesn’t want to lose it to a long-term tenant. We live up there.’ She pointed towards the cliff that loomed above the town. ‘It’s small but comfortable. I could show it to you … see what you think.’
The house was a white stucco villa with arched doorways and smooth terracotta tiled floors; a Portuguese doll’s house with a balcony crowded with pots of rambling scarlet geraniums. Sara had given up her job as a reporter on a Birmingham evening paper and spent a couple of years backpacking around Europe before coming to Cascais to visit a friend. ‘Just a week or so after I got here he got a contract to renovate some lighthouses along the Mediterranean coast, and he was off – so I rented the house. It was going to be for a few months but I loved it and I stayed.’
‘Do you work here?’ Isabel asked.
‘Yes. Just! I just manage to make a living! I do some work for an English language paper in Lisbon, and some other freelance stuff. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep me. Well, this is the room, and it’s got its own little ensuite – what do you think?’
‘I’m not sure how to say this, Isabel,’ Sara began,’ but I think you need a bit of a makeover before you move off.’ They were sitting on the balcony looking out across the moonlit surface of the sea and the pinpoint lights on the fishing boats. After two weeks at the house Isabel had shaken off the unease and confusion of her arrival and was learning to let go of her anxiety about home. Sara knew Portugal and Spain, and with the help of maps and guidebooks they had sorted out a route that would enable Isabel to see some of the most memorable places in both countries. Now she was able to relax, enjoy her surroundings and prepare for the promise ahead.
‘A makeover? What sort of makeover?’
‘You’ve got far too much stuff for a woman wanting to do the amount of travelling you’re planning,’ Sara said, resting her feet on the white wall of the balcony. ‘And … look, please don’t take offence but your clothes are all wrong!’ Isabel looked at her in amazement.’ Sorry – I don’t mean to be rude, but what you’ve got is just not practical. You can’t possibly cart all that stuff across Europe for the next year.’
‘But I need all those things,’ Isabel said, feeling her security blanket being ripped away. ‘A year is a long time. I need winter and summer things, my books, walking shoes, all that stuff.’
‘What you need,’ said Sara, ‘is the minimum. A few plain Tshirts, some comfortable pants, a light jacket, one of those rainproof jackets that roll up really small, some walking shoes, some sandals – that’s about it. That’s the art of this sort of travelling. I mean, how do you think you’re going to manage those two huge suitcases and the overnight bag on the bus and train, moving all the time?’
Isabel took a deep breath. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she began tentatively.
‘No “suppose” about it – I am right. I’ve done it, I learned the hard way. The rule for this sort of travel is minimalism. You take as little as possible, discard things and replace them along the way. You take small sizes of toiletries or decant large ones into plastic bottles. And you need a new haircut.’
Isabel’s hand shot up to her head. ‘What’s wrong with my hair?
‘Nothing’s wrong, it’s just impractical. You can’t carry hairdryers and hot brushes and sprays and stuff. You want something short and simple that you can easily wash and dry, without electricity. Sometimes the power goes off for twenty-four hours or more. You have to be able to manage without those things.’
Isabel sat in silence, shocked at the prospect of short hair and being separated from all those things that had seemed so essential when she had packed them.
‘Look, you can’t travel around looking like some civic dignitary on an official town-twinning visit. You’ll look weird and you’ll be uncomfortable. How many pairs of shoes have you got in that bag?’
‘Six.’ Isabel grinned sheepishly. Sara spluttered into her drink. ‘And a long black velvet skirt, a winter coat, two suits –’
‘Stop, stop!’ Sara put up her hand. ‘Wherever did you think you were going? You haven’t planned this properly at all. You’ll have to leave most of that stuff here with me. I can send it on to you or back to Australia. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping and then to the hairdresser. You’ll just have to trust me. I promise you you’ll look great and you’ll be much more comfortable.’
She was ruthless in her assault on Isabel’s luggage, salvaging only underwear, a couple of pairs of cotton pants and a fine black wool sweater. An hour later Isabel was the owner of four new Tshirts, a couple of light cotton shirts and another pair of cotton pants. Sara had banned linen, because it creased too much.
‘Cream and black for the Tshirts,’ she had insisted. ‘And that sage green shirt and the same in black.’ Isabel had never owned clothes like these, casual, plain, loose but shaped. ‘I can’t believe it,’ Sara exclaimed. ‘You come from the most easygoing place in the world but your clothes are so formal and conservative.’
‘I’ve never been good at casual clothes,’ Isabel said. ‘I didn’t think they suited me. And I always seem to be doing things that need me to look … well … dressed up.’ But she surveyed herself in the fitting room mirror in a close-fitting cream T-shirt and khaki pants and was pleased at the effect.
‘I’m surprised your daughters haven’t got you better organised,’ Sara said, stepping back to view her critically from a distance.
Isabel laughed. ‘My daughters are rather like younger versions of me,’ she said. ‘I’ve obviously stunted their growth. But my friend Grace would be thrilled. She always said that shaped clothes would make me look thinner, and she’d love these colours.’
But it was the haircut that really transformed her. In the basement salon of an elegant hotel by the beach, a young man with the face of a thoughtful eagle greeted Sara with a hug. ‘I’ve brought my friend Isabel to you, Tony,’ she said. ‘She needs a travelling haircut. Minimum fuss, maximum style, and youthful.’
And as Isabel was swathed in a black cape and escorted to the basins, Sara and Tony discussed the fate of her fine shoulder-length hair. Despite his Latin appearance Tony was a cockney, and he examined Isabel’s hair, bunching it up, sweeping it to the side. ‘It’s rather fine, darlin’, but there’s plenty of it and it’s not limp. I think we can do something rather specky with this.’
She watched anxiously as the long strands drifted to the floor, but by the time Tony was finished she could hardly believe she was looking at herself. The short crop framed her face, making her look younger and slimmer. Tony sold her the smallest folding hairdryer she had ever seen and a tiny pot of hair wax with instructions to use only a smidgen. ‘You shouldn’t really need it, but it’ll make you feel better,’ he smiled.
‘I’d better buy you coffee and croissants to make up for brutalising you,’ Sara laughed, taking her arm as they went out into the square. ‘And tomorrow we’ll go to Lisbon and hunt for that house you were looking for, although I think it’s a long shot that you’d find your mother’s friend still there. What was her name?’
‘Antonia,’ Isabel said. ‘I’ve just got this photo
graph of the house and on the back it’s got the address, and then “Antonia’s house”. And I’ll buy the croissants. I feel like a new woman.’
They found the house with ease, a tall, rather forbidding-looking place alongside a bakery and halfway up a steep hill near the cathedral. ‘It looks awfully shut up,’ Isabel said, staring at the shuttered windows. ‘In fact, it looks empty.’ She hammered on the door and they waited in the street for some sign of life.
‘Doesn’t look too hopeful,’ Sara said, looking again at the photo. ‘But that’s definitely the right house and, look, the bakery has the same name on it now as it does in the photo. We could try in there.’
Isabel shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try, I suppose. If you don’t mind doing the talking.’ She stood in the entrance as Sara took the photograph to the young woman behind the counter.
‘She doesn’t know anything,’ Sara explained as the woman, photograph in hand, disappeared into the room at the back of the shop.’ But the bakery’s been in the family for years; she’s married to the present baker’s son. Apparently the grandfather still lives here and might know something.’
The woman reappeared in the doorway nodding and beckoning, and they squeezed behind the counter and went out through the beaded curtain, past the bread ovens and into the yard at the rear of the house. An old man was sitting in the sun outside, a couple of chickens pecked at ants between the smooth old flagstones, and a cat dozed in the corner. The man smiled, pointing with his pipe to Isabel’s photograph.
‘He knows the family,’ Sara translated. ‘They are called Peralta. They‘re gone now – well, the parents have gone, dead obviously. There was a daughter who married and went to America, a son whose name he can‘t remember, and he doesn’t know where he is, but apparently Antonia was the youngest. She still lives in Portugal.’
‘In Lisbon?’ Isabel asked. ‘Does he know where?’
The old man shook his head. Isabel held her breath. Suddenly it was important to find this woman, to make that direct connection with Eunice’s European life.
‘She lives in one of the hilltop villages in the Alentejo region,’ Sara said, waiting for the old man to go on. ‘Either Monsaraz or Marvao. He thinks she has some sort of guesthouse. She comes to see him when she’s in Lisbon. He thinks she’s a writer or perhaps a translator.’
Isabel could hardly contain her excitement as the baker’s wife invited them to sit down and brought out a tray of coffee. The conversation between Sara and the old man was fast and animated and they were soon joined by the baker himself, who remembered Antonia and her brother from his childhood. ‘They were older than him,’ Sara translated, indicating the baker. ‘He thinks she’d be in her late sixties, perhaps older.’
Isabel was surprised by the urgency of her sudden desire to find the woman. ‘But we don’t know which town, and she probably married and has another name,’ she said.
Sara shook her head. ‘Apparently she has the same name. And don’t worry, I know those tiny hilltop towns – if that’s where she is, we’ll find her. Trust me. I’m a journalist, I’ve tracked down people on far less information than this.’
From her seat at the back of the bus Isabel could see the village of Monsaraz perched on the hill, white houses with terracotta roofs clustered together at the top and thinning out away from the centre. Above them the russet and grey remains of a castle overlooked the misty green hills and plains that stretched to the Spanish border. Ten minutes and she would be there. The bus lumbered up the steep hillside, scattering a few grey and white goats onto the verge as it turned right beneath a stone archway and rattled to a halt in a cobbled square, where two elderly women, dressed entirely in black and with black scarves on their heads, leaned against a drinking fountain built into the wall of the church. Isabel followed the other passengers down the steps of the bus into the glare of the sunlight. The two women climbed aboard and the driver executed a tight turn and drove off back in the direction from which he had come.
The other passengers disappeared silently along narrow side streets and Isabel stood alone, looking around her in the mid-afternoon silence broken only by the fading rumble of the departing bus. She reached in her pocket and pulled out the directions Sara had written for her. The pale cobbles led between the white houses to the foot of a steep flight of steps. Isabel picked up her backpack, slung it over her shoulders, and began to make her way up the narrow street. She was thankful she had taken Sara’s brutally frank advice. Without it she would have been staggering along here in uncomfortable shoes trying to handle two large suitcases.
Pausing for breath at the foot of the steps that led to a terrace of two-storey houses, she realised that the thumping of her heart was due to more than just the physical exertion. It was the excitement that had gripped her since she sat in the baker’s yard. Sara had been as good as her word. It took her less than an hour to learn that Antonia Peralta had a pension in Monsaraz and to get the telephone number. ‘Want me to call?’ she had asked, grinning with satisfaction.
‘Yes,’ said Isabel. ‘I mean, no … well, what I actually mean is, if it’s a guesthouse maybe I could just turn up and stay there, talk to her when I get there.’
‘I could call and see if she has a room – book it, if you like,’ Sara suggested. ‘It’s a long way to go on the off-chance and the place is so tiny you could find yourself with nowhere to stay.’
‘Yes, brilliant.’ Isabel nodded in delight. ‘Call and if it sounds okay, if it sounds like it could be her, just book me a room.’ She waited, dizzy with excitement, while Sara made the call.
‘It’s her,’ Sara said putting down the receiver. ‘She answered with her full name. She takes a maximum of two guests in rooms in the house and there’s a garden studio but that’s already occupied. She only takes single people, no couples or families. You get dinner the first night. After that you shop and look after yourself. You can use the kitchen whenever you want and there’s a lounge and terrace for the guests.’
‘And you didn’t say anything about –’
‘I just booked the room,’ Sara said and Isabel leapt to her feet in delight. ‘You look like you won the lottery.’
‘I feel like it. Isn’t it weird? I didn’t even think about it in Australia but now I so much want to meet her. Ever since we found the house I haven’t been able to think of anything else.’
Sara handed her the paper with the address and telephone number. ‘She speaks excellent English and you’ll love Monsaraz. If you like peace and quiet, this is it. It’s so quiet you can hear the neighbours breathe.’
It was the last building at the end of the terrace. A dozen blue and white tiles set into the wall formed a picture of the Virgin Mary, her hand raised in a blessing. Beneath the shutters, closed against the sun, narrow boxes overflowing with blue and white trailing daisies clung to the sills. The solid wooden door stood slightly ajar and Isabel tapped on it, softly at first and then more loudly. There was no sound from inside but the door swung further open at her firmer touch and she stepped inside the cool entrance hall, dark after the sunlight. In front of her a narrow stone staircase with a wrought-iron rail led up to the first floor.
‘Hello!’ Isabel called out. ‘Hello, is anyone there? Hello!’
A figure materialised in the shadows at the top of the staircase.
‘Senhora … I’m sorry, the door was open …’
‘Senhora Carter! I’m so sorry,’ the woman said, coming slowly down the stairs. ‘I was working upstairs and forgot about the time. Please come in.’ She halted at the half-landing to throw open the shutters and stepped through the shaft of light from the window. She was, as the baker had indicated, in her mid to late sixties and still stunningly beautiful. She wore a soft Indian cotton skirt with a white cheesecloth top, and her silver hair was wound into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She held out her hand to Isabel. ‘I am Antonia Peralta. You must be hot and tired after your journey. Come, I’ll show you your room and then get you a cool dr
ink, or perhaps you would prefer some tea?’
The white-painted room was tucked under the slope of the roof with narrow French doors opening onto a small balcony. Wooden floorboards were polished to a golden glow, the white iron bed made up with cream linen and a cotton cover patterned in cream, black and rusty red. There was a small wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a marble-topped washstand with a heavy blue and white porcelain jug and bowl. Beside the windows was a writing table with an upright chair and in the corner a deep armchair covered in the same fabric as the bedspread.
‘It is not very large, I’m afraid, but I hope you’ll find it comfortable.’
Isabel put down her bag and breathed a sigh of relief as she took in the cool stillness of the room and the calm of the landscape.
‘Senhora Peralta, it’s simply perfect. Just what I was hoping for, thank you so much.’
‘Antonia, please – we are going to be housemates. You are Isabel, I think? You have your own bathroom just next door. It, too, is rather small but it has all the essentials. You must make yourself feel at home. I have only one other guest at the moment, a friend from Germany. He is a regular visitor and speaks good English. You’ll find he’s very quiet.’
She gestured to Isabel to follow her back down the stairs, walking with a dancer’s grace. ‘Later I will show you where things are kept. I think you know that I cook for guests only on the evening of their arrival, but you have the use of the kitchen whenever you wish. Tomorrow I will introduce you to our few shops and you can become self-sufficient.’ She led the way into the kitchen where she took a tall jug of lemonade from the refrigerator, poured some into two glasses and handed one to Isabel, lifting her own in a toast. ‘I hope you will enjoy your stay I hope you like peace and quiet.’
