The Man from Lisbon, page 31
Manuelo was clearly torn between astonishment and envy. Maria’s mother listened in varying degrees of pleasure at her daughter’s good fortune and shock at the extravagance of it. Her father kept stealing covert glances at Alves, his face a vision of puzzled re-evaluation. For Alves, it was considerably more enjoyable than most evenings chez D’Azevedo.
Before the week was out Alves paid exactly one million escudos for the house and set up an account of half a million for Maria to draw on while adding whatever furnishings she fancied.
“Your great romance goes well, Arnaldo?”
“We are most compatible, yes, Alves. We are not grand. We stay in a great deal with Silvia’s mother and father … we walked on the beach at Cascais last Sunday. It took me back. I remembered other Sundays on that beach, years ago, eh?”
“The day you met José,” Alves said, seeing it all again, watching the dawn beside the Tagus, listening the night away as José talked of women and their various uses. “The day I first saw Maria … such a long time ago. Yet, not even a decade … several months short of a decade.”
“So much has happened.”
“More than in most people’s lives, I expect.”
“Great moments, Alves. The memories will already last a lifetime.”
“And I need hardly remind you that we are beginning our finest period. …”
“No,” Arnaldo mused, his face markedly older than it had once been. It struck Alves as odd that he’d never noticed it before. “But it will never be the way it was, never excitement like that again. …”
“That’s because it was our first taste … of anything,” Alves said. “We were virginal, presumptuous young men, Arnaldo, and we couldn’t be quite sure how it would all turn out. That’s why it was different. Now we know what we’re doing.”
“You may know,” Arnaldo said. “I’m not at all sure I understand it. …”
“Don’t worry.”
“It’s my nature.”
Evening. For most Portuguese businessmen the workday was over. The streets of the Baixa were deserted. Alves sat behind his new desk, which had required a delivery crew of four. Arnaldo in his shirtsleeves stood at the bar cart pouring two glasses of port. Alves looked up from a pile of papers, removed his spectacles, commenced cleaning them on his breast pocket handkerchief.
“In two days we leave for London. Would you prefer to remain here? You could attend to the office and not have to be away from your little friend. …”
“Yes, I would rather stay here.”
“All right, then, that’s settled.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know.” He replaced his spectacles, stacked his papers and replaced them in a heavy folder. He lit a cigarette with a heavy gold table lighter. “There is something important I am going to do. You should know about it. It is a matter of honor and dignity. …”
Arnaldo handed him his port and eased himself into a deep leather couch facing the desk. He waited attentively. Honra e dignidade, they inevitably went together in the Portuguese lexicon. It was almost as if they were a single word.
“As you are aware,” Alves began slowly, “I have done nothing to vindicate myself in the matter of my difficulties with the treacherous directors of the Royal Trans-African Railway Company of Angola. I brought all my ingenuity to bear on old Chaves’ problems, I brought stability to the railway, enabled their stock to rise and restored confidence in the firm … and for my troubles I was betrayed by three of the directors, accused of embezzling! From their positions as directors of Oporto banks, my accusers had me thrown into a dungeon in a city where I was friendless.” He spoke more deliberately than Arnaldo had ever heard him. “Yet I was found innocent of embezzling Ambaca money. Innocent in a court of law! But still, they had me jailed. … The stain remains on the record of Alves Reis. I close my eyes and I can still see it, smell it, hear the incessant dripping when it rained. … My Maria was forced to sell everything, to beg our creditors for more time, forced to undergo the vilest humiliations … all because of the Ambaca directors in Oporto.
“Now, Arnaldo, we have come to a time of reckoning. Honor and dignity will be restored. … Do you understand? It is not a matter of simple revenge—that is for Italians. This is a Portuguese matter, honor and dignity.
“While I am in London I want you to begin the process of buying Ambaca stock.” He tapped the folder that lay before him. “The directions are here. They are self-explanatory. There is a blank check. Spend to a limit of one million escudos while I am away. My calculations tell me that a total investment of two million escudos will give me control. We will conclude the purchase upon my return. Then we will have a surprise for the directors from Oporto.” He stared through a bridge of fingers at Arnaldo. “Is this entirely understood?”
“I am to buy the shares for A. V. Alves Reis, Limitado?”
“Yes.”
“But, Alves,” he said hesitantly, “this money is the Bank of Portugal’s, is it not?”
“I am following my instructions, Arnaldo. I ask only that you follow yours. Obviously I must not buy them in the name of the bank. … May I depend on you, old friend?”
“Yes.” Arnaldo sighed, smiled feebly. “You know that.”
Alves lifted his port, “To the conquest of Ambaca!”
Arnaldo replied, “To honor and dignity!”
Smiling confidently, Alves drank. Two million escudos had cost him one hundred and forty-four dollars in printing costs.
He stopped over in Paris late in the evening and went directly to the Claridge. He immediately rang Greta. There was no answer. It was nearly midnight: where could she be? He contemplated taking a taxi to her apartment. How childish! She was a grown woman, she had friends, admirers. Undoubtedly she was having a late supper. He hadn’t told her when he was arriving. It was his own fault, after all. But he could not ignore the feeling of disappointment, the uneasiness in his stomach. Finally he slept—badly, waking frequently, standing at the window, drinking from the tooth glass, returning to the rumpled bed only to toss about and come awake yet again in the darkness. His train for The Hague left early. There was no time to call her. He would only have gotten her up for a confused conversation without time to see her. He settled for scribbling a note telling her that he would be passing through again in a few days and would call her. He also instructed the assistant manager to send flowers in his name. To the theater. He collected the new cases at Vuitton and checked them through to The Hague. The new clothing would have to wait until his return. Hennies and Marang, who had remained in Lisbon only a few days to see the money-changing process begun, were waiting for him at the station. They went directly to the Hook of Holland in Marang’s Winton, the Vuitton cases packed on the rear seat. It made for a crowded ride. They caught the night ferry with less than half an hour to spare.
In London all went smoothly. The Scrutton Street printing works had held to the schedule. Sir William wished them well. He told them of his present involvement in the preparation of the Waterlow Pavilion for the Second British Empire Exhibition at Wembley.
“The King, as you may know,” he confided over the customary sherry, “is a noted philatelist, a particular admirer of several of the stamps we print. A fine man, the King. …” The implication of personal friendship was clear. Sir William produced a copy of the souvenir book that would be available at the exhibit. It was handsomely bound in tooled English leather. He asked the three financiers to listen as he read.
“ ‘There has been no attempt on Sir William’s part,’ ” he read, “ ‘to exalt the House of Waterlow at the expense of other businesses. The statements made are statements of fact. Nothing has been exaggerated. The House of Waterlow was founded more than a century ago—it has gone from strength to strength, under Waterlow guidance. There is no certainty in earthly affairs, but it is not too much to hope that in A.D. 2015 there will be occasion to chronicle another century of uninterrupted success on the part of Waterlow and Sons, Limited.’ ” He looked up, beaming. “That, gentlemen, is the sort of house you’re doing business with. I sincerely hope we have given satisfaction.”
“We are very pleased,” Alves said.
“You would do me a great honor, Senhor Reis, if you would accept this especially bound copy with my compliments.”
“Indeed, it is I who am honored, Sir William.”
“Tell me, Senhor, do you expect further orders in the foreseeable future?”
“I am bound to maintain official silence, as you will understand. But let me say this, when I leave your office today I say au revoir, not goodbye.”
Chuckles all around.
Waterlow porters loaded the three two-hundred-and-fifty-pound cases into two taxis. Following in a cab of their own, Hennies, Marang and Alves saw them to the Liverpool Street Station Main Line Departure Cloakroom. Marang checked them, receiving three two-piece cloakroom tickets. The three trunks were worth more than three and one half million dollars.
They proceeded to a leisurely lunch at Pimm’s in Cheapside. The day was warm, surprisingly sunny. They looked through the Waterlow souvenir book.
“There is a certain magnificence about it, eh?” Hennies puffed on a cigar. He ran his fingertips over the tooled leather. The Waterlow coat of arms stood out in relief: a great snake swallowing its own tail. Within the circle was a sheaf of wheat and the motto Vis unita fortior. Union is strength.
The conversation turned to automobiles since all three men were contemplating the choices open to them. Hennies staunchly championed the Rolls Royce, “English or not.” Marang thoughtfully demurred. “I have already two cars to replace the faithful Winton—a Lincoln and a Kissel. You, Alves, you know the world of automobiles, you’ve sold the steady Nash. What’s your choice?”
“The Hispano-Suiza. I have decided to have a pair made to my own design.”
“Very expensive,” Marang noted slyly. “Don’t spend all your money on cars,” he cautioned.
“Don’t worry yourself, Karel,” Alves said. “I’ve told you from the beginning I am very diversified.”
“And the bank’s investments in Angola will do no harm, I trust.” Marang pursed his lips, almost coyly, playing the innocent.
“You may be right.”
“Ach, I dare say he is,” Hennies guffawed, draining his Pimm’s cup.
The cases of banknotes were checked through to The Hague, where Hennies would pick them up and see that they arrived safely in Paris, where he and Alves would shepherd them to Lisbon. Marang’s other companies required his attention in The Hague. He would receive his share of the commission before Hennies left for Paris, as well as a “bonus” Alves told them Camacho had very generously authorized. The last thing he wanted was malcontented partners in larceny. He couldn’t help but wonder if they had developed any doubts as to the legitimacy of the operation. But, then, why would they? They had seen the contracts, they had seen Waterlow accept everything Reis gave him, and they had seen Reis come up with one document after another to meet Waterlow’s demands. Why would they doubt at this late date, as the money poured in?
His first stop in Paris was at Boucheron, in Place Vendome, where he purchased two sapphire rings in gold, one for each of his women. From there he went to his tailor. The suits and riding gear were ready, as well as several of the shirts. Using a changing room, he put on a pearl-gray suit and waistcoat over a cream-colored shirt, a navy-blue silk tie with a pearl tack. Surveying himself in a three-way mirror, he drew a startled breath: he had never seen himself looking so elegant. Less self-conscious, too, he noted. He’d discarded that absurd cape, the pretentious silk shirts that had appealed to him in the first flush of wealth. Now it was fine broadcloth, the best collars, wool worsteds, silk only in the ties. Now they would remember the man, Reis, not what he wore. He smiled at himself, seeing a man truly to be reckoned with.
It was early afternoon when he called Greta. She seemed enthusiastic, happy to hear from him. He did not ask her where she had been a few days before.
“It’s such a lovely day,” she said. “Shall we have a picnic? Let’s, please. I’ll pick you up at Claridge’s. One hour. …”
Picnic or not, he would wear his pearl gray!
He was waiting when the green Bentley pulled over to the curb. The top was down. Her hair was windblown, a flush in her cheeks. She kissed him in the sunshine as he settled into the passenger seat. The white wicker hamper was nestled in the space behind them.
“Your new suit … You are so handsome, I am driven mad!”
He felt his face flush. “You notice everything. Do you like it?”
“It is exquisite, darling. Understated.”
“You know just what to say, don’t you? Just what I wanted to hear.”
“I know, but it is true, nonetheless.”
He leaned back, feeling the sun on his face, slipping easily into his new world. Here he was free, his own man, without family or responsibilities. And so much money.
She drove to the Ile de la Cité and parked behind Notre Dame, beside a small triangular park, tree-shaded and quiet, insulated by the Seine on either side. Pigeons watched them intently as they left the car, bringing the hamper, then strolled on about their business.
“Is this nice? Do you like it? Lovers come here in the summer, and when the bateaux mouche drift by they kiss and wave, most amusing. So why can’t lovers come in the early spring?” She was carefully unpacking the hamper, arranging the chicken with truffles, the tomatoes and cucumbers in oil, the fresh moist bread with the hard crust, the wine and the Brie. “Now kiss me again before we gorge ourselves. …”
The afternoon drifted slowly past, like the boats on the river. She would kiss him whenever she noticed a boat and they would wave. She told him theater tales and he laughed, shook his head at the craziness. She asked him what was happening, how his business was going. He told her of the matter of honor and dignity, the history of his relationship with the railway: how he had made the trains run, how he had worn his monkey suit and damned near died in the heat of the boiler, and how he had ridden the High Bridge. … He lived it all again as the sun faded and the sky over Paris grew cloudy. He told her how Chaves had applied to him for help in Lisbon and how he had given it and saved Ambaca while at the same time propping up Angola Mining and how the Oporto directors had paid him back for his help. He told her what he had in store for the directors. She listened intently, questioning intelligently.
“I have never discussed such things with a woman before. I hope I didn’t bore you.” It was time to leave; she had to go to the theater.
“Alves, we are now part of each other’s lives. We must share our experiences, know what the other is living through. … I would have it no other way. If you cannot confide in me, then it is not love between us. With José it was not a great love and there were no deep confidences. … With us, my thunderbolt, it is very different. You could never bore me.”
She drove back to her apartment, where he relaxed, napping, reading while she worked.
He had the chilled champagne ready when she returned, flushed with the evening’s success. No matter how tired she might be, the excitement of the stage always left her sexually hungry, eager to open herself to him. She kissed him and slid out of her blouse, leaning over him so that he could see her chemise fall loose, revealing her taut nipples. She took his hand and placed it against her flesh, laughing low in her throat, her breath steaming on his spectacles. “I can’t wait,” she whispered. “Do it here, in the chair. …” She was pulling her skirt off, stripping desperately. “Let me ride you,” she said, leaning over his face, kissing his forehead, taking his spectacles off. She straddled him and lowered herself. His head swam with emotion and his own need. She made him lose control, made him the helpless victim of desire, as no one else ever had. Moments like this frightened him, but there was no going back: when she wanted him it was a force greater than his. He sunk his fingers into the flesh of her hips, guiding her, rocking her rhythmically, tasting her sweat as she pulled his head against her breasts, hearing the moans as she thrust herself down on him, again and again, going on long after he had emptied himself inside her. …
Drained, dizzy, they flung themselves on the bed’s cool pillows, covered their damp bodies with the sheet. When their breathing had quieted he reached the night stand, felt for the small box from Boucheron, held it aloft like a prize. She smiled exhaustedly, reached for it.
“A trinket,” he said.
She opened it and held it, turning it to watch the reflection of the candlelight.
“A trinket,” she repeated, teasing him. “A sapphire trinket. …”
“You don’t already have one, I hope.”
She leaned forward, the sheet falling away, slipping the ring onto her finger. “I have several sapphires … but only one is a gift from Alves Reis.” She lay back, admiring the ring. “And that makes all the difference. Thank you. You are much too generous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous and don’t play that game with me.” He was irritated out of proportion, but there was nothing to do about it. “I am not one of your admirers to whom you can say that … that I am too generous. …”
She leaned sideways, pulling the sheet back up, staring at the ring. After a while she said, “I’m sorry, darling. Of course, you are right. I love the ring … and tomorrow I will buy scarves to match it and I will wear it every day. Because it is a gift from you.” She looked up, blinked.
He hugged her, nodding his face against her pale hair. He felt an unaccountable sadness and tried to ignore it. His beautiful new suit hung on a rack across the room; he noticed it like an old friend. He thought about his tailor and the lovely cut of the suits. He was very tired. He leaned across her body and pinched out the flame. She was already asleep.
Alves met Hennies on schedule. The trunks of money were loaded aboard the Sud Express. They bore the diplomatic seals, but to ensure smooth passage Hennies was carrying a passport naming him Commercial Attaché of the Liberian Legation, a far more recent document than Marang’s.
