Francie Again: Adventures in Portugal

by Emily Hahn

  “What difference does it make anyway?” she asked herself in despair. The feeling swept over her suddenly, just as if she hadn’t been trying to control herself all evening and night. It seemed to break on her all over again that she was not a great artist and never would be, in Fontoura’s expert opinion. Now, for the first time, she felt not only anger and shame, but genuine grief. She had lost her pride, she had lost everything.

  “How can I ever face the people at home? And Pop—oh, how can I face Pop, ever again? He believed in me so much!”

  Francie’s head drooped lower over her paints, and she held her breath to keep from sobbing aloud. She simply must not. Even if it weren’t for the embarrassment involved, she would not be able to tell kindly, anxious inquirers what she was crying about. No, no, there must be no sobs and no tears. Francie swallowed, breathed hard, and sat up again, triumphantly dry-eyed. No one had noticed anything.

  “At last,” said Catarina. She looked over her shoulder conspiratorially as the girls sat down in the little restaurant.

  “Good heavens, Catarina, they didn’t follow us,” said Francie. “Nobody knew we were slipping away. I don’t think anybody from the studio ever comes here.”

  Catarina shook her head wisely. “One never knows in Lisbon, Francesca; I am very much watched. I am never, never sure of not being followed.”

  “Oh, you mean—?”

  “My husband,” said Catarina, her eyes lowered. “He would not hesitate to use spies. Especially after last evening. You know, Francesca”—she hitched her chair forward and talked with breathless earnestness across the table—“last evening I was afraid for my life. Really afraid. There was such a look of rage in his eyes! Because I came to your party without his permission.”

  “Did he beat you?”

  Catarina did not reply, and Francie’s heart swelled until she could control herself no longer. “It is outrageous,” she said. “It’s horrible.” She burst into tears. They were the morning’s postponed tears, but Catarina couldn’t have known that.

  Catarina was overcome by this evidence of sympathy. Clearly she had not expected quite such enthusiasm in her friend. “You have a good heart, Francesca,” she said at last, “but you must not feel so deeply. You make me sorry I have told you anything.” Again she looked nervously over her shoulder, but this time it was in embarrassment rather than apprehension.

  Francie wiped her eyes and spoke more calmly. “It wasn’t because of you that I cried, Catarina; it’s only that it all seemed too much, all of a sudden. You see I had rather a shock yesterday.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry. What was it? Bad news again from your father?”

  Francie hesitated. “Would you think me very impolite if I don’t tell you yet, Catarina? I can’t bring myself to talk about it yet.”

  “Ah yes, I can understand that,” said Catarina. “I understand that very well. You are sensivel—sensitive, that is—like me. We have much in common.”

  Gloomy as she was, Francie permitted herself a faint glow of pleasure in the thought that she might be considered akin in spirit to romantic Catarina. Then she addressed herself to the matter in hand. Briskly she began, “Catarina, I will tell you one thing. Never mind why, but I’ve decided I just can’t stay on here any more, living in Estoril and going to the studio.”

  Catarina looked surprised and excited. “No? But Francesca! It must be, yes, I am sure it is a love affair, an unhappy one of course. No, do not tell me if you don’t like. I understand. I understand everything. When the heart is involved—”

  “It is not a love affair,” said Francie. “It’s something else. Something far worse.”

  “It is not that handsome Englishman?” asked Catarina, ignoring everything but her thoughts.

  “No, no, no. It’s not a love affair at all, Catarina.”

  “I do not think it could be Ruy da Souza,” said Catarina, “so I think it must be the Englishman, and you do not wish to tell me, quite naturally. But you could trust your secret to me, Francesca. I would never—”

  “I tell you it’s not Mark, or any man at all,” said Francie, beginning to feel impatient. “It’s ever so much more important than just men. Catarina, do, please, listen and stop jumping to conclusions.”

  “Very well, Francesca. I am listening.” Catarina folded her hands on the table like a good girl at school. “Only remember, if it is Ruy you are thinking of, a Portuguese husband is no good, and especially a Portuguese husband from my family. I know what I say. In Portugal, the husbands …”

  “Catarina, once and for all, I don’t want to talk about husbands, or romance, or men, or love, or anything like that. I am serious. I want a serious talk.”

  “But my dear, darling Francesca, that is just what I am trying to have! So. What are we to talk about?”

  Francie lowered her voice. “I am going to run away,” she said. She sat back to survey her effect. “What do you think of that?” she asked.

  Catarina’s brow wrinkled with the effort to understand. “Run away? But you said you do not wish to talk about men!” She looked reproachful.

  Francie sighed. “I don’t. I’m not planning to run away with a man. I am going alone—”

  “Alone?”

  “Or take you along with me,” said Francie triumphantly. “There, that surprises you, doesn’t it?”

  The word “surprise” was an understatement. Catarina looked staggered. “Take me with you?” she repeated at last. “But where? And why? Do you return to your father in New York? I do not think—”

  “No, no. New York is absolutely the last place in the world I want to go. I wouldn’t have to run away, anyway, if I meant to go there. Nobody could stop my going back to Pop,” said Francie, “but he’s got troubles enough of his own right now, and I decided against it.”

  “And Mrs. Barclay, she approves of this idea?”

  “Oh, goodness.” Francie sighed a little. Catarina certainly didn’t seem very quick on the uptake this afternoon. “Listen, Catarina. If Aunt Lolly knew I meant to run away, and approved of it, you couldn’t call it running away, now could you? No, of course she wouldn’t approve. That’s one reason I’m not telling her.…” Francie’s voice wavered as she remembered the other reason, but the angry thought of Fontoura spurred her on. She took fresh heart. “I want to get out of all this, and I think the best way is just to slip out quietly without telling anybody or saying good-by,” she said.

  “You are wonderful,” said Catarina. “All Americans are wonderful. Such women as you are! So brave! So independent! You say, ‘I do not like something here,’ and immediately, without waiting, you are off. And all alone! Oh, you are wonderful, Francesca.”

  Francie was willing to believe it. She felt very hungry for appreciation, after what she had heard about herself the day before. She let Catarina go on in this vein for some time before cutting her off, but the lunch hour was drawing to a close, and she had no intention of returning to the studio that afternoon. It was necessary to come to a decision with Catarina.

  “Are you really very happy?” she asked abruptly.

  “Why, Francesca. You know my life. How could I be happy?” asked Catarina. “It is my fate to be miserable.”

  “Oh, that’s just silly,” said Francie violently. “Talking about Fate, I mean, and all that. Things are what you make them.”

  Catarina waited, her velvet eyes fixed on Francie’s face. She realized there must be more coming, and Francie did not disappoint her.

  “You ought not to accept it,” Francie said severely. “It isn’t right to live the way you do. It isn’t natural.”

  Catarina made a bewildered gesture. “What else can I do?”

  “It’s hard to tell, now, unless you take my advice,” said Francie. “You might have done something when you first married, like making your husband take you to some other house, for instance, where all his awful family couldn’t pick on you. But you didn’t, and now I guess it’s too late to get anywhere like that.”

>   “It was always impossible,” said Catarina flatly. “You mean well, Francesca, but you don’t know them; you cannot possibly say. In Portugal a bride does not tell her husband where they are to live.” In spite of the prevailing mood, she laughed at the very idea.

  “That may be so,” said Francie. “I can’t argue because, as you say, I don’t know. But I do know one thing: you shouldn’t go on the way you are, living with them. It’s too awful. I don’t know how you’ve stood it all this time. Listen, Catarina, I can’t tell you much; I can’t tell you why I’m going away. But I can say where I’m bound for, and if you want to come along, once you know, I’d be more than glad to have you. It’s something to do with my new work. You know, my designing.”

  She spoke self-consciously, because it all seemed strange and impossible even now. Catarina, intuitive for once, nodded without speaking. Francie continued,

  “Well, these men who gave me the jobs, the Americans, you know—they’ve gone on back to where they came from.”

  “To America?” asked Catarina.

  “No, not America. They’re staying in Spain for a while, I don’t know how long. I don’t suppose they do either. They always move on just when they want to.”

  “Spain?” Catarina was listening carefully. “Madrid, I suppose?”

  “They’re in Barcelona,” said Francie, “and my idea was to go and look them up there, and ask if I can’t do some more work for them right on the spot.”

  “There!” said Catarina with a cry of triumph, “I knew it was a man. You said not, but I know. Which is it? The good-looking one with yellow hair, or the other?”

  Francie sighed again, and thought for a disloyal moment that Catarina might with justice be called unduly obsessed with romantic notions. But, of course, it was merely the way she had been brought up, Francie reminded herself. She decided to be very patient and gentle. For a long time she reasoned with Catarina and parried all her friend’s arch remarks and suggestions. No, she said over and over, her interest was not sentimental. No, not at all. No, she couldn’t explain at the moment why she felt so angry and disappointed in Lisbon. Some day she might tell Catarina, but not yet.

  “At any rate,” she said, when she felt she might lose her temper if she stayed on the subject much longer, “I’m going to Barcelona. Whether or not you believe I’m chasing those men, I’m going to Barcelona. Now, what I want to know is, will you come with me? I’d love it if you would. I don’t much mind about the rest of Lisbon; the way I feel right now I wouldn’t care if I never saw any of the others again. But I’d be worrying a little bit about you, Catarina. It’s—it’s all wrong that you should have to live the way you do, with your talent and everything. It’s all being wasted because of your home life.”

  “Francesca,” said Catarina, “you are very good.” Her eyes were wet. She reached out and touched Francie’s hand. “If I could come with you, I would, this minute,” she said, “but I can’t. My dear, I have no money. I never have any, not even for the tram. My husband sends me everywhere in his car, and he pays for everything. I cannot come with you to Spain.”

  “But I’ve got my design money,” said Francie, “and that would get us there. Then when I begin to earn more money, regularly, we’ll be all right, and you can really paint, don’t you see, without being interrupted or bothered the way you are at home. We’ll find rooms or an apartment or something. The boys said Spain is cheap.”

  “But—I cannot take your money, Francesca. You are good to offer, but I could not. I contribute nothing to the project.”

  “Oh, of course you do,” said Francie. “I need you. You can manage to talk Spanish, can’t you? Most Portuguese can, Maria said, or at least they can get along in the language, can’t they?”

  “Oh, yes, I can manage,” said Catarina thoughtfully. She had forgotten that she was due back at the studio in about five minutes; her eyes were fixed on space. Encouraged, Francie went on talking. She drew alluring pictures of life in a foreign country. She pictured the two of them starting out on a new life, Catarina in search of fame and Francie after riches. Of course there were Catarina’s children, but that could be arranged later. It all sounded so simple and attractive that Francie convinced herself as well as her audience. She could hardly wait to get started. Lisbon had treated both of them badly, she told herself. Very well, Lisbon would have to get along without them.

  “But do you think we can simply drop out like that, so easily?” asked Catarina. “What about your father? What is he going to say when he hears? And Mrs. Barclay, won’t she be insane with worry?”

  “Of course I’ll write to Aunt Lolly, as soon as we get there,” said Francie, “and to Pop as well. As for the rest, I’d rather they didn’t know. I’d rather they never, never find out.” She was feeling miserable again. It was all very well to talk blithely about getting away, and never returning to Portugal, and all that, but it was going to be rather hard not to see Ruy and Maria ever again, and one or two of the others. Still, she reminded herself, she was ruined in Ruy’s eyes already. There could be no doubt that Fontoura either had spoken to Ruy as he had done to Aunt Lolly, or that he would do it soon. Francie had lost face; she did not want to see the da Souzas. She was ashamed, as she was ashamed to face Aunt Lolly, knowing what she now knew. Besides, though she was quite sincere in her belief that she was doing the right thing about Catarina, you couldn’t expect Catarina’s relatives, such as Maria and Ruy, to approve of a girl who snatched a married woman right out of her home, and helped her to get away from her husband—even if he was cruel.

  “Will you come, then, Catarina?” she said aloud.

  Catarina clasped her hands. “Oh, I’d love to. I want to. I—yes, Francesca, I will do it. But how? Let’s see what one needs. Passport—you have a passport?”

  “Of course I have,” said Francie, “and what’s more, it’s got a visa for Spain. Aunt Lolly thought we might want to go. What about yours?”

  “I have the necessary papers. But Francesca—how? When?”

  “You leave that to me,” said Francie, with a bravado that was only half false. “There’s a train that goes in the evening—I found out about it already at the American Express. This afternoon I’ll get the tickets. And, Catarina, I don’t like telephoning to your house. You give me a ring, will you, tonight after dinner? If you get Aunt Lolly first, don’t tell her I didn’t go back to class this afternoon.”

  Catarina still looked as if she didn’t quite believe that all this was happening. She reached out and grasped Francie’s sleeve when the American started to get up.

  “Francesca, you really mean it, don’t you? I thought at first it was all a big joke. You do mean it?”

  “You just turn up at the station at train time,” said Francie, “and you’ll see if I mean it or not.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Well, that’s over anyway,” said Francie in carefully cheerful tones. Their taxi, an old one, bounced over the Barcelona cobblestones. She added after a brief pause, “Thank goodness,” and stole a rather anxious glance at her companion.

  Catarina did not reply. Her face as she looked out of the grimy window was expressionless, and Francie forced herself to go on chattering, though she didn’t feel light-hearted. She was sleepy and worried. Still, she tried.

  “It’s wonderful to be here after hearing about it all these years. Don’t you think so?” she demanded.

  Catarina said, “Barcelona is not famous for its beauty.”

  “No, perhaps not, but the name itself sounds romantic,” said Francie. “And it’s a romantic city for us, Catarina. We’re on an adventure. Doesn’t that make a difference?”

  Catarina rallied, and managed to smile. “Yes, that is true,” she admitted.

  The train journey had been dusty, hot and otherwise uncomfortable. What Francie had not bargained on was the power of little things to irritate. She had been quite ready to cope with important matters such as going through the customs, and changing money, and all that. What
she had not expected was that the whole world should be surprised, amused and unpleasantly interested at the sight of two young women traveling about on their own. Everyone in the train seemed to think it queer. The men stared, or tried to make excuses to talk to them, and the women—but where were the women? Women didn’t seem to do much traveling, Francie reflected.

  Besides which, Catarina wasn’t a good traveler. She was fussy and helpless at the same time. She needed a lot of waiting on, and she was touchy. No matter what innocent remark Francie might make on the train, Catarina seemed ready to take offense. When Francie complained about how annoying the little boys on the railway platform were, for instance, trying repeatedly to sell junky jewelry and plastic toys through the window, Catarina said,

  “They are only trying to make a living. People in these countries are poor.”

  It made Francie feel that she had been haughty and spoiled in her behavior. And they even disagreed about two rakish young men with lacquered hair, who kept trying to scrape acquaintance with them.

  “They make life so difficult,” Francie had said in despair, after freezing them out for the third time. “They just don’t seem to take no for an answer. I do think Portuguese men are extraordinary.”

  This offended Catarina. “They are very likely not Portuguese at all,” she said, her eyes flashing with indignation. “I think they must be Spanish. And besides, you must remember, Francesca, that it is simply not done, what we are doing—traveling in this madcap fashion of yours, without chaperones or husbands. Those young men must be excused if they do not understand.”

  “I don’t care what their nationality may be,” said Francie irritably, “and I don’t care if they understand or not. I just want them to leave me alone when I don’t want an apéritif. I don’t want an apéritif, and I don’t want to talk to them either.”

  Catarina said she didn’t, any more than Francie, and peace was restored.

  But it was a long journey, they weren’t able to sleep well because of arriving at the customs barrier at night, and altogether it was a great relief to have it over with, because Francie’s conscience made a bad traveling companion. All too often in the night it had asked her just what she thought she was going to do about Catarina now she was there. It had seemed a fine idea at the time, a splendid, heroic gesture to get her away from her unhappy life. It was still a good idea, but other ideas clamored to be formed. What was Catarina to do with herself ultimately? Just paint?