He did not get far. The door behind Reception was ajar. Gaby slowly walked over to the door and peered into the narrow corridor. It was empty except for a thin gleam of light from the depth of the darkness. The boy crept down the corridor and peeked through the crack in the door. He saw the same office he had been in the day he arrived. The same big desk, which had been neat then, was now piled with papers. The same Mr Black, who had been so nice and friendly then, was now so preoccupied and busy that he did not even raise his head when Gaby walked in. That is how the boy noticed that the hair on top of Mr Black’s head was thinning. On the desk was an ashtray full of cigarette butts, and a cigarette that had died out.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Black,’ Gaby said.
Mr Black’s left index finger stopped where he had been adding up figures on a piece of paper, and he looked up.
‘Hello, Gaby. What are you doing here? Is everything all right?’ he asked, smiling.
‘Fine. Your cigarette has gone out.’
‘I know, but I don’t have time to relight it. Just wait a minute until I finish what I started...’ He returned to his figures, writing on the piece of paper. Finally, he read out the total sum, more to himself than anybody else:
‘So, six hundred and twenty-two thousand.’
‘Thousand what?’ Gaby asked.
‘Uh? You still here?’ Mr Black looked surprised for some reason.
‘Thousand what?’ Gaby repeated.
From the outset, Mr Black had kept his distance from the boy, like a Victorian parent. However, on his regular rounds of the restaurant he never failed to exchange a few words with him about the meal. That was enough for him to see that Gaby was an unusually inquisitive child, that if something caught his interest and he asked a question about it he would not let it go. And so, every couple of days he would set aside a few minutes to sit down with the boy at his table and answer as many of his questions as his patience would allow. But this time he was not in the mood to talk.
‘I’m sorry, young man, but I have no time for amusements right now. Can’t you see that I’m busy?’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ the boy replied.
‘But you’re still here?’ It was a rhetorical question and without waiting for the boy to respond the manager waved him away. ‘You can go, young man!’
‘Tell me, please, what are you counting?
The manager realized that the boy would not leave him alone until he answered the question.
‘Marbles,’ he said.
‘Marbles?! Where?’
‘Nowhere, I was joking,’ Mr Black admitted. ‘You don’t seriously think anybody would be counting thousands of marbles do you?’
‘Well, what are you counting, then?’ the boy persisted.
‘It’s really irritating when somebody keeps asking the same thing... You are old enough to know, young man, that if somebody doesn’t answer you the first time it may be that they didn’t hear you, but if they don’t answer the second time it means that they don’t feel like talking.’
‘Money?’ the boy hazarded a guess.
The American shrugged his shoulders, which the boy took as a ‘Yes.’
‘That’s a lot of money?’ The boy was honestly interested.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And what are you going to do with it?’
‘If you give me a good reason why I should share that information with you, I will,’ said the manager.
‘Because I’ve got money but I never count it. Do you think I should start counting my money too, like you?’
It was a logical question, so the manager answered it:
‘Counting as such is unnecessary. A bank will gladly do it for you for free.’
The boy continued with his perfectly logical questions:
‘And what will you do with your money?’
‘First I will cover my costs, and the rest I will put in the bank with interest. Or else I’ll invest it.’
‘How do you do that exactly, that thing with interest and investing?’ asked the boy.
‘How would it be, young man, if you let me finish my work and in return I promise to dine with you today or tomorrow and answer all your questions, assuming I have the answers? Okay?’
‘Okay! See you!’ said Gaby, turning on his heel and walking out.
Having nothing better to do, he decided to go out again, only this time he went to the main, front door. Standing there was the doorman. As he was young and single, they didn’t call him Senhor, they simply called him by his name, Manuel. He was wearing an officer-like cap and a long burgundy overcoat with gold trimming and epaulettes. He was clearly proud of his uniform; he looked like a colonel from a South American military junta. A handkerchief decorated with red squares peeked out of his pocket. He was always there, standing at the front door, but they hadn’t had a chance to chat until now, except for saying ‘Good afternoon’ whenever Gaby passed by, and that was rare enough.
The boy walked towards the door and Manuel opened it for him with a smile. As expected, they wished each other a ‘Good afternoon’, Gaby stepped out and Manuel closed the door after him. When Gaby headed back in, Manuel again opened the door with a smile and then closed it behind him. Manuel was the busiest person in the hotel.
‘Back so soon, Monsieur Gaby?’ the doorman asked. Something in his tone indicated that he had more he wanted to say.
The boy found the man interesting. He thought he looked like the conductor of a circus orchestra.
‘You know my name?’
‘Of course. I know everybody in the hotel.’
‘And I know your name,’ the boy informed him. ‘You’re Manuel.’
‘That’s right,’ said the doorman. ‘I am Manuel.’
‘I want to ask you something, Manuel. Why did you open the door for me and then close it after me?’
‘Because that is my job. I’m a doorman and doormen officially work the doors.’
‘But why don’t people open the door for themselves? Anybody can open the door for himself. I can.’
‘Of course you can, you are a strong young man, but the rule here is that the door is opened by the doorman, in other words by me,’ Manuel explained. He was stopped from elaborating by the arrival of three fat Germans. He opened the door for them and wished them ‘Guten Tag!’
Manuel had barely closed the door when he had to open it again.
‘Bonjour!’ smiled the doorman, greeting a new group of arrivals who were chattering away in some strange tongue. None of them replied.
‘There! You did it again. I don’t understand.’
‘There’s nothing to understand. Those are my orders,’ the doorman explained, before opening and closing the door again. He then took his funny hanky out of his pocket and wiped his brow.
‘You know, young man, this is not easy,’ he said. ‘I’m like a host. I work the doors one shift, my colleague works the other. So there’s always somebody here to welcome the guests. It comes with the service and is especially appreciated by people who are lonely.’
‘Now that I think about it, your job is actually meaningful. Maybe because it makes you think about others and not just yourself,’ Gaby nodded.
‘Of course it’s meaningful. It used to be easier too. We didn’t have so many guests and I didn’t have to keep opening and closing the door all the time.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing,’ said Manuel. ‘That’s the problem! My duties are the same but the number of hotel guests is growing by the day.’ All this talking had distracted Manuel, who had forgotten to close the door.
‘And?’
‘And now I don’t have a second to myself anymore. About thirty people have passed through here since we started talking. Good afternoon, Madam.’
Gaby stopped to think for a moment. He had an idea.
‘Why don’t you stand at the door and just hold it open all the time? You could even do it with your back. Then people could come in and out at will. You would just have t
o smile and wish everybody “Good afternoon”, and when you got bored with that you could talk to some of them. The way you are talking to me now. Plus, the hotel would get some fresh air. Instead of being the doorman you could just be the welcomer. What do you say?’
‘That’s some idea you’ve got there, but it’s not how it works. And even if it did, it wouldn’t really help,’ said Manuel. ‘What good is it if I can’t sit down and give my feet a rest?’
‘Pity.’
‘Pity.’
‘I wish I could be a doorman. Doormen are never lonely.’
‘You speak several languages, you could easily find work in any hotel. Just give yourself some time until you’re a little older.’
‘I’m off,’ the boy said to the doorman.
‘Off you go then... Drop by for a chat again some time,’ the doorman said.
As he was leaving, Gaby spotted the old lady in black again. She was sitting where he had left her, with the same tears. He smiled at her but this time she did not notice him.
CHICKEN STEW
It was late in the afternoon and there wasn’t a soul in the hotel dining room, just neatly set tables and empty chairs from one end of the room to the other. The embroidered napkins, crystal glasses, porcelain, silverware, and especially the fresh flowers, looked as if they were waiting for the guests to arrive at the wedding of, say, a king in exile. But it was simply an ordinary evening at the Palácio.
The swinging doors at the back were there to separate rather than to connect the two rooms; they opened only long enough to let someone slip through. Made of the same reddish wood as the surrounding wall panels, they blended in perfectly. You knew they were kitchen doors because they were rimmed at the bottom with copper so that the waiters could kick them open if their hands were full, and at the top they each had a round window so that the staff could see if somebody was coming and avoid a collision. Inside the kitchen, dinner was being prepared for the restaurant.
It was not just any kind of dinner, it was a feast, à la carte, for hundreds of people. The kitchen was bustling like a beehive: the cooks and apprentices were hard at work; dinner was to be served in two and a half hours, which left little time for everything that had to be done. Soups were simmering on the stoves different kinds of meat were sitting in various marinades, cakes were being kept on ice, the dough was rising and the ovens were baking. Kitchens like this had been rare enough before the war, but even then it would have been hard to believe that any would survive the catastrophe on this side of the ocean.
Menu, 23 July 1940
Soupe de Langouste avec Armagnac
Salade de Crevettes
Aspic de Viande
≈
Steak de Thon aux Fines Herbes
Dorade en Croûte de Sel
Moules Marinières
≈
Rôti de Porc Fermier aux Marrons
Filet de Boeuf au Poivre Vert
Côtelettes d’Agneau à la Menthe
≈
Crêpe Suzette
Gâteau au Chocolat
Guava Pâté de Fruit et
Fromage Blanc
Crème Glacée
Crayfish Soup with Armagnac
Shrimp Salad
Venison Aspic
≈
Tuna Steak in Fine Herbs
Sea Bream Baked in Salt
Mussels in White Wine
≈
Village Roast Pork with Chestnuts
Beefsteak in Green Pepper Sauce
Lamb Chops with Mint Sauce
≈
Crêpe Suzette
Chocolate Cake
Guava Pâté and Cottage
Cheese
Ice Cream
Customers who frequent restaurants like this are of a special breed: they do not ask the price, but they expect the best because that is all they know. The menus in such establishments must cater to every taste, accommodating both religious taboos and health requirements. And the daily menu did just that.
The real action was not expected to start until around six-thirty. Then the pace picked up in the kitchen and the various delicacies were glazed, garnished and gratinated. The Maître d’ would await the guests at the door and usher them to their table. The waiters would come bearing plates full of mouth-watering food, seeing to it that everyone was content and serving good wine with their meals.
The hotel manager was of the view that if you want good service you have to have a dedicated, happy staff, and if they are to be happy, they have to be fed properly. You did not have to worry about the cooks, they always managed. And so did the waiters. The rest of the staff did not eat à la carte, but fared just as well, because they had somebody to look after their stomachs: Maria de Lourdes.
Lourdes, the head cook for staff who lived in-house, had a separate ‘little kitchen’ behind the main cooking area, at the end of the hallway, near the servants’ entrance. There, in her own little realm, using tried and tested recipes, she cooked on a wood-burning stove, in big pots, the way her mother had taught her: simple but tasty food, the kind prepared for people who burn up what they eat while working. There was only one dish on her daily menu. Today it was chicken stew, and Lourdes’ was very good.
Until not so long ago, before this deluge of guests started, Lourdes could do everything herself, but now she had so much work she could not handle it all. So Mr Black found her a young assistant. Her name was Isaura, she was only fifteen and not yet of much help, but she was a quick learner. And Lourdes was patient. Looking at the clock on the wall, she said:
‘The staff sit down to eat an hour before the restaurant opens, and chicken stew takes no more than an hour to make. In other words, it’s time to start. So, go on now and dice this onion as finely as you can while I cut up the chicken. Like this: the quartered white meat, then the neck and the tail; it may not be much but it’s tasty... Like this, with the bones, you can make a good sauce with the bones. Then the drumsticks and thighs separately...’
Maria de Lourdes was round and her face was lovely and full. She had a Cape Verde complexion and white teeth: there was African blood in her. She’d braided her hair and covered it neatly with a hairnet, as a cook should. And she was always smiling; even when she complained, she looked as if she was in a good mood. Her son Rodolfo, better known as Papagaio, took after her in that respect.
‘Tonight we are sixteen for the first service, and another eight for the second. Now, take this big pot, it’s just the right size, and cover the bottom with some oil, like this... Don’t use too much, these things are expensive. Then add the onions and keep stirring, we don’t want it to burn...’ All the while she was talking, Lourdes demonstrated each step along the way, adding and stirring with her wooden spoon. ‘When the onions look shiny like this, add the chicken and turn each piece over like this, until it turns white on each side. If you don’t do that the meat will simply fall apart into pieces. Then pour in the wine, just enough to cover it... Pass me that bottle, if you don’t mind...’ The girl gave her teacher a half-full bottle of red wine. ‘The waiters bring me the bottles the customers don’t finish,’ she said, pouring the wine over the chicken, but only after having taken a sip herself. ‘This wine is excellent. Then you add the tomatoes, a bay leaf, some salt, not too much, it’s not good for your health, but it has to have at least some. Never put the salt straight into the pot; first put it into the palm of your hand like this, and then into the pot. That way you can see how much you’re putting in.’
The girl thought that she would never be able to learn such a complicated process, but there was more.
‘Then you add the pepper, again not too much, and let the pot simmer on a low flame.’ Lourdes shook the pot on the stove. ‘And you just cover it with the lid and leave it next to the stove for half an hour, forty-five minutes, until the chicken is done. Like this. Can you hear it whispering? That’s how it should simmer.’ Lourdes put the lid back on the pot. ‘Now let’s go and peel some potatoes.’
‘Tomorrow we’ll have beans. We can’t have meat every day and beans are the best substitute. I’ll add the bone of ham that I got from the restaurant to give it some flavour. The day after tomorrow it will be sardines. We’ve got to be frugal. These are hard times... Here, thank God,’ she quickly crossed herself, ‘nobody goes hungry, but there are people who have nothing to eat... and their number isn’t small... some wretched folk would be happy to scrape a few grains of rice off the floor just to have something to eat, people who once had everything... that’s fate for you,’ said Lourdes. The girl kept quiet. She would have had plenty to say; she knew what it meant to go hungry and to live off half a sardine and a crust of bread for lunch.
Three-quarters of an hour later, the most wonderful smell rose up from the pot of reddish, thick stew. The cook pricked a drumstick with a fork to see if it was ready.
‘Just a bit longer and it will be as soft as butter,’ she said as she left to put on a clean apron to serve dinner. She gave an identical white ironed apron to the girl. ‘The two of us should spruce ourselves up; when people come to dinner all nicely shaven and dressed, in ties, it would be a shame to welcome them looking like servants.’
As they washed their hands and fixed their hair in front of the mirror, Lourdes groaned:
‘When I think of what I used to look like, and look at me now... Beauty fades with youth...’ They had touched upon a new subject but Lourdes dropped it in favour of giving the girl a psychological portrait of the hotel manager. ‘I forgot to tell you about Mr Black. He’s an old bachelor and a loner. He hasn’t got a living soul, not even a dog or a cat, just this job. He prefers eating alone in his office. He sits in company only when he has to, when he’s got a meeting or a visitor; otherwise, Bruno the driver brings him a plate of whatever we eat here. He’s not fussy. Sometimes he comes to the kitchen to compliment my cooking, but I think to myself what good are your words when you leave half of it uneaten? The only plate of food he licks clean is cod...’
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