by Monica Ali
Picking delicately at his food, he thought of Eduardo and Marco. Marco had shown Eduardo up. No doubt at all about that. Eduardo, he thought, Eduardo, was I not like family to you? They say that blood is thicker than water but where is the proof? My friend, I always stood by you, now you prepare the dagger for my back.
He couldn’t see them anywhere. They were probably plotting outside. They had agreed Marco would say nothing. In business, surprise is a form of attack.
He hurried out to see if he could eavesdrop, plan a counter-attack of his own. In the porch Telma Ervanaria was shouting at Bruno but Eduardo and his son and his cousin were nowhere to be found.
He wandered back to the dance floor, vague thoughts of Dona Cristina taking shape. When he approached her, however, she darted away and he saw her make for the door.
The English boy, Huw, was dancing on his own. Vasco was struck by the novelty of it and waved his arms in the air. He felt his stomach wobbling but for once he gave not a fig. He quickly checked his braces though, and was sufficiently reassured to go on.
‘What do you call this music, then?’ said Huw, shuffling and nodding his head.
‘I believe,’ said Vasco, breathing quickly, ‘is called a cover version.’
‘Uhuh. What’s it a cover of?’
‘Your most very British group,’ said Vasco, surprised, experimenting with a swing of the hips. ‘The Beatles. You do not know?’
‘Yeah, oh, yeah. I know the Beatles. But not when it’s sung in Portuguese.’
‘Portuguese?’ squealed Vasco. ‘Is English, not Portuguese.’
He needed something to settle his stomach and selected melon, pineapple, plums and half a pear. The slice of cake he took was minuscule and to fill up he chewed some bread.
He sipped his wine and watched Clara’s little brother sleeping across two chairs, beneath some coats. It was amazing how they could sleep like that with the din going on all around. Was it this noisy every year, or was there something different this time?
It took him another few moments to notice there was a fight going on by the stage. Many people had rushed over and the yelling was catching on across the room.
Vasco got himself upright and saw Antonio and Vicente, locked together, being bundled out of the door. Teresa and also Paula were being consoled, or maybe constrained, in opposing camps.
‘Did you try the octopus?’ said Eduardo, appearing from nowhere, rubbing his nose.
Vasco ignored him. He was about to move away.
‘I thought you would like the octopus. It’s delicious. Did you try?’
Whatever Eduardo said to Vasco, he clearly meant something else. A man who could not speak straight was an object of contempt. Vasco was going to let it pass but he had let it pass so many times. That was why he found himself spoken to like this, of octopus, and in such a sneering tone.
‘How dare you?’ he demanded. Eduardo would have to answer for his actions now.
Eduardo affected not to know what he was talking about and continued to scratch his nose.
‘I will not allow it,’ said Vasco. ‘You will not get away with it any more, you . . .’ He searched for a cliché of sufficient magnitude with which to crush his foe.
‘Cool it, big man,’ said Eduardo.
‘How dare you!’ Vasco put a hand on Eduardo’s shoulder to stop him walking off. He would have liked to seize his throat.
‘Get off me,’ growled Eduardo. His diction was clear enough now.
‘Apologize,’ screamed Vasco.
‘For what, you silly man?’
Eduardo knocked Vasco’s hand away and Vasco’s rage boiled in his stomach like chillies eaten by the pound.
‘What are you doing?’ shouted Eduardo as Vasco locked his head beneath his arm.
‘Traitor,’ screeched Vasco. ‘Traitor.’ He staggered forward. Eduardo kept pushing him in the back.
On the dance floor people parted to make way for the pantomime horse. Its hindquarters were somewhat stringy but the front half had had plenty of hay.
‘Get off. Get off,’ yelled Eduardo.
‘Don’t mumble,’ said Vasco, squeezing his head.
Eduardo tried to wriggle out but only succeeded in spinning both of them round.
‘Don’t be stupid, Vasco. Let me go and we’ll forget about it. Come on now, let me go.’
‘Stupid, am I?’ squawked Vasco. ‘Stupid, blubbery octopus.’
‘Yes, you are,’ screamed Eduardo. He managed to wriggle free.
Eduardo launched a punch but the blow landed weakly on Vasco’s chest. Vasco grabbed his opponent, convinced he could squeeze him to death. Eduardo clung on grimly with his face pressed to Vasco’s neck. The pair waltzed slowly around the dance floor, and all those who had fallen quiet began to shout once more.
*
Vasco felt he was falling, falling through a big, black space. Eduardo was falling with him and Vasco loved him for that.
He was weightless now in this falling, weightless and totally free. He thought he would tell Eduardo, who was spinning so beautifully with him. He opened his mouth to tell him and everything spilled out, everything, from the bottom of his stomach it came.
The Potts family sat at their table and watched the chaos erupt. Ruby got up once from her seat but sat down again, shaking her head.
‘Mum,’ said Jay, screwing his nose up. ‘See what Vasco done?’
‘What Vasco did,’ said Chrissie. ‘Yes, I saw. But don’t stare. It’s rude.’
Stanton went out and gazed at the North Star, which appeared unaccountably bright. He cupped the back of his head and thought it was time. He wanted to go somewhere cold and preferably Teutonic where writers met in cafés with notebooks and grievances and discourse flowed on the meaning of life and of death. He rather fancied a road trip. He hoped to make it as far as Prague.
The next morning Eduardo went to Vasco’s and let himself in at the back. He went upstairs and found Vasco sitting up in bed.
‘Octopus,’ said Eduardo.
‘Goat,’ Vasco replied.
Eduardo sat down and laughed.
‘Hand me my puffer,’ said Vasco. He took two puffs and laughed as well.
‘Seems to me that some people are more trouble than they’re worth.’
‘Are you thinking,’ said Vasco, ‘of a certain relative of yours?’
They went together to Armenio’s house to ask Marco Afonso Rodrigues to leave.
Marco’s room was empty. Vasco opened the wardrobe door. ‘He’s gone. The cupboard is bare.’
Eduardo went to the bed and picked a sheet of paper off the pillow. ‘He’s left a note,’ he said.
‘Read it, then,’ commanded Vasco. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘I’ve read it. It says peace.’
‘Peace? What else does it say?’
Eduardo held out the paper to his friend. ‘Peace. That’s all. Just that.’
Vasco hurried across and scrutinized the page. He turned it over and turned it back. ‘You know, the moment I saw him I said to myself “hippie”. And that is what he is.’
A few people still spoke of Marco Afonso Rodrigues as winter turned into spring, but many more talked of the price of cork, which had fallen yet again. When the topic was not cork it was usually drought, which was widely predicted this year. Vasco pronounced on the state of the world and Bruno readily agreed. And when they were feeling generous they listened to Eduardo aver at length that Marco was an impostor and not Marco Afonso Rodrigues at all.
João told his pig the story, on a beautiful December day, with the sun shining through the woods and dancing as the leaves danced on the sow’s bristling and attentive back.
‘Eh, eh,’ he said, ‘my beauty. But there’s more than one way to look at it.’ And he began the story again.
THE END
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