A Small Death in Lisbon

Chapter XXXI

24th April 1974, Rua do Ouro, Baixa, Lisbon Joaquim Abrantes stood in the dark in front of the open window, it was late, close to midnight. His wife, Pica, lay on the chaise longue playing with the dial of the radio, trying to find some entertainment that didn't drive her husband into a frenzy. She'd almost lost the radio to the street below once already when she'd come across some foreign station and picked up the Rolling Stones singing 'Angie' at a sudden full volume.

'Turn it off!' he'd yelled. 'I hear music like that… and I think it's the end of the world.'

'What are we doing here, anyway?' she'd asked, annoyed. 'Why don't we go home and relax in Lapa. You're always like this when you're on top of your work.'

'I'm worried,' he'd said, but didn't take it any further.

She settled for a local station called Radio Renascenca. She recognized the voice of Jose Vasconcelos whom she'd met several times when she'd been in the business. Abrantes grumbled again. He didn't like music. It offended his inner workings. He smoked from one of four cigarettes he had going in various ashtrays around the room.

'And now,' introduced the quiet voice on the radio, 'Zeca Afonso sings Grandola, vila morena…'

'I don't know what you have to worry about.'

'I'm worried,' said Abrantes, crushing a butt out into another ashtray and picking up a lit cigarette from it, 'because something is happening.'

'Something's happening?' said Pica, with mock astonishment. 'Nothing's happening. Nothing ever happens.'

'Manuel told me he thought something was going to happen.'

'What does he know?' said Pica, who'd never liked Manuel.

'He's an Inspector with PIDE. If he doesn't know, nobody knows. I'm going to call him.'

'It's after midnight, Joaquim.'

'Turn that radio off,' said Abrantes, hearing the lyrics now. 'That Zeca Afonso is a communist.'

He dialled Manuel's number. Pica toyed with the volume, turning it lower.

'He's a communist,' said Abrantes, to the ceiling, 'and I won't have him in the house. Now turn it off.'

He listened on the phone. It rang continuously. Pica turned the radio off.

He's in bed and that's where I'm going,' she said.

Abrantes ignored her. He walked to the window with the phone in his hand. He disconnected and dialled another number but couldn't get a line.

Four men sat in a car just off the Eduardo VII Park in the centre of Lisbon. They were a major, two captains and a lieutenant. The captain in the front seat had a radio on his knees which they all stared at, hardly hearing it. The major leaned back in his seat to look at his watch in the street lighting. The lieutenant yawned with nerves.

'And now,' said the quiet voice of Jose Vasconcelos from the radio, 'Zeca Afonso sings Grandola, vila morena…'

The four men held their breath for a moment until Zeca Afonso began to sing. The captain turned in his seat to face the major.

'It's started, sir,' he said, and the major nodded.

They drove two blocks to a four-storey building and parked up. The four men got out and each took a pistol from his pocket. They walked into the building which had a small plaque outside: Radio Clube Portugues.

Manuel Abrantes was sleeping at the wheel of his Peugeot 504 saloon. The front right-hand tyre thumped into a pothole and he came awake to find grass scudding under the front of the car. He threw the wheel to the left and the car latched back on to the tarmac. He stopped and breathed in quick, short breaths until the scare subsided. He wound down the window and sucked in the chill air. He felt for the passenger seat and found his briefcase. He undipped it and pulled out a file, his own personnel file from the PIDE/DGS headquarters on Rua Antonio Maria Cardoso. He fed it back in. Everything was as it should be. The little anxiety dream he'd just had at the wheel was only that. He loosened his trousers which were cutting into his belly and startled himself with a loud, uncalled-for fart. His stomach still upset. He put the car in gear and started moving again, calmer now.

'Where am I?' he asked, out loud as if a passenger in the back might lean forward and tell him.

A sign loomed at the end of a long straight piece of road. He gripped the steering wheel and blinked the sleep away. Madrid 120 km.

An eighteen-year-old Ze Coelho was drinking cheap bagaco in a white-tiled tasca in the middle of the Bairro Alto with three of his schoolfriends when the owner came thundering down the stairs from his apartment above.

'Something's happening,' he said, breathless and shocked. 'I was listening to the radio… some army officers busted in on the programme. Now they're just playing music continuously.'

'If you want to go to bed,' said Ze, 'you don't have to invent a coup.'

'I'm serious.'

The seven people in the bar looked at the man for several seconds until they'd all seen his seriousness. They got up as one and went out into the street. Ze Coelho flicked his shoulder-length hair over the wolfskin collar of his floor-length woollen capote Alentejano and they started running down the narrow cobbled alleyway towards the square below.

They were not alone. A crowd was gathering in the Praca de Luis de Camoes and the words 'coup' and 'revolution' ricocheted off the statue in the middle of the square. After fifteen minutes the crescendo of excitement hit its top note with a shout to march on the PIDE/DGS headquarters in Rua Antonio Maria Cardoso. They entered the street from the Largo do Chiado and found another gang of people coming up from Rua Vitor Cordon.

Behind the arched gateway and high walls the doors to the building were shut and the front dark, but the faint glimmer in the windows told the crowd that there were lights on in the building somewhere. They hammered on the gates yelling incoherently. Ze stood in the middle of the street, punching the air with his fist and shouting 'Revolution!' and, inclined to go one step too far, 'Off with their heads.'

Windows opened at the top of the building and dark figures leaned out over the street. Four shots shattered the night air. The crowd split both ways down the street with screams and shouts. More shots followed them. Their boots thundered on the cobbles. Ze ran back up the hill and fell in a confusion of legs around him. He rolled over on the cobbles and, further down the street from in front of the PIDE building, he heard terrible noises coming from a man's throat. He checked the top of the building again but could see nothing. He crouched and ran back down the street, grabbed the man by his coat collar and hauled him up the hill. When he was safe he fell back and reached down to the choking man. His fingers found the slippery warmth of a neck wound.

Joaquim Abrantes had slept very badly. He woke up at six o'clock feeling groggy and bad-tempered, as if he'd spent the day before drinking. He tried to call his sons, but still couldn't get a line. He opened the window and looked out into the empty street. Something was wrong. The street should not have been empty. He sniffed the air, it was different, like the first whiff of spring after a long winter except that they were in the middle of spring already. A wild-eyed young man burst into the street from the direction of the elevador up to the Chiado. He raised his fist in the air and shouted to the empty street:

'IT'S OVER!'

He ran up the street towards the Rossio.

There were horns blaring and a faint seethe of chatter and singing. Abrantes leaned further out of the window. He wasn't wrong. People were singing in the street.

'This is bad,' he said to himself, and strode back to the telephone.

'What's bad?' asked Pica, standing by the bedroom door in her red silk dressing gown.

'I don't know yet, but it sounds bad. People are singing in the street.'

'Singing?' said Pica, both charmed and mystified that something really was happening. 'Ah, well, even if there has been a coup…'

'COUP!' roared Abrantes. 'You don't understand, do you? This isn't a coup. This is a revolution. The communists have arrived.'

'So what?' she said, shrugging herself off the door jamb. 'What are you worried about? Half your money's in Zurich. The other half's in'sao Paulo. Even the gold's out of the country…'

'Don't mention the gold,' growled Abrantes, wagging his finger. 'Don't even say the word "gold". That gold does not exist. It never existed. There never was any gold. Do you understand?!'

'Perfectly,' she said, and went back into the bedroom, slamming the door.

Abrantes pulled on his coat and went out into the street and walked towards the Terreiro do Paco and the river. The Praca do Comercio was full of troops, but they were all laughing and joking with each other. Abrantes moved amongst them, stunned.

At a little before 8.00 a.m. a column of tanks appeared from the barracks of the 7th Cavalry. Abrantes positioned himself in the arcade at the north of the square.

'Now we shall see,' he said to a soldier, who looked him up and down as if he was Neanderthal.

The column of tanks drew to a halt. The turret of the lead tank opened. A captain on the ground stepped forward. The lieutenant in the tank shouted down to him. His voice was clear in the fresh early morning and the total silence in the square.

'I have orders to open fire on you,' said the lieutenant, and the soldiers in the square shifted, 'but all I really want to do is laugh.'

The shifting stopped and a murmur ran around the square.

'Go ahead then,' said the captain.

The troops in the square cheered. The lieutenant held up his hand, splayed his fingers and pointed back to the column. The captain sent a platoon to the fifth tank and four of them clambered up on to its shoulders. The turret opened and an explosive colonel put his head out and found himself looking up at four rifles' barrels.

On the River Tagus the navy ship Almirante Gago Coutinho cruised to a halt in front of the Praca do Comercio, its guns pointing into the heart of the city. The troops and tanks in the square watched in silence, preparing for the first volley. Several minutes passed. No sound came from the ship. The guns didn't move. There was no signal until slowly one by one the ship's guns turned away from the city and faced the south bank of the Tagus. To the gunners it looked like a flock of pigeons had taken off as a thousand caps were flung into the air on the back of a tumultuous roar in the Praca do Comercio. Joaquim Abrantes turned and walked back up the Rua do Ouro.

Ze Coelho didn't get home until 10.00 a.m. He and his friends had taken the wounded man to the hospital and the nurses in the Urgencia, on seeing his bloodstained clothes, had singled him out and refused to let him leave until a doctor had examined him which took some time. They'd washed him as best they could but the wolf collar was still badly and irrevocably stained from the man's neck wound. His mother opened the door and screamed which brought his father out of the bedroom. His sister took Ze's coat and went to run a bath for him. The telephone rang. His father took the call. Ze and his mother watched in silence as the colonel spoke quietly and seriously, looking at the floor refusing to catch anyone's eye. He replaced the heavy Bakelite handset. Ze's sister appeared in the doorway.

'General Spinola,' he said, summoning a grave and quiet voice to communicate the full weight of the occasion, 'has asked me to go to the Largo do Carmo barracks. Prime Minister Caetano is there with his cabinet and I have been asked to persuade them to allow General Spinola to accept the unconditional surrender of the government.'

'Did you know about this?' asked his wife, her voice quavering with fear and shock at the terrifying implications for her and the children, had the coup turned out differendy and badly.

'No, and neither did the General. Apparently the coup was organized by the junior officers, but the General knows that Caetano won't surrender to them. The Prime Minister won't want power to fall into the hands of the mob.'

'He means the communists,' said Ze.

'And what have you been doing?' asked the colonel, giving his bloodstained son his eagle look.

'I was outside the PIDE headquarters when they opened fire on us. Some people were hit and we took one of them to hospital.'

Ze's mother had to sit down.

'The General said there'd been no casualties.'

'Well, you can tell him from me when you see him that more than one went down in Rua Antonio Maria Cardoso.'

'Did they bring anybody else into the hospital while you were there?'

'They locked me up in a room to prevent me from leaving.'

The colonel nodded, his forehead creased, but smiling at his son.

'You stay here now and look after your mother,' he said, pulling his daughter to him, kissing her on the head. 'Nobody leaves this apartment until I say it's safe.'

'You'll see,' said Ze, teasing his father now, 'they're dancing in the streets out there.'

'My son… the communist,' said the colonel, shaking his head.

At 12.30 p.m. the guard came in to Felsen's cell in the Caxias prison with a tray of food. He put it on the bed. The noise from the rest of the prison, which had been going on all morning, had not abated. The politicals were into their fiftieth rendition of the anti-fascist song Venham mats cinco and the guards had given up trying to quieten them long ago.

'Anything I should know about?' asked Felsen.

'Nothing that will affect you,' said the guard.

'I was just commenting on the different atmosphere in the prison today.'

'Some of our friends might be leaving soon.'

'Oh yes? Why's that?'

'Just a small revolution… like I said, nothing that will affect you.'

'Thank you,' said Felsen.

Nada,' said the guard.

Dr Aquilino Oliveira should have been happy following the nurse down the corridor of the maternity wing of the'sao Jose hospital. He'd been told that his fourth child was a boy, weighing 3.7 kilos and was completely healthy. The nurse was gabbling at him over her shoulder as she batted her way through the swing doors. She didn't seem to need any response from him to keep herself going.

'…four dead and three wounded. That's what they said down in the Urgencia, only four. They can't believe it. I can't believe it. There are tanks in the Terreiro do Paco and the Largo do Carmo but they're not doing anything. They're just there. The soldiers have rounded up the PIDE agents but not to punish them… you know… just for their own protection. The soldiers. I haven't seen it… but they say the soldiers have put red carnations down their rifles so that the people will know, you see… they'll know that they're not there to shoot anyone. They're there to liberate them. Only four people dead on a night like this with tanks in the streets and battleships in the Tagus. Don't you think that's just incredible, Senhor Doutor? I think that's incredible. You know, Senhor Doutor, I never thought I'd be able to say this in my lifetime but I'm proud. I'm proud to be Portuguese.'

She flung open the door to the maternity ward and led the lawyer in. His wife was screened off in the corner of the room with six other women in it. His shoes skidded on the highly polished floor and he had to grab a bed to save himself from falling.

'Watch yourself,' said the nurse, whose rubber soles squeaked on the floor.

He went behind the screen. His wife was sitting up, concerned.

'Are you all right?' she asked.

'He nearly slipped over on the floor,' said the nurse. 'I've told them before not to polish it so much. It's all right for us, but anybody coming in here with leather soles… they're in trouble. Do you know what you're going to call him?'

'Not yet.'

'Well, you won't have much trouble remembering his birthday.'

Ana Rosa Pinto sat with her mother in the kitchen. They were holding hands and crying, looking down at the three-year-old Carlos, who was playing on the floor. She'd started off the day annoyed because they wouldn't let her board the ferry to cross the river to get to her doctor's appointment for Carlos in Lisbon. Then they'd pointed out the Almirante Gago Coutinho with her guns up and she'd gone home scared but excited to wait for news.

In the late morning her father had gone down to the first open meeting of the Partido Comunista Portugues on the docks in Cacilhas on the south bank of the Tagus. Ana Rosa and her mother were hoping he'd bring back news of the release of political prisoners from the Caxias prison.

Little Carlos had never seen his father. His mother had been six months pregnant when the GNR had broken up a union meeting at the shipyard and his father had been taken across the river for questioning. Just two weeks before Carlos was born Ana Rosa had heard that her husband had been taken to Caxias to serve a five-year prison sentence for illegal political activities.

They waited all day, until dusk had just changed to night, when there was a knock at the door of the apartment. Ana Rosa eased her hand out of her mother's and answered it. A boy handed her a message and ran off without waiting. She read it and the tears which had gradually dried through the day sprang back.

'What is it?' asked her mother.

'They've taken the boat across. There's a crowd gathering in the Rossio. They're going to march on Caxias prison tonight.'

At 3.00 a.m. on 26th April the door to Antonio Borrego's cell in the Caxias prison was unlocked. The guard didn't say anything, he didn't even open the door, he just moved on to the next cell and opened that one. Antonio looked out down the dimly-lit corridor. Other men were doing the same. There was cheering and embracing. Antonio squeezed past them and trotted down the three flights of stairs into the courtyard. There were another fifty-odd men down there all looking expectantly at the gates to the prison. He jogged across the courtyard to the hospital block and ran up the stairs two at a time. He had to catch his breath at the top, more out of condition than he'd thought.

There were three men in the ward. Two of them were sleeping and the third, Alexandre Saraiva, was sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to get his socks on but only managing to cough. Antonio took the socks and fitted them on his friend's feet. He found the man's boots and pushed Alex's feet into them and tied them up. Alex spat into the metal dish on the bedside and inspected the phlegm.

'Still bloody,' he said, to no one in particular. 'Have you come to take me home?'

'I have,' said Antonio.

'Who's paying the cab fare?'

'We're walking.'

'I don't know whether I'll make it. It's damned nearly killed me to get dressed.'

'You'll make it.'

Antonio wrapped Alex's arm over the back of his neck. They stood. Antonio hooked his thumb into the waistband of Alex's trousers. They went down the stairs into the courtyard. There were more than a hundred people now. The sound of a crowd clamouring on the other side of the gates reached them. Names were shouted out and lost in the noise. Antonio leaned Alex up against the wall and held him there lightly with a hand on his chest.

The gates opened to pandemonium from the huge crowd, who'd come up from Lisbon on free train rides. The prisoners came out blinking into the flashlights of cameras, searching for faces that meant something to them.

Antonio waited for the courtyard to empty before he moved Alex out into a freedom neither of them had known for nine years. They skirted the euphoria and walked down the hill into Caxias. They didn't have to go far. They got a free ride to Paco de Arcos from a tearful cab driver.

The cab dropped them off at Alex's bar next to the public gardens. The tiled sign set into the wall was still there. It showed a blue line-drawing of the Bugio lighthouse and underneath O Farol. Alex tapped the lighted window of the house next door. A woman sounding old and tired answered.

It's me, Dona Emilia,' said Alex.

The toothless woman, dressed in black, opened the door and peered out into the night, her eyes not so good any more. She saw Alex and grabbed his face with bent and twisted fingers and kissed him on both cheeks, harder and harder as if she was kissing him back into existence. She produced the key to the bar from her front apron as if she'd been prepared nine years for this moment. She brought them candles from her kitchen.

Alex unlocked the bar door and Antonio sat him down on a metal chair next to a wooden table in the dark. They lit the candles.

'There should be something behind the bar,' said Alex. 'Nice and mature by now.'

Antonio found a bottle of aguardente and a couple of dusty glasses which he blew into. He poured out the pale yellow liquid. They drank to freedom and the alcohol set off a coughing fit in Alex.

'We'll go to the notary tomorrow,' said Alex.

'What for?'

'I want to make sure that when I go, this place is yours.'

'Eh, homem, don't talk like that.'

'There's one condition.'

'Look, forget it, you're…'

'Pour another drink and listen to me,' said Alex.

'I'm listening.'

'You have to change the name of the bar to A Bandeira Vermelha. That way nobody will forget.'

On 2nd May 1974 Joaquim Abrantes, Pedro, Manuel and Pica had lunch in a small restaurant in the centre of Madrid. It was agreed that Manuel would fly to'Sao Paulo in Brazil and open a branch of the Banco de Oceano e Rocha. Joaquim and Pedro would go to Lausanne and track the political situation in Portugal from there. Pica wanted to know why they couldn't do it from Paris, but nobody paid any attention to her.

On the 3rd May 1974 just as Manuel Abrantes' flight from Madrid to Buenos Aires was leaving the West African coast, thirty-six ex-PIDE/DGS agentes made themselves available to the new regime for traffic control and vehicle registration.