by Lucy Coleman
Behind us, I glance back at two men with guitars, setting up ready to begin playing, but Reid pulls me forward, steering us towards the garden area set within the courtyard beyond. Huge swathes of bougainvillea have taken over the walls and the pop of colour is magnificent.
‘It’s enchanting,’ I say, as Reid pulls my arm into him, giving it an affectionate squeeze.
‘That’s the church of Santa Luzia. The best bit is yet to come, but let’s wander and we can take a few photos with the climbers behind us.’
We wait while a group of people stroll along the small path bordering the garden and then it’s our turn to take the obligatory selfies. But this is a first for us. We laugh, as Reid extends his arm and we look up at the screen, my head resting up against his chest as we smile. We could be a real couple on holiday together, spending a romantic day enjoying the sights. A part of me wishes it could be as simple as that, but then we’d be different people, wouldn’t we?
But it’s fun to pretend and Reid is full of energy, determined to show me everything. He leads me over to look at two large panels on the church walls. Made out of azulejo tiles, they depict two very dramatic scenes.
‘This is Lisbon’s waterfront, Praça do Comércio, before it was flattened by the Great Earthquake. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
In the traditional blue and white colouring, the detail is amazing. Either side of the panel is an angel set against a curtain that has been drawn back, as if it is exposing the scene. It looks a little like a stage setting, with a beautifully curved scrollwork emblem at the top of the frame. The faces peer back at us and their almost cherub-like features are so finely done that the panel is museum quality. Reid connects with the skill of the artist and his eyes seek out every little detail, revelling in it.
‘No matter how many times I look at this frieze, every single time I spot something I haven’t noticed before. As a painting, it would be a real achievement, but as a picture painted on tiles, it’s a masterpiece. The other one depicts the Christians attacking the Castelo de São Jorge.’
The scene is one of chaos, with knights brandishing their swords and shields, bodies lying at their feet. In the background, ships bearing more Christians approach as the battle continues. It’s a perfect snapshot of history and a bloody one, at that.
We walk on past a group of men sitting around a small table playing cards, as the musicians begin playing. There’s a vendor selling bottles of water from an ice cart and he’s doing a brisk trade. There are dozens of people milling around, even though the sun is now almost directly overhead. We approach the long terrace, which is divided from the garden area by a waist-height wall which supports a long run of stone pillars. All I can see in the distance is the mesmerising topaz-blue sky and a thin sliver of water glinting on the horizon. The closer we get, the more the view begins to open up. As we stand beneath the loggia, around which various climbers have formed a natural canopy to help cast some shade, the view is unreal. I can feel Reid’s eyes studying me and he’s amused by my reaction.
‘Not quite what you were expecting?’
‘I’ve ventured into some of the winding streets in and around Belém and Almada, obviously, but up here you are right – it has a village-like feel to it.’
As I stand looking down over Alfama, the beautiful white buildings topped with the warm colour of the roof tiles and the silvery-blue shimmer of the sea as a backdrop, I’m staring at two luxurious cruise liners. Beyond them, like matchsticks floating on the water, two tankers going in opposite directions serve to give depth to the scene.
‘It’s breath-taking. Can we stay here for a while?’
‘We can if you like. The day is all ours.’
Reid nods and we lean against the wall. The vista is captivating and there’s simply too much to take in. It’s yet another view of the river Tagus that is totally different from the one I’m used to looking out onto. One of the cruise ships is enormous. It must have ten or twelve decks at least. The length of it, I can’t even begin to estimate, but between us and the ships is a church with a bell tower either side of it and it’s a sizeable building, but the ship is probably five times its length.
‘Oh, there are three ships anchored up.’ I crane my neck to the left and see a smaller version of the big ship. In between them is a sleek-looking liner which is only half the size. But it’s a long quay to house all three at the same time and it disappears out of view.
Reid is more intent on watching me than he is the picture in front of us.
‘That haunting music in the background is one of the traditional Portuguese songs, although a more modern version of the fado style. It’s about a fisherman who is lost at sea and every day his wife scans the horizon in the hope that he will return,’ he explains.
‘On a day like this the water looks so tranquil and harmless. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be on the ocean when the sea is angry, and the waves are crashing all round.’
I could happily stand here gazing out for hours, but I’m hot and thirsty, my water long gone.
‘Thank you for bringing me here, Reid. It is incredible and I feel I’m standing in the heart of old Lisbon. Shall we grab a cold drink before we head off?’
‘Two waters coming up, I won’t be a minute and then it’s on to our next little treasure.’
Turning back around, I glance down once more at the scene and the tightly packed buildings on the slopes leading down to the dockside area. The buildings run off at different angles and taking up the whole side of one four-storey property is the painting of a woman with flowers in her hair, releasing a dove. It’s an enchanting scene, despite the lack of uniformity, because all the colours are either white, pale yellow, or natural stone.
‘Here you go,’ Reid hands me the cold bottle and I hold it against my forehead for a few seconds. ‘Come on, it’s shadier where we’re heading next. And after that we’ll find a little place in one of the side streets to sit and enjoy a late lunch. It’ll be quieter and we can rest our legs.’
Reid is right, it is all downhill now, and after crossing over the road, we disappear into a network of narrow alleyways. At every twist and turn, there are little openings, beyond which clusters of terraced buildings are arranged around delightful, cobbled squares. The sound of some children playing football close by echoes around us. These must be private dwellings as I catch glimpses of washing, hung from metal balconies.
The road steepens and Reid offers me his hand. ‘Come on, it’s not much further until we reach the steps. Just be careful here on the slope.’
My shoes are flat, but they don’t have much grip, so I’m glad to cling onto him. The way his hand clasps mine is so comforting. A rush of sadness washes over me, momentarily taking my breath away. This connection between Reid and me isn’t a conscious thing, it just happened. It’s scary not being able to rein in my emotions when my head is telling me to put up my guard.
We take a left turn and all I can see is a long run of wide, cobbled steps that spiral down and disappear out of view as they bear to the right.
‘This is lovely and quaint,’ I remark, forcing myself to shake off the negative thoughts.
I let go of his hand and hold onto the handrail as we begin our descent. The high wall to our right is clearly a house and the lower wall to our left has an old wooden gate set into it, behind which is more than likely a garden. We are looking down onto the roof of a property, as the land slopes away. At the bottom of this alleyway is a three-storey block of apartments, the mustard yellow walls peeling a little and the weathered wooden sills making it no less attractive. Shabby chic here has a charm of its own and every windowsill and metal balcony is stuffed full of colourful flowerpots.
We keep on going, turning the corner to see yet more steps. This time they are deeper and narrower, leading down onto a flat area in front of a marvellous old building. It’s painted a soft cream colour, with stonework around the windows and an impressive oak doorway painted in a faded white. Standing t
hree storeys high, it’s very grand. In the centre of the top floor is a pair of oversized French doors with a stone platform extending out and intricately worked, bow-fronted wrought ironwork forming a balconette. Either side of that, the windows add to the overall aesthetic as I gaze up at it.
Reid stands behind me, snaking his arms around my waist. ‘There’s a surprise at every turn, isn’t there?’
‘Beautiful, truly beautiful. It’s charming, authentic and atmospheric. I love the way the buildings all cling to the side of a hill so gracefully. It’s amazing. How many people have climbed these steps over the years? I wonder.’
‘You really feel the history, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I can’t imagine anyone not being overwhelmed by it.’
We stroll along and a few minutes later there is another steep corridor of steps and these are even older. It’s much narrower here and the walls either side are broken only by single doorways every couple of metres. Stone-framed, the old wooden doors are all at least three metres high and colourful. One is a pale blue, with the inset panels painted a bright yellow; the next one is a tired, dusty-grey, and this time the inset panels are metal filigree.
There’s a turn, and the steps become harder to negotiate, but I hear a voice, talking quite loudly as we round the corner. We stop and Reid catches my hand as we make our way down onto a series of wide, sloping cobbled terraces, separated by three deep steps the width of the alleyway. There are at least fifty people sitting here, listening to the speaker.
The man stands on the lower level and Reid indicates for us to sit on one of the narrow stone ledges abutting the flat area in front of us. It’s like an outdoor theatre with an arena, as we look down over the crowd.
Reid whispers into my ear, ‘He’s a poet and a storyteller. Are you happy to sit here for five minutes to soak up the ambience?’
I nod, smiling at him gratefully.
The young guy talks way too fast for me to understand what’s being said, but there’s no general chatter as he has the full attention of his audience.
Gazing upwards, the reason the acoustics here are so good is that either side of this terraced meeting place the buildings rise high above us. From what I can see, it’s all apartments, but only a couple of them have small, Juliet balconies, even though most have at least one set of double French doors. It makes me shudder, though, to see full-length glass doors with no restrictions as the drop is unnerving. But the light it must bring into those rooms must surely make a huge difference.
Looking on past the speaker, whose hands seem to be constantly painting a picture in the air as his voice rises and falls lyrically, a building juts out at an angle. Spanning the width of the alleyway, it forms a bridge at first-floor level, below which another set of narrow steps disappear into the tunnel it forms. I glance back up and catch sight of a woman standing at one of the partially opened windows, listening.
When the narrator finishes, he turns to pick up a book off a small pile lying next to a backpack at his feet and waves it in the air. Everyone begins clapping and Reid offers me a hand to pull me up, indicating that it’s time to go.
We make our way carefully down through the assembly of people and into the tunnel beneath the building. As we negotiate the uneven steps, when we get to the bottom we turn left, and the path widens out again as the incline isn’t as steep.
‘And here we are,’ Reid indicates to the doorway in front of us.
Set into the thick stone wall is a set of double brown doors and one of them is open. Either side of the doorway, hung on the walls, are cabinets full of old books. My eyes light up and Reid begins to laugh.
‘I figured you’d enjoy a little trip here when you said you were missing your paperbacks. I mean, books all end up smelling the same, don’t they?’
Smiling, I shake my head at him and, realising we are alone in this little alleyway, I stand on tiptoe to plant a grateful kiss on his cheek.
‘This is so sweet of you. I love it!’ Then I turn and head inside.
It’s like a cave, bookcases extending from floor to ceiling and only a very narrow gangway, wide enough for one person to walk through at a time. Every shelf is crammed full and there are books jammed in horizontally here and there to use every single inch of space. I can’t stop myself from trailing my fingers very lightly along one section of old books with cracked leather spines. The air is filled with that slightly musty, dusty smell and it’s heavenly.
The aisles extend back into what must be a significantly sized building, of which only one room appears to have been turned into a bookshop. We seem to be the only people in here, but it’s hard to tell as it’s like a rabbit’s warren of narrow walkways. I can’t even see Reid any longer, as I’ve wandered off down an aisle and squeezed myself along a little space at the end. There is a single bookcase in front of me blocking the way and turning it into a dead end.
At eye level, I spot a shelf of books all with a pale, creamy-yellow binding. I slip out one which has Monet printed on the spine and nothing else. It’s in beautiful condition and in my hands, it has the feel of a notebook, with a slightly silky, grained texture. It’s no more than half-an inch thick and slightly larger than my hand if I hold it out flat. Close up, there’s a hint of a pattern on the cover, but it’s so subtle it almost looks like tiny hairs strewn across it and it makes you want to brush them off. I realise, on closer inspection, it’s the outline of tiny rose heads. Flipping the hardback cover open, there’s an inscription. A notre chère fille Catherine. Noël 1953.
It’s in French and as I flick through the pages, to my delight, three-quarters of the book is taken up with prints of Monet’s paintings. Some are in colour and the weight of the paper is sufficient to make them usable to frame if someone didn’t mind destroying the book. As I flick through, I discover four smaller pages set within the binding which are of a similar quality to tracing paper. It’s a copy of a handwritten letter from Monet himself, dated 23 November 1889, together with what looks like a shopping list of art materials. I’d need a dictionary to translate the letter, and the handwriting, while clear, is of a style that isn’t easy to read. But what a find!
Instinctively, I hold it up to my nose and it smells a little dusty, but it’s been stored in a dry place. I notice that the top edge of the pages are a pleasing rose colour, which is a nice touch, considering the book isn’t that old.
‘I see something has caught your eye,’ Reid calls out, sneaking up behind me.
‘Yes. Although it’s in French.’
He waves an intriguing little softcover book in front of me. ‘Well, I’ve found you something that will help you when you start those language classes.’
Reid hands it to me, looking pleased with himself.
The ageing cover is printed in a pale terracotta design, which was once probably a more vibrant colour.
‘Fontes Medievais Da História de Portugal. Volume I,’ I muse, as I carefully open the front cover.
The pages within are printed on what must be handmade paper, the edges so roughly cut that they are all irregular sizes. The bottom and side edges are relatively straight, but as I try to flick through, the tops of the pages seem to have been cut in batches with a rather blunt tool.
‘It’s never been read. Look at this, the cutting hasn’t perforated it all the way through and it was printed four pages to one sheet,’ I laugh, surprised.
‘I thought that might amuse you. It’s one of three thousand reprints according to the fly sheet. You’ll be able to practice what you learn and find out all about medieval Portugal.’
Reid steps towards me and I hold out my arms, a book in each hand, so he can home in for a kiss. What a perfect day this has been and as our lips touch, so softly, the tenderness is exquisite.
‘I did good, then? This time I haven’t unwittingly put my foot it in?’
‘You did good.’
It makes my heart leap to see how hard Reid is trying to figure me out. It’s the little things that turn a
moment into something special and I can see he gets that, now. The incredible views out over Alfama and the river, listening to the poet whose words flowed straight from his heart, and the delights of this little book cave. This means more to me than the shiny car parked up at home.
‘It’s time to head for the beach,’ he whispers into my ear.
Part IV
June
18
The Pressure Is On
We had the lull before the storm and now it’s the frenzy of activity and preparation before the tornado hits, or in our case, the weekend we hope Lisbon will never forget. It’s Tuesday; Carolina and Antero are holed-up in my office to run through everything in fine detail for the last time.
‘Tomorrow we have our final video meeting with Reid, Rafael and Bernadette,’ I confirm. ‘On Thursday, Bernadette and her assistant head to Lisbon. Senhora Veloso will wine and dine them, after showing them around the gallery while we’re up at the site. Carolina, can you just remind us of the arrangements.’
‘Of course.’ She taps away on her laptop, calling up the itinerary for Thursday. ‘We will be meeting with the site manager and the attendants we’ve hired to control the parking facilities. Then we’ll be briefing the security people, who will direct the ticket holders on the night and make sure that no one sneaks in.’
‘Good. And, Antero, you’ll be on site for the entire day to address any problems?’
