Marco shrugged his shoulders. He gave a laugh. ‘I have no plans.’
‘You have no plans.’
‘No.’
‘He has no plans.’
Until this moment there was a sense that Marco was carrying the audience with him, all those present eager to hear and see. The mood changed now, swiftly and without commotion, but nevertheless there was a change.
Telma Ervanaria, sensing the turning of tables, strode up and down like a prosecutor with Marco in the dock.
‘He denies it. He denies that he has any plans.’
‘I prefer,’ said Marco, drawing his cape about him, ‘to live in the present. This is what I can say I have achieved.’
‘He says he is living in the present,’ whispered Vasco to the English woman. ‘That is the luxury of wealth.’
‘What about us, senhor?’ said Telma Ervanaria, instinctively adopting formality as a method of attack. ‘We who must look to the future, with families to protect.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Marco evenly. ‘Perhaps you should have faith.’
‘Faith,’ said Telma Ervanaria, with a dangerous rise in her voice. ‘Our faith is strong.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes!’Telma Ervanaria wheeled about to target her allies. ‘Cristina,’ she called, ‘come here.’
Teresa slipped in with Vicente and leaned against the side door. He picked a white oleander from a chipped vase on the windowsill and tried to fix it in her hair. Teresa witnessed her aunt pushing her mother towards Marco.
‘My sister, Cristina, and I myself have never missed Sunday mass. Isn’t it true, Cristina? We practically live for the Church.’
‘I see,’ said Marco, smiling. ‘Would you like to speak on your beliefs?’
‘Oh, I can do better than that. Father Braga is here. Father! Where is he hiding? Father, come and speak for us.’
Father Braga had been loitering at the back of the circle, keeping this little flock under review. He liked, naturally, to speak of faith; indeed there was nothing he liked more, except perhaps a detective novel and a sheepskin rug in which to bury his feet. But he felt the time was inappropriate, the place was not quite right and the earnestness of that fellow filled him with deep unease. In any case, he thought, pushing at the door, he did not hear his name called, having been thinking of higher things. By the time he reached the blackly glittering street he realized also that he had been called away earlier to a neighbouring hamlet to minister to somebody very sick. At home he hung up his cassock and thought how pleasant it was finally to be left alone.
‘Anyway,’ said Telma Ervanaria, as Cristina slunk off to the side, ‘nobody can doubt it. We are certainly devout.’
Oh please, thought Cristina, please don’t let her go on. She reflected on
Woman of Destiny,
how the characters said so much with a look.
‘We speak of our dear Pope and pray for him every day.’
‘What?’ said Senhora Carmona, popping up from behind Eduardo and shuffling through. ‘What’s that about the Pope? He’s dead, you say?’ She put a gnarled hand beneath her ear as though expecting it to fall off.
‘We
pray
for him, Senhora Carmona. That is what I said.’
‘I know that,’ snapped the old woman. ‘But is he dead?’
‘He’s sick again, Senhora Carmona.’
‘Sick?’ snarled the widow. ‘Of course he’s sick. I’m not an imbecile, you know.’ She had dressed up for the occasion in a gown of shocking pink that gaped fearfully at the front where her chest had once been, revealing thermals and multiple strings of beads.
‘Sit down, Senhora Carmona. Take the weight off your feet.’
‘Very kind,’ said the merry widow. ‘I’ll sit with you,’ she said to Vasco and sat down and patted his knee.
‘Anyway,’ said Telma Ervanaria irritably, hoisting her bosom. She felt she was losing the thread. ‘Can’t you see you make everyone uncomfortable? How do you feel about that?’
Marco took his time. He wasn’t a man to be rushed. ‘I think that it is easier to be with another person who is unhappy. Happiness we always mistrust.’
‘Santa Maria,’ cried Telma Ervanaria. ‘He accuses us of being unhappy!’ There was no mistaking now that she might bite; in fact she showed her teeth. ‘We are very, very happy, thank you. Thank you for your concern.’
Vasco tipped towards the foreigners, who were, like animals or babies, distressed by the atmosphere. He sought to reassure them. ‘He says that we are all unhappy. But naturally he doesn’t include you.’
‘Happy?’ piped up Senhora Carmona. ‘Who says so? I haven’t been happy for fifty years.’
‘Be quiet,’ said Telma Ervanaria, hefting her breasts almost up to her chin.
It dawned on Vasco that he would have to do something, especially if they were ever to eat. ‘Now, now, Senhora Carmona, are you alive . . .’
‘How dare you!’ gasped the unmerry widow. She took her rosary from her pocket and waved it around as though she meant to whip his legs.
‘Are you alive, Senhora Carmona, to the fact that Telma Ervanaria was simply pointing out that on the whole we are content and that on this evening, of all evenings, we are here to enjoy ourselves?’ Vasco reached round his neck to find his cloth, but had to make do without it. ‘And also that it is high time – past high time, some would say – that dinner was served.’
Eduardo clapped his hands and said dinner would have been served long ago if only
some
people hadn’t got in the way.
Senhora Carmona turned her little head so that she could view Vasco through the good part of her eye. She removed her vibrating hand from his knee and placed it higher up on his thigh. ‘When I was young,’ she confided, ‘I could make a man like you happy just with a toss of my hair.’
Vasco began with fried liver with chilli and moved on to the baked tripe. Both dishes he would concede as competent while being in no way inspired. He ate steadily and also ruefully, thinking how little he had eaten today. The
cataplana
he admitted was decent and though he didn’t fancy the rice with mixed seafood he took some so nobody could accuse him of spite. The green beans needed more garlic and the broad beans were unconscionably tough.
He spied on the gathering between mouthfuls and it seemed not a person could be still. They passed to and fro through the constellation of tables, the men constantly patting their pockets, the women finding business with hems and jewellery and hair. The children added greatly to the traffic, gnawing barbarously on chicken wings and swinging round grown-ups’ legs. The noise level rose and kept rising. Everyone, it seemed, was exceptionally gay.
Some small beast had wormed under the table and was wrestling with Vasco’s shoe.
‘Excuse me,’ said Clara, getting down on the floor. ‘Hugo, come out of there.’
There was singing next by the schoolchildren, but they were giddy and out of tune. The adults applauded every song with increasing fervour. The cheers grew so loud it frightened the children and some began to weep. Mothers stormed the stage to withdraw their offspring and looked about for someone to blame.
The dancing began again, this time to Nelson’s recorded interpretation of Rolling Stones and Beatles hits.
Vasco took a deep breath and a gamble. ‘Dona Cristina, would you consider, by any chance – I hope it is not too unwelcome – that is to say, do me the honour of taking to the floor with me?’
Dona Cristina was pleasingly flustered. She pulled her necklace and twisted it on her finger. The risk of strangulation Vasco assessed as minor but the emotional turmoil was real.
‘Yes,’ she said eventually, unable to produce more than one word.
He wiped his fingers on the back of his trousers even though he’d done a thorough job already with the napkin. Her dress was pale silk and he was afraid to touch it. He decided it couldn’t be helped.
They turned a couple of times in a small circle. He wondered if they would just keep going round. He was pleased that he’d worn his best shirt. It was mustard yellow, the best colour for hiding sweat stains.
Dona Cristina seemed to be sagging. In fact he felt like he was holding her up. Lili used to dance like a dervish. She said, ‘Tarzan, move over. I need space.’
‘Excuse me, Dona Cristina, do you mind if we stop now?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, you’re very kind.’
He was feeling, perhaps, a bit queasy. He sought a solution in the buffet. He passed over the salt cod options and sampled the pork and clams, washed down with a glass of sparkling sweet wine. What a good time everyone was having. Even that goat Eduardo and his sinister cousin had not managed to ruin the night.
‘Senhor Stanton! I was just thinking, what a good time everyone is having.’
The writer nodded morosely. ‘Is that what it is? Having fun?’
‘Yes,’ said Vasco expansively. ‘Now, why do you think it was that Marco refused to speak?’
Stanton smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes. ‘It’s a trick used by old hippies. To make you think they might really have something to say.’
‘I must ask you,’ said Vasco, pulling up a chair to the English woman, ‘about something.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Eileen.
Vasco assured her there was no need to be alarmed. ‘It’s about what I was reading in the newspaper about your government . . .’
‘I don’t know anything about it. Nothing at all, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s about . . .’
‘I definitely don’t know about it. The more I read the less I knew, so I decided to stop reading. It’s quite refreshing, you see.’
It was a clear rebuff and Vasco retreated once more to the buffet and consoled himself with goose barnacles and spider crab. The bottle of sparkling wine he had opened still stood on the table and it seemed a shame to let it go flat.
Picking delicately at his food, he thought of Eduardo and Marco. Marco had shown Eduardo up. No doubt at all about that. Eduardo, he thought, Eduardo, was I not like family to you? They say that blood is thicker than water but where is the proof? My friend, I always stood by you, now you prepare the dagger for my back.
He couldn’t see them anywhere. They were probably plotting outside. They had agreed Marco would say nothing. In business, surprise is a form of attack.
He hurried out to see if he could eavesdrop, plan a counter-attack of his own. In the porch Telma Ervanaria was shouting at Bruno but Eduardo and his son and his cousin were nowhere to be found.
He wandered back to the dance floor, vague thoughts of Dona Cristina taking shape. When he approached her, however, she darted away and he saw her make for the door.
The English boy, Huw, was dancing on his own. Vasco was struck by the novelty of it and waved his arms in the air. He felt his stomach wobbling but for once he gave not a fig. He quickly checked his braces though, and was sufficiently reassured to go on.
‘What do you call this music, then?’ said Huw, shuffling and nodding his head.
‘I believe,’ said Vasco, breathing quickly, ‘is called a cover version.’
‘Uhuh. What’s it a cover of?’
‘Your most very British group,’ said Vasco, surprised, experimenting with a swing of the hips. ‘The Beatles. You do not know?’
‘Yeah, oh, yeah. I know the Beatles. But not when it’s sung in Portuguese.’
‘Portuguese?’ squealed Vasco. ‘Is English, not Portuguese.’
He needed something to settle his stomach and selected melon, pineapple, plums and half a pear. The slice of cake he took was minuscule and to fill up he chewed some bread.
He sipped his wine and watched Clara’s little brother sleeping across two chairs, beneath some coats. It was amazing how they could sleep like that with the din going on all around. Was it this noisy every year, or was there something different this time?
It took him another few moments to notice there was a fight going on by the stage. Many people had rushed over and the yelling was catching on across the room.
Vasco got himself upright and saw Antonio and Vicente, locked together, being bundled out of the door. Teresa and also Paula were being consoled, or maybe constrained, in opposing camps.
‘Did you try the octopus?’ said Eduardo, appearing from nowhere, rubbing his nose.
Vasco ignored him. He was about to move away.
‘I thought you would like the octopus. It’s delicious. Did you try?’
Whatever Eduardo said to Vasco, he clearly meant something else. A man who could not speak straight was an object of contempt. Vasco was going to let it pass but he had let it pass so many times. That was why he found himself spoken to like this, of octopus, and in such a sneering tone.
‘How dare you?’ he demanded. Eduardo would have to answer for his actions now.
Eduardo affected not to know what he was talking about and continued to scratch his nose.
‘I will not allow it,’ said Vasco. ‘You will not get away with it any more, you . . .’ He searched for a cliché of sufficient magnitude with which to crush his foe.
‘Cool it, big man,’ said Eduardo.
‘How dare you!’ Vasco put a hand on Eduardo’s shoulder to stop him walking off. He would have liked to seize his throat.
‘Get off me,’ growled Eduardo. His diction was clear enough now.
‘Apologize,’ screamed Vasco.
‘For what, you silly man?’
Eduardo knocked Vasco’s hand away and Vasco’s rage boiled in his stomach like chillies eaten by the pound.
‘What are you doing?’ shouted Eduardo as Vasco locked his head beneath his arm.
‘Traitor,’ screeched Vasco. ‘Traitor.’ He staggered forward. Eduardo kept pushing him in the back.
On the dance floor people parted to make way for the pantomime horse. Its hindquarters were somewhat stringy but the front half had had plenty of hay.
‘Get off. Get off,’ yelled Eduardo.
‘Don’t mumble,’ said Vasco, squeezing his head.
Eduardo tried to wriggle out but only succeeded in spinning both of them round.