Robert Wilson - A Small Death in Lisbon

After lunch, still dazed, I decided that underground travel was safer. I stood well back from the tracks in the Cais do Sodré Metro. The train travelled as far as Anjos and I climbed the stairs on to Avenida Almirante Reis. It was there that I discovered that the day had edged up to 35°. It was there that I felt strange and cold inside. It was there that I threw up my lunch and that I realized that I wasn't as safe as I had been before.

The rain had stopped for the afternoon. The lights flickered back on. Manuel Abrantes stroked his bald head and tried the phone. It was working again. He pressed a button for an outside line and dialled a number. He sat back and loosened his tie another inch and shouted for his secretary.

'The air conditioning's not working,' he said to the twenty-five-year-old university graduate.

'It was…'

'But it isn't now because when the power goes off… Wait,' he said into the telephone.

'I'll get the técnico.'

'It's the one thing that never comes back on.'

'I'll get the técnico.'

'Good,' he said and waved her away. 'Roberto?'

'Yes, Senhor Manuel,' said the voice.

'What have you got for me?'

Silence.

'Are you still there, Roberto?'

'Yes, but Senhor Manuel, you didn't like what I sent you the last time?'

'She was fine.'

'Then I'll send you the same.'

A knock on the door.

'Wait. I'm busy. There's an engineer coming to see me. Come in! Hold the line.'

The técnico came in. Manuel pointed him to the air conditioner.

'Just hold the line for a moment,' he said, and turned to the tecnico. 'It never comes back on after a power cut. Do you think it's…?'

'It's the fuse,' said the técnico, impassive, unimpressionable. 'When the power comes back on it surges and blows the fuse.'

The técnico put in a new fuse and left. The condenser kicked in and cold air blasted down Manuel's back.

'Roberto?'

'I'll send her again.'

'Don't you have anyone who owns a business suit?'

'A man?' asked Roberto, confused.

A woman, you idiot. Women have suits, too. I don't want any more of these girls in bright orange and lime green mini-skirts with their backsides hanging out… I'm running a serious business here.'

'Oh, OK.'

'Buy her a suit. I'll give her the money.'

'You want her to come up now?'

'I'm just getting the room to cool down after the power cut.'

'So, when?'

'Twenty minutes.'

Manuel put the phone down. It rang immediately.

'Your brother, Pedro, on line two,' said his secretary.

He pressed the button… loving the technology.

'Are you all right?' asked Pedro.

'Just busy, that's all. The power failures don't help.'

'Father's sick again.'

'What's the matter this time?'

'You know they took that piece of his bowel out.'

'The tumour?'

'The tumour. They think he's got an infection now and that it… you know, the cancer has gone into the lymph.'

'What does that mean?'

'I think you should come back.'

Silence, as Manuel took cold sweat off his forehead.

'Is it that serious?'

'I wouldn't have said that you should come back.'

'You know my problem.'

'You'll be flying to Switzerland.'

'But it's Europe… you know what it's like.'

'What do you mean?'

'Even if Franco died tomorrow I wouldn't be happy flying into Spain.'

'You're not a Nazi war…'

'Be careful what you say. You know whose birthday they still celebrate out here. And we read about what's going on over your side all the time.'

'What are you talking about now?'

'Hitler's birthday.'

'But what's going on over my side?'

'The communists.'

Silence, just a hiss from Lausanne.

'They nationalized the banks in Portugal,' said Pedro.

'You see,' said Manuel. 'That's the end of us.'

'So, you're not coming.'

'I don't want to risk it yet. Can I speak to him?'

'He's on a ventilator.'

'You didn't tell me that. You said it was his bowel and the lymph. He can't breathe now?'

'I didn't want to worry you. His breathing packed up.'

'How long has he got?'

'It could be any time. The doctors won't say.'

'I'll try and get a flight now.'

He put the phone down and it rang again instantly. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. 'Busy, busy,' he said to himself.

'There's a Senhora Xuxa Mendes here to see you,' said his secretary, and without backing off on the derision, 'she says it's business.'

A tarted-up mulatto in a cheap light blue suit came in. She was carrying a plastic briefcase which looked even cheaper than her face. Her unmanageable bottom was already splitting the seam down the middle of the short skirt.

'Senhora Mendes,' he said, taking the girl's hand and closing the door on the graduate. 'What's in the briefcase?'

The girl was confused but opened it up, took out the wad of newspaper and handed it to him. He pushed his chair back and told her to come round. He stood, hitched his trousers and ordered her to bend over the desk.

I fell into a café close to the Metro station. If it had a name it didn't snag in my brain. If there were people in it, they were faceless. I went to the toilets at the back and washed my face. I asked for a glass of wat er and swilled my mouth out. I ordered a cup of tea with two tea bags. Catherine of Bragança might have introduced tea to the British but her legacy in Portugal is Lipton's. I sugared the tea heavily and drank it. I ordered something stronger and sat down, sweating again, the breathing not going well, unsynchronized. The barman kept an eye on me. The TV was encouraging us all to go to Madeira.

A large presence came from the rear of the bar, stood over me and blocked out some of the neon in the room.

'Is this where all the old detectives come to cure their troubles?' he said, sitting himself down at my table.

I knew him. I knew that big nose, those seedy eyes. I knew that smooth, black moustache sharpened at the tips.

'I just had an accident,' I said. 'Nearly fell under a tram. I feel a bit shaky that's all. Had to sit down.'

'In a city of trams like this one, it's amazing how few people disappear under them.'

'I don't remember your name… but I know I know you.'

'You're Zé Coelho,' he said. 'I nearly didn't recognize you. You used to have a beard. João José Silva… they called me JoJó. You remember now?'

I didn't.

'I was "retired" three years ago, you know… eased out.'

'You weren't on Homicide, were you?'

'Vice.'

'Did you just say that old detectives come in here for the cure?'

'They used to… until three days ago.'

'What happened then?'

'You remember a guy called Lourenço Gonçalves?'

This name is following me around.

'No I don't, but I've heard of him,' I said.

'He was in Vice too.'

'Were you partners?'

'More or less,' he said, evasive. 'He used to come in here… until three days ago.'

'I heard he set himself up in business.'

'He calls himself a security consultant now. A fancy name for private detective work. Following rich guy's wives around the place, seeing if they're doing something more than the shopping on a Wednesday afternoon. You'd be surprised.'

'Would I?'

'He was… so were the husbands, which meant he didn't always get paid.'

'So why doesn't he come in here any more?'

He shrugged.

'We used to have a drink and go and play cards in the park in summer.'