Estoril

by Dejan Tiago-Stankovic

  ‘I knew that louse was going to break her heart!’

  Silence.

  ‘We all knew it... She knew it too... I’m telling you, she’s over the worst of it.’

  ‘It could have been worse, he could have persuaded you to sell the jewellery and taken your money.’ That was what Gordana had secretly feared, and since her brother did not say anything, it stoked her suspicions.

  ‘Did you sell something?’

  ‘Nothing big,’ Grada replied.

  Silence.

  ‘What’s that wife of his like?’

  ‘The French woman? She’s a child, she’s sixteen...’

  ‘Sixteen?’

  ‘Sixteen-and-a-half.’

  Silence.

  ‘Do you think Lila would stay here and live with us? She wouldn’t have to work if she didn’t want to.’

  ‘I don’t think so. She wants to study, and after the holidays her classes resume.’

  ‘I still think it would be better for her to be with us. At least until the summer. She can lose a term; it’s nothing terrible. She needs to gain her strength and the climate here is excellent. Look how beautiful it is,’ she said, pointing at the window, which looked out onto the property’s moonlit gardens sloping down to the ocean.

  That year, Italy’s ousted King Umberto came to their family Saint’s Day celebration, attracting even more members of Portugal’s upper crust than before. On the third day of St Ignatius, Grada and Lila flew back to England.

  ISAURA MARRIED!

  There is no doubt about it. Food is the most rewarding of subjects for conversation. And the most democratic. Who likes to eat what and how they prefer it cooked; whether it’s a veal cutlet or grilled fish, potatoes or roast peppers, you can discuss it for hours without anybody ever getting bored. Another, equally rewarding subject is football. Here again, everybody has the right to an opinion, be it the hotel manager, the doorman or Papagaio.

  Today, for instance, Sporting defeated Académica 2–1, and Benfica beat Vitória 3–1. Before dinner, the men kidded around and teased each other about their respective teams, but as soon as the food was on the table, they agreed that the ball was round and tucked into their sardines and rye bread. They had to finish on time because they had work to do: as always, the hotel was full and the guests would be arriving shortly.

  *

  A quarter of an hour later and there was not a trace of the activity that had been going on in the little kitchen. Everybody had gone off to do his or her respective job. Lourdes was already soaking the dishes in the sink; she was just waiting for Gaby’s plate, because he had not finished his food yet. Every so often she walked up to the table and found him staring into space, the food in his mouth uneaten.

  ‘Eat, please. You’re a growing boy and you have to eat. You’ve grown by half a head in just a year... And you’re still growing... You’ll get tuberculosis.’

  Prodded, Gaby would chew the food in his mouth, but when Lourdes returned a minute later, she would find him playing with the rice on his plate with his fork.

  ‘Come, boy... Look how Rodolfo licked his plate clean...’

  Gaby was tired of her nagging and said:

  ‘I can’t eat any more.’ And he got up from the table.

  ‘Come on now, sweetie, taste that. It’s a sin to leave it on the plate... There are children who have nothing to eat, don’t be like that...’

  But he did not listen to her. He went about his business and Lourdes cleared away what was left on his plate and returned to the sink, where she made her diagnosis:

  ‘He’s in love. For sure. That’s what happens... When I think back... We women are even worse... We fall head over heels in love and lose the few brains we’ve got,’ she said to Sara as the two of them plunged their hands into the soapy dishwater.

  Just when you think that the story is coming to an end, that it’s time to tie up all the loose ends, a new character appears in our novel when we least expect it. Sara. Who, now, is Sara? She is a young girl who came to replace Isaura. Isaura had handed in her notice two weeks previously because she was getting married and going to live with her husband. One had felt it coming for some time. Isaura had matured, she was already almost twenty-three. She had gained weight in the little kitchen. Grown bigger. It was time for her to get married. Last spring, she had started going out with a young man, the chauffeur of a gentleman who was a regular guest at the hotel. He had noticed her one winter evening when he had gone out to pee in the bushes and seen her at the back door of the little kitchen, taking out the rubbish. The following day, he appeared at the same place at the same time and again saw her carrying some boxes. He liked her even more this second time and so he said: ‘Good evening, pretty face.’ She was embarrassed and ran off. Undaunted, he continued to wait for her every evening. After a few such meetings they started talking, exchanging a few words until, bit by bit, the day came when he proposed to her. They married about ten days ago. Lourdes and two maids even went to her wedding in the village; they brought her a lovely present of embroidered bed linen. The poor girl wound up with a trousseau that was like a rich man’s daughter’s. Sara had come to replace her and now Lourdes talked to her all day, teaching and advising her, just as she had Isaura.

  ‘Isaura married!’ Lourdes sometimes burst out with the tail end of the thoughts in her head.

  ‘She had a salary, a job,’ said Lourdes, shelling the peas, ‘but her husband says, you have to be a mother, a housewife, and she chucked it all. And she knows about Teresinha, the maid who worked here before, who got married, handed in her notice, had children and is now complaining that her husband cheats on her and beats her. Women are silly creatures... especially when they’re young... When you’re a girl, love is all you think about... As if you’re blind and deaf to everything else. I should know... my own head was full of dreams and I fell in love with the first fool who smiled at me... But he turned out to be a good-for-nothing. He abandoned me when I was pregnant up to my eyeballs. And don’t even get me started on what I went through. Who’s going to hire you when you’ve got a kid and its birth certificate says “father unknown”? If it weren’t for Mr Black, who knows how we would have survived? As for you,’ she turned to Sara, ‘of course you should get married, but keep your job, don’t let your husband have a hold over you, don’t be his slave... Never mind that he’s a good man and that he loves you; it’s better to be your own person.’

  Sara was seventeen. She was pretty, she was good, and she was modest. As befitted her age, she had somebody she fancied and was lucky to have him always within sight. Papagaio. He was handsome and had grown into a man. Sara searched for him with her eyes. As if reading her mind, Lourdes started talking about her son.

  ‘Don’t think I’m not happy to have my Rodolfo. Goodness no, nobody is more important to me than him, but boy did I spill blood before I made a man out of him. I swear. He finished seventh grade. That’s enough, he repeated only one year and he’s been helping out here since he was a child. He’s hard-working. He’s about to turn twenty, he’s never asked me for money, he can read, he can write, he can count, he’s learned foreign languages...’ Lourdes stopped, staring out into space, lost in thought. Then suddenly she resumed her monologue.

  ‘And if only you knew how well he writes. His teacher swore by him. He said – not only does he have nice handwriting, he knows exactly where to place each and every word. If you dictate a letter to him, he will write it without a single mistake. He reads my sister’s letters, and laughs. He says that the boy she pays to write them for her makes lots of mistakes, you can barely understand what he’s written,’ said Lourdes to Sara, who wondered where Papagaio had gone off to. Where had he disappeared to?

  There they were, Gavriel Franklin, now seventeen and about to finish high school, and Rodolfo, who, at the age of twenty, was already ripe for marriage. The two of them were hiding under the staircase, sharing a cigarette, while Fennec sniffed around the trash can, looking for something to ea
t.

  Gaby took from his pocket an envelope bearing the seal of the Red Cross and showed it to his friend.

  ‘This arrived...’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter. I’m going back home.’

  ‘Home where?’

  ‘To Antwerp.’

  ‘They found your parents?’ Papagaio asked, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. If they had found his parents he wouldn’t be looking so sad.

  Gaby shook his head.

  ‘The letter is from my uncle. I’m going to live with him.’

  ‘But isn’t this your home?’

  ‘How can a hotel be a home?’

  ‘It is my home. Are you going by yourself?’

  ‘Me and Fennec. As soon as I finish the school year,’ said Gaby, his cigarette glowing in the dark and the silence.

  ‘What will you do in Antwerp? You don’t remember it.’

  Gaby did not answer.

  ‘Do you really want to leave?’ Papagaio asked.

  ‘No,’ Gaby confessed.

  ‘So why are you going?’

  ‘I’m going back to my people. That’s where my place is...’

  ‘What? Aren’t we your people?’ Papagaio sounded rather sad and hurt.

  ‘Don’t make it even harder, please...’

  They sat there not speaking. It was dark all around them. The sound of the cars on the other side of the park, of the music in the sitting room, was far away. Even the noise from the kitchen, behind the closed doors where they were sitting, seemed far away. To the backdrop of all these muffled, mingling sounds, the two of them sat in silence.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ asked Papagaio.

  ‘I’ve waited too long,’ said Gaby. Wanting to change the subject to something less sad, he said: ‘And I’ve also got some good news.’

  ‘You’ll come back and visit us?!’ said Papagaio, more cheerfully.

  ‘Probably. But that’s not it. The news is that I’ve got something for you... I want to give you a present.’

  ‘Me? What is it?’

  ‘Money. It’s not just for you. I’ll leave a little something to everybody. But the biggest amount is for you. It’ll be enough for you to continue school if you want, and later, if you want to go to university; and if you don’t want to, there’ll be enough for you to open a restaurant where you can work.’

  Papagaio embraced him and said a little bluntly:

  ‘I’d like it better if you stayed... But I won’t lie to you, I’m happy about the present. You have too much already, but nobody has ever given me money just like that. It’s a really nice feeling to get money when you haven’t done anything for it, isn’t it? When are you going to give it to me?’

  ‘That’s a bit more complicated...’ Gaby had expected the question and had prepared an answer. ‘I won’t give it straight to you, but it’s for you... I don’t want to put it in your hands, understand? I’ll give it to Black and later he will give you some when you need it.’

  ‘But why not straight to me? I’m not irresponsible. I’ve been working since the age of ten.’ To Rodolfo it felt like blackmail.

  ‘I know and forgive me for saying this but you’ve never had any money. And one doesn’t immediately put money into the hands of somebody who has never had any. I’m afraid you’ll fritter it away on stupidities... Black is trustworthy. And reasonable. I’m leaving with him the money for the others as well. I’ll give him a list of who gets how much, and ask him to give them the money when they need it; it’s not just for spending...’

  ‘And what about him?’ Rodolfo wanted to know.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Black.’

  ‘What about Black?’

  ‘Are you going to leave him some money as well?’

  ‘No. I’ve paid him fair and square for everything.’

  ‘Give me another puff,’ said Papagaio.

  ‘No. You’ve got to get back to work,’ said Gaby, stubbing out the butt.

  STOCKINGS FOR VARICOSE VEINS

  At the same spot where two strangers had met each other eight years previously, two friends were now saying goodbye.

  Gaby was no longer a child; he had finished school now and had he not been with them from such a young age, they would have called him Senhor Gavriel. Black was the same as before, but older, more tired and yellower from all the cigarettes he smoked. He looked at his watch.

  ‘You haven’t got much time. Bruno is waiting for you downstairs with the car.’

  Gaby shook his head. He did not look happy to be leaving.

  ‘Have you packed everything?’

  Gaby shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I don’t like long goodbyes. Lots of people will probably miss you for a while. But then we’ll get used to it. Write and tell us how you’re doing... You know that your friends will always be here for you...’ Black said. He gave him a quick hug and then stepped back and said:

  ‘Off with you, young man. Allez, allez! Vite!’

  When Gaby ran out and the door closed behind him, the manager poured himself a stiff glass of whisky and stood at the window. He saw the limousine waiting in front of the hotel and the young man saying goodbye to the staff. On a personal level, he felt sad. But that did not stop him from wondering, as the manager of the hotel, if anybody was left in the building or if they had all gone out to say goodbye to their favourite guest. For a second he thought that the maids might be right. He had heard that the staff thought Gaby brought the hotel good luck. Now he wondered what would happen with the boy gone...

  Even if his sight had been better than it was, Black would not have been able to see what was visible from up close: how the maids cried, how warmly the doormen, receptionists and waiters embraced Gaby, how meaningfully and firmly the concierge shook his hand, how sad Papagaio was, and how Gaby grit his teeth to stop himself from crying, partly because he was sad to be leaving and partly because he was afraid of what awaited him. The only thing Black noticed was Lourdes wiping the tears from her face with her apron, but he could not hear what she was saying to the boy:

  ‘You’ve got everything in here – sandwiches, meat, drumsticks, cured beef... and spring onions... and I boiled you some eggs. The beetroot is here, I know how much you like it... And the salt is here. These are almond cakes, they won’t spoil, but these made with eggs will, so eat them tonight or tomorrow morning...’

  After Gaby had hugged and kissed everyone goodbye, and Fennec had said her own goodbyes, they stepped into the car. Papagaio ran after them all the way to the gate, as if wanting to stop them from going, but the car pulled away and turned onto the main road.

  Walking back to the kitchen, Lourdes said to Sara:

  ‘Look at him now. Tall, handsome... He was just a little boy when he came. Frightened. Alone, poor little thing, without anybody anywhere... A wonderful boy. Everybody loved him. And he came to love us. He didn’t have anybody else. Rodolfo is like an older brother to him. I know he is, you can see he loves him. He gave him a football for Christmas. A real leather ball. And he gave me stockings for my varicose veins, so my legs won’t hurt. They were expensive. He didn’t have to. What am I to him that he should buy me expensive presents?’

  Lisbon, November 2013 – Belgrade, June 2015

  NOTE

  The hardest part of the job, the mining of information, was done by numerous historians and biographers whom I trusted and allowed to guide me as I wrote.

  The exceptions were: the world chess champion, where the most complete data I found was on a Russian internet site about conspiracy theories; the ousted King of Romania and his mistress, whose life I could only follow in faded newspapers and gossip magazines; and the Hungarian-born, Hollywood proto-starlet, whose countless biographies offer everything but correct data.

  I confirmed the events and settings in which they took place by reading the press of the day, daily weather reports, lists of hotel guests, calendars and ship and flight schedules.

  I visited
not only the Palácio Estoril Hotel and Grand Casino Estoril, but also all the other places where the events depicted took place. I also came into possession of certain items that belonged to some of the main characters of the story: Duško Popov’s battered suitcase containing some of his private things, along with two underdeveloped and two unused films. The suitcase also contained medicines, parts of his radio equipment, poorly preserved instructions for radio hams in Spanish. I acquired the writing desk and lamp used by Captain Jarvis in the consular section of the British embassy in Lisbon, at 17 Rua da Emenda.

  Still, what helped me most in writing this wartime novel was the art inspired by the period and the events depicted in the story.

  We hope you enjoyed this book.

  For more information, click the following links

  Selected Bibliography

  Soundtrack

  About Dejan Tiago-Stanković

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Selected Bibliography

  Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Lettre à un otage

  Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

  Miloš Crnjanski, Embahade

  Miloš Crnjanski, Lament nad Beogradom

  Ian Fleming, Casino Royale

  Michael Curtiz, Casablanca

  The careful reader of the story will find homages to writers I have translated, and above all to Saint-Exupéry.

  Soundtrack

  S. Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto No. 2, Adagio sostenuto

  F. Chopin, Piano Sonata No. 2, Opus 35, ‘The Funeral March’, I. Paderewski

  F. Chopin, Etudes Opus 10, No. 12 in C minor, ‘Revolutionary’, I. Paderewski