The Portuguese Escape

by Ann Bridge

  On the other table, nearer the two ranges, various culinary operations were in progress. (If you have a kitchen table seven feet wide and twenty feet long quite a number of different jobs can be done on it at the same time.) The chef himself stood, immaculate in his white coat and high pleated hat, rolling out delicate pastry; next him a youth was pounding bacalhau in a mortar; farther on two more boys were chopping parsley and slicing onions respectively, and another old woman was beating eggs in a bowl.

  ‘Yes, you could practically feed an army here,’ Subercaseaux said. ‘Wonderful!’

  ‘Where is the bread baked?’ Father Antal asked.

  ‘I will show you.’ The Duke led them out through the door at the farther end into the courtyard and to the bakery, fragrant with the resinous scent of the pine-boughs which stoked the ovens; here he sent a man, white with flour, back to the kitchen to fetch a key—‘You might care to see the store-house.’

  This was on the same generous scale as the kitchen. Cheeses in scores were ranged on shelves round the walls; below stood vast wooden bins of dried peas and beans, and barrels of pork pickled in brine and garlic; from the raftered ceiling hung endless rings of sausages, hams in dozens, and white loops of lard. The Portuguese, so cleverly, do not preserve lard (which they call banha) awkwardly in a sheep’s or pig’s stomach, forming a clumsy oval lump, as the English do—or did; instead they pour it into the animal’s large intestine, and tie the ends, so that Portuguese lard can be cut off in convenient lengths as required.

  This magnificent demonstration of country self-sufficency surprised Subercaseaux, who commented and exclaimed. To Father Antal it was nostalgically familiar— ‘So it used to be in Hungary,’ he said. ‘Ah, the good life! I am glad there is somewhere in the world where it is still led—still led.’

  The Monsignor wanted to see where the wayfarers slept, and the Duke led the way up an outside stone staircase to a great loft, fragrant from the mass of hay which filled the farther end; immediately inside, blankets lay tidily folded on a score of neat mattresses of hay, with coloured cotton pillows.

  ‘Tiens! Whoever sleeps here is well lodged,’ Subercaseaux exclaimed, while the Duke was telling Father Antal that women travellers, who were rather rare, slept in a dormitory adjoining the house, supervised by one of the old kitchen-women—‘This Maria do Carmo, who was fanning the charcoal. She is not only very sage, but also a tigress,’ he said.

  At luncheon the previous day Subercaseaux had praised the delicious odourless oil on the salad, contrasting it with the rank smell which defaces almost all salads in Portugal —now, as they descended into the courtyard, the Duke asked him if he would care to see the oil-mill? ‘It is not working now, of course; that occurs only in late autumn, when the fruit ripens. It is a short walk, and the day is pleasant.’

  The day was very pleasant indeed. The three men walked through the high delicate sunshine of spring in northern Portugal, which seems to throw a clear, an almost classical light, like the lambency of Latin prose, over a landscape in itself Virgilian—vines, white flocks of sheep and lambs grazing, olive orchards shimmering silver in the breeze, great oxen with coats like polished bronze turning up the rich red-brown earth. Behind, blue and immense, the great range of the Serra shouldered up into the sky. The oil-mill was one of a group of yellow-washed farm buildings, a large airy shed lighted by high windows; in the centre, now clean and at rest, stood the granite wheel which pounded the olives to pulp in a cemented basin, and at one side were ranged the metal butts in which the oil stood, mixed with water, to purify it. The Duke became enthusiastic as he expounded how one made good olive oil.

  ‘First, the olives must be fresh. My rule is, two hours from tree to mill! Second, the oil must be drawn off in cold water; if hot water is used you get a slightly greater yield, but the smell of the pulp is transferred to the oil; with cold water this does not happen. But on most estates in Portugal there persists the lamentable habit of carting in the olives and leaving them in a heap for a week or more; naturally corruption sets in, creating a most unpleasant smell, and on top of that hot water is used in the butts, thus ensuring that the maximum of this foetid odour accompanies the oil to the table.’

  Both the priests had to laugh at the vigour with which their host expressed his views. They walked back to the house another way, which brought them by a flight of stone steps up into the knot-garden, where they came on Miss Probyn and Major Torrens, deep in conversation, on the most remarkable seat Father Antal had ever seen. A circular bench, curved in like a shell below with a high ornate back; the seat, the panelled back and curved support were all covered in blue, pink and white tiling, with lively 18th-century representations of hunting-scenes. One of these beautiful seats adorned each of the four corners of the knot-garden.

  The two young people rose at their approach; Father Antal, with his usual lively curiosity, peered at the azulejos.

  ‘Really, this is quite beautiful, though so strange,’ he said. He studied every detail. ‘Duke, here a bear pursues the hunter up a tree. Is this based on fact?’

  Ericeira laughed.

  ‘Yes. My great-great-grandfather was chased up a tree by a bear in the Serra, but when he gave the order for these azulejo seats he did not contemplate being immortalised in that situation! However, it had become a local legend, and the artist could not resist it.’ He turned to Torrens and Julia. ‘You come in with us? Luncheon will be in twenty minutes.’

  Of course they all went in together. Punctuality was one of the Duke of Ericeira’s little manias; he could really only enjoy a meal if all those who were to eat it were safely marshalled in one of the great salons at least eight minutes before Elidio came in to announce that the Senhora Condessa was served.

  Adept and skilful in worldly affairs, where his life’s work lay, Subercaseaux naturally cultivated the art of making himself agreeable in his current surroundings, whatever they were; but at luncheon he rather overdid it. Seated as usual beside his hostess, he talked mostly to her; and Nanny’s subsequent expression, ‘smarminess’, described his conversation with painful accuracy. He praised the food, the oil-mill, Dona Maria Francisca’s charities; there was a good deal of talk about royalties in connection with the impending wedding; there were remarks to and about Luzia—‘this young lady who will have such immense opportunities’. It was not sufficiently well done; Julia closed her immense eyes, Luzia became openly restive, and upstairs in the schoolroom later, she burst out.

  ‘Truly, the Monsignor is too detestable! “This young lady!’”

  Nanny reproved her. ‘But really, Miss Probyn, if one didn’t know, I must say you would think Dom Francisco was the person from the Vatican, wouldn’t you?’

  Downstairs, in the sitting-room overlooking the knot-garden, the two priests prepared to resume their interrupted task. But Subercaseaux had not finished the excellent cigar provided by the Duke, and walked up and down— Father Antal, seated before the atlas, asked him a question prompted by the conversation at lunch.

  ‘You said that Countess Páloczy was to attend the wedding—is that the mother, or the daughter?’

  ‘Oh, the mother—though the Pretender would greatly have preferred that it should be the daughter!’ And he told the Hungarian how Hetta had refused to lunch with the de Bretagnes unless her parent received the invitation she craved.

  ‘This good child!’ Father Antal exclaimed. ‘For really the Countess cannot be at all comfortable as a mother.’

  ‘Oh no, she isn’t. She’s a most difficult subject, poor creature,’ Subercaseaux said frankly. ‘Poor little Hetta could not have entered a more trying milieu for her introduction to the West.’

  ‘How is she getting on?’ the other asked, turning an earnest gaze on his companion.

  ‘In some ways quite well.’ The Monsignor continued to patrol the room, drawing appreciatively at his cigar. ‘There is a young man in the British Embassy, an admirable fellow, who has had the good taste to fall in love with her, and this is hel
ping her in her adjustments.’ He gave his abrupt barking laugh—then he frowned. ‘But now I am afraid even this may go wrong.’

  ‘Why?’ Father Antal asked—his eyes never left the other’s face.

  ‘Oh, the old story. The mistress of long standing is about to reappear—of course for the wedding.’

  ‘Does the young man not appreciate Countess Hetta sufficiently to preserve him from the mistress?’ Father Antal asked, severity in his tone.

  ‘Oh my dear Dr. Horvath, yes, of course he does, or he would not have fallen in love with the child—who has, one must admit, the defects of her qualities to a degree which is rather marked in diplomatic society! Voyons,’ the Monsignor said, throwing the end of his cigar into the fire and spreading out his hands—‘this young girl has done a wonderful thing—do not think that I fail to recognise it. With her world as she knew it in ruins she has managed to construct for herself a moral fabric of her own, and one of great integrity. But apart from her contact with you, the materials to her hand were very limited: a convent school, and the life of a servant! Now she is plunged into an international society—royalty, diplomacy, urbanity in excelsisl Naturally her formula is inadequate; she makes mistakes. But her admirer is born into this world, and he finds her mistakes embarrassing—whereas the old flame makes none! Surely you can comprehend the position?’

  Father Antal continued to follow the Monsignor with an intense, unrelenting gaze.

  ‘Of what sort is the mistress?’ he asked.

  ‘Well-born, and exceedingly clever. She has never allowed her reputation to become tarnished, for she is skilful, and her high social standing protects her. A stupider woman, or one less highly placed, would have little reputation left! Young Atherley is by no means her only lover—or was.’

  ‘And she is in Portugal now?’

  ‘Is, or comes immediately.’ This was the sort of thing Subercaseaux always knew.

  Father Antal got up, a little heavily, and also began to walk to and fro.

  ‘I am troubled,’ he said at length. ‘I am greatly troubled,’ he went on after a pause. ‘My little Hetti!’ He rounded on his companion. ‘I must see her,’ he said— ‘quickly. Can she not come here?’

  ‘For that we must consult Major Torrens—he is responsible for the security side. And Countess Hetta, you see, is already compromised.’

  ‘Compromised?—by whom? By the young Englishman?’ Father Antal asked, with sudden anger.

  Subercaseaux laughed gently.

  ‘No no—by you, dear Dr. Horvath! Please!’ he said, holding up a hand as if to ward off the Hungarian’s furious glare— ‘I speak the language of counter-espionage now! In that sense only, Hetta Páloczy is what the Secret Service calls “compromised”, since of course the fact that she worked in your house in Hungary is well known to the Communists.’

  ‘So.’ Father Antal expelled a deep breath, and stopped glaring. ‘Well, let us now speak with Torrens.’

  There ensued a whole series of consultations. Torrens, walking in the grounds with Julia, once again found his conversation with her interrupted by an active footman despatched in search of him by Elidio. When he came in, looking rather sulky, he said that if Countess Hetta was to come to Gralheira Miss Probyn would have to arrange it with the family. Julia was sent for, and walked, cool and beautiful, into the study; on hearing what was at issue she said, as usual, that she would talk to Nanny. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said comfortably to Father Antal. Julia then talked to Nanny, who talked to Dona Maria Francisca: in the end the Duke himself, looking more Scotch than ever in his grey country tweeds, appeared in the priests’ sitting-room. He addressed himself to Torrens.

  ‘I gather that there is some question of an addition to our party here.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Father Antal wants to see Countess Hetta Páloczy,’ Torrens said glumly.

  ‘Oh, but by all means let her come! I should like my daughter to know her. Telephone at once, and see if she cannot be persuaded to pay us a visit.’

  ‘There is just one catch about it, Duke, which you may not have realised,’ Torrens said, more glumly than ever.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Simply the fact that the Countess was employed in Father Antal’s household in Hungary—which is, of course, well known to the agents of the other side. So she is certainly under observation—in fact you may call her something of a security risk.’

  The Duke smiled largely.

  ‘What fascinating phrases the modern world coins!’ he said genially. ‘A security risk!—it sounds quite American. Well, let us take this “security risk”’—his tone made a mockery of the words—‘and ask the little Countess to visit us. Who shall telephone?’

  ‘I’d better,’ Julia said—‘she knows me best.’

  ‘Will you come and do it from my study, Miss Probyn?’

  Torrens again intervened.

  ‘Excuse me, Duke, but before we ring Countess Hetta up we should arrange how she is to get here.’

  ‘Will she not come by car?’

  Subercaseaux put in his oar.

  ‘It is not certain, my dear Duke, that her mother will be able to spare her car for a whole day, at such short notice.’

  ‘And in any case she oughtn’t to travel alone—we have asked her not to go out unaccompanied,’ said Torrens.

  ‘Here, in Portugal?’ the Duke said, looking bewildered.

  ‘Duke dear, in a Portugal at this moment full of Communist thugs,’ Julia said, turning her immense eyes on him disarmingly. ‘No—I think Pd better drive down and bring her up; I’ve got Atherley’s CD. car, and she can either wear a veil, or crouch down in the back. Better the veil, I think—crouching makes one so stiff, and she won’t be able to see the lovely darling country! Isn’t that best?’ she asked Torrens.

  ‘Yes, I think it is. The diplomatic number-plate is a great safeguard,’ the Secret Service man said, rather grudgingly.

  ‘Very well—that’s settled. So shall we go and telephone?’ Julia said to her host.

  But when they repaired to the study and the eight telephones, and eventually got through to the Castelo-Imperial at Estoril, it was only to be told that the Countess Hetta Páloczy had left.

  ‘Left? When does she return?’ Julia asked. The clerk said he would enquire.

  ‘Where can they have gone? I should have thought wild horses wouldn’t have dragged Mama Páloczy away just now,’ Julia speculated aloud, the receiver half at her ear. ‘The wedding’s on Saturday. Unless she’s flown to Paris to get a new frock.’

  The Duke laughed—in his private and rather silent fashion he derived a good deal of pleasure from Miss Probyn’s uninhibited speech.

  ‘Possibly that is the explanation,’ he was beginning, when Julia said ‘Sing?’ sharply into the telephone. (Improbable as it may seem, this syllable in Portuguese, spelt sim, means ‘Yes’.) ‘Sing, sing,’ Julia pursued, and went on saying ‘Sing’ at intervals for some moments—’Muito obrigada‘she said finally, and rang off.

  ‘That’s rather odd,’ she said. ‘Hetta left at ten o’clock this morning, with a suit-case, in a diplomatico car, with a Senhor; she told the porter, who of course asked her, that she might not return for two or three days. The receptionist rang up her mother’s apartment and the maid said that they had no idea where she had gone, nor who the diplomatic Senhor was! I don’t think it can be Atherley, because I’ve got his car here.’

  ‘Does she know any other diplomats?’ the Duke asked.

  ‘Yes. That nice Townsend Waller, in the American Embassy. He’s really her slave,’ Julia said, looking calmly amused.

  ‘Then should we not ring up the American Chancery and ask, discreetly, if they know where this gentleman has gone? Or not?’ The Duke looked a little bothered—running off in cars with diplomaticos rather upset his previous impression of Hetta as a desirable acquaintance for his daughter.

  ‘Not,’ said Julia. ‘I think we ought to talk to Major Torrens before we do any more telephoning.’


  ‘Very well—let us speak with him.’

  The Major, who had been waiting with the two priests, flatly vetoed ringing up the American Embassy.

  ‘They aren’t in on this at all,’ he said, ‘except for my opposite number. They might start asking all sorts of questions.’ He looked put out, and gnawed at his small red moustache; the loss of one of the characters in this ill-assorted cast worried him. ‘I’ll ring up Atherley; I can talk to him so that no one else understands, and he’s pretty sure to know all about young Hetta’s movements—they seem pretty thick. May we do that at once, Sir?’

  Richard Atherley was sitting at his desk in the Chancery, staring out over the green garden, trying to make up his mind whether to have another shot at ringing up Hetta, when his telephone buzzed. Three times the evening before he had been infuriated by the smugness of the hotel operator’s voice saying ‘The Countess Hetta Páloczy is not available tonight’. What a remorseless little savage she was! He snatched off the receiver, hoping that she might have relented.

  ‘A call for you from São Pedro do Sul, Mr. Atherley,’ Mrs. Tomlinson said. And then came Hugh’s voice on the line.

  ‘That you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Richard’s voice was cold with disappointment. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I should be grateful if you could make some enquiries for me, unless you happen to know the answer yourself. Listen carefully, will you?—and don’t use any names. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Perfectly. What’s the question?’

  ‘You remember that you took a lady for a drive one day last week,’ Torrens’ voice went on, with maddening deliberation.

  ‘Well, what of it?’ How the devil did Torrens know about Obidos, Richard thought, stiffening.

  ‘In a taxi,’ Torrens pursued, ignoring the interruption— ‘and wearing a veil. Do you know who I mean?’ Richard relaxed a little.

  ‘Yes, of course. Well?’