Alentejo Blue (30 page)

Telma Ervanaria and Bruno were dancing, holding on to each other’s shoulders and the place where their waists ought to be. Telma Ervanaria wore a crocheted brown top. You could see her bra through it. Her sturdy thighs strained a straight beige skirt and her feet, in brown heeled pumps, shifted side, side, backwards in protesting little steps. Bruno stared sombrely over her shoulder breathing through his mouth, as though fixed on a difficult but achievable goal, like shunting a filing cabinet across the room.

Clara and Paula were gossiping and sticking out their chests. They were looking at the writer and giggling and probably giving him ideas. The writer sat on a chair backwards, his chin propped on his hands. His cheeks were red as well but Teresa doubted a shower was the cause.

This evening Mãe looked magnificent, her hair done up in a French pleat. Her dress, pale lilac and 60 per cent silk, cinched her tidy waist and skimmed just right off the hips. She wore her peacock brooch and two gold bangles and tortoiseshell combs in her hair. She was carrying plates from the kitchen, holding them well out in front as though they might dirty her dress. Marco stood up as she approached and took them from her and across to the table. He turned back to her and gave a kind of bow.

Teresa tapped her toes and crossed her arms. What if Mãe got married again? People did sometimes, why shouldn’t she? The way that Marco looked at her, surely there was something in that. Of course they used to know each other before Marco went away. Probably Marco was in love with her then but lost out to Pai and couldn’t bear to stay around any more.

She looked at Marco and she looked at Mãe. They would make a handsome pair.

In London she would say, ‘Oh, my family owns a lot of land in Portugal. If you ever want to come and stay . . .’

But Marco, she remembered, was planning to do terrible things. If Mãe married him it would be awful and she hugged her arms in despair.

‘This next one is a love song,’ said Nelson, hitching his accordion. The loudspeakers wailed when he leaned in so close. ‘If there is someone in the room that you love,’ he paused and forced his eyebrows a little higher, ‘stand up now and take her arm.’

He pumped at the suffocating instrument and the notes scattered out everywhere.

‘When I heard the lark singing in the garden

I rose from my troubled bed and sang for him . . .’

She scanned the room for Antonio and saw him sitting on the edge of the stage with Fernando and Francisco, smoking a cigarette. In any case, she was going to help with the tables. She unfolded her arms and pushed back her shoulders and jumped when someone touched her hand.

Spinning round, she saw Vicente fixing her with a look and cocking his head towards the side door.

They walked down to the small square and sat by the edge of the thick green pond. Vicente sparked the spliff and handed it over. ‘So you’re leaving tomorrow,’ he said.

‘I’m so excited.’ She took a drag.

Vicente laughed. ‘Don’t sound so miserable then.’

A car passed and lit their faces. In the bushes a cat was being sick.

She shivered and Vicente moved closer. ‘Here. Let me warm you up.’

It was exactly as she had imagined it. Eileen sat on the raffia-bottomed chair and sipped a pineapple Sumol. Next year she would be part of it too.

‘Have you actually found a house?’ said Sophie.

‘Dear me, no,’ said Eileen, rubbing her chest, ‘I’ve only just started to look.’

‘Good place to retire to,’ said Huw. Eileen thought he seemed ever so nice. The type you’d want for a son-in-law, if you had a daughter she meant.

‘Not retiring yet,’ explained Eileen. ‘Well, I’ve never worked but my husband, you know.’

‘Holiday home,’ said Sophie. She seemed ever so nice as well but Eileen wished she’d sit back in her seat. She was perched right on the edge of it and Eileen kept on thinking she was about to fall off.

‘More than that,’ said Eileen. ‘For me, anyway.’ She was feeling rather gassy. No more fizzy drinks today.

‘My parents are divorced,’ said Huw.

‘Huw,’ said Sophie. ‘Please.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, it must have sounded . . . No, we’re still soldiering on. Death us do part, the old-fashioned way. Why people bother getting divorced at our age beats me, though apparently a lot of people do. Not that we’re unhappy. I didn’t mean to say that.’

‘Of course not,’ said Sophie, leaning dangerously forward to pat her hand.

I must look, thought Eileen, like the kind of woman who needs a pat now and then. If it was Janet Larraway sitting here, it wouldn’t cross anyone’s mind.

‘I
love
this singer,’ said Eileen. ‘Saw a poster for one of his concerts in the summer. I think he’s a bit of a star.’

‘Definitely.’ Huw rested his hand on the back of Sophie’s swan neck. ‘Back to work tomorrow, work and wedding plans.’

‘Many, many congratulations,’ cried Eileen. ‘I must say I’ve been admiring your ring.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sophie, curling her fingers.

Eileen shifted in her seat. Bits of raffia were sticking through her dress and into her bottom. But if she sat on the edge like Sophie she was bound to crash to the floor.

‘Have you set a date?’

‘Yes,’ they said at once and exchanged a look.

‘Lovely, lovely,’ said Eileen with far more emphasis than necessary, as though possession of a date was a triumph to be praised to the skies. ‘Where’s it going to be?’

‘Devon,’ said Huw, with his eyes still on Sophie. ‘It’s where her parents live.’

‘Church or registry?’ said Eileen. He looked a solid sort, proper haircut, the type who’d stick around. She realized she might have a son-in-law, sort of, one day.

Sophie twisted her ring round her finger. She mumbled something that might have been church.

Huw looked at Eileen as if to say sorry. ‘You see, we agreed we wouldn’t discuss the wedding on holiday. The planning gets quite stressful. Worse for her, of course.’

‘Quite understand,’ cried Eileen. ‘Goodness, yes I do! You want to relax on your holiday. We’ll talk about something else. I’ll tell you about this place that I saw, a ruin, but it had the most marvellous view . . .’ She carried on talking to smooth things over, and then because there seemed no natural place to stop. All the while she was thinking how highly strung the girl was, nice but highly strung, and how – though it seemed a little harsh to even think it – maybe Huw was making a mistake, and also a thought pushing in there about how brilliantly Huw would get on with Richard, she was sure they would get on, and she had this daft, this wild idea that the two of them could be an item, Huw and Richard, and she was stupid, really stupid and having a hot flush as well.

Vasco rolled over, fanning his face with a napkin, saying, ‘Yes, yes, too hot in here. Too hot for the dancing. It would be my pleasure to sit with you.’

Eileen turned to the table and grabbed a napkin and began fanning herself too. ‘Senhor Vasco, I’d like you to meet my new friends Huw and Sophie.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Vasco, ‘they’re renting Armenio’s old house.’

They sat and watched the dance floor and Chrissie and China danced by. Chrissie had heels and tights and a shapeless peasant skirt and a blouse that did up to the chin. China wore a suit. The jacket had lost all its buttons and the trouser hems were ragged, but a suit it was nonetheless. They danced cheek-to-cheek, China stooping, and moved with no regard for the music, simply swaying and gliding as though rocking each other to sleep.

Maybe, thought Vasco, this evening I will put it to Marco straight. If it is a business partner you are looking for, then, my friend, I am your man.

‘Let me ask you something,’ he said, opening his palm to Huw. ‘When you come here, what are you looking for? Do you want internet in the café?’

‘Er, not really.’

‘That is my point exactly. On the one hand, age and experience,’ he dropped the palm down low, ‘on the other youth and ambition,’ he opened the other palm. ‘Which side the scales are tipping? It is not too hard to see.’

Vasco looked round to determine if the food had been brought out yet. He saw Marco sitting with Armenio, and Eduardo standing behind Marco’s chair, dripping poison, no doubt, in his ear.

Not a crumb of food on the tables. Pathetic, unacceptable and corrupt. The Junta gave the contract to Armenio and Eduardo said it had nothing to do with him. Nepotistic, corrupt and criminal. And Marco could see the result.

Anyway, it was to Vasco’s advantage but if he didn’t eat soon he might faint.

‘You would like food?’ he said to the English woman who looked also a little faint.

‘It’s ready? How wonderful!’ she said, sounding truly oveijoyed.

Vasco sighed. ‘No, not ready. But we are all so hungry now.’

It was well past nine o’clock when Eduardo took the stage. ‘Friends,’ he said, ‘good friends, cherished friends . . .’

‘He has none,’ said Vasco in English, ‘a traitor never does.’

‘What?’ said Eileen. ‘What was he saying?’

Vasco flapped his hand. ‘Rest easy. If he utters one word of any importance I shall faithfully translate.’

‘. . .  join together with me in thanking our local musical legend, Senhor Nelson Paulo Cavaco. If anyone would like to hear more from his golden lungs you can see him in Santiago do Cacém tomorrow evening . . .’

‘Still rubbish,’ Vasco informed the foreigners loudly.

‘. . .  and in a moment . . .’ Eduardo patted his excuse for a stomach, ‘we shall all eat but first I would like, on behalf of the Junta, to thank everyone who worked so hard towards this very special evening. Please give yourselves a clap . . . And lastly . . .’

‘The power,’ said Vasco, ‘has gone to his head.’

‘. . .  I am sure you will agree that we have here this evening a very special guest. Yes, Marco Afonso Rodrigues, come up here. I propose a toast to my cousin and a friend to every one of you, who has achieved so . . . so many things, and who has finally decided that there is no place like home.’

Marco, propelled by many hands, found his way to the foot of the stage.

‘To Marco,’ said Eduardo and raised a glass.

‘To Marco.’

‘We met him last night,’ said Sophie.

‘Why does he shave his head?’ said Huw. ‘Makes him look like a convict.’

‘It does not,’ said Sophie. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

Marco weaved back through the tables. Telma Ervanaria blocked his way. ‘A speech from the honoured guest would have been welcome.’ She folded her arms and trained her formidable breasts directly on the man.

Marco smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m not one for speeches. I simply extend my humble thanks.’

‘Marco,’ said Telma Ervanaria, ‘when we were children I used to dangle you upside down by the ankle. Tell me, has such a distance grown between us that you cannot say a single thing?’ She smiled too but, like a dog whose tail has been docked, she seemed ready at any moment to spring.

Those people who were closest tuned in to the conversation. Some stepped a pace or two forward so that Marco and Telma Ervanaria were enclosed. Vasco bashed Bruno on the leg to make him give way, so that he got an unobstructed view from his seat.

‘I do not choose to make a distance,’ said Marco. ‘I am here with you all.’

‘Tell us a simple story, then. The story of your life.’

Cristina was there and Dona Linda, and Stanton with his hands in his pockets. Eduardo looked on anxiously, bending his wrists back and forth.

‘Is it true,’ said Vasco, ‘that you were once in Angola? My uncle Henrique went there.’

The party went on around them, in the low-ceilinged whitewashed room. There was the muted buzz of adjustment and expectation such as was natural after their attention had been released from the stage.

‘A life is never simple,’ said Marco. ‘A story is never true.’

‘Fooey,’ said Telma Ervanaria. ‘You went here, you went there, you did this, you did that. Simply give us the facts.’

‘I could tell you some stories. Stories are what we use to cover things up.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Telma Ervanaria, her pug face becoming squarer by the second as she adjusted her chin. ‘Only if you tell lies.’

João came out of the toilet and limped past, smiling left and right, to acknowledge whatever was going on.

Telma Ervanaria seized his arm. ‘Every honest man will tell you what his life has been. Senhor João here would tell anyone, if he wasn’t shy. And those of us who have been abroad are not too proud to speak. Senhor Vasco I can personally vouch for – he is only too happy to talk.’

There was laughter and a substantial amount of coughing to disown entirely the laugh.

‘What’s happening?’ said Eileen to Vasco.

‘A joke,’ said Vasco, gravely. ‘Jokes are not possible to translate.’

Marco waited a few moments longer, allowing a level of uncertainty to build. ‘Maybe, then, you know him. Maybe, though, you don’t.’

Manuel, who had interrupted his pilgrim’s progress across the room drinking to everyone’s health, shouted, ‘I know what he’s hiding. He’s not rich at all. Look at that old cape he’s wearing. The clasp is not real gold.’

‘No,’ said Dona Linda, who had learned it from Telma Ervanaria, ‘that means he’s
very
rich. So rich he doesn’t have to care.’

‘No, no, no. A failure and he doesn’t want to say.’

‘Listen,’ said Telma Ervanaria, finally releasing her grip on João. ‘We can see you are a private man.’

‘That’s right,’ shouted Eduardo.

‘Shut up, Eduardo,’ said Telma Ervanaria. ‘Let me speak.’

Eduardo looked reluctant but under the circumstances, chiefly of Telma Ervanaria’s glare, he gave way.

‘As I was saying, you are private about your history but do please tell us your plans. Those – you cannot deny it – we have a right to know.’