A Small Death in Lisbon. Robert Thomas Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ went walking today.’

      ‘You told me to go the gardens in Estrela and I just kept going, over the top of the Bairro Alto, down to the Chiado and then into the Baixa.’

      ‘Ah, the Bairro Alto,’ said Poser. ‘And did you see the market in Praça da Figueira – it doesn’t smell too bad at this time of the year; and that rat hole – the Mouraria, or the stinking, crumbling Alfama?’

      ‘I walked up to the Castle of São Jorge and took a taxi back.’

      ‘So you’ve seen some of Lisbon,’ he said. ‘Now when you see Salazar’s capital after dark perhaps you understand my point about the harlot. Lisbon’s a whore, a peasant Arab whore, who wears a tiara at night.’

      ‘Perhaps you’ve been here too long, Poser.’

      ‘Ach, Salazar, he says one thing, he does another, he leans one way and sticks a foot out the other. He takes our Swiss francs and gold bars and then extends unlimited credit to the British. He rails at them for blocking his imports from the colonies and . . . ach . . . The man’s a Moor and he’s making the beast with two backs with anyone he pleases,’ Poser finished bitterly.

      ‘Now you’re thinking that because you pay the whore she should be faithful. Next you’ll be wanting her to fall in love with you.’

      ‘Quite so, Felsen,’ said Poser, coolly. ‘I forgot your expertise in these matters.’

      They hit the new coast road, the Marginal. The lights of the dormitory villages of Caxias, Paço de Arcos, Oeiras, Carcavelos and Parede glittered by the black heave of the unseen Atlantic. Poser was still sulking as they pulled up outside the lit façades of the Hotels Parque and Palácio. The high heads of the Washingtonian palms in the gardens in front were just out of the light. Poser pointed out the Casino at the top of the long square which sloped several hundred metres down to the sea front. Music came from the low modem building. Queues of cars stretched down the side of the gardens. The bellboy fetched the bags from the boot and Felsen and Poser went through the high Roman arch which made up the front of the Hotel Parque.

      ‘There’s somebody you should meet,’ said Poser, heading for the concierge’s position.

      ‘This is Felsen,’ he said to the sharp-faced man behind the counter.

      The concierge flicked through his register. He rattled something off to the bellboy without taking his eyes off the book.

      ‘You don’t need to tell him anything,’ said Poser, of the concierge. ‘He knows it before you do. Isn’t that right?’

      The concierge didn’t say anything but Felsen could tell from his attentive stillness that he was a man of some hotel experience.

      ‘Install yourself in your rooms, Felsen, and I’ll show you around,’ said Poser, and laughed looking at the concierge. ‘Don’t talk to the flowers. Or use the phone. Isn’t that right?’

      The concierge blinked once, slowly.

      Felsen rejoined Poser in the bar. They left the boorish company of the other members of the legation and walked up the gardens in the balmy night to the Casino.

      ‘The concierge knows when we talk like that it’s what we want everybody to hear.’

      ‘Is that why the bar’s empty?’

      ‘You’ll see, it’ll fill up as the night wears on.’

      ‘Maybe they should make themselves more interesting – invite some women across, they all seem to be going in here.’

      They entered the lobby of the Casino at the same time as a small, dark-haired, highly-manicured woman who slid out of a fur coat and an expensive hat before being escorted to the bar by two men, younger and firmer than herself. She wore nylons and more than half the room turned as she came in.

      ‘Is she the Queen of somewhere?’ asked Felsen.

      ‘That’s the Queen of Lisbon,’ said Poser.

      ‘The daughter of the Arab whore?’ asked Felsen, and Poser roared.

      ‘Her name is Madame Branescu. She runs the guichet of the visa office at the American consulate. You saw all those people who wanted to get on the Nyassa this evening?’

      ‘She took a percentage off every one of them.’

      ‘You wouldn’t have recognized her eighteen months ago. She was half the size and you could read a newspaper through her clothes but . . . she speaks fourteen languages and, I don’t know whether you walked past the American consulate, but she needs those fourteen languages and a few more besides.’

      They went into the bar. The waiter was already standing at her table as the woman and her blonde escorts sat down. Despite the clothes, the coiffure and the make-up she was not an attractive woman. Felsen saw her in a previous life, in the office of an important lawyer. A short, plain woman in grey clothes, ignored by all but, like the Hotel Parque’s concierge, she missed nothing and had learned everything – the languages, the control, the art of power. And here she was, an improbable, little person conferring life or despair on the thousands atticked in Lisbon’s pensions. Men and women approached her and spoke small obsequious words, bowing from the waist. Some were allowed to brush their lips across the dimpled knuckles of her puffy hand, others scuttled back to their seats blanched and quivering.

      Felsen excused himself from Poser and presented himself at her table. The escorts’ eyes bored into him. He asked her in perfect English if she wanted to dance. Her eyes roved over his face trying to work out if she knew him, then glanced down at his clothes and footwear, expert on quality.

      ‘I’ve heard Madame Branescu is an excellent dancer. I am too. I think we should lead the way.’

      She tried to give him her steely look but he seemed like a man who had access to one himself. She smiled and gave him her hand.

      ‘You’re not English, are you?’ she said, as they made their way to the dance floor, everybody watching. ‘And you limp.’

      ‘You won’t be disappointed.’

      ‘Are you Swiss, or maybe an Austrian? I can hear something in your accent.’

      ‘I’m German.’

      ‘I don’t like Germans,’ she said, switching to his language.

      ‘We haven’t arrived in Bucharest yet.’

      ‘If what the Germans do to countries is “arrive”, then you must be the arrivistes of the century.’

      ‘Perhaps that is why you’re here?’

      ‘Because the Germans who aren’t murderers are brutes. That’s why I’m here.’

      ‘I don’t know what calibre of German you’ve been meeting.’

      ‘Austrian Germans. I used to live in Vienna.’

      ‘But you are Rumanian, aren’t you?’ asked Felsen.

      ‘Yes, СКАЧАТЬ