AT LUNCHTIME
The church standing at the site where St Anthony was born looks more like a hospital for sinners and the wretched than a museum of saints. Its doors are wide open to worshippers from before morning mass until after evening service. And it has many visitors because St Anthony is well-known as an able and helpful miracle-worker, and there are always people who want a miracle in life, even a small one.
It was one of those November days when you did not leave the house unless you had to. The sky was leaden, the air turbid, drizzling and saturated.
On Tuesday, at around one o’clock in the afternoon, when everybody who had food to eat was sitting down to lunch, a man in a trench coat walked into Lisbon’s empty Church of Santo António. He left his furled umbrella in the narthex, removed his hat, shook the water off his coat and made for the altar. His steps echoed on the stone floor. He sat in the front row pew, facing the large figure of the saint, and deathly silence resumed. Had an experienced priest been present he would have approached the lost soul to offer help. But there was no priest. Other than the stranger and the saint, there was nobody in the church. If it was a troubled soul that had brought the stranger here, there was no one to make him feel he had to control himself; he could even have cried if he felt like it.
However, the visitor did nothing so dramatic. He rose to his feet and went to the confessional. He carefully drew the curtain, knelt in the small booth and, facing the wooden lattice that conceals the face but not the voice of the priest, whispered:
‘Ave Maria.’
‘Dominus tecum,’ a man’s voice whispered back from the other side of the latticed screen.
‘Go ahead, tell me what you have to say,’ the worshipper said to the priest in English.
‘Through the good services of Mr Black—’ the priest said.
‘No names, please,’ the Englishman cut in sternly.
‘Through the good services of the manager,’ the voice on the other side of the screen said.
The Englishman did not like these opening words either.
‘Listen, we don’t have much time. Just tell me briefly on whose behalf you are speaking and what you propose.’
‘I am here on behalf of MUNAF, the anti-fascist movement of Portugal. I have with me an offer for co-operation,’ said the priest.
‘What is your position in the organisation?’ the Englishman asked.
‘We are all comrades. I’m a worker, but I have full authority to negotiate with you,’ the priest replied.
‘On what basis?’
‘On the basis of the decision taken by the leadership. And are you authorized to speak with me?’
‘Yes, I am authorized,’ responded the Englishman.
‘And what is your position in the organisation?’ the priest retorted.
‘I am simply in the service of His Majesty King George. We don’t have much time. Tell me what you have to say.’
Judging by the way the priest spoke, he was a Portuguese who lived in America and he was probably anything but a priest. He went on speaking.
‘The situation in Portugal is intolerable. The price of food has gone up because it is being exported at a higher price than the Portuguese worker can afford. Farmers are having the fruits of their labour seized and sold for gold, which goes into the coffers of the state and the pockets of the rich. The confiscated food is sent to the front, while our workers are going hungry; our bread is feeding the aggressor’s troops. Our tungsten is killing our brother proletarians. Meanwhile, the authoritarian regime is using the war as an excuse to tighten political oppression and to further exhaust, impoverish and disenfranchise the proletariat.’
The Portuguese man was highly inclined to detail his country’s social ills and his class’s misfortunes, but the Englishman was not inclined to listen.
‘You’re communists?’
‘No, we’re not... That’s to say, I am, but the movement I represent is not. It is an anti-fascist movement assembling virtually the entire opposition to the regime: democrats, socialists, Catholic intellectuals, Freemasons. The Communist Party is the linchpin because we are the most threatened of all resistance groups and have nothing to lose but our chains. And we’re the best organized. We’re prepared to operate in the field,’ said the Portuguese. He used the ready empty phrases that are expected of a seasoned propagandist.
‘What sort of operations are you talking about?’ the Englishman wanted to know.
‘We are ready and able to carry out acts of sabotage, organize strikes and obstruct railways if necessary.’
The Englishman said nothing. Although he was glad to hear that there were people prepared to engage in sabotage on somebody else’s behalf, he was not interested in such drastic measures. His interlocutor continued:
‘You probably know that, though illegal, the Communist Party is the only political force in the country that has supported the Allies since the very beginning of the war.’
‘Yes, I know,’ the Englishman said, accepting the man’s arguments because they were true, especially since the USSR had entered the war. ‘But, we do not consider the destabilization of Portugal to be in our interest. We are only interested in information.’
‘There is a wide network of comrades in the field,’ the invisible communist explained. ‘Have you got anybody in the Azores?’
‘Yes, we have our people there, in the harbour and at the airport.’
‘What about the railway? Are you in a position to find out, at least roughly, what is being exported, how much and where? We’re particularly interested in food and tungsten ore.’
‘What we don’t know we can find out,’ said the Portuguese.
The Englishman then logically asked:
‘And what do you expect from us in return? What do you think we can do for you right now? How much money are you asking for?’
‘We’re not asking for money. We expect you to help us achieve a fairer society. We are calling for freedom of political organisation, parliamentary democracy, the abolition of censorship and of the political police, the release of political prisoners, the closure of penal colonies. We want free elections. We want a country where every citizen will have bread on the table, where every child will go to school, everybody will know how to read and write, every sick person will have a doctor to treat them.’
‘And how do you think we could help with that?’ asked the Englishman.
‘By pressuring Salazar and the forces around him. By pressing for a provisional democratic government of national salvation, where all anti-fascist forces will be represented. That government’s first task would be to stop the present authorities’ shameful collaboration with the Nazis. It would also be charged with calling free general elections for the National Assembly within a reasonable period of time.’
‘According to the instructions I have been given, I can, in principle, accept your offer to help us with information. But I can hardly offer you anything in return. However just we consider your demands, there will be no political pressure exerted until the war is over. If you think it pays for you to work on credit, you can contact us through our common friend, your boss.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Agreed.’
HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO SELL A STONE?
It was a warm winter’s day and the two friends sat down on the park bench in the sun. They watched the sand-coloured dog run around the gravel, scattering the pigeons. They did not talk; each seemed lost in his own thoughts.
‘You are really, really upset today, aren’t you, Duško?’ Gaby asked.
‘Not upset. Beside myself.’
They say it is good for children to be curious, but Gaby could take that too far.
‘A woman?’
‘Are you nuts?’ Duško smiled in spite of himself. ‘A woman?!’
‘Your car broke down?’
‘Do you really think I’d let a pile of metal screw with me?’
‘What then?’
‘Just drop it, pleas
e!’ Duško really did not feel like talking.
‘Tell me. What is it?’ The boy was known for being as tiresome as a tick.
‘What do you care...? Mind your own business while you still can, kid.’
‘Tell me. I always tell you everything you ask me.’
Gaby would not give up. He never gave up. Anybody who spent time with him knew that, and also knew it was useless to resist.
‘Oh, it’s nothing terrible. I’m a bit short of cash...’ said Duško. He seemed to be ashamed of himself for just uttering the words, even though it was to a friend.
At first the boy said nothing.
‘You know, Duško, don’t be mad at me for saying this but I’ve told you a hundred times that you’re too much of a spendthrift. Happiness is a balance between what you need and what you have. A modest person is a happier person because he needs less and has fewer worries.’
‘And that’s why I didn’t want to tell you. All I need are your lectures,’ said Duško. He did not sound angry; he seemed to have reconciled himself to his fate.
‘Last night you ordered lobster and a bottle of champagne, and you know that I don’t eat lobster and that I don’t drink. You always order the most expensive things on the menu and then throw half of it away. You throw away foie gras.’
‘That’s for health reasons. Liver is good for your blood count, and you’re still growing. If you ate as you should, I wouldn’t be throwing anything away.’
‘You’re just making excuses,’ diagnosed the boy.
‘I’m making excuses... What can I say? It’s how I am. I simply can’t control myself,’ Popov confessed.
‘That’s a bummer,’ the boy decided. ‘How much money do you need?’
‘You know, Gaby, it’s not polite to ask questions like that.’ Now it was Duško’s turn to lecture.
‘I want to lend it to you. If you want?’
‘You have it?’ Popov perked up.
‘No.’
‘No!? Weren’t you bragging that you have enough cash to last half the millennium?’
‘I wasn’t bragging. You asked me and I told you. And I did have it, but I invested it and I have no cash left. But I can get it if you’ll help me.’
* * *
Above the shop window and door, stylized gold letters interlaced with floral motifs, as was the fashion at the turn of the century, read:
Ourivesaria Rossio Lda
Jewellery – Filigree – Silver
Before pushing open the door, Duško asked the boy once again:
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘I’m sure,’ the boy said decisively. ‘Just follow the plan and everything will be fine. You start, then I run in, and you just stay quiet and watch until I toss the ball back to you. All right?’
‘All right, all right...’
They strode confidently into the shop, as if intending to buy something. Duško briefly flirted with the salesgirl and was told that, in view of the nature of his visit, it might be better if he spoke to the owner. Mr Popov agreed. He took his young friend along without asking or explaining, as if it should be obvious to everyone that the two of them were partners. They were taken past glass cases full of precious jewellery to a smallish office lined with mirrors. Everything was going according to plan.
The two of them sat down on the same side of the desk. Soon an elderly gentleman wearing a bow tie appeared. He had a proud, obliging air about him, like a butler. He welcomed the customers, sat down opposite them and very politely inquired of Popov how he could be of service. Popov asked to see what loose diamonds they had. He said he had heard that the shop had the finest stones in town and he was interested in the best that they had.
The jeweller nodded and disappeared. A few minutes later he was back, carrying a silver tray with four black cloth pouches. As if handling relics, he emptied them carefully one by one, and four large gems dropped onto the black-velvet-lined tray.
‘These pieces are of the highest quality. They are approximately two carats each.’
Popov simply gave a nod of his head. He picked up the diamonds one by one, so that they would not scratch each other, and held them with his thumb and index finger, turning them to and away from the light, checking their purity, colour, transparency, gleam, first with his naked eye and then with a loupe. Then he gave the boy all four gems, one by one. The boy looked at the diamonds against the light, away from the light, against the black and then against the white background, with and without the loupe. One minute he looked like a serious expert, the next like a child who had been given a magnifying glass to play jeweller with.
Suddenly the boy spoke up:
‘Sir, I’ll be honest with you,’ he said speaking as if he were the one negotiating here and not his adult friend. ‘These pieces are good, they’re valuable, but we have something to show you that I am sure you will find of interest.’ The boy took a thin velvet pouch out of his pocket and untied it.
At that moment the shop-owner lost all trace of servility and took on a supercilious, offended air. Had they told him from the start that they had come to sell, not to buy, he would not have wasted his time with them. But he was slow to react. The boy had already dropped his stone onto the tray. Now a stone of about a carat was mixed up with the four that were already on the tray’s black velvet.
This made the jeweller sit up. He had already heard about buyers trying to cheat and replace precious stones with their own. But even a cursory glance sufficed for him to see that there was not the slightest chance of confusing the diamonds. Next to the boy’s, the first four stones, the stars of the jeweller’s collection, looked dull, like mere pieces of glass. The boy’s stone, which was half the size of the others, blazed with light.
The jeweller’s arrogance vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He looked surprised, perplexed, one might even say slightly disturbed. Duško seemed to have a better hold on himself, although it was perfectly clear that neither of them had ever seen a gem of such beauty and brilliance before.
‘May I take a closer look?’ asked the jeweller.
He picked up the loupe and examined the stone with the attention of someone doubtful of its authenticity.
‘Something like this...’ he muttered to himself in Portuguese, switching to French for his visitors. ‘This is the first time I’ve seen anything like this... Whose work is it?’
‘My father’s,’ replied the boy.
A glance at Popov and the jeweller realized that he could not be the boy’s father.
‘And why didn’t your father come with you?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Do you know the secret of this stone?’
That was the question Gaby was waiting for.
‘The secret is not in the stone, it’s in the light.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My father is an engineer. He figured out how to cut the diamond so it gets this kind of brilliance.’
The jeweller kept looking for a flaw from different angles and against the light. He found none in either the polish or the crystal. They let him play for a few more minutes before the boy asked him for the stone back. While the child was putting it back in its pouch, Popov asked:
‘Could I have a sheet of paper and an envelope, please?’
When they arrived, he took a fountain pen from his pocket.
‘See, a silver Parker pen. Simone gave it to me.’ Her film Cat People, scored at the box office almost double what Casablanca took in. He took the opportunity to boast a little bit to his friend. Then he wrote down a figure on the piece of paper, folded it in half and placed it in the envelope.
‘This is our minimum price. You now know everything about our offer. If you are interested, we will be at the Chave d’Ouro for the next half an hour, and as of tomorrow you can find me at the Palácio in Estoril. My name is Popov,’ he said, sliding the envelope across the table before walking out.
* * *
A distinguished author
once wrote: Lisbon. A restless town on volcanic soil. Nowhere in the world are people calmer and more polite when you speak to them individually, but all those quiet and polite people make such a noise when together that you can’t sleep.
Lisbon was very noisy. Cars raced through town, often honking their horns. The most clamorous area was Rossio Square, in the city centre, traditionally considered to be the best place for mass demonstrations. In the past, public executions used to be staged here. Another great writer once wrote: The inhabitants of Lisbon emerge from their homes and pour into the city’s streets and squares, crowds descend from the upper quarters of the city and gather in the Rossio to watch Jews and lapsed converts, heretics and sorcerers being tortured, along with criminals, who are less easily classified, such as those found guilty of sodomy, blasphemy, rape and prostitution, and various other misdeeds that warrant exile or the stake. But the square has also always been a popular place for other sorts of spontaneous gatherings, from pogroms to demonstrations in support of the leaders of the country and those who chase the ball in its name.
Vehicles, trams and pedestrians all converged on Rossio Square. This was where flowers, newspapers, tobacco and fruit were sold, lottery and raffle tickets. Black cabs lined up in front of the theatre, and across the way, long lines of people stood waiting in front of the phone booths. The only traffic light in the city was to be found here, and people would gather to watch the light change. Sometimes one could see ox-carts laden with greens and vegetables, and fishwives bearing baskets of fish on their heads would come this far into town. Although it was against the law to walk barefoot in the city, they were such tourist attractions that the authorities turned a blind eye.
The old, neglected buildings lining the square had few residents. But the catering establishments on the ground floors were buzzing with activity. In the promenades most of the visitors were still foreigners. Times had changed. Nobody was shocked anymore to see a woman sitting on her own in a café, lighting a cigarette; everybody knew that she was not Portuguese. People get used to all sorts of things.
The waiter immediately identified the two friends as foreigners, not merely because of their dress and style, but because no Portuguese in his right mind would sit in a café with such a young child. And so the waiter addressed them in some sort of French. Suddenly, it was the boy who replied, as if he were the adult here.
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