The Man from Lisbon, page 8
If, he reasoned, as he buttoned up his trousers and bent to tie his shoe laces, if they were going to their deaths on the High Bridge, then it was as it should be: they would die together, still trusting, still in love. She had made her husband her life. If life was to end, so be it.
But, of course, there was no point in morbid thoughts. They were not going to die, he told himself, not today. His hands were shaking badly as he tried to knot his cravat. Quietly he cursed the locomotives. Already they had cost him the better part of a year. It had been nine months since the dinner party, since he had told Chaves to go ahead and buy the American locomotives. It had taken seven months for delivery, another month to make them ready, another month to test them—and now this damned business with the stress tables! Well, the hell with it. …
It was time for a grand gesture. Impulsively he’d committed himself to make it. He shrugged. It was José and the cadaver all over again. …
If in fact the locomotives were too heavy and therefore useless, Angola Railways was ruined. It was brutally simple. Too large an investment had been made and the responsibility would undoubtedly be laid at Engineer Reis’ doorstep. It was the sort of charge that could never be lived down. He would become “the man who bankrupted the Angola Railways.” And there would surely be an investigation into his qualifications. The fraudulent Oxford diploma would quickly be revealed for what it was; any official engineering examination would prove insurmountable. Either ride the train to glory, or ride it to the bottom of the chasm. No choice.
“Alves, look—I have a surprise for you.” Maria’s voice trembled with pride. He knew that she would follow him, insist on accompanying him, even if she knew the risk involved. He composed his face into a mask of contentment and turned. “See, our sons will share today’s honor!” On either side of Maria, in the crescents of her arms, stood their white-suited sons, miniatures of Alves, aged five and three, smiling solemnly at their father. The baby would be left behind.
“Maria,” he said softly, “we must not …”
At once he saw her excitement and happiness begin to fade. The three sets of eyes, the three solemn faces with quivering lips blurred before him; he felt tears pulsing as he tried to hold them back.
“Of course,” he said, hugging them, struggling to control himself, “of course, we will all ride the train! It will be a great adventure, a great treat!”
Feeling the warmth of their bodies against him, hearing his children’s cries of delight, smelling Maria’s perfumed sweetness and kissing her lowered eyelids, Alves bore the brunt of his decision and realized with a chill what it was to be truly alone.
At the offices of Director Chaves they met Arnaldo, whose voice was stuck in a loud, panic-stricken whisper. “Alves, reconsider, for God’s sake—”
“Please, Arnaldo, calm yourself. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can go wrong.” He took his friend by the shoulders, fixed his eyes. “I went over the stress tables last night,” he lied, voice at the breaking point. “Why else would I be willing to take Maria and the boys with me? Would I risk their lives?”
“Yes. If you had to,” Arnaldo replied numbly. “I don’t know …”
Alves glared at him and gestured to Chaves’ anteroom, where the director was awkwardly making conversation with Maria. “Now get Chaves in here so I can tell him what’s going on—that the fears are baseless, that it is a gala occasion and should be treated as such. … And get three white horses for us and have them ready at the station. We’ll get there in Chaves’ limousine. And see that the locomotive is running with a good head of steam.” He smiled finally, beginning to be caught up in his own bravado.
The same explanation of the morning’s program left Chaves unconvinced but unable to circumvent it. He no longer knew what to believe, but then Reis had never failed him. The three adults and two children settled into the back seat of the Rolls-Royce limousine, the children bouncing on the jump seats, Maria composed and oblivious, Chaves sweating profusely, Alves monitoring his rushing heartbeats.
The word of the run across the High Bridge had spread like a brushfire during the night and early morning. Now, as the dusty black automobile rolled over the cobbled streets, beneath the green sheltering trees, he saw that the regular morning routine of the city had been interrupted; the streets were empty, the vendors were nowhere in sight, all as if a terrible plague had paid Luanda a visit.
The crimson had faded completely from the cliffs, the sun was its customary gold, the sky a brilliant blistered blue.
At the station in the Upper City he fixed a grin in place, shepherded his family to the three white horses Arnaldo had waiting. The crowd of natives seemed to be raising their arms in unison, shaking their fists, cheering loudly. They might as well have stood behind a pane of thick, soundproof glass. He was moving in an almost senseless trance, mechanically, like a man who marches quickly to face the firing squad, already dead.
“The horses, Alves,” Arnaldo said.
“Right.” He turned to Maria. “Up you go, my dear,” and he assisted her into the sidesaddle. She mounted lightly, her elegant hat with its dashing furled brim and rakish plume at just the right tilt. He tried to imprint her forever in his memory as she looked down at him from the great white stallion. “Arnaldo,” he said, turning to his friend, “would you be good enough to walk the children’s horse? We don’t want an accident.” Arnaldo nodded and took the reins as Alves lifted his sons onto the broad white back, the huge saddle that comfortably engulfed both boys. “Don’t be afraid. While he is a very large horsey, I have looked him in the eye and I know that he is very gentle.” He mounted his own white horse and they set off in single file, at a majestic pace, toward the waiting locomotive, crouching like a great steaming weapon where the rise of track met the horizon in a heat haze.
The blacks in their robes and rags grew in numbers as the procession drew closer to the locomotive. The crowd swarmed in behind the children’s horse and seemed to sweep the riders inevitably forward toward the train. Alves blinked. Each time he did so the bloody damned thing seemed to leap larger in his view, gargantuan. … What kind of bridges must they have in America? My God … He turned to Maria and smiled. She was happy, even with the dust caking her new dress; she was radiant, smiling, proud. They were approaching the large knot of onlookers gathered about the train engine, but even then there were few Europeans, just a jostling gaggle of blacks. Then it struck him: the Europeans were all at the bridge … waiting. Best seats in the house.
He was vaguely aware of the hissing and clanging of the locomotive. They dismounted at a seemly distance and waited while Director Chaves’ limousine slowly parted the crowd. Chaves beckoned to him.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on here? Any idea at all?”
“They think it’s a celebration,” Alves said. “I am in charge of the first ceremonial voyage of the American locomotive. … It’s an opportunity to get away from work, to get drunk. They don’t need a big excuse, Director.” He motioned to Chaves’ driver. “Go on, my friend, you don’t want to miss the show!”
Time was drawing lamentably short. The crowd moved away in the wake of the Rolls-Royce, following it toward the other audience, those in the dress circle at the edge of the chasm. Alves knew what they were doing, how money was being wagered and odds were constantly shifting. When the word reached the bridge that Engineer Reis was to be accompanied by his wife and children, the bookmakers would make a sudden change. Havoc. He caught himself wishing he’d gotten a thousand or so down himself.
He helped Maria into the cab of the locomotive. “Alves,” she said, “I had no idea it would be so big!”
He nodded, received the boys handed up by Arnaldo. “Thank you,” he said to Arnaldo. “Mark my word, we will drink French champagne at lunch today!” He adjusted the controls, took a long look up the slight incline to the cliff edge. He wanted to be traveling as fast as possible when he reached the bridge. There was no scientific basis involved; it was merely the quickest way to the other side. Or wherever they were going. …
The children were settled; Maria had braced herself against them, wedging all three bodies into a corner. They had adjusted their goggles to guard against the flying sparks. Alves looked at them. He felt faint.
Quickly he released the brake and felt the jarring of the three flatbed cars strung out behind him, cables smashing together, grinding. He stripped off his coat, slid his hands into the heavy fireman’s gloves and began to pitch wood from the chest into the firebox. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arnaldo jogging along, shouting.
“I’m coming with you.” Arnaldo made a leap and managed to get his foot onto the first step and his fingers hooked around a railing.
Alves moved immediately to the top of the stairs, blocking Maria’s view. “No,” he shouted into the steam and the wind and the rattle of the wheels on the tracks so close beneath them. “Get off, I cannot allow this.”
Arnaldo clung to two rails, peered upward, his black suit dusty brown. “I must,” he cried, cords straining in his neck.
“You and I,” Alves said, his head leaning close to Arnaldo’s, “we’re finished if you insist—the risk is too great. …” The locomotive was gathering speed, the wind tearing at Arnaldo. “Off,” Alves screamed. And with a quick movement of his forearm he planted a fist in Arnaldo’s exposed stomach. Arnaldo dropped away and bounced in the dust. Without another look back, Alves turned back to the pressure gauges, which were still below the danger level. The boiler plating was so thick—that must be why it’s so godawful heavy. … He fed wood into the fire, squinting, feeling the hellish blast of the boiler on his face, feeling his face grow hot, then numb. And he began to smell his own hair singeing, his eyebrows curling and sticking to the back of his hand when he brushed sweat away.
Sparks like fireworks showered past him, blowing wildly from the huge black funnel; soot filled the air like a ghastly exhalation from the nether world; bits of burning ash seared holes in his shirt, trousers, arms. He had imagined it would be different, stately. And he hadn’t counted on what the fear would do to him, how it would galvanize and transform him into a creature who was firing himself as well as the locomotive, one who could endure pain and agony rather than a quiet waiting for the end. … The pressure gauges had slipped across into the red danger zones. He turned to see Maria. She was shielding herself and the boys. The three-year-old was crying, but she held him with his face to her breast; the older boy was staring out at the world in clear wonder. Maria, though taken aback by the sudden change in her husband’s appearance, still regarded it all as an adventure, though quite possibly one that had gotten rather out of hand. Still, it matched so well her picture of Alves: heroic, fearless, undaunted. … She smiled at him, an encouraging look. The woman is mad, he thought, devoted but mad. He saw the crowd undulating through the heat waves less than a hundred yards away; he bent to his stoking again.
Meanwhile Arnaldo regained his footing and made a dash for the engine. Legs and heart pumping in a frenzy, the dust choking him, steam burning him, he had almost no breath left. He gave a final surge, hurled himself upward at the back of the locomotive, clung for his life only inches above the coupling. All of his strength concentrated in his arms and hands, he flattened himself against the black steel and desperately raised his legs above the track flashing past below. He was going with Alves; there was no other way.
Inside the cab, Alves had slumped back, his clothing covered with burns and ashes. The throttle was full open, the firebox overloaded; the pressure gauges had gone as far as they could. He recognized the baobabs and euphorbias growing in the distance, craned his neck to see ahead. The fragile structure of the bridge jutted into view, heading off toward space, and as they reached the crowd he picked out familiar faces in the flash and blur, saw banknotes waved in the air, calabashes of grappa tilted over thirsty mouths, heard vague distant shouts. He felt his burn-tightened face crack in a smile.
The locomotive reached the bridge at top speed, in a horrific rush of sound that blended with the shining morning sun, the vast emptiness yawning below the narrow steel thread that seemed so fragile to bear such a cumbersome, hurtling monster. Smoke blackened his view when he sought the sun overhead; the wind grabbed at his hair and twisted it. The bridge gleamed like an assassin’s blade.
The moment froze forever in his mind, soundless, like one of his photographs. He was standing outside the event, which now had a life of its own. He saw it whole and it was fine. The exquisite Angolan morning, the grandeur of the two facing cliffs held together by the span of bridgework, the hollow echoing space between and below, the mixture of dense foliage and jagged rocks dropping down to a gently tumbling stream. The train reached the bridge and like a projectile began its steady journey along the line of steel, the smoke curling back like a black aviator’s scarf unfurled in the brisk breeze. From a distance there would be an absolute quiet to the scene, a peaceful progress, the machine age making itself felt in Africa.
In the middle of the bridge it became cool in the cabin. The wind coming up the canyon from the ocean freshened, touched their faces. Like the hand of God, Alves thought. At the back of the locomotive Arnaldo still clung, paralyzed by fear. Behind him the crowd was shrinking into a shapeless, mute creature, finally fading into the landscape. Now his eyes were closed, his lips moved, but he could not hear his own prayers.
As Alves listened to the creak and straining of the bridge over the wind, he began to realize that the bridge was indeed going to hold. Maria’s eyes were closed behind her goggles. Alves saw that she was praying. He leaned toward her, touched his blistered lips to her smudged forehead. He could hear the children laughing at last, pointing into space, enjoying the thrill of the ride. “Thank God,” he murmured, “thank God. I was right.”
Slowly Alves braked the locomotive. The bridge was behind them. The wheels screeched on the track, grinding, sparks rolling away like cinders, burning pebbles. They remained in the cab, in the stillness, draped like dolls over railings. He wiped his face with a silk handkerchief and the goggles were stripped away, leaving them all with masks of fresh, clean flesh.
Maria touched his cheek. “My darling, your face … oh, my dear.” She pressed her face against his chest, only half comprehending the truth of the matter.
“But it was a great honor,” he whispered, “to inaugurate this great train, was it not?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, her full lips muffled against his shirt. “A great honor.” The laughing children struggled down the steps, leaping, tumbling to the ground.
“Uncle! Uncle!” The older boy’s voice piped clearly.
Arnaldo, shirt torn, streaks of blood running across his hands and staining his cuffs, staggered into view. “Alves,” he croaked, a crooked grin stamped across his ashen face. “Alves, I came anyway … on the back of the locomotive.” He laughed and shook his head, abashed.
Alves wobbled to the ground, helped Maria down and stared at him for a long time.
Together, like children bound by a blood oath, the three embraced in the shadow of the vast American locomotive. As the tears and laughter slowly subsided, Alves kissed them both and moved off toward the bridge.
He wasn’t sure of his legs just yet, but he needed to be alone, to stand by the bridge, to see where he had been. He stood at the precipice, stared down into the void, heard the wind whistling in the steel. Blown toward him from across the vast chasm he heard, faintly, as if in a dream, the cheering of the crowd. …
Sitting disconsolately in the deep leather chair in his office, a mere six months after his triumphant return to Lisbon, Alves Reis was not prepared to announce that the European opportunities sketched by Adolf Hennies had been illusory, but he had decided it was not quite the bed of roses he had foreseen. Primarily he had developed a most sincere concern: how was he ever going to get rich? It was a warm, humid day, and he loosened his tie, flipped on the fan overhead, adjusted the louvers on the window shutters and fitted a cigarette into a black Dunhill holder. He leaned back and reflected on the state of things. …
To begin with, he’d thought he was rich. With operating capital of seventy-five thousand dollars—quite a stupendous amount of money for a young Portuguese in 1922—his return had been gaudy, a masterpiece of the nouveau riche impulse, and he’d enjoyed it enormously. He formed a corporation, A. V. Alves Reis Lda. (Limitado). For a luxurious twelve-room flat, including a music room for a new Steinway and a billiard room where he could entertain his business associates, he paid a veritable king’s ransom—one thousand escudos per month, or fifty dollars. The household staff over which Maria presided included a cook, a maid, a butler and her own private, full-time seamstress. Alves indulged in a chauffeur, who drove him through Lisbon’s narrow, winding streets in either of his two Nash automobiles, Nashes because Alves Reis Lda. had quickly purchased the Portuguese dealership. He furnished his home and his suite of offices in a baronial manner—brass-studded leather couches, hand-carved breakfronts twenty feet long, appointments of Carrara marble and onyx. All in all it was a staggeringly effective front.
But, Alves reflected, wiping sweat from his forehead with a nicotine-stained forefinger, life can be supported by either of two contradictory principles—namely, illusion and reality. He saw it now with frightening clarity and recognized that it had been with him ever since the day he created his own Oxford diploma, affixed the fictional signatures and found a gullible notary who gave it his stamp. He had based his entire Angolan adventure on that diploma—clearly an illusion. And he had emerged rich, respected and well launched. No one had been harmed. The illusion, the appearance, had created the reality because he could personally back it up. It was the way business was done: you bet on yourself—and he won, kept winning. He was good at it. It was a trick.
