‘Pensao?’ inquired Robin carefully, always eager to try the language. ‘Quarto de casa?’ He waved to indicate Cathy.
‘Padre o marigos?’ asked the woman sharply. Robin hesitated. Cathy started to laugh.
‘She wants to know if you’re my father or my husband,’ she said.
‘Oh, Husband. Husband. Marigos, marigos …’ said Robin, not thinking it was all that funny.
The woman softened slightly. She felt in her apron pocket and handed them a large brass key. She pointed vaguely across the courtyard.
‘Where …?’ started Robin.
‘A dirieta.’
‘Obrigado,’ he said with a flourish. ‘This way, Cathy. To the right.’
It took some fumbling to get the key to turn in the lock of the old stone pensao before they entered a cavernous place, utterly empty, utterly silent until they trod across the bare floorboards that echoed sharply as they walked.
‘Which room do you think?’ whispered Cathy, subdued by the emptiness.
‘Anywhere, I suppose. We seem to be the only ones.’
They moved carefully along the passage and tried door after door. All locked. Finally they came to the staircase and climbed up. The first door they pushed swung open and they entered a spotlessly clean but vast dark room.
‘This’ll do,’ said Cathy.
‘It’s com banho,’ said Robin, enthusiastic about his vocabulary, as he inspected behind a partition at the far side. Cathy did not comment. The deadly tiredness had fallen on her. She knew it would not lift without long nourishing sleep. She refused to go out for a meal. They exchanged sharp words. He was unhappy, afraid, when she refused to eat. She persuaded him it was only tiredness, nothing more, she would be better served lying in a long bath, and he ran the bath for her before going out to buy himself food.
As she lay in the steamy water she listened to the pipes. At first she thought they were gurgling but the harder she listened the more certain she became that they were talking, indistinctly, but talking, in English. She concentrated, anxious to follow what they had to tell her but the water grew cold and she shivered with apprehension, dried herself quickly and went to bed. She slept poorly, half-listening through the night as the pipes quietened to urgent whispers and the smell of creosote filled her nostrils.
They left first thing next morning for Coimbra.
‘It’s too dark and spooky here for me,’ Robin had announced over coffee and rolls. ‘April in Portugal is sunshine and flowers. Let’s move on.’ She reached over and clutched his fingers hard, loving him so dearly. These were his ways of trying to protect her from herself. Nothing could, of course.
They drove through shoreline fishing villages and past vast hilltop castles and circled the city of Coimbra, wanting to avoid crowds. An azulejos wall with blazons, cherubs and garlands decorated a quinta sign and they drove through arched gates into a vast park. The parking lot was deserted and they parked their car and set out across the grass. The air was heady with the scent of citronella and broom, the sun warming the poppies; purple and yellow iris towered above carpets of forget-me-nots and cascades of pink and white dwarf daisies spilled from every crevice and rock. Great blowsy, dusty pink roses unable to hold up their massive heads were cradled by the foliage. Heavy bumblebees droned and blundered around them. It was unkept but breathtakingly lovely, so lovely and lonely that they encircled each other’s waists and stood silently together, the warmth of their love in this shared moment flowing between them.
‘This is what I dreamed Portugal would be like,’ said Robin finally. ‘It’s as if everyone has vanished and left only beauty behind.’
‘What is that house?’ asked Cathy, dreamily. Ahead of them, serenely floating on the heat waves was a stone mansion, clearly derelict now, almost smothered by flowers. Her question had broken the spell. Robin thumbed through the Michelin.
‘It says here it’s the Quinta das Lagrimas,’ he said.
‘Which is?’
‘The Villa of Tears.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Cathy, letting out a long sigh. ‘Surely not here. Why? What does it say?’
Robin scanned the words. ‘Oh, someone called Inez de Castro lived here. That’s all.’ He was too obviously offhand.
‘Don’t do that to me,’ said Cathy.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Well, she was locked up here because she was the king’s mistress. Then she was murdered. Here. By jealous courtiers. They buried her and hid the evidence. Ages later the king discovered what they had done with her and dug up her body. It was hideous and decomposed but he dressed her in royal robes and put a crown on her head and sat her on a throne and made all the courtiers come forward and kiss her rotted hand.’
Cathy shuddered in the sunlight. ‘It’s horrible. Let’s go.’
‘But you wanted to hear!’
‘Yes, but …’
‘You do make things difficult for me, Cathy. I … Never mind.’
‘Let’s go.’
‘But I thought we were going to have our picnic here.’
‘No.’
‘Come on now. Think of all the other places you’ve been that have, well, what about the Tower of London? Pretty grim, eh? Murder, torture, you name it.’
‘I know. I can’t explain it.’
‘It’s not as if we were going to picnic at Auschwitz.’
‘Stop it. I know. I’m just crazy, that’s all, crazy.’
‘Don’t say that,’ he said.
‘I am. But you’re right, we should have our picnic here. It really is lovely.’ The place sickened her. They spread their picnic. She knew that the cheese she forced into her mouth was infested with thread worms, she felt her brain decomposing into disgusting mush. She listened to the stones.
She was determined now to use all her feints and wiles to hide from her husband the degree of distress she was experiencing. How could she expect him to endlessly endure her mad ways, her unpredictable swings? How could she watch herself destroying him? She would bring all her will power to bear, refuse to submit, assert normality, pretend, pretend, pretend.
But where did reality and pretence part company? Certainly not at their next stop, Viseu.
A young boy approached them outside the Viseu chapterhouse, wanting to practise his English.
‘You would like to see the museum?’ he asked. ‘Upstairs. Very special and old.’ He was so charming and good-looking and enthusiastic that they nodded and followed him into the chapterhouse and up the granite stairs. He knocked on a studded door and a monk opened it, his face breaking into a smile.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ he said. ‘You are welcome to our museum. I am the custodian.’ As they entered he flourished his hand and plucked behind Robin’s ear and presented him with a Roman coin.
‘I am a conjurer,’ he said proudly. ‘Minha seriore, may I?’ He plucked at the air under her chin and handed her a rose. ‘You are very beautiful,’ he said gallantly. ‘Padre o marigos?’ He indicated Robin.
‘Marigos,’ said Robin shortly.
‘See here, this old man’s favourite toy, a wooden doll, Roman times, too. See the joints on the limbs? Elbows, wrists, knees, ankles, hips. See? They spin as well as ever.’ He spun the legs enthusiastically at the knees. ‘Here. You do it. See how easy. How clever.’ Cathy drew back.
‘But isn’t it very precious?’
‘Yes. Very. And so clever. Please. Try it.’ Tentatively Cathy jiggled a wooden forearm.
‘Now, over here, on the wall, see, medieval chasubles. All gold thread and gold leaf.’ The couple walked to the wall. The dust-covered garments hung, decaying. The boy shook a hem. Fabric rent. Dust gusted.
‘Dust,’ laughed the boy. ‘No good for the sneezing, eh?’
‘And here is our greatest treasure,’ said the monk. He picked up a large bound manuscript that lay on a rotting chest. ‘You have heard of the Book of Kells? This is our Book of Kells. Just as precious. Just as old. See?’ Casually he fanned the pages, the heavy parchment crea
king as it turned. ‘See, most beautifully and skilfully illustrated.’
‘May I look?’ asked Cathy.
‘Catch.’ He heaved up the heavy book and threw it to her. She gasped in horror, lurching forward to grab it.
‘See,’ he said proudly. ‘See, how heavy. Very, very heavy. Very, very precious.’
Reverently, Cathy put the book back on the chest and started to turn the pages. Inside the colours of the illustrations gleamed dull gold, purple, crimson, emerald, inky blue.
The custodian was impatient with her.
‘No, no, you must look properly, turn it all. That’s what it is here for, for visitors to marvel at. It is my greatest treasure, too few come to see it.’ He fanned the pages again, eager for her to examine it more closely, less cautiously.
For more than an hour Robin and Cathy stayed in the room, moving from one antiquity to another, horrified at the neglect, delighted by their reception.
‘Unfortunately, I have to go now,’ said the custodian, finally. ‘I have duties in the sacrisity. Perhaps you would like to stay? You could let yourselves out.’
‘No, no, we must go too,’ said Robin in disbelief. ‘I would like to make you a donation, for your restoration … your … um … fund. Please.’
‘No. No.’
‘I insist.’ He handed over a bundle of notes. ‘And for our young guide here.’
‘No. No. Please,’ said the boy. ‘I like only to practise my English.’ Robin laid the money on a small table at the door. ‘I insist,’ he said.
They walked down the stairs again. It was already dark. At the door of the chapterhouse they all shook hands. The monk reached behind Cathy’s ear and produced a small bronze snake ring.
‘For you, minha seriore. Sumerian. God bless you.’ Then he and the boy disappeared into the gloom.
Robin and Cathy sat in amazement in their car.
‘Never have I …’ began Robin and shook his head. ‘I’ve never in my life …’
‘What’s that in the back of your collar?’ asked Cathy, reaching. It was the money they had left upstairs. They drove, completely befuddled, to their pensao and drank two bottles of vinho verde that night; and on Cathy’s finger the little bronze snake flicked his tongue and stretched his tail lazily, watching. She watched, too.
All the way to Bom Jesus next day she watched, trying to catch her snake unawares and every time she glanced away then back unexpectedly, the tail stirred slightly and the eye winked knowingly.
‘Lots of steps to the top,’ cautioned Robin, parking at the base of the Pilgrims’ Way. ‘Sure you won’t be too tired?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s bound to be a marvellous view.’ They climbed the first flight of steps and the caves of statues began. The Scenes from the Passion. All the caves were crammed with garish, life-size figures, copious runnels of blood, thorns and scourgings. Around them pilgrims were struggling up the sharp flint steps on their knees, kissing the figures and saying the rosary. Cathy stared at them.
‘They shouldn’t do it,’ she said angrily.
‘But it’s part of their culture, their religion,’ said Robin.
‘Their religion! I know. It’s my bloody religion, too! A religion based on blood and human sacrifice, as primitive and sick and barbaric as you can get. Look at these people. They’re mostly old women, they’re worn out already without this … this …’
‘Okay, okay, but to me it’s fascinating. Allow me that,’ said Robin mildly. Like so many non-Catholics he found Catholics most curious. They seemed to carry embedded in their psyche a whole dimension of which he had no knowledge or experience. Sometimes, listening to her, he wished he shared some of this strange, unsettling dimension, but knew better than to risk her fury and scorn by saying so now.
‘Where’s the joy in it?’ she asked him sadly. ‘Where’s the joy?’
Together they climbed the last of the steps and emerged onto the plateau.
‘I can’t walk down past them again,’ she said miserably. ‘You’ll have to bring the car up.’
‘I can’t. They only let you up if you’re staying at that pousada over there.’
‘Then we’ll have to stay at the pousada.’
‘It’s only the most expensive pousada in Portugal,’ said Robin sharply.
‘My treat then,’ she said dully. ‘I cannot walk down those steps again. Look! Look at them!’ Her voice rose hysterically. People were stumbling to the summit, knees bloody, faces drawn in pain, forcing their battered feet into the shoes that they had carried, laces tied together, around their necks. ‘We’ll stay at the pousada. No entry except to guests. We’ll be safe there.’
‘Safe?’ He was incredulous. He saw wildness in her eyes. ‘I’ll go back down and bring the car up. You go and check in.’
Later that night her period started unexpectedly early, with great clots of blood that would not be staunched with the wads of waxy toilet paper she tried to fashion into pads. She was sickened by the knowledge of the blood sacrifices crawling, for centuries, up the hill close by. She began to scream, until her voice gave out, and she fell into a nightmarish sleep, leaking blood across the white sheets. It was left to Robin to reassure and pacify the horrified and disapproving staff.
It was nights like this that tested him to his limit. The sort of night that many of his friends would have considered beyond the call of duty, the sort of night that might legitimately have released him from his commitment. He had believed he could handle it all. She had told him early on, before either of them had committed too much emotional energy to the relationship, when they were still feeling their way, testing, wary. He knew that her ex-husband had left her when her illness had first manifested itself, after only three years of what she had thought was a happy marriage. He knew the bitter disillusionment she had faced then and the supreme effort it had taken to allow herself intimacy with another man. He had managed to convince her, had convinced himself, that he would take anything she dealt him and he intended to keep his promise. But it tore him to shreds to see her suffering and be helpless to prevent it. He was that prince among men, a totally honourable person. Over the years theoretical knowledge had become familiar actuality. And still he loved her most dearly. And would never resile.
In the morning he took the car and found a pharmacy that stocked dusty torn packets of Modess. He did not return immediately to the pousada. He needed space, away from her intensity, to think out the next, final week, of their holiday but he knew she must not be left alone for long.
Through the day she slept a drugged, deep sleep and he read their guide books carefully, knowing he must try to protect her from the bizarre and grotesque at all costs. But the grotesque was in her mind. How could he read that?
The next day they went up through the snow and wind of Torre in their little car and down to Castelo Branco and over the Tagus to Evora.
‘“Evora, Town of Twelve Thousand and More Historic Things”,’ he read to his subdued wife as they picnicked at a belvedere just outside the town. They found a spotless pensao with a tiny balcony draped in wisteria and jasmine off their bedroom. Wine and little sweet tarts brought to their room lulled them into a welcome serenity.
‘Let’s have a great meal tonight and save the twelve thousand and more things until tomorrow,’ suggested Robin. ‘It was a long drive. We could do with a rest.’ Cathy gladly acquiesced. They bathed and held each other lovingly, gentled by the late afternoon sun, the perfume of the blossoms, the pristine whiteness of the linen sheets. Then they dozed, aroused only when the murmur from the streets signalled mealtime.
They stepped from their pensao onto the uneven cobbles. The sound of ringing hooves alerted Robin and just in time he thrust Cathy against the wall and pressed back against her. A gypsy on a wild-eyed piebald pony clattered past them and as he passed he gave Cathy the evil eye. In fury, Robin cursed him. Such an unexpected outburst surprised his wife. To his relief he heard her laugh but their tenuous equilibrium was broken. They chose
the first restaurant they came to, ate an indifferent house dish of pork and clams and hurried back. Through the night cats yowled and Cathy longed to go home and Evora waited to work its macabre magic for her.
The first church they came upon in the morning was the Church of St John and as they ambled apart in the gloom Robin became aware of someone watching him. Moving closer he saw it was a life-size statue of a bishop whose feet were moving in a jerky mechanical motion and whose bloodshot eyes were roving back and forth dementedly. He would steer Cathy away from this. He moved to her side and found her staring at a group of paintings outside a small side chapel. The paintings were truly grotesque, a series depicting exalted and transfigured missionaries being subjected to all manner of sado-masochistic atrocities by savage, abandoned, naked blacks. He took her arm and urged her into the small chapel but to his horror he saw that grates were cut in the ground and peering down into their lit depths they could see the contorted, naked, mummified remains of six people. It was too fascinating in its horribleness to leave. They stood speechless, staring.
‘Coffee time,’ said Cathy finally, and Robin looked at her in relief. She seemed to be taking it sensibly, seeing these bizarre relics for what they were, which was, what?
They sat in the sunlight on the foundation wall of the Temple of Diana and watched the people going about their modest business. Braziers of sardines smoked on the cobbles, old women with baskets of washing on their heads hobbled past, a barber was cutting hair under the temple columns, a group of blind men tapped past with a nun and a team of club-footed urchins ran limping in and out of the alleys.
The sound of hymns attracted them to another church beyond the temple boundary and they wandered towards it. A stream of older men and women were filing into the church. Robin and Cathy followed them and found themselves inside the Casa dos Ossos. It was entirely built of bones. The coat of arms over the door was a detailed arrangement of tibias, the columns were woven with fibulas and suspended from the pediments of thigh bones were the mummified bodies of monks, shifting occasionally with the eddy of living bodies moving below. Every wall was made of skulls, thousands and thousands of silent watchers whose empty eye sockets were misted over with webs from the spiders that had made them their homes. And hanging from the beams of bone were hundreds and hundreds of hanks of dark hair, some dull, some still lustrous, all renunciations of personal vanity in a bid to be favoured with a husband or children or survival in childbirth. Wherever else there was space it was taken up with a clutter of crutches, false teeth, trusses, orthopaedic shoes, babies’ bonnets, even false eyeballs glinting like marbles in bony hollows.
Disreputable People Page 17