Their variegated hues inspired him. I'll make a mosaic sandwich loaf and stuffed tomatoes, enough for Pereira too. He'll need something substantial when he comes home.
Thomas began cooking. Suddenly, while he was cutting up pistachio nuts and capers, he slashed into the board with the knife as though he had gone crazy. He couldn't help thinking of Estrella. What a beast! What a witch! What a fiend! He chopped the nuts as though he were lopping Estrella's head off.
The red paprika increased his wrath. The whole world's in a plot against me! Everyone's my enemy! And I've done nothing to deserve it. I used to be a decent human being, a sober citizen. And now...
We'll add pepper. Decent, respectable pepper. I'll make it burn like my own fury.
Damned secret service swine. A nice mess you've made of me. Now I've been to prison and I've broken out of prison. I can forge documents. I'm an expert on poisons and revolvers, explosives and invisible ink. I can shoot, signal in Morse, put on judo holds, box, wrestle, run, jump, fix microphones and counterfeit jaundice, fever and diabetes. What sort of achievements are those for a private banker to be proud of?
Catch me being sorry about anything or anybody now! No more of that. Can't take in any more. Now you're all going to be in for it, the whole lot of you, the whole world!
I'm going in to the attack now like a hungry wolf, with all my criminal know-how. Now it's I who am going to forge, counterfeit, signal in Morse and fix microphones. Now it's I who am going to threaten and betray you, just as you have betrayed and threatened me. Now it's my turn to wage war, a one-man war against you all. And there won't be one single armistice, pact or alliance in it, not with anybody.
More pepper! More paprika! Salt with it! And we're going to knock all the ingredients together into a formless lump, the kind of pulp I'd like to make of you, you swine ...
At that moment he heard the door of the apartment open.
That must be Pereira, thought Thomas, startled out of his extravagant schemes. He shouted: "Come along in. I'm in the kitchen."
An instant later a figure appeared at the kitchen door. But it was not the unshaven, drunken painter Reynaldo Pereira. It was not a man at all. It was a woman.
MENU
oJ^Iosaic Sandwich Loaf Stuffed (Tomatoes
16 NOVEMBER 1940
A cold collation for a hot head.
Mosaic Sandwich Loaf
Cut off both ends of a French loaf and scoop out the crumb without damaging the crust. For the filling take one stick of butter, half a cup of diced ham, half a cup of diced ox tongue, one hard-boiled yolk, half a cup of diced cheese, half a teaspoonful of capers, one quarter of a cup of chopped pistachio nuts, a little anchovy fillet, mustard, salt and pepper. Cream the butter, mash the yolk, add the pistachio nuts, capers and meat. Mix all with the condiments. The filling is put into the scooped loaf and chilled for a few hours. Then it is cut into thin slices which are laid on a flat dish. To obtain more color, the mosaic sandwiches are garnished with stuffed tomatoes.
Stuffed Tomatoes
Remove pulp from firm, hard tomatoes. Sprinkle the inside with grated cheese. Place in each tomato half a hard-boiled egg, cut horizontally with the cut side upward. Sprinkle it with salt and paprika, chopped parsley and chives.
[10]
She wore a red mackintosh, red shoes and a red cap perched on her blue-black hair. The young woman's mouth was big and red, her eyes big and black. Her complexion was chalk-
white. With her hands in the pockets of the mackintosh she stared hard at Thomas Lieven, addressing him in metallic and slightly vulgar accents. "Evening, Pereira. You don't know me.
"I—" Thomas began. But she interrupted him with a haughty toss of her head, which sent her beautiful long hair flying. "All right, take it easy. I'm not from the cops. Quite the contrary." *
He stammered: "Who—er—gave you my address?"
The woman in red closed one eye as she stared backjat him. "What's the matter with you? Nerves? Coke? Booze?"
"What do you mean?" JL^
"What's this game you're playing with your phiz? Can'jpPou keep your mouth still? You never stop twitching it."
"That's only temporary. I—I get it sometimes in the evening. I asked you just now who gave you this address."
The woman in red came close up to him. She was richly perfumed and very handsome. She said quietly: "The address was given me by a certain M. Debras."
Thomas Lieven was stupefied. Major Maurice Debras of the French secret service, he thought. It only needed that. The third man I played up. Well, of course that was only to be expected. Now there are three of them after me. French, British and German. Can't be a matter of more than hours now before I lose my life ...
The next words of the woman in red seemed to come from very far away. Even her figure suddenly seemed indistinct and shadowy. Her question confirmed Thomas's worst fears.
"Do you know a certain Jean Leblanc?"
Thomas made quite a noise with pans and cutlery before he mumbled: "Jean Leblanc? Never heard of him."
"Don't talk driveling bilge, Pereira. Naturally you know the man." Handsome and insolent, she perched on one of the kitchen stools and crossed her long, slim legs. "No need to get diarrhea over it!"
Damn her impudence, thought Thomas. What a filthy, degrading situation this is. Why should I have to put up with it? I was once the youngest private banker in London. I was a member of one of the most exclusive London clubs. I've had the best possible education. I have the right ideas of honesty and good manners. And here I stand in a dirty Portuguese kitchen and have to listen to a bitch pretty enough to eat telling me not to get diarrhea. Well, I'll give her something to think about!
The well-bred Thomas Lieven retorted: "Now you can just shut your trap double-quick and buzz off. Otherwise there'll be trouble!"
The situation changed the very next minute. Heavy footsteps were heard and an unshaven man in stained velveteen trousers and an ill-fitting black pullover appeared in the kitchen. The man was very drunk indeed. Nevertheless, his broad toper's face brightened in a joyful grin as soon as he caught sight of Thomas. He blurted out: "Welcome to my humble abode! But boy, oh boy, what on earth have you done with your hair?"
Reynaldo the painter had come home.
Suddenly the three people in the little kitchen all spoke at once. The woman in red jumped up, glaring at Thomas and exclaimed: "What! You're not Pereira?"
"Of course he's not Pereira," roared the intoxicated painter. "What sort of booze have you been drinking? Vm Pereira and that's—"
"Hold it—"
"—my old pal Leblanc."
"Oho!"
"And who the—hie—are you, pretty lady?"
"My name's Chantal Tessier," said the young woman, without taking her eyes off Thomas. A hungry expression came into her feline countenance. She said slowly: "M. Jean Le-blanc in person? What a bit of luck!"
"What do you want with me?"
"You once gave your friend Debras a bogus passport. Debras told me that if I ever needed one myself I was to go to Reynaldo Pereira in the Rua do Poco des Negros and mention the name of Jean Leblanc ..."
"Is that what your friend Debras said?"
"That's what my friend Debras said."
"Did he say anything else?" *
"Only that you were a good sport who had saved his life."
So it's only half as bad as I thought, Thomas reflected. He asked amiably: "Won't you stay to eat with us? May I help you off with your coat, Mile. Tessier?"
"Chantal to you!" The feline countenance, wreathed in smiles, revealed a formidable row of tigerish teeth. Chantal Tessier had plenty of self-confidence she was wily, she was undoubtedly cold as ice. But she did not seem to be used to men helping her off with her coat.
The tigress wore a close-fitting black skirt and a white silk
blouse. Some figure, thought Thomas. I shouldn't think she gets her shoes wet when it rains.
The moment of danger had passed. Thomas could
be himself again. Well bred and chivalrous to women, all kinds of women!
They sat down beside the drunken painter, who had already begun eating. He ate with his fingers and talked with his mouth full. "If I could paint as well as you can cook, old Goya couldn't hold a candle to me!" He belched lightly. "Did you put pi—pistachio nuts in?"
"Yes, and capers. Cover your mouth when you do that. You need a passport, I suppose, Chantal?"
"No." Her eyes were now watering a little and her left nostril was quivering. That was a habit of hers.
"I don't need one passport, I need seven."
"May I say something, please?" demanded the unshaven painter, with his mouth full.
Thomas told him irritably: "Swallow your food before you speak. And don't keep on interrupting. The best thing you can do is to try to sober up a bit." To the fair tigress he added: "For whom do you want the seven passports, Chantal?"
"Two Germans, two Frenchmen and three Hungarians."
"I see you have a cosmopolitan circle of acquaintances."
Chantal laughed. "That's natural. I am a professional ... foreigners' guide."
"Where do you guide them to?"
"From France through Spain to Portugal. It's quite a lucrative business."
"And are your journeys very frequent?"
"Once a month. My groups get bigger and bigger. All with forged passports. Or none at all. Depends on circumstances."
"Talking of passports," the painter began once more. But Thomas silenced him with a gesture.
Chantal went on: "I only, concern myself with the rich. I charge high prices. But none of my people ever get caught. I know every centimeter of the frontiers. And I know all the frontier guards. Well! So it happens that with my last party I brought in seven men who need new passports." She nudged the painter. "You can earn a gold nose for yourself, old cock."
"I also need a passport," said Thomas.
"Holy Virgin!" cried the unshaven one. "And I haven't got any left!"
Thomas said angrily: "What have you done with those thirty-seven old passports I brought you?"
"Six weeks ago, man! You've no idea what a rush there was for them. In a fortnight they were all gone! I'm really sorry, but I haven't a single one left. I've been trying to tell you so for the last half-hour."
[11]
All around the Largo de Chiado, a sleepy square shaded by ancient trees, stood the pasteleria marques, little cafes catering mostly to ladies and famous for sweet cakes. In an alcove of one of the confectionery shops, called the Caravela, two gentlemen were sitting, that evening of November 16, 1940. One of them was drinking whisky and the other eating ice cream. The former was the British agent, Peter Lovejoy. The latter, a stout, good-humored giant with twinkling little pig's eyes, and a rosy, infantile countenance, answered to the name of Luis Guzmao.
Peter Lovejoy and Luis Guzmao had known each other for two years and had already collaborated successfully on a number of occasions.
"Well, now it's time to act," said Lovejoy. "I'm told that he broke jail this afternoon."
"We shall have to get a move on if we want to catch him before he leaves Lisbon," said Guzmao. He took a spoonful of ice cream and smacked his lips. He could never get enough of the stuff.
"You're right," said Lovejoy in a low tone. "How are you going to fix it?"
"I think 111 use a rod with a silencer. How about the cash? Did you bring it with you?"
"Yes. You get five thousand escudos now and five thousand when you've ... that's to say, later on."
Lovejoy took a long pull at his whisky. He thought with exasperation, That finicky Major Loos gave me five thousand as his share in the operation. He didn't mind paying out. But he drew the line at meeting this fellow Guzmao. Too much the fine gentleman for that!
Lovejoy washed down his vexation with the overfastidious German by taking another gulp of whisky. Then he said: "Now listen carefully, Guzmao. Leblanc got away disguised as a certain Lazarus Alcoba, a little hunchback, practically bald." Lovejoy described Alcoba as precisely as the British agent's confidant in the prison had described him. He added:
"Leblanc knows that we and the Germans are after him. So he'll certainly go to ground."
"Where?"
"He has a friend, a drunken painter who lives in the Old Town, Rua do Poco des Negros, Number sixteen. I bet he'll go there. He'll either continue pretending to be the hunchback, in order to put off the scent, or else he'll be Jean Le-blanc again, in order to put the police off."
"What does Jean Leblanc look like?"
Lovejoy gave an equally exact description of Thomas Lieven.
"What about the real hunchback?"
"He's still in jail. You don't have to worry about him. But if you pick up a hunchback in the Rua do Poco des Negros sixteen with hardly any hair on his head and answering to the name of Leblanc you won't have to ask him any more questions ..."
A few minutes after eight o'clock on the morning of November 17, 1940, the eleven times previously convicted Lazarus Alcoba, bachelor, born in Lisbon on April 12, 1905, was summoned to the presence of the governor of the Aljube prison.
The governor, a tall man of haggard aspect, told him: "I hear that you uttered a lot of crazy threats last night, Alcoba,"
The lips of the little man with the hump twitched even when he spoke. "I only argued in my own defense, sir, when I was informed that I could not be released because I was believed to have had something to do with the escape of that fellow Jean Leblanc."
"I'm convinced that you did have something to do with that, Alcoba. And I hear that you said you intended to appeal to the public prosecutor."
"I shall of course only do so, sir, if I am not forthwith released. It's not my fault, obviously, that Leblanc escaped under my name."
"Now listen, Alcoba. We are going to discharge you today ..."
Alcoba grinned broadly. "That's more like it!"
"... but that's not because we're afraid of you, let me tell you. It's because we've had orders to do so. You must report daily to your local police station and not leave Lisbon."
"Very well, sir."
"Don't grin in that silly way, Alcoba. You're incorrigible. I'm sure youTI soon be back here again with us. You ought to
be here all the time. Men of your type are always better behind bars."
[12]
The narrow, crooked streets of the Old Town, with their decaying rococo palaces and the citizens' houses with many-colored tiles, lay quiet in the noonday hour of siesta.
Spotlessly white undergarments hung from innumerable clotheslines. Stunted trees grew from broken stairways. Again and again gaps in the walls afforded a view of the adjacent river.
Thomas Lieven was also looking down at the river. He stood at the big window of the studio of his thirsty friend. Chantal Tessier was beside him. She had returned to the Rua do Poco des Negros to say good-bye. She had to go back to Marseilles and she wanted Thomas to go with her.
Chantal seemed strangely restless. Her left nostril was quivering again. She laid a hand on Thomas Lieven's arm. "Come and join me as my partner. I might have some work for you to do, not necessarily escorting foreigners. You can't do any business here. But in Marseilles—good heavens, we could expand my shop into something quite big!"
Thomas shook his head, still looking out over the waters of the Tagus. They were flowing slowly and sluggishly out to the Atlantic. And further downstream, where they met the ocean, all kinds of vessels lay at anchor, ready to set out for distant harbors, ready to transport the persecuted, the discouraged and the terrified to free, distant lands. There they lay, those ships, at the disposal of people with passports, entry permits and money.
Thomas had no passport now. He had no entry permit. He had no money. He had nothing but the clothes he stood up in.
He suddenly felt tired to death. His life was spinning around in a devil's dance from which there was no escape. "I am honored by your offer, Chantal. You are a beautiful woman. You are certainly a
lso a wonderful comrade." He glanced at her, smiling. The woman, who looked so much like a tigress, blushed like an infatuated schoolgirl. She stamped her foot angrily and muttered: "Oh, don't talk rot.. ."
Thomas added, nevertheless; "I'm sure you have a good heart. But I used to be a banker, you know. And I should like to be one again."
Reynaldo Pereira was sitting at a table littered with color-
boxes, tubes of paint, brushes, loaded ash trays and bottles. He was now sober and working at a rather bewildering picture. "Jean," he said, "there's a lot in what Chantal suggests. She can take you safe and sound to Marseilles. And in Marseilles it'll be easier for you to get a forged passport than it will be here, where the police are after you. To say nothing of those other pals of yours."
"But, good Lord, I've just left Marseilles! Have I come all this way for nothing?"
Chantal said in a harsh, aggressive tone: "You're a sentimental fool if you can't see the point. It's true you've had bad luck. So what? We've all had bad luck once in our lives. All you need now, for a start, is a bit of boodle again and a decent ticket."
If I hadn't had the advantage of Alcoba's private tuition in our cell, thought Thomas, I shouldn't know what the lady means. He answered gloomily: "With Pereira's help I shall be able to get hold of a new passport even in Lisbon. And as for money, I have a friend in South America to whom I can write. No, no. You just leave me to it, I'll manage, I'll..."
He never finished the sentence. For at that moment the noonday peace was shattered by the muffled barking of shots in the courtyard overlooked by the kitchen.
Chantal uttered a stifled cry. Pereira jumped up, knocking over a pot of paint. They exchanged amazed glances. Three seconds passed.
Then a chorus of alarmed male voices rang out. Women shrieked. Children screamed.
Thomas rushed into the kitchen and flung up the window. He looked down into the ancient courtyard. Men, women and children were running to join a group surrounding a figure prone on the dirty cobbles. The body was painfully contorted, hunchbacked and diminutive.
The Monte Cristo Cover-Up Page 21
