José Anaiço stayed in the hotel, quietly awaiting the return of his companions, he ordered some newspapers, the interviews made all the front pages, with explosive photographs and dramatic headlines, Enigmas Baffle Science, The Unknown Forces of the Mind, Three Dangerous Men, The Mystery of the Hotel Bragança, we had been careful not to specify the name, only to find it published by some treacherous reporter, Will Spaniard Be Extradited, question mark, We’re up the creek, this is not a headline but what José Anaiço was thinking. The hours passed, it was time for lunch, there was no news from Joaquim Sassa and Pedro Orce, no message, have they been arrested, thrown into prison, a man loses his appetite with so much worry. I don’t even know where they were taking them, how stupid of me, I should have asked, what am I talking about, what I should have done was to go with them, not to leave them on their own, calm down, even if I’d wanted to go, they probably wouldn’t have let me, but how can one be sure, I was quite happy to be left out of it, cowardice is worse than an octopus, an octopus can both contract and extend its arms, cowardice can only contract them, from these barbed words one can see just how annoyed José Anaiço is with himself, but who can tell where sincerity lies in these contradictory impulses and thoughts, best to wait, as in all human affairs, to see what he does. First he went to ask the manager whether he had heard any revealing remark, an address, a name, but the manager replied, Nothing at all, sir, I didn’t know any of the gentlemen, I was seeing them for the first time, and that goes for the two Portuguese as well as the Spaniard, suddenly José Anaiço had a brainstorm, and about time too, he would go to the Spanish Embassy, the Embassy is bound to know, and then he had another brainstorm, these never came singly, the press, of course, he need only turn to one of those newspapers and within a few hours all the sleuths of the press, be they named Argos, Holmes, or Lupin, would be on the trail of the missing men, necessity is indeed the mother of invention, in this instance the father is called caution, but not always.
Wasting no time, José Anaiço his room, he wanted to change his shoes, to brush his teeth, these mundane things are not incompatible with a resolute spirit, take Othello, for example, who, suffering from a cold and without realizing what he was doing foolishly blew his nose before killing Desdemona, who, for her part, notwithstanding her dark premonitions, didn’t lock her door, for a wife never refuses her husband even if she knows he is about to strangle her, and besides, Desdemona knew very well that the room had only three walls, in the present drama, then, José Anaiço is cleaning his teeth with a brush and rinsing out his mouth when he hears someone knocking, Who is it, he asked, although it doesn’t sound like his voice the tone is one of happy anticipation, Joaquim Sassa is about to reply, We’re back, but the deception was short-lived, May I come in, so it’s the maid after all, One moment, he finished rinsing his mouth, wiped his hands and his mouth, dried them, and finally went to open the door. The maid is an ordinary hotel employee with such individual traits and so specific a role that this is the only moment in her life in which she will impinge, ever so superficially, and only for as long as it takes to deliver a simple message, on the existence of José Anaiço and his companions, both present and future, this often happens in the theater and in life, we need someone to come and knock on our door simply to tell us, There is a lady downstairs looking for you, sir. José Anaiçows his surprise, Looking for me, and the maid adds what she had felt would be necessary, The lady asked to speak to all three of you, but since the others aren’t here, She must be a journalist, José Anaiço thought to himself before replying, I’ll be down at once. The maid retreated like someone withdrawing from life, we won’t need her any more, there’s no reason why we should remember her, even with indifference. She came, knocked on the door, delivered the message, which for some strange reason wasn’t given over the telephone, perhaps life enjoys cultivating from time to time this sense of the dramatic, if the telephone rings we think, What can it be, if someone’s knocking at our door, we think to ourselves, Who can it be, and we give voice to our thoughts by asking, Who is it. We already know it was the maid, but the question was only half answered, perhaps not even that, which is why José Anaiço can it be, he has forgotten his suspicion that it might be a journalist, some of our thoughts are like this, they serve only to occupy, as if in anticipation, the place of others that would give us much more food for thought.
The hotel is so very peaceful, like an empty house bereft of restless activity, but it has not yet aged from neglect, there are still the echoes of footsteps and voices, a sob, a whispered farewell that lingers on the upper landing. The manager is on his feet, behind the counter hangs the key rack with its pigeonholes for messages, letters, and bills, he is writing in a ledger or copying figures from it onto a sheet of paper, the type of man who keeps himself busy even when there is not much work to be done. As José Anaiço is about to pass, the manager nods in the direction of the lounge, and José Anaiço responds with an assenting nod, I know, is what this nod implies, while the first nod had implied at greater length, There’s a lady in there waiting to see you. José Anaiço paused in the entrance to the lounge, he saw a young woman, a mere girl, it can only be her, there’s no one else here, although she’s sitting in the shadow of the awnings, she seems pleasant, even pretty, she is wearing blue slacks and a matching jacket, of a color that might be described as indigo, she might or might not be a journalist, but beside the chair where she is sitting there is a small suitcase and on her lap a stick that is neither large nor small, somewhere between a meter and a meter and a half in length, the effect is disturbing, a woman dressed like this doesn’t walk through the city carrying a stick in her hand, She can’t be a journalist, José Anaiço thought to himself, at least there’s no sign of the tools of that profession, notebook, ballpoint pen, tape recorder.
The woman got up, and this gesture was unexpected, for according to the rules of etiquette and good manners a lady should remain seated until the gentleman approaches and greets her, at which point she will extend her hand or offer her cheek, and depending on her confidence, degree of intimacy, and disposition, the lady’s smile will be polite, insinuating, conniving, or revealing. This gesture, or perhaps not so much the gesture as the fact that four paces away a woman is standing there waiting, or rather the sudden awareness that time has stopped and is waiting for someone to make the first move, it is true that the mirror is a witness, but of an earlier moment, in the mirror José Anaiço and the woman are still two strangers, not here on this side, for they are about to know each other, they know each other already. This gesture, this gesture that could not be fully described earlier, caused the wooden floor to sway like a deck, like the pitching of a ship amid the waves, slow and wide, an impression not to be confused with the familiar tremor that Pedro Orce talks about, José Anaiço’s bones don’t shake, but his whole body has felt, physically and materially felt, that the peninsula, so called out of habit and convenience, is really and truly sailing away, before he only knew it from external observation, now he can actually feel it. And so, because of this woman, unless it was because of the hour when she turned up, for most important of all is the hour when things happen, José Anaiço be merely the unwilling lure of demented birds. He goes up to her, and this movement, launched in the same direction, will be added to the force that pushes, without remedy or resistance, the raft of which the Hotel Bragança at this very moment is the figurehead and forecastle, if you’ll forgive the blatant inappropriateness of these terms. Is that too much to ask.
My friends aren’t here, José Anaiço explained, some scientists came this morning and took them away for questioning, I’m beginning to get
worried at the delay, in fact I was just getting ready to go out and look for them, José Anaiço is aware that, to say what mattered, there was no need for all these words, but he could not restrain himself. She responds, and her voice is pleasing, low but clear, What I have to say can be said just as well to one of you as to all three, in fact it might make it easier to explain things more clearly. Her eyes are the color of a new sky, What is a new sky, what color might that be, where did I dig out that idea, José Anaiço thinks to himself, while saying in a loud voice, Please be seated, there’s no need to stand. She sat down, he sat down, Are you called José Anaiço, My name is Joana Carda, Delighted to meet you. They didn’t shake hands, that would look silly now that they were seated, besides, in order to shake hands they would both have to lean forward in their chairs, even sillier, or perhaps only he would have to do so, which would halve the silliness, if being half silly were not exactly the same as being completely silly. She is indeed pretty, and her hair, which is almost black, doesn’t clash with her eyes, the color of a new sky by day, the color of a new sky by night, they go well together, What can I do for you, his intimate thoughts were translated by this polite inquiry. I’m not sure if it’s safe to speak here, Joana Carda murmured, We’re alone, no one can hear us, But people are watching, look out. Walking in a somewhat unnatural manner, the manager passed in front of the entrance to the lounge, he passed then passed once more, seemingly absorbed, as if he had just invented a new task, because the previous one had proved useless. José Anaiço glared at him but to no avail, he lowered his voice, making their conversation look even more suspicious, I can’t invite you up to my room, aside from the attention it would attract, it’s almost certainly forbidden for guests to receive visitors in their rooms. That wouldn’t bother me, I wouldn’t feel threatened by someone who obviously has no intention of assaulting me, In fact nothing could be further from my mind, especially since you’re carrying a weapon. They both smiled, but there was something forced about their smiles, a certain inhibition, a sudden disquiet, indeed, the conversation had become much too intimate considering that they had only known each other for three minutes, and only by name. In an emergency this stick could be useful, Joana Carda observed, but that’s not the reason why I carry it with me, to tell the truth, the stick is carrying me. This revelation, so unexpected, cleared the air, reduced the pressure, that of the atmosphere as well as that of the blood. Joana Carda rested the elm branch on her lap, waited for his reply, José Anaiço finally spoke, We’d better go out, we can talk on the street, in a café, or if you like in a public park. She reached for her suitcase, he took it from her, We can leave this in my room, along with the stick, The stick stays with me, and the suitcase too, it might be better not to come back here. As you wish, what a pity your suitcase is so small, otherwise you could have put the stick inside, Not everything is made to fit something else, Joana Carda replied, a somewhat obvious statement, which nonetheless embraces a world of meaning.
As they were leaving, José Anaiço said to the manager, If my friends should arrive, tell them I’ll be back soon, Yes sir, leave it to me, the man replied, without taking his eyes off Joana Carda, but there was no desire in his eyes, only that vague suspicion one finds in all hotel managers. They went down the stairway, at the bottom, on the finial of the banister, there was an ornamental statuette in bronze, modeled on a knight or a page from some opera, here is an effigy that would look right, with its illuminated globe, on any of the great Portuguese or Galician capes, that of São Vicente, Espichel, Roca, or Finisterre, and others of less importance, which nonetheless have just as much work to do breaking the waves, but the destiny of this knight is to be ignored, perhaps once upon a time someone may have looked at him closely, but not Joana Carda or José Anaiço, undoubtedly because they have greater worries on their mind, although, if asked, they probably wouldn’t know what they are. Anyone inside that hotel, with its cool atmosphere and secular penumbra, cannot imagine just how hot it is out in the street. This is August, as you may recall, the climate hasn’t changed just because the peninsula has traveled a mere one hundred and fifty kilometers, assuming that the speed has remained steady as reported by the National Radio of Spain, no more than five days have passed and it already seems like a year. José Anaiçone would expect, Walking around in this heat, carrying a suitcase in one hand and a stick in the other, isn’t much fun, we’ll be worn out in no time, it would be better to go into a café and have a cool drink, Better still to find a park, a bench in some quiet, shady corner, There’s a park nearby, at the Praça de Dom Luís, do you know it, I’m not from Lisbon, but I know it, Oh, you’re not from Lisbon, José Anaiço repeated idly. They went down the Rua do Alecrim, he was carrying the suitcase and the stick, people on the street wouldn’t think much of him were he not to carry the suitcase or have much respect for her if she were to carry the stick, for we are all such relentless busybodies, malicious whenever we get the chance, and for no good reason. In response to José Anaiço’s cry of surprise, Joana Carda simply told him that she had arrived that same day, by train, and had gone straight to the hotel, the rest we are about to learn.
They are seated, fortunately in the shade of some trees, and he has asked her, What brought you to Lisbon, then, why did you come to look for us, and she told him, Because it must be true that you and your friends have something to do with what is happening, Happening, to whom, You know very well what I’m referring to, the peninsula, the breaking up of the Pyrenees, this voyage, the like of which has never been seen before. Sometimes I think the same, that we’re to blame, at other times I think we must all be mad, A planet that goes around a star, turning and turning, one minute day, the next night, one minute cold, the next hot, and an almost empty space where there are gigantic things that have no names other than the ones we give them, and a thing we call time that no one can really fathom, all this must also be crazy, Are you an astronomer, José Anaiço asked her, suddenly remembering Maria Dolores, the anthropologist from Granada, I’m neither an astronomer nor a fool, Forgive my rudeness, we’re all rather nervous, words don’t express what they’re meant to, we talk either too much or too little, do forgive me, You’re forgiven, I probably strike you as being rather skeptical because nothing has ever happened to me except the starlings, although, Although, Not so long ago, in the hotel, when I saw you in the lounge, I felt as if I were on a ship at sea for the first time, And I saw you as if you were coming from a distance, And yet you were only three or four paces away.