Electrico W

DAY EIGHT: DUCK

In the morning I bought the Diário. The front page showed Mexico City in ruins, buildings collapsed like houses of cards, rows of bodies, and the dust-caked faces of survivors. There too, churches had caved in onto the faithful. On an inside page was the report on the Pinheiro case. The journalist who had covered it had some literary background. In Pinheiro’s incoherent outburst he had recognized Petrarch’s criticism of astrologers and their predictions. So he didn’t like horoscopes then. What to make of that? You tell me.

I hadn’t envisaged the Pinheiro case like this. I had hoped — and the general public had hoped to an even greater extent — there would be confessions, or better, revelations. Diabolical machinations revealed for all to see. I’d pictured a sect, a clandestine criminal hierarchy with esoteric rites. But everything was still dark and vague, and I was almost ashamed of sending the newspaper my daily chatty report of this obscurity.

It was not until eleven o’clock that I made up my mind to go to LisboPrint, Soares & Filhos printers, with the excuse of photocopying and faxing my article. I felt, with a hint of superstition, that fate would repay me for my efforts to curb my eagerness. I was hoping to see Duck, but the premises went back a long way, and a wide set of shelves housing files blocked my view of the presses and any employees. The only person at the till was a tall man of about forty with an overly purple tie. He was a bit slow and clumsy: the photocopier wasn’t self-service, neither was the fax, and it took him nearly ten minutes to complete these tasks.

I tried to find an excuse to stay a little longer, to get a chance to see her. I thought about business cards, which people kept asking me for. The tall guy shouted Constantino! in a loud high-pitched voice, several times, until a pudgy little man built like Ubu appeared. He took out three large files filled with samples of hundreds of different styles.

“You’ve certainly come to the right place for business cards: what with the size, choice of paper, font, layout, and inking techniques, we can give you the choice of, guess how many combinations. Guess.”

“I–I don’t know.”

“Okay, ten sizes, twenty types of paper, fifteen fonts, ten basic formats, and six different inking methods, that gives us … a hundred and eighty thousand different business cards! And that’s not counting logos and colored ink,” he concluded triumphantly.

“And can you give me a recommendation?”

He pointed to the first card on the first page of the first file.

“Take the standard one. It’s sensible and professional, it’s simple without being boring. How many do you need? I would recommend two hundred. It’s not much more expensive to print than one hundred, and with five hundred you never use them all. If you did need more, don’t worry, we keep the offset plates for a year.”

“All right then, two hundred of the standard style.”

“Perfect. It’s our best seller. You’ll be very pleased with it.”

I paid for the photocopying and the cards. It was no giveaway. I’d now run out of ideas so I just came out and asked, “Forgive me, but I came by a few days ago and was served by a dark-haired young woman who—”

“Oh, are you also picking up a rebound book? You should have said. When did you leave it with us? If it was last week and it was being leather-bound, it’s a bit too soon. They haven’t been delivered.”

I immediately thought of the Contos aquosos that I had in my pocket.

“No, it’s something I want to have done, I have the book with me.”

The man called Constantino cried Cátia! two or three times, with the same energy and the same high-pitched voice as the photocopying man. It must have been the exact intonation and volume needed for a voice to carry over the noise of the machines.

Cátia … so this wasn’t Duck. I was disappointed, but it was logical: old Custódia saw so little of his daughter that he probably didn’t know where she now worked. I would have to start all over again. At least I would have some business cards to hand out.

But a young woman appeared and there she was. She had changed very little, perhaps her features had hollowed slightly. Her straight hair was cut shorter, under her work smock she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She was a modern young woman, ordinarily pretty and prettily ordinary. I thought I would be disconcerted, bowled over when my secret heroine of the last few days turned up. But I felt the tension in me subside, I was finally liberated by the very simplicity of her incarnation.

I must have looked slightly dazed. She peered at me probingly, tilting her head. I had forgotten what I was doing there.

“This is for a book binding, isn’t it?” she asked.

She had a slightly hoarse, deep, but very sensual voice that I would never have suspected from her. I showed her my copy of the Contos. She opened it and examined the inner pages. She was a professional.

“Apart from the cover, it’s in good condition. It’s got, let me see, twelve signatures. I’ll redo all the stitching and put a double lining on the spine. Will these be all right, this marbled paper for the cover, and this green for the cloth-bound spine and the corners?”

“Green, yes, that would be great.”

“That’s good then. I’ll be able to slip it in with another order right away today. Not only will it cost you less, but you’ll have it back in under forty-eight hours, perhaps even tomorrow. Glue dries quickly at the moment. Would you like the bookmark in red, blue, or gold?”

“Whatever you like.”

“Let’s say gold. It’ll look very nice with the green cloth binding.”

She handed me her card: Cátia Moniz. I smiled — hers was also the standard style, Constantino’s best seller.

“Call me tomorrow morning then, Mr.…”

“Balmer. Vincent Balmer. I’ve given all my contact details … for my cards.”

Before taking the book she looked at its cover.

“Jaime Montestrela …”

“Do you know him? You’re definitely the first.”

“He wrote a beautiful book, Cidade de lama, about the loneliness of exile. I haven’t read it, but the phrase ‘exile is an endless insomnia’ is from him.”

CÁTIA MONIZ. CÁTIA Moniz. Nothing of the Duck I had imagined could be filed under that completely new name.

When I reached Rossio Square it started pouring rain. I sheltered and watched the slow pirouette of taxis describing a wide circle around Dom Pedro IV’s column. It was 1985 but the Peugeot 403 was already looking ancient. It was closely followed by a Datsun with a crumpled front wing, then a Mercedes with battered chrome that was spewing as much soot as smoke.

A young couple were waiting at the head of the queue, more mismatched than a pelican and a chickadee. He was tall and bulky but trussed up in a tight raincoat, his neck squeezed by a too-thin tie, she was short and slim, wearing a soaked multicolored dress. From that far away, hidden as she was by a straw hat ravaged by the rain shower, she could have been Aurora, Manuela, or even Duck. Watching them, I succumbed to the all-encompassing amazement I always feel about lives that are not my own. The boy talked the whole time while she gazed into the distance. When the 403 stopped beside them, she opened the rear door, climbed in quickly, and leaned toward the driver. Her movements suggested relief, she was in a hurry for the date to be over. She closed the door and the young man stayed outside, mouth agape, his words hanging in the air. He leaned forward, almost kneeling, and gesticulated for her to lower the window, to exchange a last few words or perhaps a kiss. She looked away and the Peugeot plowed its tires into an oily puddle as it set off. The young man in the tie watched the Peugeot move away before climbing into the Datsun behind. He closed the door on his raincoat, a big flap of it hung down to the ground and was spattered with mud as the taxi pulled away. The city displayed two or three hundred shows like this in parallel, comedies and tragedies, and I didn’t know what to make of this gift of fate.

The shower stopped, the sun dried the sidewalks, and I walked to the Brasileira. I wanted to see Manuela. In the previous night’s unfathomable nightmare she was the one I wanted. And perhaps that was all I needed to understand from that dream. That one fantasy was coming to an end, given that I was ready — at worst — to move on to another. If she hadn’t been there I would have kept on walking to the theater and demanded to see her. But she was at the Brasileira, sitting at a table with a woman with very short blond hair, an elegant, athletic woman, a little older than she was. Manuela was not wearing her provocative corset, just a dress that could have been demure if she hadn’t shortened it by pulling it up over a belt.

I waved to her and she introduced us: Anna, Vincent. The woman looked up at me and, with her cool reception, implied I was interrupting. I waited at another table and ordered a coffee. The blond woman looked annoyed, she squeezed Manuela’s hand and stood up, and Manuela sat still for a moment before giving me a little wave. I went to join her.

“I’m sorry, Vincent. Anna’s not very sociable. How’s the dragon Irene doing?”

“She’s — she’s fine.”

Manuela laughed. “I meant you and her.”

“I’m — I’m getting better.”

“Well, that’s reassuring. I didn’t see much of her, but I can tell you what does it for her, she’s desperate to be found attractive and terrified of being abandoned. She must have given you quite a runaround.”

“Because that was what I wanted.”

“Of course. When someone looks like a whipped dog, you want to hurt them. It’s the rule.”

“Do I look like a whipped dog?”

“With her you do. You look like you’ve lost before you’ve even tried. No one wants to be with a permanent loser.”

I looked at the dolphin on her wrist and felt like touching her hand. I took her fingers for a moment but she withdrew them immediately.

“Vincent … please. Don’t always put yourself in situations where you can be humiliated. Do you really misread things that badly?”

“I–I’m really sorry.”

“And stop apologizing the whole time. There’s nothing tragic about all this. You don’t know anything about me, I’ll tell you a bit. As you’re looking at the dolphin, I’ll tell you about that. You have to go back seventeen years, during the Angolan war. Portugal sent tens of thousands of soldiers out there, more even, and in among all those young conscripts was Francisco, my father’s best friend’s son. But Francisco had hardly landed before he was killed by a grenade, deep in the jungle, in an ambush near Luanda. His body was repatriated, and our whole family went to his funeral. It was snowing that day, that’s rare here but it was January. We all filed past the hole in the ground, to throw in a red carnation. The engraving on the marble gravestone read “1948–1968,” and when I saw those two dates, I started shaking and crying. I didn’t know Francisco, I’d never even met him, but I just couldn’t stop. A girl came over to me and took my hand, she cried with me. She was a cousin of Francisco’s, Delfina, she was just sixteen, almost the same age as me, she didn’t know anything about me, but thought I must be Francisco’s girlfriend. She didn’t let go of my hand for the whole ceremony. When we had to head back to Lisbon we quickly exchanged addresses and phone numbers and promised to meet up. We both already knew that we were in love. Yes, don’t look at me like that, Vincent, the great love of my teenage years was called Delfina. She was from a military family and went to school at the Instituto de Odivelas, a very strict, very Catholic boarding school with the motto Thought, Courage and Devotion. We had to hide. In 1962 when they wanted to put one of the leaders of the Communist Party in prison, they used the excuse that he was homosexual. The Odivelas district was a really long way from where I lived, but every evening I used to take the Eléctrico M, and then a bus, and I would meet Delfina in the Instituto’s old chapel, which had one door that didn’t lock properly. Sometimes we could even stay there all night, hiding in the refectory. One night, another girl gave Delfina away, and we were caught. The insults were appalling, there were physical blows, I was hounded out, the Mother Superior dragged Delfina up to her room by her hair, Delfina screaming, calling me to help her. I don’t know what happened after that but that night Delfina fell from the third floor. ‘She walked on the roof and slipped’ was the story given by the management, who never mentioned the earlier scene to her family. A tragic accident. But it wasn’t true. Delfina had also slit her wrists with a razor, I discovered that later. I can tell you what happened. They beat her, insulted her, belittled her, and humiliated her to the point where she slit her wrists and threw herself out of the window. Or maybe they even pushed her out to disguise her suicide. I went to see her father to tell him everything, and he was horrible too. His daughter couldn’t have been a lesbian, it was unthinkable, in fact he couldn’t even say the word. I wasn’t allowed to go to Delfina’s funeral. The following day, I went to my love’s grave with my sister who knew everything and hadn’t left my side since Delfina died because she was so frightened I would kill myself too. There were flowers everywhere, and even a bouquet of white roses from the Instituto de Odivelas, I spat on it and threw it as far as I could, and I screamed like an animal in that cemetery. Then I sang a song by Antonio Botto, you might know it, Delfina really liked his work. I can still remember it:

Envolve-me amorosamente

Na cadeia de teus braços

Como naquela tardinha …

Não tardes, amor ausente;

Tem pena da minha mágoa,

Vida minha!

Wrap me lovingly

In the chain of your arms

As you did that evening …

Don’t be long, my absent love,

Take pity on my pain

Life of mine!

“I went and had the dolphin tattoo done that same evening. The guy refused at first, he didn’t do tattoos on women, I was too young, the skin on wrists is too thin, but I told him the whole story, in tears, and he eventually agreed. He didn’t want me to pay.”

I looked in silence at the dolphin as Manuela stroked it with her finger.

“I–I would never have known. You’re so …”

“Don’t, please. Without meaning to you’re going to say something stupid and offensive.”

I nodded. She was right. She smiled.

“You certainly don’t have much luck with women. You’re thinking: first a bitch, then a dike …”

“I–I never said that, Manuela.”

“No, I’m saying it. Anyway, Delfina was the only girl I’ve ever loved, the only girl I’ve kissed and touched even. It was because it was her. Things aren’t that straightforward, you see. I’ll tell you an important truth which you might find useful: having luck with women doesn’t exist. What does exist is knowing when a woman is giving you your chance, and seizing it. But you never see anything, Vincent. You should never have dared take my hand before I gave you a sign that meant yes, you can at least try.”

I looked away.

“And there you go again, with your hangdog expression. You’re—”

“Hopeless, is that what you were going to say?”

“I’m not that pessimistic anymore. But you’re too on edge to spot the tiny signs. You project your longing for love onto some poor girl, and the effect this has is inevitably the exact opposite of what you’re hoping. Because it’s monstrous and clingy, that longing imposed on someone when they haven’t done anything to provoke it. They want only one thing and that’s to get away. And believe me, I know a lot about women.”

She looked at her watch. “I have to go, I’m sorry. I’m already late.”

“Can I call you? I’d like to.”

“Sorry, Vincent, but I don’t give out my number that easily. But we’ll see each other again. Why don’t you tell me how I can get hold of you. Do you have a business card?”

I started laughing and, slightly surprised by my reaction, Manuela laughed too.

The Ilbassan civilization on the high plateau of Holtepo has more gods than all other civilizations combined. Where some peoples might believe in a rain goddess and would dance to secure her favor, the Ilbassanians think there is a goddess for each raindrop. So they don’t exhaust themselves jigging about over something so small.

I was translating this tale of Montestrela’s when Irene called me. She was flying out in a few hours and just wanted to say goodbye. I initially thought of saying I was busy but didn’t want to run away from the situation.

“I can come by your studio if you’re working. I won’t disturb you for long.”

I hardly had time to tidy the place before Irene knocked on the door. She came in and with her came that heady, candy-smelling perfume. She was wearing her red dress and coral necklace.

“So this is where you live. It’s not bad for someone who wants to write. It’s light, not too out of the way. What a wonderful view …”

She walked over to the window and leaned on the top rail of the little balcony to look at the Tagus. I moved closer, slowly, until I was right behind her, I breathed in the smell of her, the sensual acidity of her sweat. Irene stood motionless, so did I.

I need only have taken one step and our bodies would have touched. Hers wouldn’t have avoided mine, she would have leaned forward very slightly, and her buttocks would have moved back, pushing against my penis. I would have wanted her but wouldn’t have done anything. Just pushed my body against hers until she felt me against her. She would have moved, gently, spread her legs, slowly. Her right hand would have touched my thigh, moved up toward my erection, she would have squeezed it through the fabric. She would have unbuttoned my jeans, they would have dropped to my ankles. I too would have slid my hand over her legs, touching her silky, milky skin, realizing with amazement she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. She would have bent over even further, offering herself, and, in that position, I would have taken her soft, moist cleft, my stomach smacking against her ass, my penis going back and forth inside her, harder and harder, without a single word spoken, looking at her buttocks but also, to avoid coming too quickly, the ferries on the Tagus. All at once she would have moved away, turned around, and knelt down. She would barely have licked the tip of my penis and cupped my balls before I ejaculated on her cheek and in her hair.

“You’re right, it’s a lovely view. If you lean out a bit, look, you can see the big statue of Christ the King. Can you see it?”

Irene left almost immediately. Her goodbye kiss landed on the corner of my mouth.

Her plane took off at eight o’clock and flew over Lisbon. I think I saw it.