Robert Wilson - A Small Death in Lisbon

'What? What's he got…?' I said and stopped the second half of that sentence just in time… that I haven't.

'That's the point, Dad,' she said, running a hand through my hair.

'What is? You're being as cryptic as your mother used to be.'

'I don't know… but I want to. The thrill of that mental connection, remember.'

Manuel Abrantes' secretary came in to his office with a padded package which had been delivered by courier.

'He needs you to sign for it,' she said.

Manuel beckoned the guy in and signed. His eyes fell automatically on the two inches of his secretary's legs between the desk and her skirt hem. He wondered if her underwear was as sensible as the girl. The courier backed out. He told his secretary to straighten the magazines on the table and peered around his desk. She dropped down on to her haunches to do the work. After six years working for him, she knew Manuel Abrantes' sly tricks.

He waved her out of the room, annoyed. Maybe he should take her out to dinner before he left, get her back to his apartment, show her a thing or two. He opened the package. Inside was a passport, an ID card, an envelope of cheques, a cheque wallet from a Portuguese bank, a Visa card, and an Amex card. There was also a photograph of a thirty-two-year-old woman called Lurdes Salvador Santos. She looked good-natured, despite a severe hairstyle and a faint moustache. A four-page letter from Pedro explained the documents and photograph.

He checked the ID card and passport. The latter was well-used, broken in with plenty of stamps. He opened the packet of cheques. He removed three and put the rest in the cheque wallet. He made up three fictitious amounts and wrote them in the account movements booklet within the wallet. He read the letter four times and memorized every detail. He burnt it with the three blank cheques.

He took one thousand U.S. dollars from his top drawer and left the office. He walked six blocks in the staggering afternoon humidity to a rubber-stamp maker, who'd already prepared a Brazilian entry stamp for him. He went to a travel agent and booked a flight from'são Paulo to Buenos Aires and on to Madrid. He went to the Argentine embassy with his tickets and they gave him a visa while he waited. He went back to his office.

He took all his old documents out of his pockets and desk and passed them through the shredder. He emptied the shredder and burnt the contents in the waste bin.

He went out past his secretary, paused and came back to her. They looked at each other. Too complicated, he thought. He nodded to her and left. She gave him the finger to his departing back.

At 2.00 p.m. the following day his passport received an exit stamp as he went through to the departure lounge in'são Paulo airport. The Immigration officer had no thoughts or opinions as to why a Portuguese national, Miguel da Costa Rodrigues, should be leaving Brazil for Argentina and he didn't ask him any questions.

By the 25th October, after two flights and a car journey, Miguel da Costa Rodrigues was sitting in the office of Pedro Abrantes, Director of the newly privatized Banco de Oceano e Rocha, still in their old offices on Rua do Ouro in the Baixa.

'I can't believe what's happened to Portugal,' said Miguel, looking up from the latest photograph of his brother's wife, Isabel, and their three children.

The government's determined that we are going to join the EEC at the same time as Spain. We have to make progress,' said Pedro.

'No, no. I mean I can't believe the sex. There's sex everywhere on the advertisements, the film posters. Have you seen that kiosk in the Rossio? The nudity. I mean it's incredible. It would never have been possible…'

'Yes, well, salazarismo was very Catholic and respectful of women,' said Pedro, frowning. 'There were censors. You, of all people, should know that.'

'Me, of all people?' asked Miguel, alarmed by his brother's casual slip.

'Sorry, Senhor Rodrigues, I forgot,' said Pedro. 'You'll see… we've put all that behind us.'

The Portuguese never put anything behind them except a chair to eat lunch. We live with our history as if it's still all happening around us. There are people in this country who think the Hidden King Sebastião is going to come back after four hundred years, to lead them on to greater things. For all I know there could be people waiting for me.'

Pedro didn't say anything. He loved his brother, but he thought he was exaggerating his importance in the ancien régime. His brother had never told him about General Machedo. His brother thought that Pedro was an innocent-an intelligent man, a charming and gifted banker, a much-respected and well-liked person, but an innocent.

'I sold the gold,' said Pedro to get off the old subject, back on to something he felt confident with and the future.

'Seeing as we're talking about history, you mean?' said Miguel.

'I used it to capitalize the bank.'

'Who bought it?'

'A Swiss-based Colombian.'

'What did you get for it?'

'It seemed the right time to sell. This U.S. budget deficit scare is nothing. It's just a…'

'How much?'

'Six hundred dollars an ounce.'

'Didn't it go as high as eight hundred?'

It did, but he was the right buyer in the right climate. Not inquisitive, if you understand my meaning.'

'Doesn't this U.S. budget deficit bring into question the real value of the dollar?' asked Miguel, trying to sound knowledgeable, spouting stuff he didn't fully understand, from reading Time on the aeroplane.

'That's why I've moved into property.'

'If the U.S. goes bust it won't matter what you've moved it into.'

Pedro stood up and spun the dial on a wall safe behind him. Miguel saw the small kid in him, the excited one at Christmas.

'The U.S. won't go bust, but if it does…' he said, and opened the safe door.

Inside were two gold bars. Miguel joined him on his side of the desk and rubbed his thumb over the eagle and swastika stamp of the old German Reichsbank.

'I'm hoping their value will be purely sentimental,' said Pedro.

'Tell me about the job,' said Miguel, sitting back down, sweating a little, not sure, in his slightly paranoid state, whether it was such a good idea to have kept those souvenirs.

'We've bought some property just off the Largo Dona Estefânia. Old apartments, falling to pieces. We're expanding. We don't fit in this old building any more. So we're going to demolish those old apartments and build ourselves a new office building. We'll take the top three floors and rent out the rest. I want you to manage the project. The architect's on my back and I haven't got the time for him.'

'When do you want me to start?' asked Miguel, unnerved at the immediate possibility of heavy responsibilities.

'As soon as you're comfortable. There's an office ready for you upstairs. We've had to convert the apartments to fit ourselves in here.'

Miguel stood and shook himself out.

'I need some time to get used to being back in Portugal. I want to go back to the Beira and smell the air again. I want to eat some fish on Guincho beach, you know, that sort of thing.'

Pedro, suddenly moved to have his brother back in the country, went round his desk to him and embraced him.

'Before you do any of these things we have to go to the notary tomorrow,' he said. 'Now that you're Miguel da Costa Rodrigues there are a few small problems. The first, and most important, is that I have to make you guardian to my children in case anything should happen to me and Isabel. Dr Aquilino Oliveira has arranged everything.'

'Of course,' said Miguel, nearly emotional.

They clapped each other's shoulders and Miguel made for the door.