A Small Death in Lisbon. Robert Thomas Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ want a granddaughter who couldn’t speak their language. The banker sighed at a missed opportunity. Olivia sulked for show. We all had parts to play.

      ‘A toast,’ said Senhor Rodrigues, getting into the spirit, ‘to Olivia Coelho for making all this possible.’

      We drank again and Olivia planted a red ‘O’ on my new white cheek.

      ‘One more thing,’ I said to the packed bar buzzing with beer, ‘who fixed the scales?’

      There were two seconds of frost-brittle silence until I smiled, a glass smashed and the barber came in with a plastic bag which he presented to me.

      ‘Your clippings,’ he said weighing it with a kiss. ‘A two-kilo bed for your cat.’

      ‘Don’t tell me that now.’

      ‘It must have been what you had living in there that weighed,’ said the mayor. We all looked at him. He fingered his microphone. António put three more beers on the counter. Olivia and I turned into each other.

      ‘Me?’ I said to her quietly. ‘I think it was the past all tangled up in it.’

      She licked a finger and wiped the lipstick off my cheek, her eyes brim-full for a moment.

      ‘You’re right,’ said António, suddenly between us, ‘history’s a weight, a dead weight too . . . isn’t that right Senhor Rodrigues?’

      Senhor Rodrigues belched politely into his hand, not used to proletarian drink.

      ‘History repeats itself,’ he said and even António laughed – the communist who can smell the pork meat of a capitalist when they’re roasting him as far away as the Alentejo.

      ‘You’re right,’ said António. ‘History’s only a weight to those that lived it. For the next generation it’s no heavier than a few school books and forgotten with a glass of beer and the latest CD.’

      ‘Eh, António,’ I said, ‘have a beer yourself. It’s Friday night, tomorrow’s your saint’s day, the poor people of Paço de Arcos are nearly six million better off and I’m back on the drink. The new history.’

      António smiled and said: ‘To the future.’

      We all went out to eat that night, even Senhor Rodrigues who might not have been used to the metal tables and chairs but appreciated the food. It was the meal my stomach had growled over for six months. Ameijoas à Bulhão Pato, clams in white wine, garlic and fresh coriander, robalo grelhado, grilled sea bass caught off the cliffs at Cabo da Roca that morning, borrego assado, Alentejo lamb cooked until it’s falling apart. Red wine from Borba. Coffee as strong as a mulatto’s kiss. And to finish aguardente amarela, the yellow fiery one.

      Senhor Rodrigues left for his house in Cascais at the aguardente stage. Olivia went to a club in Cascais with a bunch of her friends soon after. I gave her the taxi fare home. I drank two more amarelinhas and went to bed with a litre of water inside me and two aspirins, the pillow soft and cool against my my naked burning cheeks.

      I woke in the night for ten seconds, confused in the darkness and feeling as big and as solid as the central pillar in a motorway bridge. I’d dreamt luridly but one image stuck – a cliff-top walk in the dark of an evening, a sheer drop close by somewhere, the sea roar out there, its saltine prickle bursting up from the rocks below. Fear, apprehension and excitement rose up and I fell into more sleep.

      It was at about that time that a girl started to make her dent in the sand no more than a few hundred metres away from where I was sleeping. Her eyes wide open, she moonbathed to a night full of stars, her blood slack, her skin cold and hard as fresh tuna.

Chapter V

      Saturday, 13th June 199–, Paço de Arcos, near Lisbon.

      Plates were crashing on to a marble floor. Plates were crashing and smashing and endlessly shattering on the marble floor. I surfaced into the brutal noise, the harshest reality there is, of a phone going off in a hangover at 6.00 a.m. I wrenched the handset to my ear. The blissful silence, the faint sea hiss of a distant mobile. My boss Eng. Jaime Leal Narciso gave me a good morning and I tried to find some moisture in my beak to reply.

      ‘Zé?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I said, which came out in a whisper as if I had his wife next to me.

      ‘You’re all right then,’ he said, but didn’t wait for the reply. ‘Look, the body of a young girl’s been found on the beach at Paço de Arcos and I want . . .’

      Those words trampolined me off the bed, the phone jack yanked the handset from my grip and I cannoned off the door frame into the hall. I thundered down the distressed strip of carpet and wrenched the door open. Her clothes lay in a track from the door to the bed – clumpy big-heeled shoes, black silk top, lilac shirt, black bra, black flares. Olivia was twisted into her sheet face down, her bare arms and shoulders spread, her black hair, as soft and shiny as sable, splashed across the pillow.

      I drank heavily in the bathroom until my belly was taut with water. I snatched the phone to my ear and lay down on the bed again.

      ‘Bom dia, Senhor Engenheiro,’ I said, addressing him by his degree in science, as was usual.

      ‘If you’d given me two seconds I’d have told you she was blonde.’

      ‘I should have checked last night but . . .’ I paused, synapses clashed painfully, ‘why are you calling me at six in the morning to tell me about a body on the beach? Throw your mind back to the weekend roster and you’ll find I’m off duty.’

      ‘Well, the point is you’re two hundred metres from the situation and Abílio, who is on duty, lives in Seixal which as you know . . . It would be . . .’

      ‘I’m in no condition to . . .’ I said, my brain still blundering around.

      ‘Ah yes. I forgot. How was it? How are you?’

      ‘Cooler about the face.’

      ‘Good.’

      ‘More fragile in the head.’

      ‘They say it could get up to forty degrees today,’ he said, not listening.

      ‘Where are you, sir?’

      ‘On my mobile.’

      A good answer.

      ‘There’s some good news, Zé,’ he said, quickly. ‘I’m sending someone to help you.’

      ‘Who’s that?’

      ‘A young guy. Very keen. Good for leg work.’

      ‘Whose son is he?’

      ‘I didn’t catch that?’

      ‘You know I don’t like to tread on anybody’s toes.’

      ‘This line’s breaking СКАЧАТЬ