The Road to Lisbon (25 page)

Outside.

“Mr Stein?”

Nothing.

“Mr Stein?”

A long pause. Then that heavy Scots voice, low and authoritative, coming out of the nothingness. Like someone dragging a heavy stone across gravel.

“Aye, lad.”

“How’s everything going?”

“Inter better be ready for us.”

“Why?”

“Because Thursday is the day.”

“What day?”

“The day that everything comes to pass. Everything I’ve worked for.”

“What will happen?”

“Something that the world has never seen before.”

“What?” I implore.

“We are going to attack them. Relentlessly. Attack after attack after attack. Inter won’t know what’s hit them. Catenaccio or no catenaccio. We are going to tear them to
fucking shreds. They will talk about it for years to come. Forever.”

I feel my feet go cold, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a rush of ecstasy surge through my nervous system.

“Mr Stein.”

“Aye son.”

“I’m tripping out of my nut.”

“Just be, lad. Just be.”

I enter the forest. It is cool and shaded and endless. The little people hide in the deeper shadows. The darkness lives there. I kneel down and rip up some turf, raise it to my nostrils, drink
deeply of its rich, soily odour. Life crying out for life. I want to become a part of it, a part of the forest, a part of nature, a part of the land. Another glade. I detect redcurrant blossom, it
transports me back to a golden age, a kaleidoscope flickering with the sunshine of my infancy, 1947, two years after the trauma ended; austerity, yes, but relative safety and the imminence of the
National Health, a braver, better world, the triumph of decency, maternal warmth and paternal protection; the odour of my father in his prime, pipe tobacco and fresh sweat,
unthinkable
without him. I meditate on him for a while. On my love for him. On his goodness. In further now. The ground gives way here, a sloped and shaded grove, the incline littered with grey-green rocks,
angular and dry and cool. Elm trunks and boughs are verdant with lichen, and amid the carpet of moss, herbs and primeval fern sit Eddie and Angelu, their arms around one another, their heads
resting upon each other’s shoulders, their eyes closed as though in a deep and restful sleep.

It is by the shore that I find it. A pearl of wisdom, utterly pure in its clarity and obviousness and simplicity:
of course
Rocky and Debbie had to be together. They were
meant
to
be together. Anything else would be an obscenity, a crime against nature. What purpose would it serve for them to remain apart, simply to spare my feelings? I sit in my pleasant reverie and hear a
voice calling me, perhaps in gratitude towards my revelation. After all, surely they all must know of it? Hasn’t this substance we have imbibed fused our consciousnesses?

It is Mark. Smiling, benign, beautiful. I call out to him.

“Your benevolence surrounds you like a halo!”

Without speaking he comes to me, smiling. We embrace, feel the life strength within each other’s bodies. He begins kissing me, my face. Tries my lips. I am not repelled, I do not rage;
only laugh good-naturedly. I see things clearly now. There is no place for severity, no need for it; only understanding. Only love.

“I can’t be like that for you. Ever.”

I am smiling.

“I understand.”

He is smiling. But he wants to walk away. I won’t let him. I hold him. I make it okay. I understand things now. How the ego acts as a barrier between people. How we put up defences and
question each other’s worthiness because we’re not sure of our own worthiness but right now I can see my own worthiness and everyone else’s.

Most of all I can see Delphine’s worthiness. Her gentleness, her vulnerability, the purity of her intentions. Her profound beauty as a woman and as a person. For a moment I feel unworthy
of her, then I tell myself: ‘You are worthy of her.’ And I believe it. I know it.

I look round; Mark has left. So I withdraw my sketch of her and gaze at it and then I ask it out loud, to the sea, to the rocks and the sand; the seabirds are my witnesses: “WILL I SEE
DELPHINE AGAIN?”

And the birds and the forest and the waves and the sand and the sky all return together, on one single ecstatic communal beat:
‘YES YOU SHALL!’

The rhythm of nature. The ocean continues to gently lap the shore; relentless, eternal, cathartic. The interconnectedness of everything. The pure truth of beauty. The truth in the way things
are; the meaning of things, under the surface of things. God-ness silently vibrating in every tissue of the universe.

The effects diminish. Still strong – still incredibly strong, but in relative terms less so. I am able to perform basic tasks: lighting a fire and positioning the pan,
organising the camp, eating fried bread. The Rioja is a myriad of subtle flavours. It is like drinking liquid sunshine. I smell the salt and listen to the ocean swell in the Bay of Biscay. The
rushes are mellower. I feel pleasant and at peace. The firewood crackles comfortingly. The shadows lengthen as the sunlight becomes lateral. The sky glows a slightly darker shade of cobalt.

But something is happening in the forest. Something terrible. The sound of the little folk making merry with some cruel sport. I enter. I can hear Iggy’s inane giggling and a violent sound
of breaking glass. Then a
thump, thump, thump
sound of wood striking a metal panel.

It takes me a few seconds to take in the scene. In a clearing at the end of the forest track are Iggy and Xalbador. They are both stripped to the waist like savages and smeared in places with
black paint. Xalbador has a fence post gripped between his hands and is bringing it down in a violent rhythm upon the front end of a saloon car. Iggy is standing on the roof, leaping up and down
like a monkey as he splashes the paint from a tin over the vehicle. The car is dark green with a white bonnet. Along the side are inscribed an emblem and two words. I take a moment to focus my
eyes: GUARDIA CIVIL.

I fall to my knees, my stomach fills with fear, but worse than ever before, an insane dread, the dread of something evil and out of kilter with the rational universe. This cannot be happening.
Why is this happening? Why did he have to do this? Why did he have to ruin everything? He is tripping, yes, but I can detect the madness in his eyes beneath the chemicals. The madness that got his
wee brother killed, a tragedy that in turn awoke the same madness in Iggy like a genetic chain reaction. Sent him into a spiral of guilt and self-destruction, all hidden under the guise of the
pursuit of fun and anarchy. Hidden from everyone but me, that is. I look at him giggling like an eejit, and a wave of the darkness descends; a living force, swelling within my limbs, mocking me
with the extent of my friend’s ability to wreak self-havoc. And I feel a sickness, a terror in the pit of my being, the inability to contemplate my losing him. Suddenly he slips on the wet
paint and falls on his arse, slides down the windscreen and lands on top of Xalbador in a heap. The two of them are hysterical with laughter. Eventually Iggy composes himself. I stand up and
somehow manage to light myself a cigarette.

“It’s the Miracle of Gorbals Cross all over again!” Iggy announces gleefully.

Xalbador is grinning like a devil, his beady eyes flickering beneath his stupid tinted spectacles. I could gladly go up and tear them off his face and stamp them into the dirt.

“Miracles don’t strike twice ya balloon!”

“Don’t worry – Xalbador knows a joint where he’s gonnae dump it. Thump it – bump it – clump it – dump it.”

Machine-gun laughter from Xalbador as he glances up from daubing Basque slogans on the car, looking like a malevolent clown.

“Is this acid no amai-zing Tim?” enthuses Iggy. “I’m gonnae get a hold of some back in Glasgow. ’Cause it’s the FUCKING BERRIES!”

“Iggy. You’ve fucked us. You’ve really fucked us.”

“Come on Tim, the polis here are fascist bastards. We’ve made a political act! In fact – political art! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

I go over to Xalbador, grab him roughly by the shoulder.

“You, ya bampot. Did you put him up to this?”

“My friend – ”

“DID YOU?”

“Oh
f-f-f-f-f-fuck!
”
Mark too has followed the commotion to its source.

“You have surpassed yourself this time Iggy,” I say. “You have fucked it for us.”

“Fucked what?”

“Lisbon.”

My legs are turning to jelly. Thoughts suddenly spinning out of control, the darkness threatening to overwhelm me. I expect to see policemen and demons loom out of the shadows towards us.

“Oh, f-f-fuck,” says Mark, pacing up and down.

“Ach, give us peace,” says Iggy. “We can dump it further into the woods or off a cliff. They’ll no know it was us that knocked it.”

“Are you kidding? Five foreigners just happen to be in a wee village and a fucking polis car goes missing. They will read this with their eyes closed.”

“Oh, f-f-fuck,” says Mark.

“Will you stop fucking saying that!”

We congregate around the fire, the others drifting out of the woods like lepers. I tell Xalbador to get to fuck. I comfort Mark with whisky, coax him away from the darkness. A
slight squall rises and we bed down, close our eyes, try to ignore the weirdness, and drift off to sleep.

I listen to the chirping of the crickets and the soft rustle of the leaves in the trees. The warm night air wraps around me like a blanket. I gaze out towards
the sea and see the lights of an ocean liner glinting in the pitch darkness. I am tired from the flight, but tiredness does not always mean sleep for me, particularly this week. If only I could
turn my mind off, close my eyes and not open them again until the alarm clock sounds in the morning. If only it were that simple. One a.m. has been and gone. I have done my night patrol three times
already, stalking the corridors, listening for any signs of life. But the boys are asleep. They know better than to pull any tricks this week, the biggest week of their lives. Then I hear a
shuffling sound from above. My antenna twitches. I lean over the edge of my balcony and look up. I can make out a head poking over the edge, breathing in the night air.

“Who the fuck’s that?”

“It’s me, boss, Jimmy. I can’t sleep.”

“What’s up, Jimmy?”

“I’m worried, boss. Every time I close my eyes I can see all the great Inter players in my mind. Then I run through all their names in my head. Facchetti, Burgnich,
Mazzola. These guys are absolute stars, boss.”

“You’re right, Jimmy. They are stars. They have been there and done it. But it doesn’t mean that they will do it again. Here’s a wee exercise for you. Every
time you close your eyes and think of those guys, picture one of your team-mates. So every time you imagine Facchetti ploughing up the flank, think of big Gemmell belting up the other side. When
you think of Cappellini or Corso sniffing around our box, think of Stevie hovering, ready to pounce on any slip-up at the other end. Then, think of Burgnich. Think how close he is going to get to
you. So close you’ll be able to smell his aftershave. But think about spinning away from him, leaving him trailing in your wake. I’m not saying they don’t have great players,
Jimmy, but look at what we have got. Is there one player in our team that you don’t totally trust and believe in?”

“You’re right, boss. We’ve got everything. You know me, I’m just a worrier. I’m just concerned we won’t get what we deserve.”

“Jimmy, only worry about the things you can control. Football is unpredictable. They’ll get breaks, so might we but we can’t control any of that. We can control
how we want to play.”

“I’m just so desperate to do well, myself, boss. It’s completely taking over my mind. I really want this to be my stage. I want people to remember this game and
remember how I played in it. That may sound selfish, but it’s what my game is all about. I take people on. These boys are all about stopping players like me. They aren’t interested in
anything else. I know I’m good, but I can’t take on a whole team myself.”

“I’m not asking you to, Jimmy. This game is not all about you. Sometimes, even for the real individual talents like you, it is about contributing to the team in other
ways. Remember that every time you pull Burgnich away from his area, you have started to disrupt their system. And if they haven’t got their system then they haven’t got anything. If
you manage to pull their defence out of position, it creates space for other players. I’m not asking you to take on their eight-man defence. Think about it like a dam. Every time you pull
them out of position, you punch another little hole in that dam. It may take a while for that dam to burst, but something will have to give at some point.”

“Aye, you’re right boss. I’m just so used to being the man who is relied upon to do something different. It’s hard, y’know?”

“Here’s a question for you wee man. What do you remember about the Scottish Cup final against Dunfermline a couple of years back?”

“Well, the first thing I remember is big Billy smashing home that winner. What a feeling. I remember the Celtic fans going absolutely mental. And I remember thinking that
maybe things were starting to turn.”

“What else do you remember?”

“I remember Bertie scoring twice to bring us back into the game. We played well that day, boss. I remember being proud of us, even though I wasn’t playing
myself.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I remember. I remember thinking that we were starting to go places, that the team really turned a corner that day. I remember feeling really
proud, too. But if you asked me for one moment in that game, it wouldn’t be big Billy and it wouldna be wee Bertie. It would be John Clark clearing a ball off the line when it was 2-2. I
remember Dunfermline’s John McLaughlin beating John Fallon to the ball and thinking: ‘Shite, we’re done for now.’ Then I remember Luggy hoofing it clear. I can’t
describe the relief I felt in that moment. And at the final whistle, as everyone ran over to Billy to celebrate, I grabbed Luggy and gave him a bloody big bear hug. I told him I’d never been
so glad to see a man on the line in my life. The next morning, I bought all of the papers and I spread them out on the coffee table. Big Billy’s face grinned out at me from the back pages. I
read all the match reports. You know, some of them didn’t even mention Luggy’s clearance. Not one fuckin’ tiny reference to it. It was as if it never happened. It had been
forgotten about. But I hadn’t forgotten. And I knew Luggy wouldn’t either. I knew he’d be sitting in his house with his feet up, looking at his medal and happy with playing his
part in a job well done. And I said to myself: ‘That’s the type of player that every team needs.’ So when you’re running your socks off and keep bumping into big Italians,
just keep reminding yourself that you are doing your bit and that your team-mates appreciate it.”