Josep Pla - Life Embitters

Apparently those long strings of gentlemen spent their time watching ladies young and old walk by. In fact, they were waiting with an impatience they subdued for the cannon salvoes that would redeem them. They were cannon-salvo experts and could distinguish perfectly their movement’s salvoes from those of any other. If theirs finally resounded, they ran to say goodbye to their families and went off to make the revolution. The others went to bed and waited for the inevitable moment when their cannons would fire.

An important Catalan lived in Lisbon at the time: Don Plató Peig. Sr Peig was in charge of the Souza-Figueiredo trade name — the Comillas of Portugal — that encompassed a lot of companies. A member of the entourage of Sr Peig introduced me to the Barcelona architect, Sr Ferrés, an excellent individual, tireless worker and highly productive man. Sr Ferrés had already built the Hotel Palace in Madrid, and was giving the final touches to the main buildings in Estoril. Estoril was the first place of any size and quality to be built for tourists on the Peninsula. Sr Ferrés had constructed hotels, a splendid, sumptuous casino, a spa, a large theater, gardens, tennis courts, golf courses, etc. around thermal springs and on the landscape of haughty pines and lofty palm trees to make the most of the sloping plain on the side of Estoril that overlooked the river estuary. It was an ideal spot and looked to have a great future.

Estoril is on the road from Lisbon that goes to Cascais, namely the road that follows the right bank of the river — a word that is quite inappropriate because the river here is a huge estuary that seems completely still except when it rises and ebbs with the tide. It makes for twenty kilometers of magnificent roadway between villas and gardens, pine groves and slender palms. It is especially delightful on sunny days in autumn and winter when a warm breeze blows and a harmless bank of white cloud fills the limpid sky. A voluptuous feel to the air makes life really pleasant. Sunsets over the estuary, river sandbar, and Atlantic are splendid and diverse. Sunsets over the sea usually have a magnificent quality that is hard to find in those over land. That’s why the tramonti in Rome over the Mediterranean and sunsets over the Portuguese Atlantic are so renowned.

On days when the dark, shadowy sea seems ready to pounce on Portugal as if desperate to devour it, the spectacle isn’t so polished. The palm trees shiver with cold. The pine trees act up.

Indeed, I think the pines add greatly to Estoril’s elegance, as least as much as the Gulf Stream temperatures, sulfurous spa waters, sunsets, and pleasures of roulette. They are tall, wild pines with a natural svelte charm. They don’t create a thick mesh of foliage, but high patches of green, a fresh bright green interspersed with red roofs, glaring white-washed walls that on heavy, damp days have the quality of milk sprinkled with cinnamon powder, and the flowers carpeting the land are a lively, elegant presence. The small picturesque fishing port in the estuary by the side of modern Estoril has quickly adapted to the amenities brought by tourist life. Its inhabitants are welcoming and likeable, courteous and understanding; they required few lessons in how to smile when it’s good for business, and although they remain Atlantic fishermen, their fate will be that of the fishermen in Cannes and Nice: to work as hairdressers or waiters or give baths to boys and girls from good families.

So I decided to go and live near Estoril. Before you reach this sophisticated, expanding town, you come to a boarding house with a prestigious reputation. I rented a room there. It had views over the estuary and was surrounded by pots of geraniums. The river passed by the front of the establishment, as did the train and the road, the road to Cascais that is really the road to Sintra. There is in fact a novel by Eça de Queiroz that is called The Mystery on the Road to Sintra . Places that come with a literary halo seem so much prettier.

My bedroom window opened onto a splendid vista. The extensive estuary had no current, and was dead still. All the boats going to and from Lisbon sailed through its waters — from large transatlantic liners to slender schooners and river lighters, with square sales the color of pumpkin or nicotine. It was a continuous spectacle that lasted night and day. On the other side lay a very low, treeless, interminable, toast-colored plain. The river breeze sometimes carried the hubbub from Lisbon to the east; the city was invisible, but you could see its glow: by day, a gray murk and by night, a greenish pink. To the west were views of the sandbar and beyond that the Atlantic Ocean.

Sunsets died opposite my window. The still waters could be orange, the color of new wine, or often a purple hue that was far too ghostly and literary. The sky could be draped in a mass of rich red, a sumptuous curtain, as in Pincio’s gardens.

I found the boarding house to be very comfortable. In the afternoon I’d go for a long stroll and end up in Estoril. I’d converse at length with Ferrés the architect and his partners. Nightfall would often catch us under the pine trees, talking, listening to the crickets, and smoking cigarettes. In bad weather, we’d drink our aperitifs at the casino. It was a very crowded spot and, though only just inaugurated, it was already a legend. Prone to outbursts of patriotism, the Portuguese were extremely proud of it. Eccentric characters abounded. A cosmopolitan atmosphere was beginning to gather over Estoril.

Perfect order reigned in the boarding house. It was very quiet. There were two Scandinavians who worked for export companies in Lisbon, a nice English couple, a Swiss bank clerk, and two or three Portuguese. The Portuguese were, of course, very keen on politics and that meant I avoided them. Nevertheless, one, by the name of Pacheco, became a really good friend. He was definitely a conspirator — of the center-left variety — but he seemed to be in no rush to convert anyone. One day he admitted to me, very sotto voce , that what he most feared was his own party’s victory.

Pacheco had been living in the house for years and seemed to have free run of the place — to the extent that free run was possible there, which wasn’t great. By talking to him — he was idle as I was — I found things out about the boarding house.

It belonged to a Sra Souza who lived far away, in a city in northern Portugal, where she led a nondescript existence. Her marriage to Sr Souza, a rich property owner, had been a disaster. She was an affluent provincial lady, of the house-loving, naïve variety. Her husband seemed fine on the surface, but was in the grip of a passion for gambling. After three or four years of marriage Sra Souza realized her husband was on the point of losing his own wealth and was about to start on her own. Her indignation didn’t lead to loud outbursts. It was a cold rage. No arguments or attempts to reach an agreement could shift her. The marriage was ended and husband and wife lost sight of each other. Sra Souza managed to save the best part of her fortune. Maria, the couple’s daughter, a child at the time of their separation, was brought up by her mother according to the strictest principles.

Several years passed, during which Sra Souza’s income was drastically reduced. Meanwhile Srta Souza grew up, was full of life and seemed fascinated by life’s ways. Above all she found provincial life too sleepy and dull. When she was nineteen, seeing her mother’s financial worries — the Portuguese currency had lost most of its purchasing power as a result of all those revolutions — she suggested setting up a boarding house in Lisbon so she could earn a living. Her usual frosty self, the old lady agreed without comment. She’d have preferred her daughter to make a typical provincial marriage: an exemplary civil servant, ten year’s her daughter’s senior, who’d be on the wane, insipid, and about to wither away. Maria refused point-blank and established their boarding house on the outskirts of Lisbon on the road to Estoril. When they did so, above all they had in mind a summer income. Building developments in Estoril ensured it was permanent.