Chapter 9
Money Matters
The hardest part was convincing Ção.
“You just can’t cut your ties with that scrawny, ancient hag, can you? How do you think I feel with you fraternising with her baby brother?”
“I don’t have any ties to Lourdes, my love. Paulo’s a nice guy. And he’s giving me an opportunity I don’t otherwise have: the chance to provide for my wife and maybe our future kids.”
The product was good. That helped convince Ção, or helped Ed to convince her. It did no harm, either, when Paulo showed up at the flat with flowers for Ção, with more product for them to sample, and insisted on their coming with him as he put the Ferrari through its paces on the coast road.
Alone with Ed, Paulo was business-like.
“This is essentially a short-term opportunity. Thousands of settlers are coming back from the colonies. They don’t like it that the biggest colonies, Angola and Mozambique, are already under transitional governments. They can’t see anything halting the run-up to independence and majority rule.”
“Yes, I heard about the agreement on Angola. All the factions coming together. Unbelievable!”
“Right. It won’t last, but now there are limits on what people can take out of the country if they leave. You can’t take a block of flats or a suitcase of cash, but you can fill a container with top-grade marijuana and bring it here. If you’re clever and have the right connections. Or buy them.”
“What, they just let them do it?”
“Officially, no, of course not. But money still talks over there, and here too.”
“I see. So why is it just a short-term opportunity, then?”
“Two reasons. First, our guys still run things over there at a day-to-day level. We have the connections. When independence comes, that won’t be the case any more. The new guys in charge will be Marxist puritans. They are bound to try and stop the flow of grass. Second, before that happens, the mafias that run the international drugs trade are going to want their cut. Which tends to be one hundred per cent.”
“But that hasn’t happened yet?”
“No, not yet. I reckon we have a few months’ grace. Interested?”
“I have to be. But why do you want me in? Anything to do with Lourdes?”
“Nothing to do with my sister. Your equity is your knowledge of retail, distribution channels and three international languages. Also, you’re above suspicion. So hold on to that university job, even while they’re not paying you.”
Ed arranged another appointment with Deolinda d’Almeida to find out why the University was not paying him. She looked at him coolly, as though disappointing eager young men was something she did every day.
“Well, strictly speaking, you aren’t really employed by the University yet. Your election needs to be rubber-stamped by the official authorities. That takes a while.”
“How long?”
“A month or two. Can you wait that much? We really appreciate the work you’re doing. You’ll get back-paid to the month you started to teach. January, right?” She smiled. “We’re all making sacrifices to build a new Portugal.” Her smile wilted, and she sighed.
Ed kept up his classes. He thought they were going well. Ed’s evening students were, in most cases, determined to take full advantage of the higher education they had been denied before the Revolution. They were also interesting people, drawn from many walks of life and rich in experience. Ed started to develop a personal dedication to them in addition to his more abstract dedication to the country’s future.
Xavier introduced Ed to some of their fellow instructors, ones who had classes at a similar time to Ed’s. Carolina Isfahan was a local girl with Scottish roots who had converted to the Baha’i faith when she married an Iranian devotee. Her husband had suffered persecution in Iran, but was longing to return, with his wife and future children, if and when the Shah’s régime fell under the pressure for real democracy. Rupert Harley-Davidson was an ethereal figure, a gentle man of few words. Xavier told Ed that Rupert had published two books on Portuguese wildlife. Ashley Beecroft, a rotund, humorous man who claimed to be a citizen of the world but travelled on a United States passport, supplemented the meagre pay by reporting for various foreign newspapers on Portuguese football. They took to having a coffee together before or between classes, or a beer afterwards. Ed got the impression that his business background made him seem like a creature from another world to them, but they were curious about such creatures and accorded him respect for getting elected to their ranks on a near-unanimous vote.
Ed told them a good deal about supermarkets and his ideas for improving them, but nothing about his new business venture. When he next spoke to Simone, he told her he had an offer to work with Paulo, but did not go into any details as to its nature. The fewer people who knew those details, the better. Nor did he tell his mother, though her practical support was crucial. He phoned her at a time when he knew his father was likely to be out on parish business, and took her up on her own private offer of financial help, explaining the pay situation at the University and asking her to lend him the minimum amount he deemed necessary to keep a couple going for three months. She sent him enough for six months.
His next task was to persuade Ção that they would have to turn their flat into a meticulously marijuana-free zone. He did not want its distinctive smell floating down the stairwell and prodding civic-minded neighbours into alerting the police. He convinced her by cooking a very aromatic curry for them with the kitchen windows open, then closing all the windows in the flat and retreating to the bedroom, where he lit several joss-sticks, shredded half a dozen cigarettes, rolled enough joints to contain every last shred of their private marijuana stash and made sure that Ção smoked more of it than he did, to the accompaniment of Rimsky-Korsakov.
Ed was surprised to wake up the next morning fully clothed and lying on the floor. He was relieved that Ção was on the bed, though outside the covers, also fully clothed, and still asleep. He did not disturb her as he went to wash and then to make coffee in the cold kitchen. In fact, he let her sleep all morning. When she finally came to and realised what had happened, she asked whether she had overdosed. Ed reassured her that you could not kill yourself with marijuana, but was pleased to hear her say softly, “Never again”. It was better that way for both of them.
Ed realised he did not have enough contacts he could trust to run a whole marijuana distribution network. His solution was a pyramid structure. He first sounded out and then recruited three of the most enterprising, but discreet, of his supermarket and grocery contacts, and made each one responsible for a given area: the inner city; the suburbs; and the south bank of the river and beyond. Each was to sub-divide his territory among three trusted lieutenants, who could, in turn, sub-divide further. Ed insisted on vetting, indeed on knowing, only the people in the two layers of the pyramid below him. That kept down the number of people who knew him and his role. Paulo dealt with the returned settlers, found storage sites, which he changed constantly, and employed what he called “quality control officers” to grade the product.
Everyone else in the pyramid was forbidden from sampling the marijuana. Paulo himself only indulged when he wanted to check the work of the “quality control officers”. Sometimes, he would invite Ed to help him with the task. Occasionally, Ed met settler contacts of Paulo’s at these sessions. The accounts they furnished of their lives in Angola and Mozambique left Ed impressed with their entrepreneurial flair and disgusted at their blind racism. He foresaw that they would have difficulty in adjusting to the mainstream European business context, in which skin colour was deemed irrelevant and where, when this axiom was ignored because of inherited irrationality, having Mediterranean colouring was rarely an advantage. To those who sought it, he offered whatever advice he could. The ones who asked for it were willing to heed it. Many, though, expected blithely to transfer settler culture to the “motherland” and were appalled at the hostility which their ideas aroused in the new times.
Unlike Portugal’s conscript soldiers and junior officers, most of the settlers had hated General Spínola when he first advocated negotiating an end to the wars in its colonies. Now, however, they saw him as their best hope of turning the clock back. Although no longer President, he had not given up hope of an eventual return to power. Increasingly, he had to scrape the barrel to find backers among the dregs of the former régime. With these behind him, he launched a coup attempt in mid-March.
The attempt was fairly pathetic. A rebel plane strafed an army base on the outskirts of Lisbon. It shot up the soldiers’ canteen, but the canteen was empty and the attackers only managed to kill one recruit, who was setting the places for lunch. Other rebel troop movements were easily contained. Spínola himself fled to Spain, where a fascist régime still ruled the roost.
The left was triumphant. It had beaten off every political and political challenge to its authority, to its leadership of the revolution. Now it would deal with the economic challenges. Portugal was in recession and scapegoats had to be found. It was easy to berate “capitalist saboteurs”, especially when they instigated failed coups, but the public wanted concrete evidence of economic sabotage. Now they got it. A major bank in the country was called the “Espírito Santo” Bank, not out of religious devotion to the Holy Ghost but because that was the surname of the family that owned it. Now the bank’s workers had the run of its archives. They uncovered evidence which suggested that the family had siphoned off money allocated to providing jobs for demobbed troops, and that it was funding right-wing political parties. Three days after Spínola’s failed coup, the government nationalised Portugal’s banks. Land reform intensified, social housing became a priority and decent wages drew nearer. On the other hand, foreign investment dried up.
Ção and her fellow-Maoists, however, were not content. They felt marginalised as power consolidated in the hands of the Communists and the “revolutionary left”. Increasingly, they saw these as the real barrier to their aspirations, and the hostility they showed towards them at times exceeded that of the die-hards nostalgic for the old régime.
Ção’s mood soured. She became less inclined to euphoria and celebration. Worse still, from Ed’s point of view, her aroma of cinnamon dissipated. If anything, she smelt now of citrus: pleasant, but not devastating to his senses. He asked her about it.
“I changed my perfume. It’s no big deal.”
At the end of the month, the University bureaucrats again denied Ed’s presence on the list of their employees. He didn’t want to live on his mother’s money now that he was supposedly earning his own. He phoned Paulo.
“How’s the business doing, Paulo? Are we making a profit yet? If so, I’d like a few bucks because the University still isn’t paying me.”
“Good Heavens, Ed, I’m so sorry. Yes, of course. I’ll be round at your place first thing tomorrow.”
Paulo did as he promised. Ção had already left for work, but Ed was making a pot of coffee when he arrived.
Ed took the pot into the spare room and as they settled over their small cups, Paulo pulled out two thick wads of banknotes and pushed them across the table to Ed.
“Some dollars and some escudos. You’d better spend the local stuff first because its value is going to drop, very fast and very soon.”
“What’s this? A year’s advance? I don’t need this much.”
“This is your share so far. Don’t turn it down. Make the most of it while it lasts. Just don’t make a big show of it, not in this political climate.”
Ed accompanied Paulo down to his car. He had come in the Renault, not the Ferrari.
“Still going strong, you see. Like my sister, actually. No big show of wealth, all right, Ed? And please be a bit more bloody careful what you say on the phone.” Paulo’s mouth was smiling but his eyes were not. His words rang in Ed’s ears together with the clashing of gears. The smell of burning rubber overpowered that of the square’s Spring flowers. The sounds and the smells were strong enough to make Ed sure he was not dreaming.
Ed had another visitor that morning, an unexpected one: Mark Rotherfield. When Ed opened the door, Mark was scratching his thin beard.
“Hello, old chap, can I come in?”
“Sure. Step right in. If it’s too early in the day for a proper drink, I’ll make you some tea or coffee.”
Ed did not want Mark to see the pile of cash, so he led him to the kitchen, opened its outer door and set out a couple of chairs on the top platform of the fire escape, which he and Ção used as a balcony.
“What brings you here?”
Mark blinked behind his expensive lenses.
“Look, I’m sorry I’ve been a bit of a rotter, blaming you for that fiasco up at the University, but really I felt so bad I just wanted to keep out of people’s way.”
“So what’s changed?”
Mark’s face brightened.
“I’ve got a job. At the English Council. Teaching English there.”
“Mark, that’s fabulous news! Congratulations!”
“It’s only part-time, but even so they pay more than you’ll be getting at the University.”
“Wow! And they gave you work in the middle of term. How did you manage that? Hang on, I’ll fetch the tea.”
When he came back out with the two full mugs, Mark was resting his feet on the ‘balcony’ railing. He took a mug from Ed with one hand and stroked the thick knot of his tie with the other.
“Oh, I see,” said Ed. “Where did you go to school?”
“Tonbridge.”
“Where on earth is that?”
“Little town in Kent, actually. Got a river, a jolly old castle and an association football team known as the Angels.”
“Must be looking after you.”
“Yes. Damned good school, Tonbridge, though I say it myself. Tough but fair.” His smile flickered.
“And the trading stamps?”
“Oh, I’ve forgotten them already. I’ve darned well had my fill of supermarkets and grocers.”
“Yes, but between us we could’ve shaken ’em up, don’t you think?”
“By George, yes!”
As they downed their tea, they traded ideas. Ed did not think much of Mark’s vision of supermarkets with carpeting and decorated in pastel colours, but he warmed to the thought of check-out staff in well-designed uniforms they’d be pleased to wear, and was impressed by Mark’s fantasies of maxi-supermarkets built on cheap land outside towns, with ample parking space and selling stuff you’d now have to go to several kinds of store to find. He was glad to have his friend back, and sorry when Mark rose to leave.
“Thanks for the tea, old bean, almost as good as the real thing. Now I really must go and prepare some lessons. Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve brought you a little something to put in our pipe of peace.”
He pulled a small transparent bag from his jacket pocket. Ed glanced at the marijuana and ushered Mark into the kitchen. He shut the door to the fire escape behind them, and spoke to Mark in a low voice.
“That’s very kind of you, Mark. But I’ve given that up. No, really. Won’t even have any in the house. I’m not kidding. Wouldn’t be good for the baby.”
“Oh, I say, is Ção – ?”
“Not yet. But she will be soon.”
“Oh, jolly good! Maybe we can have a christening party all together.”
“Let’s hope so. Meanwhile, if you want to do me a favour, next time you come, bring me some real English tea.”
After seeing Mark out, Ed went into the party room. The pile of money was still there. He counted it again and reached the same amounts as before. He started to believe it was his. Theirs. The moment Ção arrived, he took her by the hand and led her to it. Her eyes widened.
“What’s this?”
“The fruits of enterprise. To put it another way, my love, the security we need to start a family.”
“Oh Ed, let’s start one now, right this moment. It’s just about the best time of the month.”
She ran into the bedroom, pulling Ed with her. Ção slid off her jacket, then unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall. She pulled Ed to her and attacked his trousers as he kissed and nibbled her neck. Ed stepped out of his trousers, removed his briefs and then could wait no longer. He pushed Ção backwards onto the bed, reached his hands up under her skirt, pulled down her panties, moistened her vagina a bit more with his tongue, then eased his penis into her and began moving rhythmically in the way he knew would bring her to orgasm soon.
“No, Ed, darling. Don’t make me come, make me pregnant!”
Ed wondered briefly about his wife’s sex education, but absorbed the message and thrust harder and faster, imagining himself going so deep inside her that when he came, the spermatozoa would have only the tiniest of journeys to make. With that thought, he climaxed, and felt fatherhood calling in his ear.
Ção stroked his hair as he lay still on top of her. After a few minutes, she whispered into his ear.
“Ed, my darling, let’s do it again. Maybe we can have twins.”