Echowave (Echoland Book 3)

by Joe Joyce

  He came out into Praça de Rossio, where the pavement cafés were full of well-dressed people and the air was filled with the buzz of business. He crossed into the centre of the square, the wave patterns of its black-and-white cobblestones a reminder of his seasickness, and circled around the parked cars and fountains and the column to Pedro IV. He left the square by the horseshoe-shaped doors to the railway station, passed into Praça dos Restauradores and went by the Eden cinema. Two huge posters hung on the upper floors, one advertising a film called Os Fugitivos da Guiana. He recognised the names of Clark Gable and Joan Crawford.

  On Avenida da Liberdade, he crossed over to the median and meandered among flower beds with a profusion of red, orange and purple flowers whose names he didn’t know. They scented the hot air, battling the exhaust fumes of the cars and vans on either side. Ahead, he spotted a young woman sitting on a bench and thought for a heart-leaping moment that it was Gerda. Her profile was similar, her black hair rested on her shoulders and she was wearing a tight-waisted floral dress. She turned his way and their eyes passed and then she glanced back at him involuntarily, caught by the intensity of his gaze, before looking away again. He turned away in confusion, crossed the roadway to the buildings on one side and came to a post office.

  On a whim he went in and bought a black-and-white postcard of Praça de Rossio and wrote on the back of it, ‘Thinking of you. As always. P.’ He addressed it to her American name, apartment number and street in New York, and queued to buy a stamp, smiling to himself at how intrigued she’d be to get a card from him in Lisbon.

  Farther up the avenue he took a seat at an outdoor café and ordered sardines off the menu of the day, and a Sagres beer. A copy of Diário de Lisboa lay on his table, bound by a cane frame, and he leafed through it, understanding little but able to follow the war through the headlines. Something was happening in Syria, where he knew the British were fighting the French; Roosevelt had responded in some way to the German sinking in the south Atlantic of the merchant ship Robin Moor. He came to the small ads and some in German caught his eye. ‘Diamond ring for sale, contact Frau M at Hotel Metropole’. ‘Gold and silver jewellery at special price, room 38, Palazzia Hotel, Estoril’. There were others in French, offering similar wares. Refugees running out of money while they waited for exit visas and a ship to some part of the Americas.

  It was like the captain had said, he thought. Lisbon is now the crossroads of the world and anything can be bought.

  The church of Corpo Santo was empty when he returned. He sat into the first pew and waited for a moment, wondering how much he should tell the priest. As little as possible, his superior, Commandant George McClure, had said. But use your own judgment. As much as you have to tell him to get the information we want. Which, Duggan thought, was no help at all now that he had to decide how to handle the conversation.

  His thoughts wandered instead to Gerda: I shouldn’t have sent that card, he told himself. It could get her into trouble. There were probably lots of people in New York with friends in Lisbon at the moment, many of them Jewish refugees from the German-occupied areas of the Continent waiting or hoping for passage to America. But Gerda probably didn’t want to be known as Jewish in New York either. Not if her new name, Grace Matthews, was anything to go by.

  It was too late now to retrieve the postcard though.

  The flames of the slender votive candles stirred in an unfelt breeze and the sacristan appeared to one side of the altar and indicated with a nod of his head that Duggan should follow him. They went through the wood-panelled sacristy, its atmosphere of quiet reverence familiar to Duggan from his days as an altar boy, and continued through an echoing corridor into the building behind. The sacristan opened a pointed wooden door and showed him into a room with the air of a transient waiting room, its air cold in spite of the outside temperature and heavy with the smell of polish.

  ‘Wait,’ the sacristan said again and left, closing the door behind him with a heavy click.

  The room was panelled with dark wood and had a painting of a wistful-looking figure in a black cape and white habit over the empty fireplace. St Dominic, Duggan presumed. There were four straight-backed wooden chairs around a small table of some dark hardwood.

  The door opened and an elderly monk wearing a white habit came in. ‘Father Alphonsus,’ he said, holding out his hand, making the gesture as much an enquiry as a handshake.

  ‘Sean McCarthy.’

  The priest pointed to the table and they took seats opposite each other. His head was bald on top and fringed with grey hair. It looked like it could have been a tonsure, but Duggan decided it was probably natural. His face had the ruddy look of an Irish countryman.

  ‘A confidential matter, you said?’ he prompted.

  ‘I work for the Irish government,’ Duggan began.

  ‘You’re a diplomat?’ the priest interrupted with surprise, replicating the sacristan’s glance at Duggan’s casual clothes.

  Duggan shook his head. ‘I’ve come from Dublin to make some private enquiries into something that happened here a couple of months ago. It’s a sensitive matter and we hope you may be able to help us. And that we can rely on your discretion.’

  The priest gave him no encouragement, a hint of perplexity on his poker face.

  Duggan took a mental breath and proceeded to lay his cards on the table. ‘It’s in connection with the visit of the Minister for the Coordination of Defensive Measures, Mr Aiken, here a few months ago. As you know, he was on his way to America to meet President Roosevelt. Unfortunately, a report of something Mr Aiken was supposed to have said here preceded him and made his mission more difficult. We’d like to find out exactly what the truth is and hope you can help us counter any false impressions that may have arisen.’

  Which was one way of putting it, Duggan thought, surprising himself with his own civil-service-style circumlocution. What had happened was actually a complete disaster: a shouting match between Roosevelt and Aiken after Roosevelt’s accusation that Aiken had told people in Lisbon that Ireland wouldn’t mind if Germany won the war, that this could even solve a lot of outstanding problems. The meeting had ended with the president, in a fury, pulling the cloth from the table being set for his lunch, scattering cutlery on the floor. Aiken had failed to get the American arms he had sought and official relations between Ireland and the US had sunk to a frigid low.

  ‘I don’t see how I can help you,’ Father Alphonsus said.

  ‘You hosted the lunch at which Mr Aiken spoke about the war and our neutrality.’

  Father Alphonsus nodded. ‘I’m sure Mr Aiken can tell you what he said.’

  ‘Of course,’ Duggan agreed immediately. ‘But we’re trying to work out how what he said may have been misinterpreted. May have led someone to get the wrong impression.’

  ‘Are you a policeman?’

  ‘No, no,’ Duggan said in surprise.

  ‘A reporter?’

  ‘No. I work for the government. My job is simply to try and find out how such an important misunderstanding could have arisen. You can appreciate how serious this could be for a small neutral country like us and our relations with a powerful country like America. We want to correct the record and make sure something like this doesn’t happen again.’ And find out who had sabotaged Aiken’s mission.

  ‘Who exactly do you work for?’

  ‘A research group. We look into things for government departments.’

  ‘Do you have any identity papers?’

  Duggan handed him the passport in McCarthy’s name. Father Alphonsus looked at the photograph of Duggan and examined his face. ‘It says you’re a sailor,’ he said, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Because I came by ship,’ Duggan said with confidence, as if that was the most obvious explanation possible. ‘I’m here in a completely unofficial capacity. The government decided to make enquiries in this way rather than have someone from the Madrid legation come over and make the matter formal. Our Portuguese friends and
other legations don’t need to know about our enquiries.’ Nor did anyone in Dublin outside of G2.

  Father Alphonsus gave a heavy sigh and said nothing for a moment. ‘I don’t see how I can help you.’

  ‘Perhaps you could just tell me about the lunch,’ Duggan prompted, relieved that he was still talking to him.

  The priest shrugged. ‘We don’t have many visits from members of the government, so it seemed appropriate that we should do something to mark the occasion. And Mr Aiken found himself at something of a loose end here when the Clipper to New York was delayed by the weather for a few days. So we invited the Irish community here, and some of our Portuguese friends, to meet him over lunch. That’s all there was to it.’

  ‘How many were there altogether?’

  ‘I can’t remember the exact number. About twenty-five. There were some last-minute cancellations.’

  ‘All Irish or Portuguese?’

  ‘I couldn’t say with certainty. There’s an Irish woman here married to a Spaniard: members of our congregation. There may be others married to people of other nationalities, like that. I wouldn’t know who all the Portuguese are related to.’

  ‘The Portuguese people?’ Duggan hesitated. ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Friends of ours.’ The priest waved an airy hand. ‘People who attend the church. Benefactors. Some who have connections with Ireland of one kind or another. Personal, business.’

  ‘Were there any outsiders? People you wouldn’t have known normally?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean people who wouldn’t normally attend your church functions or religious events.’

  ‘No.’ The priest shook his head slowly. ‘It wasn’t a public event. Just our usual circle of friends.’

  ‘No representatives of other governments?’

  ‘Lord, no, nothing like that.’

  ‘Representatives of the Portuguese government?’

  ‘Not as such. Some of our Portuguese friends work for the government. But they wouldn’t have been here in that capacity.’

  ‘Or representatives of any other governments?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  Duggan sighed inwardly. The priest was willing to talk, but not to say anything. I’m not going to get anywhere with him, he thought. But I may as well keep going anyway. ‘And Mr Aiken made a speech?’

  ‘Not so much a speech. He said a few words. It was all very informal.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I’m sure he can tell you that himself,’ Father Alphonsus shot back.

  ‘He’s still in America actually,’ Duggan said. ‘But I’m just trying to get a sense of the occasion. And how things might have come to be misinterpreted.’

  ‘It was all very straightforward. He’s a very straightforward man, as I’m sure you know. He talked about the Step Together campaign to improve the country’s defences. To keep the country united, avoid divisions.’ The priest closed his eyes, as though thinking back. ‘About the problems of the blockade, how Ireland was the most blockaded country in Europe. The difficulties of getting supplies and maintaining neutrality. The pressures the country was coming under from the British. And how our great strength was the unity of the country behind the government policy.’ He opened his eyes and tapped his fingers on the table as though he were hearing the marching tune in his head. ‘Like the words of the song, “steady boys and step together”.’

  ‘And did he say anything about the outcome of the war? Who Ireland would like to see emerge victorious?’

  Father Alphonsus stared at him in silence for a moment. Duggan held his gaze, thinking, Yes, he did, as the moment stretched into several seconds.

  ‘I’d say he maintained a strict neutrality all round,’ the priest said at last.

  ‘Did he go into the pros and cons about both sides?’ Duggan persisted. ‘From Ireland’s point of view?’

  Father Alphonsus shook his head. ‘He was talking about Ireland all the time. About the problems she faces with the blockade. The difficulties of getting supplies.’

  ‘The British blockade?’

  ‘They’re the ones cutting back supplies to the country, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are,’ Duggan agreed, wondering how far Aiken had gone in explaining the background. That the British squeeze on Irish supplies was a deliberate punishment for Ireland’s refusal to give her access to her western ports to help protect the supply convoys from the US and Canada. And the first stage in a plan which ultimately provided for invasion and the seizure of the ports.

  ‘I’m sure any fair-minded person would agree that he stuck to a strictly neutral line.’

  ‘Were there questions afterwards?’

  ‘No, no. It wasn’t like that. All very informal. Though there was applause when he finished,’ the priest added, as if he was finally revealing something. ‘I imagine people found it very informative. And were very supportive of the Irish position. The Portuguese understand it very well. They’re in the same boat.’

  ‘Neutrality is very hard to maintain against major powers,’ Duggan offered.

  ‘It certainly is,’ Father Alphonsus said, appearing to relax. ‘I told Mr Aiken afterwards that Mr de Valera should come here and meet Dr Salazar. They have a lot in common, you know. Two great men facing the same problems in the face of much stronger powers who care nothing for the rights of small nations. They’d have a lot to talk about. And, I dare say, could even learn from each other.’

  ‘What did he think?’

  ‘Oh, he thought it was an excellent idea. But he said there were practical difficulties, and even dangers, in travelling at the moment. The country couldn’t afford to lose the chief at such an important juncture in its history.’

  ‘True enough,’ Duggan agreed. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Twenty-seven years come September,’ Father Alphonsus said. ‘It was a different place for a priest then, and our role here was more like a mission to the Portuguese, who were under the thumb of a fiercely anti-religious government. But we were able to give back to them some of what they’d given to us during the penal times. Keep the religious flame alive.’

  He pushed his chair back and stood up.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Duggan said, following his lead.

  The priest stopped on his way to the door. ‘Mr de Valera could do worse than talk to Dr Salazar about other matters too. Like his Estado Novo, the “New State”. It could be a worthy model for the new Ireland too. The same values. Deus, Pátria e Familia. Like Marshal Pétain is providing for France now. Instead of the liberty, fraternity, equality that has caused them so much trouble.’

  ‘I’ve heard that suggested,’ Duggan said. He was aware of occasional speeches or letters to newspapers extolling the Portuguese example of Catholicism and family and rural values. A spiritual way between the anti-religion dictatorships of Hitler and Stalin on the one hand and the hedonistic materialism of the English and American democracies on the other.

  ‘That’s something you might do a little research into while you’re here,’ Father Alphonsus said. ‘And you might suggest to the people you work for that Ireland open a legation here. Keep in touch with developments.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on,’ Duggan said, and followed him along the corridor. Father Alphonsus stopped in the sacristy as if another thought had just struck him. ‘It might be worth your while having a talk with Senhora Figueras,’ he said. ‘Maisie O’Gorman, that was.’

  ‘She was there? At the lunch?’

  ‘She was, of course. And her husband. And I think they met Mr Aiken again later. After his meeting with Dr Salazar.’

  ‘Yes, I’d love to meet her.’

  ‘You know Lapa?’ Father Alphonsus opened a drawer, took out a sheet of paper and produced a pen from inside his habit. He wrote an address on it.

  ‘I don’t know Lisbon.’

  ‘It’s not too far from here.’ He handed the address to Duggan. ‘Anyone will direct y
ou.’

  ‘And who is Senhora . . . ?’

  ‘Figueras. She came here as a governess to the family in the twenties. And ended up marrying one of the cousins. They’re all very well off. Involved in banking and shipping. You should have a talk with her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Duggan said, suspecting he was being set up for a lecture about the attractions of Salazar’s Estado Novo.

  Three

  The ancient taxi made an ominous rattling noise and slowed to a walking pace as it climbed the hill to the address in Lapa. It threatened to stall as the driver turned into the steep street named on the sheet of paper Duggan had given him. The driver stopped with an apologetic shrug and pointed to the street name and the address on the paper. Duggan nodded in agreement, regretting the movement as it sent a pang of pain through his head, and paid him. It had been another long night in Antonio’s and there had been no sign of the cook and his hangover remedy as he had left the ship this morning.

  He had taken the taxi to avoid arriving in a lather of sweat, but sweat broke out on his back as he climbed the hill in the morning heat, squinting against the hard sunlight. He stopped after a few minutes to rest and looked back down at the view over the Tagus, trying to make out the ship from the jumble of vessels along the river’s wharves. The sun was beating down from a cloudless sky, its heat seeming to increase by the moment.

  He carried on and the hill levelled out and he came to the house, a double-fronted three-storey building. The sun bounced off its walls, turning their faded ochre almost white. The ground-floor windows were covered with grilles whose bars formed delicate circles, and patches of plaster were beginning to flake up near the roof. He pressed the large bell beside the door.

  It was opened by a small old woman wearing a white apron over a black dress. ‘Senhora Figueras por favor?’ he asked, using up half his Portuguese.