The boy’s room was small, one of the smallest in the hotel. Big Man laid him down on the bed. He took off his shoes, but not his suit. It was too big for him anyway and did not constrain him. He covered the child.
‘You take care of him,’ he said to Fennec before walking out.
Down in the lobby, the doorman opened his soul.
‘Poor child. He’s got nobody. My colleagues and I keep an eye on him as best we can. When I’m on duty I look in on him when he’s asleep. He often cries himself to sleep... All the money in the world isn’t worth a thing when you’re so unhappy... and he’s a good child. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like him. He makes his own bed, he doesn’t leave it for the maids to do. He studies on his own; he doesn’t need any reminding. He does everything himself... Poor boy.’
DEUS EX MACHINA
It is no coincidence that foreign correspondents jokingly call Portugal Neutralia. Every day planes take off from the grassy runway in Sintra for Bristol, Madrid, Barcelona, Rome, Marseille, Siam, Stuttgart, Berlin, Tangiers and, via the Azores and Bermuda, for New York. These days Lisbon airport is the only place in the world where you can fly on a regular passenger airliner to both England and Germany on the same day. The German Lufthansa JU52 passenger plane stands quietly on the airstrip, wing to wing, with the Dutch Royal Airlines DC-3 planes, the ones that last year took off to find refuge on English soil. Ever since, KLM’s planes have been flying twice a week under the British flag, maintaining BOAC’s pre-war Bristol–Lisbon–Bristol route.
One can fly direct to Berlin without any problem, as if there was no war on, whereas the flight to England, which is geographically closer, takes almost as long as flying to America – the plane follows an unusual westward or even south-west trajectory, and then turns north over the open sea, not far from the Azores, approaching its destination from the Irish coast. That allows it to avoid the peacetime route, which, while considerably shorter, runs almost entirely through corridors within range of German fighter planes and anti-aircraft artillery dotting the length of occupied France’s Atlantic. Flying through wartime corridors takes longer, although some people consider such precautionary measures to be excessive because, in truth, nothing unpleasant has happened yet nor is any side expected to target a civilian aeroplane flying back on its regular route from a neutral country. Such a precedent would not be to anyone’s advantage.
*
On the second day of 1941, a young man in an expensively tailored suit from Jermyn Street disembarked from a silver plane onto the airstrip in Sintra, and headed confidently for the terminal building. He did not stop until he reached passport control, where an official, dressed in a brass-buttoned dark blue suit with shiny epaulettes on the shoulders, took his passport, opened it, and spent an unusually long time flicking through it with his white, gloved fingers. The passport said:
Краљевина Југославија/Royaume de Yougoslavie
The official, a younger man who had obviously not had occasion to see such a passport before, punctiliously went through the passenger’s details:
име/nom: Душан Попов/Dušan Popov
место рођења/lieu de naissance: Тител/Titel
датум рођења/date de naissance: 10-07-1912
пасош број/numéro de passeport: 4822
издат/delivré: Београд/Belgrade
дне/en: 16-11-1940
Then, even more carefully, he started checking the photograph against the person in front of him, and when he could find nothing amiss even there, he went back to examining the entry visa as if looking for a reason not to let the newcomer onto Portuguese soil.
From the very outset of the war, the state’s official instructions were clear. In its circular letter number 14, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs stipulated that ‘entry to the country not be permitted to foreigners of undetermined nationality, stateless persons, bearers of Nansen refugee passports issued by the League of Nations, primarily to Jews driven out of their countries, Czechoslovaks, Poles and Russians (and, judging by his name and the strange alphabet used in the passport, the present person could be a Russian or something similar), as well as to anyone at all suspected of being unable to return to his country’ – a criterion that, at this particular moment in history, could be more or less applied to anybody. Anyway, according to the rules, anybody not in possession of a valid entry permit was to be denied entry to the country whose uniform the passport officer was wearing. Caution dictated that the official take a strict approach.
‘Your visa is not in order,’ he finally said in poor French.
‘Really?’ the young man said in a tone making it sound that he could not care less whether he entered Portugal or not.
‘This is a transit visa,’ the official said, explaining the official stance he was taking. ‘It is valid for only one entry, and you already used it last November. See, it’s here on this stamp.’
‘Oh? I’m truly sorry about that,’ the young man said politely, if unconvincingly. He did not dignify the stamp by looking at it.
‘So?’ asked the conscientious official who was both irritated and disarmed by the traveller’s evident lack of deference.
‘So what now?’ the traveller asked just as coldly. He looked utterly bored by the whole thing.
As soon as the question was asked, the traveller’s problem became the problem of the border guard and he did not know how to resolve it. Indeed, what now? He had in front of him a man who had no permission to be here and should not be allowed into the country. On the other hand, he did not know what to do with him. He could not deport him because the plane returning to England the next day and all other planes were completely full for the foreseeable future. He could not arrest him, because it would incur an added expense for the state, and because such drastic measures were taken only in extremis, and it appeared that here the unwanted visitor was not some good-for-nothing, but a gentleman. After briefly giving the matter some thought, the border guard asked the traveller to wait and took himself off somewhere, taking the man’s passport with him.
A few minutes later, he returned with a slightly older colleague in a similar uniform and, judging by the luxuriant moustache, rounded stomach, shiny buttons and braiding across his chest, of a higher rank. Using the same arguments in even shakier French if with more authority, the official introduced as Senhor Chefe now vainly tried to explain to the visitor that unfortunately he was not welcome on Portuguese territory.
‘I’m terribly sorry but you do not have the proper permit to enter the country,’ he finished by saying as rigidly as an Appeal Court judge issuing a verdict.
Neither this unpleasant fact nor the manner in which it had been presented to him seemed of any concern to the traveller. He still looked as if he could not understand why these two men had turned so serious.
‘I don’t understand it. How could the English let you onto the plane without a valid visa?’ asked the older official. Shrugging his shoulders the traveller said:
‘Believe me, I am wondering the same thing myself.’
So, we have got three people facing a seemingly insoluble problem: a traveller without a visa and two official figures without either the will or the grounds for letting him into the country, and without a way to send him back to where he came from, or anywhere else for that matter.
In ancient Greek drama, when the protagonists found themselves in such a hopeless situation, the dramatist usually had some kind of god lowered onto the stage by means of a crane, a deus ex machina, who then untangled the mess by heavenly decree. Life, as we know, can imitate art. This was the right time for the ‘god from the machine’ to descend onto the stage.
Out of the blue, a man who was considerably taller, bigger, more moustachioed, older and of higher rank than any of them approached the three preoccupied men. With a uniform setting off his strapping physique, collar and sleeve cuffs generously embroidered in gold, chest punctuated with big shiny buttons
and a single large, obviously important medal, he overshadowed them in both appearance and manner. Completely ignoring the two uniformed men, he spoke to the young civilian in a language the others did not understand.
‘Dušan, is it you?!’
‘Mr Ambassador!’ Duško’s face lit up, not as if he had just recognized his saviour but rather like somebody sincerely happy to see a friend.
‘Are you having a problem here, mon ami?’ the ambassador asked, stressing mon ami, just so that the pen-pushers would realize they were close.
‘Not particularly. The two of them are letting off some steam,’ said Duško smiling.
‘Is it a bother, mon ami?’
Duško simply nodded his head.
‘We mustn’t allow that,’ said the diplomat turning to the two dumbstruck uniformed men. During the ensuing brief but dramatic pause, he stood there like a royal peacock facing two country roosters whose size, lustre and plumage were no match for his. Following the decrees of protocol, he turned to the one who seemed of higher rank, behaving as if the other man, who had been holding the disputed passport all this time, did not exist.
‘Bonjour, messieurs. Je suis l’ambassadeur extraordinaire et plénipotentiaire de la Royaume de Yougoslavie résident à Madrid, Monsieur Jovan Dutchich. I am also accredited as the non-resident ambassador plenipotentiary in Lisbon.’ He paused briefly to give them time to digest this information, and then resumed the pompous tone that went so well with his character and even more with his dress.
‘Since this gentleman is a subject of the kingdom I represent here, a close friend and a great humanist,’ he said, slowly and carefully placing his hand on his protégé’s shoulder, ‘please tell me in a few words what the problem is.’
‘Your Excellency, the gentleman’s visa... It’s not...’ the officer stammered, trying to show him some stamps in the passport. However, the diplomat seemed uninterested in such details.
‘Gentlemen, I would like to ask you a big favour. I am exhausted from my trip and I don’t think I’m capable right now of understanding what the problem is. May I perhaps suggest a way out of this situation? If I take responsibility, both personally and in my capacity as a minister of the kingdom I represent here, would you be kind enough, on behalf of Portugal, to grant Dr Popov hospitality, if only temporarily, and then submit to me a short report, briefly outlining the problem that has arisen and that I am certain can be easily resolved? You can do it right now, we’ll wait in the sitting area. I will study your report and inform the President of the Council of Ministers, Dr Oliveira Salazar, first thing at tomorrow’s meeting. If it transpires that my friend’s presence in any way brings law and order in Portugal into question, I shall personally see to it that he leaves your country as soon as possible.’
This torrent of words was unnecessary. The little arrogance that the border guards still had left evaporated at the mere mention of writing an official report, however short, that the Prime Minister would personally read the very next day. The passport was quickly stamped, with a flurry of bows and apologies, and handed over to the diplomat. In appreciation, a twenty escudo bill was slipped into the pocket of the higher-rank officer.
‘There you are, Dušan. A multi-entry-exit visa,’ said Dučić, handing the passport to Popov. ‘It’s better this way. Just in case. You may need it again tomorrow. One never knows. These are dangerous times.’
‘I can’t thank you enough, Mr Dučić. I am at your service,’ Popov said.
‘Don’t mention it. It is my duty to serve the interests of our country and our citizens. Now, let us go. Our chargé d’affaires should have a limousine waiting for me outside already. Where are you staying?’
‘In Estoril. At the Palácio.’
‘What a coincidence!’ the ambassador laughed. ‘So am I. Can we give you a lift?’
‘I accept your kind offer,’ Popov smiled back, ‘and allow me to take this opportunity to say what a pleasure it is.’
They continued their casual conversation on their way out.
‘And what brings you to these parts, young man?’ the ambassador asked.
‘Work,’ he replied briefly.
‘Aha!’ the ambassador said, as if he had not noticed that the other man was bored by such conversations. ‘I wonder how the English let you into the country when they aren’t letting anybody in right now. What kind of work, if I may ask?’
‘Legal work. A German merchant ship is trapped in the port of Trieste whilst British ships patrol the Adriatic. We’re trying to buy it, as a neutral country. The prices are dirt cheap because the bureaucracy is terrible. But if we manage to pull it off, I’ll be rich.’
‘You, Dušan, were born rich.’
‘Yes and no, Your Excellency. It’s one thing to inherit, another to earn something on your own.’
‘Perhaps so, you may be right. That’s something that I’ll never know.’
‘And you, Mr Dučić? How are you?’ Duško asked.
‘How am I? Old, that’s how.’
‘If that’s so, Ambassador, then you are holding up very well.’
‘That’s not my doing. It’s hereditary. Some people age like cathedrals, others like slippers, but age is not easy for either... Work is becoming a problem in my old age. I find it harder and harder to do what I’m doing.’
‘And what brings you here?’ Popov asked with interest.
‘What can I tell you, my friend? My job is to fight against history, and for those to whom it has always been cruel. Our unfortunate country is exhausted from all the historical events it has experienced. It lies between two warring sides and is trying to stay neutral. It is high time for us, at least this once, to get by without any bloodshed. We need every friend we can get. That’s what I’m working on in both Madrid and here, to see what kind of support we can expect from Portugal and Spain.’
‘And?’
‘Waste of time, my friend. They’re afraid of their own shadow, and of us.’
‘That bad?’
‘They are poorer than we are. Half their military is armed with German weapons and their aviation is obsolete. They’re not used to war. As for Prime Minister Salazar, he’s a clever, literate peasant, like our own Prime Minister Cvetković, only more personable and with better manners, which makes him that much slimier. He’s tight-fisted and conservative, and he runs the country single-handed, like a shopkeeper runs his store. He knows everything and is asked about everything. He’s shrewd and it’s hard to get anything out of him. Even if it weren’t, how could he help us anyway?’
‘Who’d have thought it?’ Popov said in surprise. ‘How are things in Spain? What’s Franco like?’
‘That’s a completely different story. He’s cocky, the way short people can be. He’s not that bright, either. He’s much more sinister than Salazar but easier to work with. Either way, both are looking out only for themselves,’ said the ambassador. And he would have gone on in this vein had a gleaming limousine flying the tricoloured flag not pulled up in front of them. The liveried chauffeur jumped out of the car, greeted the gentlemen in their language and opened the car door for them with a bow. As the chauffeur was putting away their luggage, the ambassador whispered to Popov:
‘Be careful what you say, Duško. Every word uttered in front of him, or another witness, is bound to wind up in a report somewhere. You can be sure of it. So, be careful,’ he said, sounding very serious.
They did not resume their conversation until the car was driving through a light forest of eucalyptus trees towards the sea.
‘What were we talking about, Popov?’ the ambassador asked.
‘You were talking about your job, Your Excellency.’
‘Oh yes. We were saying how time passes but things remain the same...’ and there he stopped. Then he asked Popov:
‘Young man, do you know the story of our Prince Miloš who sent Archpriest Mateja Nenadović to Istanbul on one of his first diplomatic missions?’
‘No, I don’t, Your Excellency.
’
‘That’s unforgivable, Popov! All patriots have to know what is an instructive tale from our national history. Well, it wasn’t that long ago, some one hundred odd years past, when Serbia was still a principality and the Serbs had a big worry, something important had to be asked of the High Porte and important issues negotiated with the Turks; so, the prince decided to send a delegation to Istanbul,’ Dučić started slowly, portentously, the way epic tales were passed on from generation to generation in his native mountains. ‘The prince summoned Archpriest Mateja Nenadović of Valjevo, because he had already been to Russia on state business, and had been to Austria to buy weapons and ammunition, and there was not a wiser nor more experienced “diplomat” to be found in Serbia. On the eve of his departure, he was summoned by the prince who wanted to give him his instructions, as we would say today, to brief him and tell him how he should behave and...’ and here the ambassador stopped, as if his mind had drifted.
‘And?’ Popov asked.
‘And says the prince to the archpriest: “Do you know how powerful they are?” And the archpriest replies: “I do, my Lord.” Then the prince says: “And do you know how weak we are?” And the archpriest again says: “I do, my Lord.”’ The prince then says: “Do you know that it will not be easy with the Turks?” And again the archpriest says: “I do, my Lord.” Then the prince says: “Do you know what the vizier likes the most?... You don’t?”’ And here he pauses for dramatic effect before continuing: “The vizier, my dear archpriest, likes money and a good piece of ass the most... And in Serbia we don’t have money!”’
They laughed, of course, even the chauffeur smiled under his moustache, but the ambassador quickly turned serious and went on in a conciliatory voice.
‘And it’s the same today, young man. They are still powerful, we are still weak and we still have no money. If that’s how things are for me, I wonder how they are for Ambassador Andrić in Berlin?’
Outside it was the second day of January. A sunny day. If it is true that a good beginning makes for a good ending, then 1941 was off to a promising start.
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