“I’m looking for a man named da Silva,” she said.
“Take poor old George,” he went on happily. “Silly bugger couldn’t swim. Didn’t stand a chance, did he? Yours truly knew how to swim, though.” He chuckled warmly.
“Da Silva,” she said. “He’s not a doctor.”
“No, you got to look on the bright side, haven’t you? Look on the bright side, I always say.”
He gave a most intense grin. Julie realized that he was blind. His eyes were milkily opaque, unfocusing. She felt helplessly sorry. For some seconds there was silence, while he kept up his strenuous grin.
“Goodbye,” she said; stupidly.
“Funny you should say that,” he answered.
She left, quickly and quietly, walked to the end of the corridor, and took the staircase to the next floor. This was an open ward, and busy. Julie hesitated, looked around for an alternative, and saw the name A. da Silva on a door. What luck! She knocked, tried the handle, and had to use her weight to make the door move. A sigh of cold air slid past her, followed by the tang of chemicals. Inside, a man was bending over a marble slab; she saw a pair of naked feet with a label tied to a big toe.
“Senhor da Silva?” she said.
“Sim.” He paused with his hands resting on the corpse. He didn’t look like a smooth crook. He looked like Julie’s headmaster in high school: stocky, middle-aged, with a square, intelligent face and a permanent expression of slightly amused surprise. “Feche a porta, senhora, faz favor.”
“I’m sorry?” She began to have serious misgivings about the whole damn thing.
“Close the door. Please.”
“Oh, sure.” Of course: to keep the cold in. “I’m Mrs. Conroy. Douglas Evans gave me your name. The journalist …” Julie moved forward and caught a glimpse of the body. At once she looked away. Oh Christ, she prayed, don’t let me faint.
“Ah yes, Senhor Evans.” Da Silva nodded cheerfully. “A most interesting man. For what publication do you write?”
“Chicago Tribune,” she said, without thinking.
He looked impressed. “The hospital is much busier now than when Senhor Evans came here. This of course reflects the increased warfare in the Atlantic. You see here a typical victim.”
It was the last thing she wanted to see. “Your English is extremely good,” she said.
“Thank you. Most of our patients are British. This young man was …” He straightened the label on the big toe. “Yes, English. About twenty-three years of age. Merchant seaman, almost certainly from a tanker. His injuries are immediately recognizable. You see this phenomenon?”
Now there was no escape. Julie made her head turn and her eyes look. At once her stomach kicked in rebellion, but she swallowed hard, over and over, and kept everything down.
“The skin on the legs has ballooned out as a result of being trapped in intense heat,” Da Silva said. He picked up a double-handful from the thigh. “We call it the ‘plus-fours effect.’ You understand? Like the golfing trousers?” Julie nodded. The mortuary was chilly but she felt like stone. Da Silva said: “Sometimes men arrive here with their skin hanging below their ankles in big folds. Of course the exposed parts of the body suffer much more severely.” He lifted the left arm. The hand had been burned to the bone; the fingers were black talons. Julie glanced quickly at the rest. The torso was only slightly damaged but the face looked as if it had been blow-torched. She looked away.
“I don’t suppose he wanted to live anyway,” she said huskily.
“On the contrary, he put up a good fight,” da Silva replied. “He was in the sea first, and then in a lifeboat for some days, and finally for a week here. Yes, quite a good fight.”
He took her through the ward. All the beds were occupied by badly burned seamen. Da Silva was responsible only for the morgue, but he explained that he took an interest in all the patients. Julie nodded. She felt numbed by so much suffering. “Can we get some fresh air?” she asked.
They went outside. The sunshine was gentle, the flowers were innocent, the birds went about doing nobody any harm. Julie felt a huge need to go right away from this terrible place and to be with normal, healthy people again. Da Silva was watching. “Mrs. Conroy,” he said gently, “are you really a journalist?”
She shook her head.
“Then why did you come to see me?”
She looked at the soft blue sky and decided she’d had much more than enough for one day. “It doesn’t matter any more,” she said.
“As you wish. May I take your coat?”
The starched receptionist telephoned for a taxi. Julie was back at the pensão before eleven o’clock. It was one way to kill a morning.
Chapter 40
“Did you remember to warm the pot first?” Colonel Christian asked.
Otto Krafft nodded, and added teaspoons to the cups and saucers.
“The British always warm the pot first,” Christian told the others. “They say it’s the secret of successful tea-making.”
Wolfgang Adler tried another position in his chair. Nothing made his leg comfortable.
“You’re not impressed, Wolfgang,” Christian said. “Why is that?”
“I think Eldorado could find better things to put in the Spanish diplomatic bag than his week’s tea ration, that’s all.”
“I don’t agree,” Fischer said. “You keep asking for proof. Well, this is proof that our blockade is damn well working.”
“And there is also some evidence,” Wolfgang said, rubbing his fingers, “that whatever the R.A.F. is dropping on Germany, it is not tea-leaves.”
“What does that matter?” Dr. Hartmann asked. “Their accuracy is pathetic”
“And of course they don’t know that,” Wolfgang said. “So they’re not doing anything about it. I see.”
“The fact is,” Franz Werth said firmly, “we’re getting a tremendous amount of good stuff from Eldorado on other areas, particularly convoys. This man Seagull in Liverpool is a goldmine.”
“Time for the tea, I think,” Christian said. He put milk in the cups. Otto poured. “Franz is right, you know,” Christian told Wolfgang. “Our U-boat kill-rate in the Atlantic is quite phenomenal.”
“Drowning sailors is an inefficient way to win a war,” Wolfgang said.
“What an impatient chap you are,” Christian murmured. He sipped his tea. “You’re not drinking?”
“Tea with the milk put in first is undrinkable,” Wolfgang said. “In Britain only the lower classes drink it that way. The upper classes add milk afterward.”
“Oh dear. Eldorado didn’t tell us that.”
Wolfgang grunted. “It just shows how careless it is to swallow everything he sends.”
Christian hid his smile in his tea-cup, but the others laughed without restraint. Wolfgang sat and watched the steam curling out of the teapot spout as if he were a thousand miles away.
Chapter 41
For the first time since she left Madrid, Julie Conroy desperately needed someone to talk to.
She sat on her bed and stared at the grotesquely bleeding multicolored Sacred Heart. It was shapely and plump, like an air cushion. The dead seaman with the claw for a hand didn’t have that kind of heart. His was just a bunch of exhausted muscles. They had worked too hard and too long, until they quit.
Julie had thought she knew all about war. After all: foreign correspondent’s wife, all over Europe, firsthand experience, you couldn’t beat that. Now she realized that she had seen it all through Harry’s eyes; a newspaper war. Sure, some got killed, but they were sprawled uniforms at the roadside, or blanket-covered stretchers being carried away. Victims, casualties, losses. Not people. Not suffering. Not young men having their legs boiled and their heads charred, out in the middle of a heaving ocean, so that Nazi Germany could starve Britain into defeat. That was war. Forget all the crap about dashing tank-battles and thrilling dog-fights. War wasn’t just conflict, for Christ’s sake. War was hurting people. You didn’t spend bullets, you spent
pain, other people’s pain, screaming, roasting, agonizing pain. So that greed and arrogance could conquer half the world.
What made it even worse was the thought that any halfway decent person would help them do it, just for money. That was evil living off evil.
She got notepaper and an envelope from her bag and wrote Dear Luis, and looked at it for ten minutes, until a church clock sounded the quarter-hour, and she nearly panicked. There was too much to say, and all unsayable. In an impulsive, uneven scrawl she wrote:
I am sure you don’t know what you are doing. Or, if you do know, then I hate you for it.
It looked feeble and childish but she despaired of adding anything worthwhile, quickly signed it, Julie, and addressed the envelope, Sr. L. Cabrillo, Banco Espirito Santo, Rua do Comercio, marked: Please forward. That was that. Another door closed.
The man who ran the pensão helped with her bags and found a taxi. Twenty-five minutes to check-in. No sweat.
She watched Lisbon drift past, as sunny and amiable as ever. Unreal.
“A senhora vai para América?”
“Yeah.”
“Estados Unidos?”
“Yeah.” She wished he’d shut up.
“Ah …” The driver nodded, enviously. They rippled over flattened cobbles. “Nova York?” he asked, saving the best for last.
“Nova York,” she agreed and saw a red pillar-box. “Wait a minute,” she called, before she remembered the envelope wasn’t stamped; but he was already pulling over. “I have to mail this.” She showed him the letter.
“Rua do Comercio, sim.” He pulled out again.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Compreendo, compreendo. Estÿ bem!” Horns complained as he bluffed his way across the stream. Julie gave up.
Rua do Comercio turned out to be just off Praça do Comercio, naturally, and therefore not two minutes away. The bank was like all Portuguese banks: marble and mahogany and three-piece suits. She found a counter with a sign saying Secçao Estrangeira and rang its little bell. A three-piece suit came out, frowning. Not frowning at her, just frowning in general. “Bom dia, senhora.”
She gave him the letter, and said: “I understand you have an arrangement with Senhor Cabrillo.”
He nodded at once. “Sim, senhora. I shall take care of it. Obrigado, senhora.” The frown lifted a fraction.
Julie hesitated. This was a lousy way to say goodbye: by proxy, standing in a damn bank. “When will he get it, d’you think?” she asked.
The three-piece suit glanced at a wall calendar. “Probably this afternoon.”
Julie experienced a tiny shiver of astonishment. She tried to hide it by nodding, slowly, and pursing her lips. “This afternoon, huh?” she said. “As soon as that?”
“Oh yes. Tomorrow possibly, but today is usual.”
He waited in case she needed more information, such as what time the bank closed. She stood, still nodding like a donkey. The rest of Lisbon, the rest of the world, seemed suddenly remote and unimportant. Only this spot mattered. She smiled her gratitude. He allowed a little warmth to creep into his frown. They parted.
Her pro-American driver held the door open. She looked around for a clock. Thirteen minutes to twelve. “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered.
“Pan Am. Doze horas. Okay.” He smiled reassuringly.
“No, it’s not okay. Not any more.” She was still struggling to catch up with the decision she had made back there inside the bank; almost certainly a bad decision and one she’d regret, but all that was irrelevant now. “Forget New York,” she told him. “Take the stuff, the bagagem, back to the pensão. Okay? Pensão São Vicente. How much? Quanto custa?”
It took a little while before he was convinced that she was serious, but eventually he left, looking disapproving. She began strolling up and down the street, watching the bank. Noon struck at various times from various churches, as if to make a point of repeating what a blunder she’d made. At that moment somebody on stand-by for the Pan Am Clipper to New York was about to be made very happy. Now that the sun was overhead, the Rua do Comercio was getting very hot. Possibly tomorrow, the man had said. She began to feel hungry. It was going to be a long time until the bank closed. What a way to kill an afternoon.
*
By two-thirty the air in the street was sultry and dead. The only time it moved was when a car or a truck displaced it. The bowl of Lisbon trapped the steamy heat, and people stewed in it.
Julie’s legs ached from standing. Her skin was sticky, and she felt as if she’d been wearing the same underwear since Christmas. Every few minutes she moved on and looked in the window of a different shop. She had become expert at watching the bank in the reflection. She had also developed a tremendous respect for cops’ feet: they walked their beat for twice or three times as long as this, without complaining. But not without eating. She had a vision of a half-pound hamburger, medium-rare with onions, hot off the grill, so real she could taste it. She’d give a hundred bucks for that hamburger, and another hundred for a cold beer. Sweat briefly stuck her thighs together. She’d give a cool thousand for a cold shower.
Three o’clock struck and struck and struck. The shops which had closed for lunch began to reopen. Julie propped herself in front of a display of men’s shoes and wondered gloomily how much Pan Am would give her back on her ticket. She watched a man in uniform who was standing outside the bank, and realized that he was a cop, and then realized that he was watching her. What’s on your mind, buster? she thought; and the answer presented itself quite obviously. Hang around a city bank for two or three hours and the law takes an interest in you. At once she turned and strolled away. The cop strolled with her, stopped when she stopped. She did some more double-window-shopping until he made a move to cross the street, so she went inside the damn shop.
It was a bookshop. There was one spot near the front which gave her a good view of the bank. She opened a fat cookbook, frowned over the recipes, glanced up, and found the cop on the other side of the glass. He was young and intelligent-looking. Oh Christ, she thought, do they arrest you for this sort of thing in Tortugall She changed the cookbook for a dictionary. The cop watched, and chewed his lip, and Luis Cabrillo came out of the bank.
She must have twitched, because the cop turned to look too. Despite a big hat and a small mustache there was no doubt; Luis’s walk, his build, the way he held his head—she recognized them all. He was walking away. She dumped the dictionary and darted out.
She followed him and the cop followed her.
Luis turned the corner and headed north, away from the river. If traffic clogged an intersection he turned west for a block, then north again. He walked unhurriedly and un-worriedly, never looking back.
Julie felt shaky with a blend of tension, hunger and anxiety. She was out of her depth, worried about the policeman, afraid of what she might get led into, yet driven by the simple excitement of it all. As they crossed the big square called the Rossio, it flashed through her mind that perhaps he knew she was there, and knew the policeman was following her; perhaps he meant to keep on walking until they both gave up; Lisbon was big enough, and he had that sort of determination. But no: halfway along a side street, he went into an oldfashioned, severe-looking office building. She noted the number, 23, as she hurried past, pretending she was heading elsewhere. The street was quiet and the cop’s footsteps sounded crisply. Her mouth felt dry but her body was sweating and one ear was singing as if from a change in altitude. She pounded on, too scared to stop but without the slightest idea where she was going; turned a corner, pounded some more, turned again, saw a taxi cruising by, waved, shouted, and got it. Small sensation of triumph.
“Alfama,” she said, the only place she could think of. He took off. She counted to ten, and looked out of the rear window. The cop was standing on one leg while he scratched the other and watched them go. He looked lonely and tired.
Her driver took a bewilderingly zigzag route. After a couple of minutes she reckoned she was safe
, so she stopped him, paid him, began walking back, and soon discovered that she was lost. This was obviously a moment for reason and commonsense. She knew Alfama was to the east. The sun, still glaringly hot, should by now be moving to the west. It was toward the north that she wanted to go. She re-oriented herself and set off again. But the streets kept curving and cheating, and ten minutes’ hard walking left her looking at a dusty neighborhood of gray, prison-like warehouses.
She plodded on and caught a bus. The idea that it might go anywhere near the Rossio vastly amused the conductor. He showed her where to get the right tram. She got the wrong tram and had to change again. When eventually she reached the Rossio it was 4:30 and her skull was throbbing to a headache. She headed for the side-street in a thoroughly foul temper. Nothing much had gone right this day. If anybody got in her way now she was in a mood to punch his teeth in.
Number 23 had been built to last, and that was a mistake. Everything about it was too big: hulking doorways, remote ceilings, a high-stepped staircase which climbed around a lift-shaft the size of a lion’s cage. The lift was out of order. The hallway was empty and patrolled by three flies. Julie slashed at them and made them scatter. She looked for a list of tenants: nothing. The ground-floor offices had Nogueira-Ricardo Lda. painted on the door. Whatever business they did in there, they did it silently. As she went up the oversized steps, the three flies were back on patrol.
Next floor: João Arouca, Antiguidades. Above him: Instito Folclorico. Julie trudged on. Vasco da Gama Ferreira, Engenheiro and P. G. Melo, dentista. Another flight. Lopes e Coelho Lda. faced Arte Rústica de Madeira Lda. She paused for breath. Somewhere far below, a man coughed, once, as if in his sleep. With each floor the smell of dust and defeat grew stronger. The sixth floor was the last. It was also the only office with no name on the door.
She held her breath and listened. Nothing except a certain pounding in her ears. She thought: What if he is in there? What do I say? and then: What if someone else answers? Some total stranger? What if … She released her breath and rapped smartly on the glass before things got worse.
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