Francie Again (16 page)

She spoke self-consciously, because it all seemed strange and impossible even now. Catarina, intuitive for once, nodded without speaking. Francie continued,

“Well, these men who gave me the jobs, the Americans, you know—they've gone on back to where they came from.”

“To America?” asked Catarina.

“No, not America. They're staying in Spain for a while, I don't know how long. I don't suppose they do either. They always move on just when they want to.”

“Spain?” Catarina was listening carefully. “Madrid, I suppose?”

“They're in Barcelona,” said Francie, “and my idea was to go and look them up there, and ask if I can't do some more work for them right on the spot.”

“There!” said Catarina with a cry of triumph, “I knew it was a man. You said not, but I know. Which is it? The good-looking one with yellow hair, or the other?”

Francie sighed again, and thought for a disloyal moment that Catarina might with justice be called unduly obsessed with romantic notions. But, of course, it was merely the way she had been brought up, Francie reminded herself. She decided to be very patient and gentle. For a long time she reasoned with Catarina and parried all her friend's arch remarks and suggestions. No, she said over and over, her interest was not sentimental. No, not at all. No, she couldn't explain at the moment why she felt so angry and disappointed in Lisbon. Some day she might tell Catarina, but not yet.

“At any rate,” she said, when she felt she might lose her temper if she stayed on the subject much longer, “I'm going to Barcelona. Whether or not you believe I'm chasing those men, I'm going to Barcelona. Now, what I want to know is, will you come with me? I'd love it if you would. I don't much mind about the rest of Lisbon; the way I feel right now I wouldn't care if I never saw any of the others again. But I'd be worrying a little bit about you, Catarina. It's—it's all wrong that you should have to live the way you do, with your talent and everything. It's all being wasted because of your home life.”

“Francesca,” said Catarina, “you are very good.” Her eyes were wet. She reached out and touched Francie's hand. “If I could come with you, I would, this minute,” she said, “but I can't. My dear, I have no money. I never have any, not even for the tram. My husband sends me everywhere in his car, and he pays for everything. I cannot come with you to Spain.”

“But I've got my design money,” said Francie, “and that would get us there. Then when I begin to earn more money, regularly, we'll be all right, and you can really paint, don't you see, without being interrupted or bothered the way you are at home. We'll find rooms or an apartment or something. The boys said Spain is cheap.”

“But—I cannot take your money, Francesca. You are good to offer, but I could not. I contribute nothing to the project.”

“Oh, of course you do,” said Francie. “I need you. You can manage to talk Spanish, can't you? Most Portuguese can, Maria said, or at least they can get along in the language, can't they?”

“Oh, yes, I can manage,” said Catarina thoughtfully. She had forgotten that she was due back at the studio in about five minutes; her eyes were fixed on space. Encouraged, Francie went on talking. She drew alluring pictures of life in a foreign country. She pictured the two of them starting out on a new life, Catarina in search of fame and Francie after riches. Of course there were Catarina's children, but that could be arranged later. It all sounded so simple and attractive that Francie convinced herself as well as her audience. She could hardly wait to get started. Lisbon had treated both of them badly, she told herself. Very well, Lisbon would have to get along without them.

“But do you think we can simply drop out like that, so easily?” asked Catarina. “What about your father? What is he going to say when he hears? And Mrs. Barclay, won't she be insane with worry?”

“Of course I'll write to Aunt Lolly, as soon as we get there,” said Francie, “and to Pop as well. As for the rest, I'd rather they didn't know. I'd rather they never, never find out.” She was feeling miserable again. It was all very well to talk blithely about getting away, and never returning to Portugal, and all that, but it was going to be rather hard not to see Ruy and Maria ever again, and one or two of the others. Still, she reminded herself, she was ruined in Ruy's eyes already. There could be no doubt that Fontoura either had spoken to Ruy as he had done to Aunt Lolly, or that he would do it soon. Francie had lost face; she did not want to see the da Souzas. She was ashamed, as she was ashamed to face Aunt Lolly, knowing what she now knew. Besides, though she was quite sincere in her belief that she was doing the right thing about Catarina, you couldn't expect Catarina's relatives, such as Maria and Ruy, to approve of a girl who snatched a married woman right out of her home, and helped her to get away from her husband—even if he was cruel.

“Will you come, then, Catarina?” she said aloud.

Catarina clasped her hands. “Oh, I'd love to. I want to. I—yes, Francesca, I will do it. But how? Let's see what one needs. Passport—you have a passport?”

“Of course I have,” said Francie, “and what's more, it's got a visa for Spain. Aunt Lolly thought we might want to go. What about yours?”

“I have the necessary papers. But Francesca—how? When?”

“You leave that to me,” said Francie, with a bravado that was only half false. “There's a train that goes in the evening—I found out about it already at the American Express. This afternoon I'll get the tickets. And, Catarina, I don't like telephoning to your house. You give me a ring, will you, tonight after dinner? If you get Aunt Lolly first, don't tell her I didn't go back to class this afternoon.”

Catarina still looked as if she didn't quite believe that all this was happening. She reached out and grasped Francie's sleeve when the American started to get up.

“Francesca, you really mean it, don't you? I thought at first it was all a big joke. You do mean it?”

“You just turn up at the station at train time,” said Francie, “and you'll see if I mean it or not.”

CHAPTER 15

Well, that's over anyway,” said Francie in carefully cheerful tones. Their taxi, an old one, bounced over the Barcelona cobblestones. She added after a brief pause, “Thank goodness,” and stole a rather anxious glance at her companion.

Catarina did not reply. Her face as she looked out of the grimy window was expressionless, and Francie forced herself to go on chattering, though she didn't feel light-hearted. She was sleepy and worried. Still, she tried.

“It's wonderful to be here after hearing about it all these years. Don't you think so?” she demanded.

Catarina said, “Barcelona is not famous for its beauty.”

“No, perhaps not, but the name itself sounds romantic,” said Francie. “And it's a romantic city for us, Catarina. We're on an adventure. Doesn't that make a difference?”

Catarina rallied, and managed to smile. “Yes, that is true,” she admitted.

The train journey had been dusty, hot and otherwise uncomfortable. What Francie had not bargained on was the power of little things to irritate. She had been quite ready to cope with important matters such as going through the customs, and changing money, and all that. What she had not expected was that the whole world should be surprised, amused and unpleasantly interested at the sight of two young women traveling about on their own. Everyone in the train seemed to think it queer. The men stared, or tried to make excuses to talk to them, and the women—but where were the women? Women didn't seem to do much traveling, Francie reflected.

Besides which, Catarina wasn't a good traveler. She was fussy and helpless at the same time. She needed a lot of waiting on, and she was touchy. No matter what innocent remark Francie might make on the train, Catarina seemed ready to take offense. When Francie complained about how annoying the little boys on the railway platform were, for instance, trying repeatedly to sell junky jewelry and plastic toys through the window, Catarina said,

“They are only trying to make a living. People in these countries are
poor.”

It made Francie feel that she had been haughty and spoiled in her behavior. And they even disagreed about two rakish young men with lacquered hair, who kept trying to scrape acquaintance with them.

“They make life so difficult,” Francie had said in despair, after freezing them out for the third time. “They just don't seem to take no for an answer. I do think Portuguese men are extraordinary.”

This offended Catarina. “They are very likely not Portuguese at all,” she said, her eyes flashing with indignation. “I think they must be Spanish. And besides, you must remember, Francesca, that it is simply not done, what we are doing—traveling in this madcap fashion of yours, without chaperones or husbands. Those young men must be excused if they do not understand.”

“I don't care what their nationality may be,” said Francie irritably, “and I don't care if they understand or not. I just want them to leave me alone when I don't want an
apéritif
. I
don't
want an
apéritif
, and I don't want to talk to them either.”

Catarina said she didn't, any more than Francie, and peace was restored.

But it was a long journey, they weren't able to sleep well because of arriving at the customs barrier at night, and altogether it was a great relief to have it over with, because Francie's conscience made a bad traveling companion. All too often in the night it had asked her just what she thought she was going to do about Catarina now she was there. It had seemed a fine idea at the time, a splendid, heroic gesture to get her away from her unhappy life. It was still a good idea, but other ideas clamored to be formed. What was Catarina to do with herself ultimately? Just paint?

“I'll take care of her,” Francie reflected, “and in the end I suppose I can get her to America. Then Pop will be able to advise me.”

But would Pop appreciate having a lovely young Portuguese matron left on his doorstep? And, if it came to that, how long would Catarina herself appreciate being cut off from her children? For all Francie knew, she was already beginning to brood about them, and to regret her action. Right now, bouncing in the Barcelona cab, she was probably regretting the whole thing bitterly. Nervously Francie watched the sensitive, worried face.

Catarina sighed sharply. “I have been thinking,” she said. “I must send a telegram to my dressmaker. We had an appointment tomorrow.…”

Well, that was not so bad, thought Francie, and returned to her own problems. She had left a note for Mrs. Barclay, not on the traditional pincushion because, for one thing, there had been no pincushion in the hotel. But she left it in the mailbox downstairs, where it could not be missed.

“Darling Aunt Lolly: I heard you talking with Fontoura the other day at the party. I heard everything. I simply can't bear it any more in class, and so I'm going away for a while to think it all over. Please don't worry about me. You know I'm quite sensible and can take care of myself. Please don't bother Pop and tell him, either, until you hear from me. I'll be writing to you soon. Honestly I'm all right. With love, Francie.”

Francie thought of this letter and was reassured. Aunt Lolly couldn't possibly worry about her. “Did you leave a note for your husband, Catarina?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh yes, naturally,” said Catarina. “I left it on the pincushion.”

This city of Barcelona was bewildering after so many hours of traveling through lonely landscape. The car took them to a street of hotels and restaurants that seemed in the muted light of evening to be swarming with all the people in the world. Francie marveled at the crowd.

“It's simply incredible,” she said. “Hundreds of people, thousands of people. Where do they all come from?”

Catarina said, “The countryside was so empty. I suppose they all come here to work.”

“They don't look as if they were working,” said Francie doubtfully. The car crawled slowly between strolling merrymakers—couples and groups of women in light summer dresses and men in white jackets. They looked a swarthy, tough people, she said. “And I'd know I wasn't in Portugal,” she added. “They look different.”

“Of course they are different,” said Catarina with an indulgent smile. The Portuguese always insisted defiantly on this difference, Francie knew.

They had picked one certain hotel from the list offered them by the agency, because Catarina remembered that some of her relatives always stayed there when they visited Spain. It was one of Francie's few experiences with a hotel that wasn't purely a vacation concern such as Mrs. Barclay's in Estoril. This hotel was purely urban, and queerer than anything Francie could have imagined. Its doorway jostled for space with a café on one side and a cinema on the other, in the middle of a narrow, clamorous street. Their driver had some difficulty in getting a porter to come out and help with the bags, and when they themselves went through the doorway, Francie understood why. On the ground floor, all she could see of the hotel was an enormously high, narrow room of white stone, with a staircase and an elevator behind it. She paused and stared around her. No one was in sight.

“Where is it?” she asked Catarina.

The porter, a suitcase under each arm, motioned to them with his head to follow. Silently the young women walked after him to a little box of an elevator, lined with faded red plush. He pushed a button and they rose, very slowly, with ominous groans and shakes en route, past several floors.

“We're going right straight up to the roof,” said Francie apprehensively.

Catarina remained calm. “The hotel is near the top of the building,” she explained. “I have been in others like this. You will see.”