The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro

Fifteen

AVENIDA DE MONTEVIDEU, together with the Avenida do Brasil, combined to form an interminable seafront, far longer than Firmino had bargained for, but he had no choice but to trudge along it until he came to the nightclub, because he didn’t know the number. A fresh breeze off the Atlantic ruffled the flags outside a big hotel. At first the seafront was swarming with people, mostly young families outside ice-cream parlors, with children nodding off to sleep as they sucked wearily at their ices. It occurred to Firmino that his compatriots put their children to bed far too late and maybe had too many children anyway. But then it occurred to him that that was a cretinous thing to think. He noticed that the first, crowded stretch of seafront gradually gave way to a less frequented, more classy area of austere villas and early twentieth-century buildings with iron-balustraded balconies and stuccoed façades. The ocean was pretty rough and its violent waves crashed against the cliffs.

‘Puccini’s Butterfly’ occupied the whole of a detached building which Firmino off the cuff dated to be from the 1920s, a fine construction in the Art Nouveau style, with green-tiled cornices and verandas with small tympana in imitation of the Manueline Style of architecture. On the first-floor balcony a violet neon sign with rococo flourishes, read: ‘Puccini’s Butterfly.’ And over each of the three entrances of the club were other and less glaring signs indicating respectively the Butterfly Restaurant, the Butterfly Nightclub and the Butterfly Discotheque. The discotheque was the only entrance which didn’t have a red carpet. The others did and were attended quite smartly by a uniformed doorman. Firmino decided that the discotheque was not the one to aim for. It would certainly be a place impossible to talk in, with psychedelic lights and deafening music. There seemed no point in the restaurant, those meatballs would see him through the evening. There was nothing for it but the nightclub. The doorman let him in and gave an imperceptible bow. The light inside had a bluish hue. Further down the lobby was a small bar in old-fashioned English style, with a solid wooden counter and red leather chairs. It was completely empty. Firmino went through it, drew aside a velvet curtain and entered the nightclub proper. Here also the light had a bluish hue. Like a stage servant awaiting his cue in the wings, a solicitous figure murmured in a faintly off-putting tone of voice:

“Good evening sir, have you booked?”

It was the maître d’: about fifty years old, impeccable dinner-jacket, grey hair that looked blue in that blue light, an imposing stereotyped smile.

“No,” replied Firmino, “I absolutely forgot to.”

“No matter,” murmured the other, “I have a good table for you if you would care to step this way.”

Firmino did so. He reckoned there were thirty tables in the room, almost all of them occupied. Mostly by middle-aged clients, regulars it seemed to him, the ladies rather dressy and their squires on the whole more informal, in light linen jackets and even a few sports shirts. There was a small stage with a proscenium arch at the far end of the room. It was deserted. This was plainly an interval, and through the blue-tinted room filtered some piped music Firmino thought he recognized. He cupped a questioning hand to his ear and the maître d’ murmured to him, “Puccini, sir. Is this table to your liking?”

The table was in fact not too near the stage and slightly to one side, which gave him a good view of the whole room.

“Have you already dined sir, or shall I bring you the menu?” asked the maître d’.

“Can one dine here as well?” asked Firmino, “I thought the restaurant was next door.”

“Here we serve only snacks,” was the answer, “side dishes.”

“Such as?”

“Smoked swordfish,” specified the maître d’, “cold lobster, that sort of thing. But would you care to see the menu or do you simply wish for something to drink?”

“Well,” said Firmino vaguely, “what do you suggest?”

“You cannot go wrong with a nice glass of champagne to start with,” responded the maître d’.

It occurred to Firmino that he had to make an urgent call to the Editor to telegraph more money, he had already run through his advance expenses and was living on a loan from Dona Rosa.

“Very well,” he replied nonchalantly, “bring me champagne, as long as it’s the best you have.”

The maître d’ tiptoed away. The Puccini music ceased, the lights were dimmed and a spotlight illuminated the stage. It was bluish, needless to say. In the cone of light appeared a pretty young girl, her hair done up in a chignon, and she began to sing. She sang without accompaniment, and the words were Portuguese but the tune was some kind of blues, and only after a while did Firmino realize that it was an old fado from Coimbra which the girl was performing as if it were a jazz number. There was some very muted applause and the lights went up again. The waiter arrived with the glass of champagne and placed it on the table. Firmino took a sip. He didn’t claim to know much about champagne, but this stuff was terrible, with a sickly sweet taste. He peered around him. Everything was soft and quiet, the atmosphere was padded. The waiters moved between the tables with cat-like tread, the speakers relayed a muted morna by Cesária Évora, the customers chatted in undertones.

At the next table sat a man on his own, chain-smoking and staring fixedly before him at the ice-bucket with its bottle of champagne. It was genuine French champagne, Firmino noted from the label of a well-known brand. The man became aware that Firmino was staring at him and he stared back. He was about fifty with horn-rim glasses, little mustache and ginger hair. He affected a sporting air, with a mauve sports shirt and crumpled linen jacket. With shaky hand he raised his glass in Firmino’s direction as if drinking his health. Firmino also raised his glass, but did not drink. The other gave him an enquiring look and brought over his chair.

“Aren’t you drinking?” he asked.

“The stuff’s no good,” replied Firmino, “but I join with your toast in spirit.”

“You know the secret?” asked the man winking, “it’s to order a whole bottle, then you know what you’re getting, if you just ask for one glass they give you local bubbly and charge the earth for it.”

He poured himself another glass and knocked it straight back.

“I’m down in the dumps,” he murmured in confidential tones, “dear friend I’m way down in the dumps.”

He heaved a deep sigh and propped his head on his hand. He looked disconsolate. He muttered: “She tells me: pull up. Just like that, without warning: pull up. And this on the road to Guimarães, which is one bend after another. I slow down and look at her and she says: I told you to pull up. She opens the door, rips off the pearl necklace I gave her in the morning, throws it in my face, gets out without a single word and slams the door shut. Have I a right to be down in the dumps?”

Firmino offered no opinion, but he made a motion that could have been a nod.

“Twenty-five years’ difference in age if you get me,” confided the man. “Am I right to be down in the dumps?”

Firmino was on the point of saying something but his companion went on, there was no stopping him: “That’s why I came to ‘Puccini’s,’ it’s just the spot when one’s feeling down in the dumps, don’t you think? It’s just the place to put you right again, as I don’t have to tell you.”

“Of course,” replied Firmino,” I understand perfectly, it’s just the place.”

The man gave a tap to the bottle of champagne and then he touched the side of his nose.

“This,” he said, “we need this, that’s obvious enough, but it’s better through there in the ‘den’.” He made a vague gesture towards the far end of the room.

“Ah,” murmured Firmino, “the den, yes that’s certainly what we need.”

The man gave another tap to the side of his nose.

“It’s the best, the price is reasonable and discretion is guaranteed, but you come after me.”

“The fact is,” said Firmino, “I’m a bit low myself this evening, but of course I’ll wait my turn.”

The depressed fifty-year-old made a gesture towards a velvet curtain alongside the stage.

“La Bohème is just the job,” he chuckled, “just the right kind of music to raise your spirits.” And once again he tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger.

Firmino got casually to his feet and edged his way round the room, keeping close to the wall. Beside the curtain indicated by the depressed fifty-year-old was another with a notice reading “Washrooms,” on which were depicted two young peasants, male and female, in traditional local costume. Firmino slipped into the Gents, washed his hands and studied himself in the mirror. He remembered the lawyer’s advice not to think of himself as Philip Marlowe. Really not his role, but what the depressed fifty-year-old had said was intriguing him. He left the Gents and, still with a nonchalant air, slipped behind the curtain next door. He found himself in a passageway completely muffled with carpeting, both floor and walls. He pushed ahead confidently. To his right was a padded door bearing a silver plaque engraved with the words “La Bohème”. He opened it with a jerk and stuck his head in. It was a small boudoir with blue carpeting and wallpaper, suffused lighting and a divan. On the divan lay a man and the music was Puccini’s, he thought, though he didn’t know offhand which opera it came from. Firmino approached the body stretched out belly upwards and gave him a gentle cuff on the shoulder. Nothing stirred. Firmino shook him by the arm. The man didn’t move. Firmino quickly left the room and closed the door behind him.

Back at his table the depressed fifty-year-old was still staring fixedly at his champagne bottle.

“You’ll have to wait a while yet,” Firmino whispered in his ear, “because the den is occupied.”

“You think so?” asked the other anxiously.

“I’m dead sure of it,” said Firmino, “there’s a fellow there who’s in the world of dreams.”

The depressed fifty-year-old's face sagged in desperation.

“But for me it wouldn’t take a minute, a couple of minutes at the most, maybe I ought to drop in on the manager right there in his office.”

“Ah, certainly,” said Firmino.

The man beckoned the maître d’, there was a brief confabulation, and off they went together round the side of the room and disappeared behind the velvet curtain. The lights were dimmed, the girl who had previously sung the blues reappeared on the platform, entertained the public with a couple of jokes and promised to sing a fado of the 1930s if they would just hang on for ten minutes because, she said, the viola-player had had a slight mishap. Firmino kept his eyes riveted on the curtain. The depressed fifty-year-old emerged and passed with sprightly step between the tables. As soon as he sat down he looked at Firmino. He was no longer depressed, his eyes were shining with the light of tremendous vitality. He gave the thumbs-up sign, like a pilot signaling “chocks away.”

“Feeling fit?” enquired Firmino.

“Twenty-five years younger than me, but she was a little whore,” mumbled the man, “except that it took a moment’s thought for me to realize it.”

“A rather expensive moment,” murmured Firmino.

“Two hundred dollars well spent,” said the bloke, “really cheap at the price, especially considering the secrecy.”

“As a matter of fact it’s not all that expensive,” said Firmino, “but worse luck I left my roll of dollars at home.”

“Senhor Titânio accepts nothing but dollars, friend,” said the fifty-year-old, “just think of his position and all the risks he has to run, would you accept Portuguese escudos if you were in his shoes?”

“Not on your life,” Firmino assured him.

“Well if you booked for La Bohème,” said the man, “it’s tough luck on you.”

Firmino looked at his bill and counted out the exact amount. Luckily, payment was in escudos. He had an urge to walk the whole length of the seafront, he was sure that a breath of fresh air would do him a world of good.