Weeks in Naviras

by Wimpress, Chris

  Luis drove me to Lisbon that night, I paid a staggering amount to get the last flight back to Heathrow, then a long taxi ride through the night on the motorway circling London. When I got back to Eppingham I found James still awake, poring over a document at the dining room table.

  ‘You okay?’ he didn’t get up, but at least he’d taken his eyes off his work.

  ‘Not really, it was horrible.’ I began to cry again and he stood up and embraced me. It was the first time we’d been that close for weeks, months maybe.

  ‘Shhh. It’s over now. I’m sorry to drag you back here.’

  I let go of him and sniffed. ‘What’s going on with the Russians?’

  He drew in a long breath and sat back down. ‘It’s fine, I think. We’ve come to an agreement over the gas. We’ll pay through the nose and people’s bills will go through the roof. But it’s better than the alternative.’

  ‘They’re holding the country to ransom, then.’

  ‘Pretty much, yup. And this is just a sticking plaster, I don’t know how long we can keep a lid on it.’

  Through Carolina I learned of Luis’s fruitless attempts to trace Lottie’s will or an executor; how the doors to Casa Amanhã were simply bolted shut, Luis and the other staff given three months’ pay and told to clear out. Throughout all of this I was paralysed, said nothing to anyone, not even Gail. Whether she played any part in the mothballing of Casa Amanhã I don’t know, because I failed to return any of her calls or messages. I bought a new phone with a new number, telling James I’d lost the other one on the tube whereas in fact I’d thrown it in the Thames one evening at Embankment when the calls from Gail and a random number in Lisbon became incessant.

  Burying my head in the sand? More like sticking it in a pool of cement and waiting for it to harden around me. Whenever an email from Gail appeared in my personal inbox I would delete it unread. Part of me wondered whether I could keep up the denial, whether Gail and I would bump into each other or if she’d come and find me, but as the weeks became months the emails stopped.

  The next time I was in Naviras the following year, I walked up to the house one evening as the sky was turning red. It was silent except for the crickets and the occasional rattle of one of the wooden shutters, which I could hear from the road as I stood staring at the closed metal gates. They’d been chained shut, secured with a rusty padlock. Lottie had been wrong about something; there did come a point when there was no tomorrow.

  Cliff

  Now they’ve taken both of Morgan’s eyes I can’t stop myself wondering what the giant bees will do next. All four of them have been clinging to the sides of one of the hexagonal chambers a few feet below, squabbling over Morgan’s dismembered eye, but that little snack’s now chewed up and devoured. I’ve developed a ghastly addiction to them, peeping out from behind the curve of the tunnel, transfixed by the state of her, wondering what I’d do if I were in her position. In her shoes, I might’ve thought, except neither of us are wearing any.

  Then I look down again at the things below and I’m hit by a wave of nausea. Yes, it’s possible to think bad thoughts here, feel bad things. Their absence in the places I’ve been before seems to accentuate them now they’ve returned. I felt like I’m about to be sick but the gag reflex won’t come. Anger, bitterness, fear; all those feelings from life aren’t just here, they’re amplified. Worse still, it’s possible to explore them, project them. How much worse could things be, and will they start happening to me if I stay there?

  There’s an entrance to another tunnel on the other side of the chamber, opposite the one I’m standing at. I’ve not spotted it before because Morgan’s pillar’s mostly in the way, and I’ve been focused on her and the things beneath her. The other tunnel’s in shadow and I can’t see where it might lead to, but it’s easy enough for me to get to it. I just have to walk around the chamber on the broad ledge, but doing so would almost certainly attract the attention of the bees below.

  Morgan’s moans have quietened, they’re now just a series of whimpers. She can’t cry, I suppose. Then she screams again as I hear the bees’ wings getting louder, forming a crescendo. I peer down to see all four of the creatures floating upwards, stopping when they draw level with Morgan’s pillar. She shrieks again as they begin flying around it in unison, the noise overwhelming. I don’t know what would be worse, being able to see them or not. They weave around her in circles for a few revolutions, curling their abdomens forward, seemingly preparing to attack her again with their stings.

  Morgan remains still for a moment, then she just pushes her hands backward and falls. You expect things like that to happen in slow motion but they don’t; she just drops, initially head first but then doing a little somersault. She disappears into the gloom below, but still I hear her land a few seconds later with a horrible thud. At least she didn’t see the ground rushing up to meet her, I think. The bees seem angry, their buzzing becomes more urgent as they dive-bomb down, disappearing into shadow.

  They seem preoccupied, this could be my only chance. I step out onto the wide ledge circling the sides of the floorless cave, sidestepping with my back close to the wall. I refuse to look down, but sincerely hope the president’s out of her misery. She’s not making any sounds, at least. Hopefully the fall finished her off before the bees started on her.

  I reach the entrance to the tunnel on the other side of the cave, turning back in spite of myself and looking down. The bees are still buzzing angrily, it sounds like they’re squabbling over what’s left of Morgan. I feel pain in the backs of my legs, notice they’re grazed from rubbing against the rocky wall. My sarong’s dirty, streaked with grey.

  Just as I turn away from the chamber to explore the second tunnel there’s a wail. I turn back to see Morgan’s somehow returned, she’s back on the ledge of the pillar, facing slightly away from me. Her eyes are back, she’s fully clothed in the outfit she’d been wearing in Israel, except for her shoes. She’s no longer covered in blood. The sequence has reset itself; instinctively I know the things with wings will soon rise up again. Morgan screams, it’s not one of pain but one of despair. Does she remember what’s just happened to her, what in all likelihood will shortly happen again? From below me, out of sight, the buzzing from the bees begins again.

  I turn and hurry down the tunnel, using my hands to steady myself in the growing darkness. I can’t stay to watch; I can’t help her anyway, and I’m probably in danger, too, that’s what I tell myself.

  The tunnel seems longer than the first one I’d gingerly passed through. Behind me I can hear various buzzing sounds interspersed by Morgan screaming, but soon these fade and the breeze dies down. I seem to be stumbling through the darkness forever, feeling disgusted with myself for not trying to help Morgan. But what can I do? It occurs to me that I could go back, maybe get a plank of wood from the debris in Catseye and use that to bridge the gap so she can get off the pillar. Yet still I don’t go back, because I don’t want to. I tell myself I wasn’t meant to see what I’ve just witnessed, was there by accident. I have no way of knowing whether any of that is true.

  Gradually I’m becoming aware that my steps are getting easier, the sting from the grazes on my legs is subsiding. The tunnel’s straight, but definitely heading upwards on a gradual slope. I think the walls are getting smoother, too, less cold to touch. There’s the faintest hint of light ahead of me, not the anaemic light of Morgan’s chamber behind me, but yellow-tinged like sunlight. I don’t feel tired and heavy any more. I don’t feel anything particularly, except hope as I begin to hear the sound of waves sloshing.

  Where I’ve emerged isn’t quite Naviras, but it’s close enough. I’m underneath the cliff at the end of the beach, where it juts into the sea at the western end of the bay. In front of me large rocks provide a break for the waves. It’s still snowing; if anything it’s coming down thicker than when I was up at Casa Amanhã. It’s settling on the surface of the ocean in floes; not melting as it should but forming a crust. It doesn’t
look pretty, more like a layer of effluent.

  I can see the village to my left. The sun hasn’t moved since I was last here, it’s still bathing the other side of the bay. The cottages clinging to the sides of the opposite cliffs are shimmering, encrusted by snowflakes. Further up the hill beyond the village the top of Casa Amanhã is peeking out from behind the poplars in Lottie’s garden, its roof caked in snow. Down on the beach I can just about make out the two children still playing their games, apparently oblivious to the snow falling around them. The waves no longer seem gentle; they’re sluggish and weak. The village isn’t a refuge, it’s more like a prison. What’s changed inside me? The knowledge that Naviras and Morgan’s cave are ultimately connected to each other, perhaps. Underneath the village there’s suffering and misery, as such Naviras just isn’t safe, not somewhere where I could bring my kids. I’d have to worry. Don’t go into the cave, Bobby, I’d say. Sadie, make sure you stay away from the cliffs.

  It’s impossible to get directly back to the beach without swimming. The rocks are just too large for me to climb over, I’d never be able to grab the top of them to haul myself up. Yet in the other direction, away from the village, there’s an easier route, an almost obvious path winding up and away from the sea, around the side of the cliff. I look down at myself; the grazes on my legs have gone but my sarong’s still covered in dirty streaks. Still I don’t want to swim, find the water the dark and forbidding, who knows what might be lurking under the surface.

  I feel no pain or even discomfort in my bare feet as I follow the path around other side of the cliff. It’s like I’m wearing thick walking boots. I judge it’ll take less than ten minutes to walk into Naviras from here, and it’s not long before I reach the top, standing at the highest point in the village. I can’t see much of the ragged coastline; after a mile or two it becomes lost in a strange haze, one I’ve not seen in Portugal before but which reminds me of the fog at the bottom of the valley in Catseye. I turn around to see it’s exactly the same in other direction, in fact in all directions. Naviras - or what passes for it - is just an island surrounded by dense fog. Whatever this place is, it exists in isolation, and it doesn’t seem to stretch very far.

  I’m about to join the larger path, the same one James and I walked up and down many times, before I see the building and feel foolish for not remembering about it. I’ve seen it before, after all, when I’d looked out the window at the top of Casa Amanhã. Then it had been in silhouette because of the afternoon sun but now it’s right in front of me, fifty yards down the path where the ruin of the old cottage used to stand.

  It’s not a renovation of the cottage, in fact it doesn’t look Portuguese at all. It’s a facsimile of our house in Eppingham, and looks utterly out of place sitting on the cliffs near Naviras. Its terracotta brickwork and large grey snow-covered roof clashes oddly with the blue sky above it.

  Most odd is how it stands by itself, alone at the top of the cliff. Houses like that are always found in clusters, at the end of cul-de-sacs. They have landscaped gardens, driveways with new cars on them. I can’t shake the feeling the house has been uprooted from its foundations and winched across the ocean before being roughly dropped here. That said, the front garden’s intact, with the very same red and orange gazanias I’d once planted. They look happy in the sunshine, despite the snow collecting on their petals they seem more suited to the climate here than in Eppingham.

  A man’s sitting in a large rocking chair on the lawn. Initially I suspect it’s James, so I walk down the path towards the house, wondering what on earth I’ll say to him. But as I draw near I see it’s not James sitting there, it’s Gavin Cross, looking only half out of place in his ski-thermals.

  ‘Hey,’ he says quite casually as I approach. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

  Flight Mode

  I only met Gavin for the first time after Morgan was elected, and on her first state visit to the UK three months after she took the White House. They stayed at Buckingham Palace, as convention dictated. James and I attended one of the banquets during their trip, and although he’d recently become Home Secretary we sat nowhere near Morgan and Gavin at dinner. They were on the top table with Oliver Drake, along with his wife Arbela. James and I were consigned to the other side of the gigantic U-shaped table, opposite a couple from Moscow. One of these claimed to be in ‘public affairs’, I took that to mean he was one of those continually threatening to turn off the gas pipeline. I’m sure the government secretly loathed having such people at a state banquet, but had no choice but to suck it up since it had no other short-term answer to the energy crisis.

  I smiled quietly to myself when I took my first bite of the fish course and found it vastly inferior to anything ever cooked by Lottie. My word, how they’ve overcooked it, darling. Her voice had often been popping into my head since her death, providing a running commentary on things. Far too salty and it’s looks like it’s been frozen. Who would have thought it, at Buckingham Palace of all places?

  Morgan gave an impressive speech, fully aware the Israeli ambassador to the UK was present. Normally these set-pieces were fairly anodyne but Morgan used hers that night to spell out for the first time how a two-state solution with the Palestinians was an out-dated pipedream. ‘The argument for there being one state, one shared set of overarching principles, is emerging as the only viable way forward for these two peoples.’ A murmur travelled up and down the long tables.

  ‘They will always be two peoples, each with their own identities and beliefs,’ Morgan went on. ‘But it’s my hope that in the next few years, both sides will come to see how they inhabit the same shared space and work together on that premise.’ It was only one of several foreign-policy observations in her speech, but it was dynamite and it dominated the next day’s headlines around the world. Everyone took it to mean a call for some kind of Greater Israel, which seemed preposterous. Presumably she had something more nuanced in mind but that’s less easy to turn into a headline.

  It’d been three years since I’d last seen her in person and everything had changed for her, but still she remembered me when I was introduced to her after supper. ‘Eleanor, James, my erstwhile saviours. You know, I’ve never walked out without my adrenaline since that afternoon.’

  As a way of palming us off she immediately introduced me to Gavin, handsome in his white tie but oddly insouciant about the whole occasion. ‘Hey, James, good to see you again, how long has it been?’

  ‘Too long, Gavin. How are you settling into Pennsylvania Avenue?’ Although he’d only met the First Gentleman a few times before the election, James conveyed a familiarity which I suspected to be only skin deep.

  ‘Well I’m hardly ever there, really,’ said Gavin. ‘I lived in planes and hotel rooms for a year before the election, I thought that would stop but it’s only gotten worse.’

  Spotting someone across the room, James quickly excused himself, leaving Gavin and I facing each other, uncomfortably.

  ‘So what do you do, Mrs. Weeks? I can’t believe it’s taken so long for us to meet.’

  ‘Ellie, please. I don’t do much, apart from run James’s constituency office.’ I explained how I’d trained as a barrister but had found myself in a quite unexpected occupation, one without a clear job description.

  He gave his small grin. ‘Happens to the best of us, unfortunately. I guess knowing James, he won’t be stopping at home secretary.’

  ‘Well, I don’t expect the prime minister to be going anywhere soon,’ I said, not reassured by my own words. ‘I’d be happy for James to stay in one job for more than a year or so. He’s making a habit of changing things all the time.’

  ‘Well yeah, quite an extraordinary career. He’s very highly rated in DC, that I know.’

  ‘He works hard,’ I said. ‘And his new job’s one of the toughest in Cabinet.’

  ‘Yeah you guys go through Home Secretaries like water,’ he grinned.

  ‘Prime Ministers don’t seem to be lasting much longer,�
�� I said. ‘I sometimes think it would be better if they were given more, I don’t know..’

  ‘More strikes before they were out?’

  ‘I suppose. It’s becoming a vicious circle, they worry their time’s going to be short so they rush things, which leads to more mistakes and fiascos. At least when you elect a president, they know they’ll normally get four years.’

  I’d started paying a lot more attention to such things, was making little observations about the political machine and all its faults. By that point Bobby was nearly five and Sadie was two-and-a-half. She’d started finding ways of urging James to leave the house, during the brief periods he was around. She’d developed astonishingly fast, and kept telling him he should be doing something else. ‘You should go to the gym, Daddy,’ she’d say on Sunday mornings, if James wasn’t doing a round of TV interviews. I think he found it amusing and certainly wasn’t hurt by it. I’d asked him, the Sunday night before we were due to have a quick break in Naviras. He’d just laughed and said, ‘She’s at that age, she only wants her Mum.’

  Oddly enough, our respective attitudes towards Naviras had changed in the preceding year. With Lottie gone and the guesthouse closed I had mixed emotions at going out there – pleased to see Luis, of course, but worried I’d accidentally give something away about my ownership of Casa Amanhã. I wanted to see the house, but was wary of arousing suspicion by taking too much interest in it. Yet for James the village had become more appealing, perhaps because it was out of the way and safe, more likely because there was no longer any excuse not to stay in the hotel.

  We didn’t have the kind of motorcade we’d end up with once James was PM, but it still came with an outriding police bike, up ahead. James had recently started drinking high-energy fat-burning drinks, which were supposed to help him lose weight without making him feel tired. He was drinking five of them every day and they’d given him foul breath and uncontrollable, noxious wind. The back of the car stank. Bobby had just discovered the word ‘fart’ and was giggling. Sadie was holding her nose.