Unnatural Order. Liz Porter

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      She slipped her hand between the buttons of his shirt and stroked the curly mat of hair on his chest.

      ‘Does that mean yes?’

      Caroline nodded.

      The topic of Oliver, apparently forgotten for the rest of the afternoon, resurfaced as they made their way along an undulating pavement to the dockside bar Oliver had suggested as a meeting point.

      ‘You like him, don’t you?’ Karl burst out, breaking the companionable silence of the previous ten minutes.

      ‘It’s not a matter of liking or not liking. He’s an entertaining companion, that’s all.’ Caroline felt her cheeks redden. How could she admit to finding an obvious narcissist attractive?

      A few hours ago she had been lying in bed looking for references to Portugal in her Byron biography. But the pages kept falling open at anecdotes revealing churlishness by the poet and irritating adoration from the women: Lady Caroline Lamb writing to Byron begging for a picture or a lock of hair; Byron sending a lock cut from the hair of his new mistress, the Countess of Oxford, in an envelope on which the wax had been impressed with the Countess’s seal; Byron taking his new bride to visit Augusta, then flaunting his incestuous love for his half-sister in front of his puzzled wife.

      She wrenched her thoughts back to the present. ‘Anyway, you don’t have to like someone to find them entertaining. And he already has two girlfriends here.’

      ‘Yes, my darling,’ Karl didn’t sound convinced, although he squeezed her hand as they pushed their way through the crowded bar to the tiny garden terrace.

      ‘And here they are, the luckiest women in Portugal.’

      Caroline followed his glance to the very furthest table, where Oliver was sitting with two women. The slim blond on his left was leaning towards him, watching his every gesture, as if he might disappear if she looked away. On the other side of the table sat a 25-year-old with thick, brown, basin-cut hair framing the earnest, matronly face that some girls have at 11 and keep until menopause. She leaned back in her chair, surveying her companions with bright brown eyes, a chaperone giving the young lovers their time together.

      The blond, as Caroline expected, was Kristina, the animal rights worker. The other woman was Anneliese, the follower.

      ‘I understand English very well,’ said Kristina, when Oliver introduced them. ‘I just don’t speak it too good.’

      ‘Me too,’ said Anneliese. ‘You must speak slowly.’

      ‘Karl can translate.’ Oliver waved a hand in his direction. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

      Without waiting for a reply, he turned to Caroline. ‘Now let’s drink up. I’ve reserved a table at the fado club I mentioned. But they won’t hold it if we’re more than half an hour late.

      Caroline noticed that Karl had started speaking in German to Kristina and Anneliese. The bar was too noisy for her to catch what he was saying, although it seemed to be standard polite questioning about their travels. But Kristina didn’t appear to be listening. She was still staring at Oliver, her sharp features hardening as Oliver continued to speak rapidly in English.

      ‘Amalia Rodrigues, the Joan Sutherland of fado, used to sing there,’ he continued, oblivious to Kristina’s stare. ‘She’s supposed to have been discovered in the early 50s wandering barefoot around the docks just near here, selling flowers for a living. She was already performing in a New York club in the 50s. God knows how old she is now.’

      Caroline felt Karl drumming his fingers on her knee under the table.

      ‘This all sounds quite wonderful. Shall we get going then?’

      A look of gratitude softened Kristina’s features. She took Oliver’s arm as they walked out of the bar.

      The strains of taped guitar music floated upwards as Karl and Caroline followed the others down a flight of narrow stairs into a wood-panelled taverna with a tiny stage at one end.

      ‘I thought he might take us here,’ Karl whispered. ‘This place is so authentic and non-touristy that it’s listed prominently in my tourists’ guidebook.’

      ‘You’re such a bitch,’ Caroline hissed back. She felt a sudden rush of fondness for him and squeezed his hand in the dark. He squeezed back by way of reply.

      Oliver turned around, smiling, as they threaded their way through the tables.

      ‘We’re at this front one. Caroline?’ He pulled out a chair for her and took the seat next to it himself, apparently blind to the meaningful looks Kristina was firing in his direction.

      Karl made a production of pulling out the two chairs on the other side of the table for Kristina and Anneliese and seating both women. He then sat on the other side of Caroline. Caroline could feel Oliver’s eyes on her. To avoid engaging his glance she studied the walls. The place was as kitschy as he had promised, its walls crowded with photographs, lamps, wood carvings and amateurish-looking paintings.

      Oliver leaned over and touched Caroline’s arm.

      ‘So how long are you going to stay in Lisbon?’ His breath smelt of peppermint. ‘There are some galleries I’d love to show you. The National is important. They’ve got Bosch’s The Temptation of St Anthony. And a Salome by Cranach, and a St Catherine, probably his; and the British cemetery, where Henry Fielding is buried. He actually came here for his health, but the warmth didn’t have the desired effect and he died two months after arriving.’ He paused and looked at her, trying to gauge the effect on her of his knowledgeability.

      Karl’s fingers danced on Caroline’s knee. She liked him in this quiet, ironic mood.

      ‘Would you like wine?’ said Kristina, reaching over him to lift the huge pitcher of wine that a waiter had just brought.

      ‘Thank you.’ Oliver accepted a glass from her without looking up.

      ‘Anyway, my mother read us his Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon when we were kids. I think it was a hint to my father that we should all take a voyage too.’ He took a small sip of wine. ‘But it didn’t work.’

      Kristina banged the wine pitcher down on the table in front of Caroline.

      As if this had been a signal, the four musicians, who had been idling around the stage smoking, put down their glasses and seized guitars and violas. A small curtain at the side of the room parted to reveal a tall gypsy of a woman with a black lace shawl clutched tightly over a voluminously skirted vermilion dress. A waiter hovered nearby with a large glass of whisky on a silver tray.

      The woman’s long red-nailed claw shot out from beneath the shawl and grabbed the glass from him, raising it to scarlet lips. She then strode on to the stage, pausing to stare down at the audience before launching into a haunting, slow song, its melody sad beyond words.

      Oliver’s mouth was next to Caroline’s ear. ‘Her lover had only–’

      ‘No.’ Caroline shook her head. ‘I can understand it without words.’

      Under the table, she felt Karl’s foot gently rub her ankle. His forehead creased in a small frown of СКАЧАТЬ