Yann Martel - The High Mountains of Portugal

“Ele não fala português,” says the man who brought him in.

Sign language takes over.

“O que o senhor vai fazer com ele?” says another man, his hands waving in front of him, palms up.

“I’m going to the High Mountains of Portugal,” Peter replies. He cuts a rectangle in the air with a finger, says, “Portugal,” and points to the top right of the rectangle.

“Ah, as Altas Montanhas de Portugal. Lá em cima com os rinocerontes,” responds the man.

The others laugh. Peter nods, though he doesn’t know what has amused them. Rinocerontes?

Eventually their work duties call. His passport is examined and stamped; Odo’s papers are signed, stamped, and separated, one set for Peter, one set for them. There. A man leans against the luggage cart. The foreigner and his macaco are good to go.

Peter blanches. In the frenzy of the last two weeks, there is one detail he has forgotten to address: how he and Odo will get from Lisbon to the High Mountains of Portugal. They need a car, but he has made no arrangements for buying one.

He puts his palms face out. Stop . “I need to buy a car.” He shakes his fists up and down, mimicking hands on a steering wheel.

“Um carro?”

“Yes. Where can I buy one, where?” He rubs thumb and forefinger together.

“O senhor quer comprar um carro?”

Comprar —that sounds right.

“Yes, yes, comprar um carro, where?”

The man calls over another and they discuss. They write on a piece of paper, which they hand to Peter. Citroën, it says, with an address. He knows citron is French for lemon. He hopes this isn’t an omen.

“Near, near?” he asks, cupping his fingers towards him.

“Sim, é muito perto. Táxi.”

He points to himself, then away and back. “I’m going and then I’m coming back.”

“Sim, sim.” The men nod.

He hurries away. He has brought with him substantial Canadian and American cash, in addition to traveller’s cheques. And he has his credit card, for extra surety. He changes all his money into escudos and hops into a taxi.

The Citroën dealership is not very far from the airport. The cars are strange, roly-poly things. One has lovely lines, but it’s expensive and too big for his needs. Finally, he decides on a very basic model, a dorky grey contraption that looks like it was made from tuna cans. It has no frills at all, no radio, no air conditioning, no armrests, no automatic transmission. It doesn’t even have roll-down windows. The windows are cut in two horizontally and the lower half hinges up to rest against the top half, like a flap, held up by a clip. Nor is there a hardtop roof, or a glass rear window, only a piece of sturdy fabric that can be detached and rolled back, flexible transparent plastic window included. He opens and closes a door. The car feels rickety and rudimentary, but the salesman expresses great enthusiasm for it, praising it to the sky with his hands. Peter wonders at the name, which isn’t a name at all, only an alphanumeric code: 2CV. He would prefer an American car. But he needs a car right away, before Odo wakes up.

He interrupts the salesman with a nod — he will take it. The man breaks into smiles and directs him to his office. Peter’s international driver’s licence is inspected, papers are filled out, money is taken, calls are made to his credit card company.

An hour later he drives up to the airport, a temporary licence plate taped to the inside of the car’s rear window. The transmission on the car is clunky, with the gear stick poking straight out of the dashboard, the engine is noisy, and the ride is bouncy. He parks the car and makes his way back to the hangar.

Odo is still sleeping. Peter and the airport employee wheel the cage out to the car. They transfer the ape to the back seat. Right then, a problem arises. The cage, even folded up, doesn’t fit in the tiny trunk of the 2CV. There’s no question of strapping it onto the soft roof. It has to be left behind. Peter is not bothered. The thing is a nuisance, and besides, Odo hasn’t used it at all. The airport man is amenable to taking it.

Peter checks one last time that he hasn’t forgotten anything. He has his passport and papers, he’s pulled out the map of Portugal, his luggage is jammed into the trunk, the ape is in the back seat — he’s ready to set off. Only he’s exhausted and thirsty and hungry. He steadies himself.

“How far to the Altas Montanhas de Portugal?” he asks.

“Para as Altas Montanhas de Portugal? Cerca de dez horas,” the man answers.

Peter uses his fingers to make sure he has understood. Ten fingers. Ten hours. The man nods. Peter sighs.

He consults the map. As he did in the United States, he decides to avoid large cities. That means turning away from the coast and driving through the interior. Past a town called Alhandra, there is a bridge across the Tagus. After that, the map promises settlements that are so small they receive the minimal cartographic designation, a tiny black circle with a blank centre.

A couple of hours later, after only a quick stop at a café in a place called Porto Alto to eat and drink and buy supplies, he can keep his eyes open no longer. They come upon Ponte de Sor. It’s a pleasantly bustling town. He eyes a hotel longingly; he would happily stop there. Instead he drives on. Back in the countryside, he turns off onto a quiet side road and parks next to an olive grove. The car looks like a grey bubble about to be blown across the landscape. He leaves food next to Odo. He thinks to lay his sleeping bag across the front seats, but the seats are too far apart. Nor do they recline to any extent. He looks at the ground next to the car. Too rocky. Finally he gets in the back and works Odo’s heavy body onto the floor of the car. He lies across the back seat in a fetal position and promptly falls into a deep sleep.

When Peter awakes late that afternoon, Odo is sitting right next to his head, practically on it. He’s looking around. No doubt he’s wondering what new trick the humans have pulled on him. Where is he now? Where have the big buildings gone? Peter can feel the warmth of Odo’s body against his head. He’s still tired, but anxiety revives him. Will Odo be angry and aggressive? If he is, there’s no way Peter can escape him. He lifts himself slowly.

Odo embraces him with both arms. Peter embraces the ape back. They remain interlocked for several seconds. He gives Odo some water to drink and feeds him apples, bread, cheese, ham, all of which disappear in quick, full mouthfuls.

Peter notices a group of men a ways off, walking in their direction along the road. They’re carrying shovels and hoes on their shoulders. He moves to the driver’s seat. Odo hops into the passenger seat next to him. He starts the car. Odo hoots at the rumble of the engine but otherwise stays put. He turns the car around and returns to the road.

Like most emigrants, his parents departed the High Mountains of Portugal in a state of want, and they were determined that their children would have different, better lives in Canada. As if stanching a wound, they turned their backs on their origins. In Toronto, they deliberately avoided fellow Portuguese immigrants. They forced themselves to learn English well and passed on neither their native language nor their native culture to their son and daughter. Instead, they encouraged them to move in wider circles and were delighted when each married a non-Portuguese.

Only in their last years, once their identity engineering had succeeded, did his parents relent a little and did he and his sister, Teresa, on occasion get a glimpse into their long-ago former lives. It came in the form of brief stories, supported by family photos. A few names were floated and a hazy geography was sketched, centred on one place name: Tuizelo. That was where his parents came from, and that is where he and Odo will settle.