Herve Le Tellier - Electrico W

“It’s feasted. Feasted your eyes.”

“Go on, scram. The show’s over.”

I stepped backward and returned to where Irene was. She said nothing for a moment, then couldn’t hold out any longer.

“Is she your Lena, then?”

I could tell from her voice, it was artificial, had too much of a singsong to it: Irene was jealous. Not a lover’s jealousy, which would have been colored with pain, just the disappointment of a woman who loathed no longer being the center of attention. I pretended not to notice.

“Yes, it’s her. I realize you’re seeing her in … the circumstances are …”

Manuela popped out of the fitting room. She had put on her jeans over the corset. And managed not to look ridiculous. She came straight over to us and gave us a twirl like a ballerina.

“It’s a bit expensive. But everything’s too expensive when you don’t need it. I’m keeping it on. I’ll start a fashion.”

Then, finally deigning to look at Irene, she asked, “Do you know each other? Come on, Vincent, aren’t you going to introduce your friend? I’m Manuela …,” she said, not waiting for my reply.

I must have paled, or perhaps Irene showed some sign of surprise, because, with no hint of embarrassment, Manuela added seamlessly, “But people also call me Lena.”

“Irene. But people also call me Irene.”

It was said provocatively, but Manuela laughed and held out her hand; Irene, caught out, had to shake it. Manuela then went off to pay, and Irene watched her, as a fox might watch a hen.

“Have you told her about me? About you and me?”

“No.” And, with as much detachment as I could muster, I added, “Why would I?”

Manuela came back over to us, smiling happily, and took my arm.

“Let’s go back to the Brasileira. Do you know that’s where Vincent held my hand for the first time, oh, how long ago was that now?”

“Two months,” I said quickly.

“Two months? I can’t believe it, it sometimes feels like two hours …”

We sat at the same table. Manuela took her role remarkably seriously and had fun terrifying me by talking the whole time. She certainly had a smattering of French. When Irene proved too inquisitive, she dropped her head on my shoulder, unaffected and complicit, and let me do the lying for her. Then she steered my stories toward the truth. Divorced? It came through “just two days ago, phew!” The banker ex-husband was called Palmer, almost the same as my name? “Let’s change the subject, I’m Miss Freire again now, and things are a lot better like that.” Restoring paintings? She was bored of it now, too many issues with ignorant, tyrannical customers, and then there were museum conservators who were “so temperamental, I mean so temperamental. One time, this is the latest time it happened, it was at the Louvre — with a Titian.” And her own painting wasn’t going very well. Nonfigurative work that doesn’t see itself as conceptual is “over-over-over. I should be doing conceptual figurative stuff. But I’m still painting theater sets. Especially white walls. I love white walls.” As for the accountancy job at the theater, her new financial situation meant she “couldn’t turn it down. Accountancy’s how I met my husband. Ah! Didn’t we say we weren’t going to talk about him anymore?” In fifteen minutes Manuela Freire had succeeded in superseding Lena Palmer.

“How about you, Irene, what brings you to Lisbon?”

But there was a cold gust of wind and Manuela looked at her watch.

“I’m sorry,” she said, standing up. “I have to go. The curse of the wage earner. See you soon, Irene, it’s been a pleasure. Vincent, will you come with me for a minute?”

I obliged, not sure what to do. But Manuela Freire knew. She positioned herself so that Irene wouldn’t be able to see her behind me, then pressed my cheeks between her hands, crushing my face so that it probably looked ridiculous and flabby. Then she came right up close till her nose brushed against mine, and whispered:

“Bet this looks like a real lovers’ kiss, don’t you? I want a detailed report tomorrow with my free cup of coffee.”

She turned on her heel and headed toward the theater. A cool raindrop fell on my hand. I went back to sit next to Irene. The sidewalk in front of us was suddenly covered with little patches of darker gray. They were born as round as coins and, wherever there was a slope, they lengthened into teardrops. All at once there was a flash of lightning, immediately followed by thunder, the stiff breeze made the whole town clink and clatter, and the heavy air took on a cooler color. A clear pattering sound came from the ground, everything darkened suddenly, and the rain started pelting down. It quickly invaded the street, dense and luminous, a shivering translucent jelly reflecting the silver of the sky. It could have been monsoon rain, both violent and gentle, cleansing the earth. But no one in Lisbon displayed the defeated nonchalance of the tropics. Everyone wanted to avoid the deluge, taking refuge under shop awnings and bringing in washing that was hanging on balconies.

Manuela was walking across the square in the shower, not rushing, already soaked, her dark hair clinging to her forehead. She tried to avoid puddles, but water streamed everywhere in wide rippling flows. So she bent down swiftly and, in a spectacularly graceful move, took off her pumps. Then she started to run barefoot toward the theater. I must have smiled inadvertently because Irene shrugged irritably.

The storm didn’t last. When Irene wanted to go back to the hotel, I didn’t offer to go with her. She left alone, turning around twice, as if wanting to test my indifference. But it wasn’t faked, and I was all the more surprised for that.

“GALILEO DISCOVERED THE four largest of Jupiter’s many moons thanks to his telescope: Ganymede (which is larger than Mercury), Callisto, Io, and Europa. Anyone who claimed to have seen them by night prior to this was deemed mad.”

That was how I started my first article about Pinheiro, and faxed it straight from the hotel. Four pages of it. I had indicated that I would write at least three articles: “Jupiter’s Moons,” “The Man in Bronze,” and “The Silent One,” covering every aspect of the investigation and Pinheiro’s personality. Then I had promised myself that, if need be, I could come back to the trial.

The editor called straightaway: “What the hell’s all this junk about Jupiter’s moons? The press hasn’t talked about any of this. A correspondent’s job isn’t to go investigating but to read, conflate, and suggest. Read, conflate, and suggest. And that’s it. Still, we’ll publish the article the day after tomorrow all the same. The others at a rate of one every three days. It’s good. Carry on like that. Say well done to Flores for the pictures.”

And he hung up.

It was dark, the air warm, and Irene decided we should eat outside on a terrace and, most importantly, we “had to have lobster” because the way they cooked it here was “adorable.” Antonio suggested a restaurant in the pedestrian area near the rua São José, where crustaceans in window tanks frolicked gleefully although the most elementary understanding of caution would have required discretion.

We had placed our order and were drinking vinho verde while we waited when I noticed a young woman watching us. She was wearing black jeans and an AC-DC T-shirt, her spiky hair was set with gel like the punks in London’s Soho, and her eyes were ringed with heavy eyeliner. Because of the getup it took me several more seconds to realize she was Aurora. Even though I had proof of this from the man by her side, Alyosha Karamazov, the tall, brooding young man who clearly followed her wherever she went, standing there stiffly in his perennial gray three-piece suit. Aurora waved to me, but when Irene kissed Antonio she couldn’t contain a pained smile, and she moved away quickly, almost running, trailing her attentive escort in her wake.