Francie Again (3 page)

Francie had taken care when she dressed, but when she saw Maria's family sitting straight-backed and neat in a row, waiting in the lounge, she felt unkempt, nevertheless. It was a feeling she was not used to, but there it was. There was something impeccable about Portuguese women; she had noticed it before, from a distance. On the hottest days they always looked crisp and cool. And their hair! However did they manage to keep it so neat?

Three da Souzas were there: Maria, her mother Dona Gracia (a lovely name, Francie thought) and her brother Ruy. Dona Gracia and Maria were in white linen, and the young man was in white, too. They looked alike, all three of them, with their smooth shining hair and wide green eyes. It was difficult at first to think of anything to converse about. In the presence of her mother Maria wasn't as chatty as she had been on the beach.

“We are sorry to hear that your aunt is unwell,” said Dona Gracia.

“Yes, poor Aunt Lolly,” said Francie.

“You must find it lonely,” said Maria.

“Thank you, it's not so bad. You see, she gets up in the evening, and she knows a few people.”

“Estoril is very good for the health,” said Dona Gracia. “I always try to spend a few weeks here with my children, after a season in town.”

“That must be very nice,” said Francie.

So it went on, each female contributing her remark in turn. Through it all, Ruy said nothing. He must be bored to death, Francie thought, though he gave no sign of boredom.

But at last Maria, after an apology, broke off and spoke rapidly in Portuguese to her mother, then turned back to Francie with an explanation. “We can take a walk, if you like,” she said. “It's pleasant now in the cool. Maman wishes to see a cousin here, and you and Ruy and I will go out for a little. Or don't you care to walk? We might drive instead.”

“I'd love to walk,” said Francie.

“Good,” said Ruy, opening his mouth for the first time that evening.

Out of the hotel, the young people relaxed a little and the talk between the girls became animated again. Maria wanted to tell Francie about New York and the plays she had seen, and the shops and museums. She admired America, she said, passionately. American buildings were modern and beautiful, American boys were so polite in their way, American girls were so chic—“Like you, you know,” she said earnestly. “You have a special style. It is a little
outré
, not too much, but something quite remarkable.”

“Oh, you're too nice!” Francie blushed, and turned to Ruy. “And what about you in the States?” she asked. He was walking along silently, with a withdrawn expression on his face; she didn't know if he had been listening or not. “Do you like America as much as your sister does?” she asked.

“Oh, not as much,” he said in cool tones. “Unlike Maria, I prefer my own country. But there are admirable things about New York, certainly. Yes.”

Francie felt somewhat piqued. It wasn't that she wanted him to rave, she told herself, but he needn't act quite so kindly about liking New York—as if he were a dear old uncle patting her on the head. “Thank you very much,” she said dryly.

Ruy laughed, and she decided to like him after all.

They strolled slowly along. At Francie's suggestion they turned off the main road in order to investigate shop windows along a side street.

“I like window-shopping,” she said, “but I don't know where to go to see really nice things. Are there any interesting shops in Estoril?”

“If you mean dresses and hats, we haven't any places like yours,” said Maria. “But one day we might go into Lisbon and look around, if you would care to do it.”

“I'd like that,” said Francie. “Tell me, Maria, what do you do all day? Have you a job, or do you just poke around the way everyone does I've met so far, playing games?”

She saw Ruy look at her in surprise, as Maria said, “Oh no, I haven't a job. Maman wouldn't allow it. That is the trouble here, you know; there isn't much for a girl to do.”

“What about the boys?”

“Well, of course Ruy works. He helps my father,” said Maria. “Ruy works very hard, don't you, Ruy?”

“Very,” he said solemnly.

“No, I am not laughing. Please, Ruy, be serious,” said Maria. “He really does, Francesca; I'm afraid he will make himself ill in this hot weather.”

“My dear sister! For the past week I have done nothing but carry Maman's knitting bag from one place on the beach to another.”

Maria said, “But this is your holiday. Wait until Papa gets back! Then Francesca will be surprised at your energy.”

“Ah, that!” said Ruy.

Really, thought Francie, they were both very attractive young people. She felt much better already about Portugal.

It seemed that their father, Dom Rodrigo, was in the cork business (though Francie felt that with a name like that he ought to have been something more thrilling—a buccaneer, perhaps) and once every few years he went to the Western Hemisphere to discuss and arrange for the export of his cork. Ruy had been twice to Brazil, and he and Maria had both spent several months with their mother in the United States.

Dona Gracia had not enjoyed the adventure as much as her daughter had, said Maria. “Unless my Maman is with her sisters and cousins she is bored,” she said, “but I loved it. I could find my way with my eyes covered, I think, from our apartment on Lexington Avenue to Carnegie Hall. It makes my heart jump when I hear people talking American.”

Ruy looked scornful. Clearly it would take lots more than that to make his heart jump. “The Metropolitan Museum is good,” he said in the tone of one making an admission.

This started Francie on the subject of her New York school, which was within easy distance of the museums. Ruy listened with more attention than he had hitherto shown. “You are an art student, then?” he asked.

“I was. I hope I shall be again.” Francie's face fell as she remembered her current troubles. Maria's sympathetic questions drew her out; she talked until the whole story was disclosed.

“It is unfortunate,” said Ruy at the end, “but I cannot understand why you feel everything is at an end.”

“I don't,” protested Francie. “I've been very careful not to get all tragic about it. Only I'm in a hurry, naturally, and I hate putting everything off.”

“You could work by yourself.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Francie. “Of course I do sketch. At least I've been thinking about it lately. But I like help. I don't like going ahead on my own without advice.”

Maria broke in, “Ruy, you are naughty. Don't listen to him, Francesca, until he stops teasing you. He knows how to help you. He's holding off and teasing.”

“I am not sure,” said Ruy to his sister, seriously. “There is no telling if she would suit Fontoura, or if Fontoura would suit her. We must go slowly. And at this moment there is no possible vacancy, of that I am sure.”

“Do please tell me what you both mean,” said Francie.

“Ruy is a painter,” said Maria.

Ruy shook his head. “I play with paints.”

“He is very clever, truly, and he attends a class in painting, in Lisbon, which might be just what you want, Francesca,” said Maria.

“You do, Ruy? How wonderful! Then you mean to be an artist, too?”

Ruy shrugged, and Maria replied for him. “My father didn't want him to be only a painter, nothing else. You see Ruy is his only son, and someone must go into the business from the family. And so he has given up his painting, except as a pastime.” She hesitated, glancing shyly at her brother's frowning face. “He does not like me to talk about it, but he felt very bad.”

Francie cried, “It was wrong! I do think it was wrong.”

Ruy shrugged again. “It was not wrong. Had I been a true artist I would have thought it wrong, yes. Had I been a true artist I would have defied my father. But I was not good enough and I did not defy him, and he was not wrong.” He smiled at Francie. “You are romantic, and so this shocks you.”

Francie did not like being called romantic, but she could think of nothing to say.

“But Ruy, you will take Francesca to the class, will you not?” asked Maria.

“If she wishes,” said Ruy, “and if Fontoura wishes. We can take our time, and think it over. There is no room as yet.” He paused as another thought occurred to him.

“The fees are very high,” he said. “I don't know if …”

“Oh, that doesn't matter,” said Francie airily.
“That's
the least of my worries.”

The da Souzas looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

CHAPTER 3

Laughter rang out from the group gathered around a gay canvas swing on the veranda. “You'd never have the cheek!” cried a girl. “You know you wouldn't, Derek!”

“Oh, but I have,” said a boy. “I warned you—”

They looked pretty, reflected Francie. They looked like somebody's romantic dream of life in a holiday place such as the Riviera or the Caribbean, one of those places she had never visited. The sun-tanned girls in their light clothes, the boys so clean and nice-looking, even the pretty French girl, spoke English with English accents. Nor was this odd, considering that most of them were English. Some of them belonged to families in the wine trade, families that had lived for two or three generations in Portugal, going back and forth between Oporto and “home.”

Francie had discovered that these transplanted English had a local joke: those who lived in Oporto in the vineyard country, as the wine families of course did, pretended to look down on the permanent British residents of Lisbon. Many were the arguments about North versus South. But here in Estoril, the holiday place, such differences were forgotten.

And they were never real differences, reflected Francie. The Portuguese British all stuck together. They were like a family living abroad, a family that managed in spite of inevitable expansion and dilution to remember its relationship, and present a united front to the world. They were a tight little group. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, so that it gave Francie a slight twinge of envy to hear them laughing and talking of absent friends, of Bobby This and Brenda That. In just such a way, she thought wistfully, Glenn and Ruth and the others in Jefferson were probably speaking of her, to the utter mystification of some unlucky visitor who had never heard of Francie Nelson. It was good to belong somewhere, she said to herself, and felt homesick for her own friends.

Indoors the older people played bridge or canasta. She could see them through the glass, cozy and cut off from the noise and chatter of their young people. Aunt Lolly was there; she had actually ventured to spend several hours out of her room, and that was a good sign. Everyone but the family who lived in the villa was strange to both the Americans, but how easily she got on with strangers! From the bottom of her heart, Francie envied her godmother her calm assurance.

She herself was in the throes of shyness. She felt very much out of everything. Phyllis Wilkinson, the daughter of the house, was a nice girl. Francie had already met her several times, but Phyllis was newly engaged, and the presence of her young man had made her forget Francie for the moment. So Francie sat tongue-tied on the veranda, dutifully smiling when the others laughed, though the witticisms meant nothing to her. She would have liked to sparkle, but didn't know how to begin.

“I do feel like a drip,” she thought despondently. “I wish I were spending the afternoon with Maria and Ruy. They're much more friendly.”

She felt herself slipping back to the paralyzing timidity of her first days in England. But just before she despaired, Phyllis remembered the stranger.

“We'll have to see what kind of tennis Francie plays,” she told the others. “I should think she's rather good. I've already seen her style at golf.”

“Don't expect too much,” said Francie. “Tennis isn't my game, really.”

“What is, then?” asked Edward, a dark boy who had been showing signs of wanting to talk to her. Francie said she liked swimming and spent a good deal of time on the hotel beach.

“I swim out of hours,” she added, “during the siesta. As a matter of fact, I swim out of season, too. Nobody else seems to go in. At first I actually thought swimming wasn't allowed in Portugal except in midsummer.”

The others laughed. “People think it's too cold,” explained Phyllis. “Most Portuguese won't go into the water in the winter, but some other people are hardier. You'll see masses of people at Cascaes the year round, including the ex-crowned heads of Europe.”

“Wearing everything to bathe in, even their crowns,” put in another girl and everyone laughed again. Francie had to ask what the point was.

“We mean bathing suits,” said Phyllis. “You see, the Portuguese police are awfully particular about costumes. I do hope you haven't been sporting a smart two-piece, or exposing your midriff or anything like that, because it isn't permitted. In the season, the police send picked men to patrol the beaches and protect public morals.”

“We've heard sinister rumors that an unfortunate American female was taken away and never heard of again,” said a red-haired girl, “because she wore a Bikini.”

“A Bikini!” said Phyllis in horror. “There's no doubt about it then. She must have been executed within twenty-four hours.”

“No, but really, what are the rules?” asked Francie. “I've never got them straight.”

They explained, all at once. One must wear a modest one-piece suit at the very least, and with shoulder straps. Even men had to wear tops to their trunks. “And that reminds me,” said the dark boy, breaking off in the middle of a remark, “hadn't somebody better warn Mark about it? He's due to arrive soon, isn't he, Derek? Better drop him a line about our bathing suit restrictions. He'll bring ordinary trunks otherwise.”