The Lie of You: I Will Have What Is Mine

by Lythell, Jane

  A large crow flaps by the white trees and makes a clumsy landing. He squats on the grass and examines his oily wings, digging with his beak between the black feathers with energy, almost with aggression. Then he lifts up his head and lurches back into the sky. I sit until the light fades.

  I will not go back to Finland this summer. My mother is a carrion crow. She would peck at my body in its weakened state. I miss my father. I miss Arvo Talvela. I miss Markus most of all.

  Kathy

  JUNE

  When I was born my dad said with fond amusement, ‘Why, she looks like a little wrinkled olive.’

  ‘No, no,’ my mum protested, mistaking my father’s humour for criticism. ‘She’s our little dove.’

  This became the great family joke, told again and again, and explains my ridiculous name, which is Katherine Paloma Olive. My mum, Luisa, is Portuguese. She came to work in London in the late sixties and when she met my dad she introduced him to olives. Dad was Norfolk born and bred and at that time Norfolk had barely seen an olive! You could get carrots, onions, turnips and swedes in winter and lettuce, tomatoes and cucumber in summer. So he thought that olives were the height of exoticism, a bit like my mum really.

  She is flamboyant, warm and expressive and my dad was crazy about her; he still is. They’ve had their difficulties. A year after I was born my mum was diagnosed with cervical cancer. She had to have a hysterectomy. My father was terrified that she would die and he’d be left with a one-year-old baby girl to look after. The gods smiled on them, she made a good recovery and the cancer has never come back, thankfully.

  My mum was stricken that they couldn’t have more children, though; she had planned to have a big family, so I became the beloved one and only child. My dad told me that Mum’s cancer changed his view of life. He became less ambitious, he said, and found more pleasure in simple things – cooking, walking, spending time with us. During my childhood we spent every summer and many Christmases in Portugal and those are the times that I remember my mum at her happiest. Now that Dad has retired they have settled there permanently. He did that for Mum.

  I stepped off the plane with Billy at Aeroporto Da Portela. It was the last week of June, a lovely time to be in Lisbon. I’ve noticed that when you step off a plane there is always a different smell to the air and I’m convinced that every country has its own unique smell. I love the smell of Portugal, which is slightly sweet with a peppery edge to it. My parents were waiting for us at the airport and after exuberant hugs all round my dad drove us to their apartment. Lisbon is an easy city to live in because it has kept its human scale and charm. As we were driving to their flat I pointed out the yellow trams to Billy.

  ‘When he’s a bit older I’ll take him on the trams,’ I said.

  My mum and my grandmother used to take me on the yellow tram to the parades on saints’ feast days and I remember many such days during my childhood. When I was little I was frightened of the giant wooden figures that would be paraded through the streets, especially the effigy of the Devil. I could exactly recall his painted bright red angry face with black horns on his forehead and his grotesque smile; a fearsome grimace. My grandmother had a strong sense of sin and she would talk about the Devil as if he was a real person; a person you might encounter at any time. You had to be prepared and your rosary and your prayers were your best defence.

  Sometimes my dad came with us too, although he is not big on religion. He is an easygoing man who does not like extreme views of any kind. When he came along he would lift me onto his shoulders so that I could see the parade better. Men would carry the giant wooden effigies through the streets and I did like the figure of the beautiful lady who wore a white lace mantilla. The procession of figures was always led by a band of drummers who beat out an ecstatic rhythm and we would follow them into the main square. In the winter months there would be a bonfire as well as the parade. The band of drummers would beat to a crescendo and then the bonfire would be lit to cheers from the crowd.

  Afterwards Dad would take me to the street stall selling candied nuts. There would be the most delicious smell of melting sugar as the vendor swirled the nuts in his large metal bowl and coated them with hot caramel. Dad would buy me a bag and I would crack the sweet crunchy nuts between my teeth.

  My grandmother was a formidable woman and I think my mum loved and feared her in equal measure. I wondered sometimes if Mum had come to England to get away from her mother’s loving but oppressive care. Certainly there was conflict between them. I know they sometimes argued about how I should be brought up; and of course my mum had married an English Protestant. As Mum grew older, though, the pull of Lisbon and of her Catholicism seemed to strengthen its hold on her and she was certainly happy to be living there again now.

  My parents have an apartment with a view of the river Tagus from their large balcony. This is their favourite space in the flat and they eat most of their meals out there. There’s a canvas canopy over the balcony that used to be dark blue. The sun has bleached it to paleness, like a weathered sail, and the raffia chairs round the table have a comforting sag to them. We sat around that first afternoon and had a long rich lunch of pork with clams – carne de porco à Alentejana, one of my mum’s best dishes. Then Mum said, ‘Now you must sleep,’ so I went to bed for two hours, pulling the blind down against the brilliant sun, while they took Billy for a walk up the cobbled streets.

  In the evening I helped with the dinner. Mum was pulling out all the stops for us. She had soaked a large piece of salt cod in the pan and she asked me to peel and slice some garlic. She poured us each a glass of white wine and sat at the table with me.

  ‘Dad looks well, don’t you think?’

  ‘He looks great. Retirement suits him.’

  ‘What about you, sweetheart...?’

  ‘I’m not as tired as I was. For months I was in a kind of daze. Mum, did you and Dad have any difficulties when you first got married – I mean, coming from different countries?’

  ‘Oh, yes, many times. We had lots of rows. Dad thought I was far too emotional. Sometimes he couldn’t put up with it, especially if I cried, and he would just walk out of the house and not come back for hours!’

  ‘Men hate tears! What happened?’

  ‘Most often we just hugged and made up. We couldn’t bear to be cross with each other for long. And then we got used to each other’s ways.’

  ‘Did he tell you much about his life, before he met you?’

  ‘Not so much. There was another woman before me, an English woman. He didn’t say much about her, and I didn’t want to know about her. I was usually the one telling him my stories.’

  ‘Me, too. I did all the talking when we first met. Maybe it is a male–female thing. You know with Markus I think it goes deeper than that. He is so reserved.’

  ‘Yes, he is. I saw that at the wedding. That’s his way, darling. It’s not a bad thing.’

  My mother had been delighted and relieved when I got married and I had expected her to stick up for Markus.

  ‘Now, have you two talked about the christening?’

  ‘Not yet... One thing I do know about Markus is that he’s very anti-religion.’

  ‘Your dad wasn’t a believer either but he let me christen you. He knew it was important to me.’

  ‘We’re still reeling from being new parents.’

  ‘Talk to him about it when you can. It’s important, sweetheart.’

  The next morning I set off early for the Torre de Belem, leaving Billy with my parents. I had arranged for a local photographer, Hector Agapito, to meet me there. I’d seen examples of his work and thought it was first class. We had never met. I was standing on the pavement, looking at the tower, and the sun was so dazzling that it hurt to look at the brilliant white façade. I was getting my sunglasses out of my bag when this man with a camera case in one hand and a tripod in the other called my name out loudly.

  ‘Kathy?’

  He was dressed in black jeans and a grey T-shirt.
I studied him as he walked over, noticing his long black hair curling around his neck.

  ‘Hello, I’m Hector.’

  He put down the tripod and we shook hands. He looked at me in a way I can only describe as thorough, as if he was assessing the contours of my face.

  ‘How did you know it was me?’ I asked.

  ‘I thought you looked like someone from London.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Maybe it’s your clothes that look London,’ he said.

  I looked down at my black Capri trousers, my sleeveless red tunic top and my black sandals and couldn’t quite see it, yet his remark made me feel cheerful.

  The tower is located at the entrance to Lisbon’s harbour, on the right bank of the Tagus, and we both stood and looked at it. It had been built as a defensive fortress to the entrance of the river estuary and was completed in 1520. Now, after centuries of silting, the shore has grown to meet the tower so that it stands as if moored to the riverbank.

  Hector said, ‘We’d be much better off doing the establishing shots from the river if we get on one of the ferry boats later.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. We’ve got permission so let’s start at the top. Can you get shots of the vaulting on the fourth floor? That’s the only original vaulting left.’

  ‘Yes... and you’ll want the rhinoceros?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  On the sentinel box there’s a carved rhinoceros and it was the first depiction of the animal in Europe.

  It was cool inside the tower and I breathed in that distinctive smell of stone and plaster that you find in old buildings and which I sometimes think I’m a bit addicted to. I offered to carry his tripod. Hector said he could manage, thanks, and he sprinted up the stairs in front of me as if he couldn’t wait to get started. From the window I could see the wide estuary and the western side of Lisbon stretching out before me. I took out my pad and started to make notes.

  ‘See those three-centred arches, they have an interesting perspective,’ he said.

  He walked round the space for several minutes, stopping in front of the triple arches, then set up his tripod and took a long time photographing them. Then we went out on to the jetty and the view opened out onto the Tagus and the sky and I could smell a whiff of drains from the river.

  ‘Nearly finished here. Come on, I want you in this shot.’

  ‘I don’t think my boss would appreciate this narcissism! OK, just one with me.’

  Hector positioned me against the wall. Then he moved in closer and took half a dozen close-ups of me. He had warm brown eyes that met mine over the eyepiece. Yet his look did not connect with mine. Again I felt that he was examining me as a series of shapes, of planes of light and shade.

  We bought our ferry tickets and as we moved out onto the Tagus I watched him shooting the tower. It does look its best from the river and you can see the Moorish influence very clearly. I sat on the bench at the front of the ferry, which was half empty, and watched how he worked. His body conveyed the same level of intensity that Markus has when he’s bent over his drawing table.

  Finally he turned to me and said, ‘Now I’m happy! Shall we get some lunch? I know a good place to eat on the other side.’

  ‘I want moules with lots and lots of garlic,’ I said.

  ‘That won’t be a problem.’

  Just at that moment an old man, who had been sitting on a bench near me, staggered to his feet and tried to grab the ship’s rail. His arms went all stiff, his body rigid and he started to have a fit. His eyes were open and staring but they did not seem to register anything and his jaw hung open as he gasped for breath. I saw that he was going to fall. Then Hector was there. He had leapt forward and had caught the full weight of the old man’s body, which was now shaking violently.

  ‘Kathy, here, now!’ he shouted, in Portuguese.

  I ran to his side and we held the old man’s body under his back. It was a dead weight and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to hold on to him. Somehow we both managed to kneel down very slowly and lower the old man to the deck. I saw the stubble on the grey skin of his face and a trickle of blood from the right side of his mouth where he had bitten his tongue in the fury of his fit. His body was still shaking although the tremors were subsiding. Hector rested the old man’s head on his knees, holding his face in his hands, stroking his cheeks and speaking gentle words to him. By this time one of the ship’s crew had come up.

  Hector said, ‘We need medical aid at once. Can anyone help?’

  He was still speaking reassuring words to the old man. The steward arrived and knelt down by us. The old man’s body had stopped shaking. His eyes were open and unseeing. Hector laid his head down very gently on the deck. The steward bent over his body and checked the pulse in his neck. I knew he was dead and I started to shake. I sat down with my back against the bench and closed my eyes.

  Some minutes later I felt Hector’s hand on my bare arm. I shuddered.

  ‘I’ve never seen a dead body before,’ I said shakily.

  He put his arm around me then. ‘He was an old man and he died quickly,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he knew much about it. And now I’m going to buy you a drink.’

  I opened my eyes and saw them lifting the old man’s body on to a stretcher. His grey flannel trousers were wet around the crotch and I noticed his nicotine-stained fingers protruding from his brown cardigan. I had witnessed how tender Hector had been with the old man in his last moments and realized again that kindness was such an important quality in a person, the most important quality really.

  Hector came back with two brandies in plastic tumblers and we sat on the deck with our backs against the bench. I felt the breeze on my neck, the sun on my face and the vibrations of the ship beneath my thighs. I heard the slap of the waves against the boat and the shriek of a bird overhead. I felt the brandy burn its track down my throat and into my stomach and I was very aware of Hector sitting next to me. My body was prickling with life. The old man was dead and I was alive.

  The next day I met Hector at the Mosteiro dos Jeronimos. It was early and there weren’t many people about. He looked at me and asked quietly, ‘OK?’

  I nodded and spoke quickly to cover a feeling of sudden breathlessness. ‘I think this is one of the most perfectly beautiful buildings on earth.’

  We walked around the cloister, examining the detail of the carvings. On every span of every arch and on every slender column we saw the stonemasons’ unique designs – faces tormented and divine, garlands of flowers and fruits, animals mythical and real. The sun cast fantastic shadows on the stone walls and floors. We spent five hours at the Mosteiro as Hector kept finding more details he wanted to shoot. While he was working I walked around, taking notes. There’s a formal garden in the centre of the cloister and it’s a perfect Mediterranean garden, with small paths crisscrossing an arrangement of low shrubs with triangles of gravel in between. I sat on a bench and closed my eyes and let myself be still and I felt happy. Then I heard Hector’s footsteps on the gravel.

  ‘I owe you a bowl of moules,’ he said.

  It was a small place and you wouldn’t have known it was a restaurant from the outside. Hector ordered moules for both of us and a bottle of white wine. They brought us bread and green olives and a saucer of olive oil.

  ‘I can do Porto now,’ he said, breaking off a piece of bread, dipping it in the oil and chewing it with strong white teeth that were slightly crossed at the front.

  ‘Great. Your agent wasn’t sure if you’d be free.’

  ‘She’s rearranged things. This is a big project, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. A year-long survey of World Heritage Sites, just the ones in Europe.’

  ‘That should keep you busy...’

  The waiter brought us a casserole of steaming moules and two wide bowls. Hector ladled a pile of black shells into my bowl then poured the milky white liquor over them.

  ‘Fantastic amount of garlic, just how I like it,’ he said.

&n
bsp; ‘Me too, though I have this odd English anxiety about smelling of garlic.’

  ‘It’s good for you.’

  ‘I know. If you eat a lot it comes out through your skin and your sweat, and that seems a bit too physical for us uptight English.’

  ‘You’re Portuguese too, though?’

  ‘Yes, my mum... and I do take after her when it comes to food!’

  We both ate with great contentment as the pile of empty shells grew between us.

  ‘Do you ever work outside Portugal?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, quite often in Spain and sometimes in Brazil...’

  ‘And you like working abroad?’

  ‘I do, but I loved doing the Mosteiro today even though I know it’s been photographed a thousand times. I like to think of those stonemasons, each man creating his own unique piece of work. It must have felt good knowing his carving would be there long after his death.’

  ‘Yes, his very own personal monument... Seeing the old man on the boat made me think about my grandmother. I often think about her when I’m here. She was a bit of a fearsome granny actually.’

  ‘Oh, I had one of those too.’

  ‘Did you? Mine loved the saints, especially Anthony of Lisbon. She’d tell me bedtime stories. Her heroes were never princes disguised as frogs; no, her stories were always about the saints and the battles they fought with the Devil and the temptations of the flesh!’

  Hector laughed.

  ‘And she would use such funny phrases. She would say solemnly that Anthony of Lisbon was the Hammer of Heretics. I didn’t know what she meant except that it sounded very alarming.’

  ‘That’s enough to mark you for life! Now, my granny, who I’m sure would have got on famously with your granny, had a thing about the popes. She would do these jigsaws of paintings of the popes and they were really difficult because of all that white clothing!’

  We were both laughing now. It was so easy being with him. He had a lovely mouth and somehow his slightly crossed teeth made it even more attractive.