Chapter 12
A Man of Property
In mid-September, the political tide turned when a sixth provisional government was sworn in. It was more moderate than its predecessor, although it was headed not by a civilian but by an admiral, and it focused initially on power struggles within the armed forces. Although it was more business-friendly than its immediate predecessors, nationalisations continued, and the revolutionary left sought to demonstrate people’s power in the streets.
Portugal’s neighbour, Spain, had also fallen under a fascist yoke decades earlier, and had not freed itself. Portugal got a reminder of the nature of such a régime at the end of September, when the Spanish government used a police firing squad to execute five Basque nationalists. Portuguese opinion had already been enraged by the earlier garrotting of two young anarchists in Spain. In Oporto, in northern Portugal, hundreds of demonstrators broke through a cordon of troops and trashed the Spanish consulate, burning its contents in the street outside. In Lisbon, the protestors went a step further and burned the Spanish Embassy down. The Portuguese government apologised profusely to the neighbouring régime and paid for a new embassy to be built. Paulo told Ed that everyone believed that the burners had been led by Spanish exiles. In any case, the senile dictator in Spain was on his deathbed and his régime’s days were numbered. He had just fancied one last thrill from exercising the power of life and death.
The Portuguese government had long complained of an economic boycott, instead of the increased support it had expected, by the countries of Western Europe and North America. Not even with the new, moderate provisional government did the economic crisis show signs of relenting. Ever the optimist, Ed decided that state of affairs would not last. He resolved to take advantage of the crisis in the housing market by borrowing money to invest more heavily in real estate now, while the market was at its lowest level. He approached Paulo for another loan.
“Are you sure I’m the best person to be your personal banker, Ed?”
“You’re the only one I trust.”
“Hold on. I’m the lender. It’s more a question of how far I trust you.”
“Don’t you, Paulo?”
“Sure I do.”
“Didn’t I pay you back the loan you made me?”
“You did indeed. Well, Ed, if I lend you this money, I guess I can consider you my long-term security.”
“Let’s drink to that!” The loan was made.
When Ed mentioned his real estate plans to Mark Rotherfield, his friend suggested Ed buy a place in a seaside village called Azenhas do Mar, where whitewashed houses nestled above a tiny inlet in the cliffs facing the Atlantic. When they visited the village, Ed loved the view, and was sure that Ção would love the place too, but the houses for sale were too small for his purpose and the village too far from the city and too poorly connected by public transport. His idea was to become a landlord himself, so that he would have an income from the property while its value appreciated, or stagnated.
It was Ção who suggested Cascais. She liked its upmarket status and its relative peace and quiet. The fall in house prices there had been particularly steep. It was at the end of the railway line that ran along the estuary coastline from the city, and the trains were frequent. Moreover, her Daddy knew some houseowners there who were looking to sell. So did Paulo. So did Hélder. Ed was spoilt for choice. For once, he ignored Ção’s preferences and took the empty property at the lowest price his drug dollars could elicit, a three-bedroom flat on the lower floor of a semi-detached house in a nondescript but leafy street set back from the sea and off the tourist beat, but within easy walking distance of the station. Then he set about finding tenants.
Ed put up notices at the University, the Sussex School and the English Council. He also launched messages on the foreigners’ grapevine. Plenty of potential tenants phoned him. Some balked at the rent he was asking, others were put off by having to leave a room for Ed and Ção to use occasionally, and by having to share with another tenant in any case. Most, however, were eager to rent the place. Ed interviewed five people and settled on two teachers from the English Council. Both had a foothold in the media world. Len Hoffman described himself as a Rhodesian. He was as tall as Ed, blond too, though chubby and with a baby face. He had nurtured a posh English accent, in which he reported occasionally for the Voice of America on Portugal and on Southern Africa. Seamus King was a short, dark, thick-set biker from Liverpool who acted as a stringer for a news agency. By all accounts, including their own, they got on well together. Seamus had been living in a windmill in the countryside, and relished the chance of a winter that might be wet and windy outside his bedroom but not inside as well. Len’s current flat was frequently rendered dark and dangerous by unreliable wiring which the landlord refused to fix. He carefully examined the electrical set-up at the Cascais flat and gave it the thumbs-up. They would both move in at the end of the month. Ed offered each of them the materials to paint and decorate his own room as he saw fit, and promised to consult them on decorating the shared rooms. They volunteered their labour for that, too.
Ção made it clear to Ed that she would rather live in the quiet of Cascais than in the bustle of the city, but Ed was deeply attached to the flat in Largo do Andaluz, above all because it was the place where they had met. It was to please her that he kept a room reserved for them at the flat on the coast instead of renting it out to a third tenant. He also promised that they would raise their children there. One big advantage of renting to foreigners was that they were not likely to want to stay for ever.
The fact was that living in the city was convenient for both Ed and Ção. It made it easier for Ção to pay a quick visit to one or other of her parents, and it meant that they could both be home before midnight after a late evening class. And Lisbon was the centre of Ed’s distribution network. Ção pointed out that buying a car would make Cascais a more viable option.
“I fancy something chic and French. A nice Peugeot, for instance. What do you think?”
“You know I have to keep a low profile. I can’t run around in a brand new car.”
“Well I can! Do you think you’re the only person in this couple? Do you think women can’t drive?”
“My love, as far as I know, you can’t drive.”
“Well, my brain is as good as any man’s, so I can learn, can’t I?”
“Of course you can. Look, here’s what we’ll do. You take driving lessons. When you pass your test, I’ll buy you a second-hand car, and we can both use it.”
“Well, that’s a start, I guess. But if you really want to show your love, you’ll buy me a new one.”
Ed handed over some cash for the lessons and forgot about the matter. He wanted his wife to have everything she desired, but he did not want her splashing cash in a way that might draw attention to its likely source. On the other hand, he wanted his money to be hers, too, which meant that she should have an equal say in how it was spent. Within reason.
Ed was also glad that Ção was making him think about the division of labour within the household. He noticed that she had stopped doing the washing up, and realised that it was something to which he had paid little attention. Without saying anything, he took it upon himself to do it, as well as any other piece of housework he realised needed seeing to. After all, Ção had been willing to help with the decorating, although paint cans still lined the hall walls because they had not yet found time to start on it. Ed did not want to press her. He could see that his wife was tired, with the emotional strain of her parents’ split, the physical strain of work at the agency, and the mental strain of her law degree, all of which would get worse when her classes resumed. To cap it all, Ed had not yet made her pregnant, and this had diluted the passion of their love-making, which was now concentrated into the days in the month when she should be most fertile.
Ed had had little recent contact with Rui, the fan of Woody Allen and Philip Roth, so he was surprised when Ção’s friend phoned specifically to speak to him.
“Happy birthday, Ed! It is today, isn’t it?”
“What? No. Bloody hell, hang on, it’s tomorrow. Bloody hell, I’d forgotten.”
“And Ção didn’t say anything. Must be planning to surprise you. Not giving you a hard time, I hope?”
“What? No, not at all!”
“Back to the birthday boy. I was hoping you’d be having a party. Hoped I might get myself invited. You didn’t do anything last year, I know, but this year it’s twenty-five. A quarter of a century! You’ve got to do something.”
“Damn it, you’re right! Of course you’re invited. I’ll let you know what I manage to arrange in twenty-four hours.”
“And I promise to get very drunk. It’s what I’m good at.”
Being a Saturday, the First of November would have been ideal for a party, but Ed was wary of alienating the neighbours with noise, and Ção did not like the idea of a mass of people tramping through what had become her home. Ed also welcomed the chance to splurge on taking his friends out. Saturday night restaurant reservations were hard for large groups, so Ed booked the whole of the Índia Antiga, one of the city’s few ethnic restaurants, for Monday evening, and passed several hours phoning around to fill it. He spent his birthday itself at home with Ção, who cooked soup and roast chestnuts for him. Ed restricted himself to drinking água pé, lest anything stronger impede his reproductive powers. He felt responsible, and hopeful.
Ed felt less like a family man, and more like his old self, on the Monday evening. The aroma of curry wafted over his shoulders as he welcomed his guests. It reminded him of London. The cadences of sitar and tabla on the restaurant’s sound system added to the cultural mix. He had invited friends from the University, the Sussex School and the English Council, as well as friends he had made through his former legitimate business. Paulo came, too, fortunately not with his sister but with Moisés, who complained that the music was tuneless and the food not spicy enough, but in a good-natured way that made people laugh. Ção was not in a laughing mood, probably because she had been working all day. She had been quick to erase from the guest list the names of those she deemed persona non grata, such as Calvin, with whom she had fallen out over politics and now described as “Stuttgart’s last Stalinist”, Lourdes and Paulo, though Ed had reinstated his business partner. She had invited Estrela and a couple of colleagues from the travel agency, and they sat together chatting intensely until Ed came over and regaled them with his best badly-translated jokes. Xavier spent a lot of time talking to the Goan staff about the Portuguese legacy in the sub-continent, which they agreed was reflected nowadays mostly in names and religion. The evening itself showed that in food and music, the influence was more in the other direction.
Ed was in his element, introducing people he felt sure would get along, and keeping apart those he did not, like Mark and the University crowd. He wallowed in the conviviality, and ordered copious quantities of wine to keep it going. Rui lived up to his promise, and found someone who could match his drinking capacity in Seamus, who was in fine fettle, rattling off anecdotes of his recent career as a debt-dodger. This had involved climbing a tree to escape from a grizzly bear in the Canadian outback. In illustrating this, Seamus brought down a wall hanging and overturned a table. The waiters cleaned up the smashed glasses and broken plates without batting an eyelid. As he rushed over to help them, Ed heard Ção’s voice.
“Stupid boy children! Who wants them?”
Her companions giggled.
Before they left, Deolinda d’Almeida paid a visit, clutching a baby and looking flustered. Keith stared at her fixedly. He was not the only one. She gulped a glass of Ed’s champagne, wished him a long life, explained that she had to get home to put the latest addition to her family to bed and slipped out into the warm evening. Ed was touched by her visit. Keith sidled up to him.
“Been batting on a sticky wicket, have we?”
“No, no time. I mean, of course not!”
Keith chuckled and went to talk to Simone.
Around eleven, engulfed by animated conversation on all sides, Ed took pity on the waiters and asked for the bill. The head waiter asked him if he really meant to leave such an exorbitant tip.
“Just don’t expect it every time I come here.”
It was partly a present to himself. He did not know whether he would be so cash-laden the following year, or indeed ever again. It had been worth it, seeing his friends relaxed and in such good form. Only Ashley Beecroft, his portly, silver-haired, young-acting colleague from the University had disappointed him, teasing Ção with sexist comments and provoking her into feminist diatribes that had her companions nodding at her wisdom and the men within hearing range rolling their eyes, snickering or looking disconcerted. Ed hoped it was not Ashley’s eccentric way of getting Ção interested in him. Glancing at the sultry student he had brought with him, who gazed at her mentor with devotion and crossed or uncrossed her long legs whenever Ashley turned to her, Ed decided that was unlikely.
As they emerged from the restaurant, the damp air smelled more of the river than usual. One of the English Council teachers, Pauline, suggested going to a disco. Ed thought that a fine idea. Paulo and Moisés announced that they were going instead to a club.
“A place where you can sit down and talk.”
Len and a couple of others tagged along with them. Keith, together with Xavier, Rupert, Simone and Mark, decided to call it a night and head home. Pauline, the acknowledged disco expert, lead a couple of dozen people eager to dance to a place called Grey’s, whose magnificent sound system Ed knew had been purchased with drug money. He felt glad the people who ran it disdained anything so light as marijuana; it meant they would not recognise him.
Ed was enchanted by Ção: she danced with such energy and enjoyment, her short body a concentration of voluptuous sensuality. She danced once with him, then pushed him away, telling him to pay attention to the others while she concentrated on her companions. Ed loved being on a dance floor, where his slight limp was not apparent even to himself, and he was happy to put his friends through their paces. They were not alone, and Ed could not resist dancing with a group of three women who were contorting their bodies enticingly while their faces bore expressions of pure bliss and minimum presence. Ção and her group were dancing together nearby; they too were wrapped up in the music. Estrela backed into one of the women dancing with Ed. The woman turned slowly and jabbed her cigarette into Estrela’s arm. Estrela screamed and leapt at her. The two women clawed at each other, going for the hair and eyes. Ed moved in to separate them, but Ção was there first, with a bottle. She struck Estrela’s assailant a glancing blow on the side of the head. It was enough to send the other woman crashing to the floor. Ed grabbed hold of Ção and rushed her to the exit. Ed welcomed the chill in the early morning air outside. Someone shouted his name. He turned. It was Seamus, carrying their coats, which he handed to them.
“Oh, thanks, mate.”
“Least I could do, wack. I’ll settle your bill. Don’t you worry about it.” He turned and went back inside.
Ed took Ção’s improvised weapon and tossed it into a rubbish collection bin. He forced Ção to move quickly down the hill towards the city centre and was relieved when a taxi approached.
In the taxi, Ção’s reaction surprised Ed.
“Oh, Ed, that was such fun! Didn’t I hit that bitch? You saw me, I knocked her flying! Ker-pow! And you were wonderful, my darling, so wonderful. You saved me from I don’t know what. Something nasty! So wonderful!” She raised her mouth to his and kissed him passionately.
Ed hoped they could re-ignite their sex life as soon as they got home, but Ção’s adrenaline rush passed quickly. In the flat, she collapsed into bed half-dressed and fell asleep. Ed undressed carefully, got in beside her, failed to shake her into wakefulness, lay back and relived the night’s events.
The next morning, a warm, damp feeling between his legs roused Ed from a deep sleep. It was Ção. Her tongue was pressing the tip of his penis against the back of her palate, as though she wanted to swallow it. Instead she coughed, ejecting it, and giggled.
“I think I’ll just try that again.” She did. Ed ejaculated into her throat.
“Don’t worry, my love. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“Oh, Ed, my darling, you were so wonderful last night. Now I’m going to show you that I can be wonderful, too.”
Ten minutes later, she was sitting on top of Ed, holding his penis firmly between the outer lips of her vagina. Ed tried to move it so that he could enter her, but she increased the pressure, preventing him.
“No, Ed. No procreation panic today. This isn’t for the baby. It’s for us.”
“OK.”
“I want you inside me, but if you can stop your willie from spitting just there, I’ll make it spit in any other orifice you care to name, just like old times. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Neither of them went to work that day.
A week later, Portugal’s biggest, richest and most tragic colony, Angola, became independent. The peace accord there had unravelled, and its Independence Day was just a blip in the civil war which ensued as the world’s power blocs armed their proxies to the teeth.
Tiny Portugal itself looked to be heading in a similar direction, a prospect which cast a grim shadow over the future of all those who lived there.
Workers had occupied a radio station that belonged to local bishops The Catholic Church put pressure on the government to take action against the workers. The government had sealed off the station, but the workers continued to broadcast. Now the government sent in troops, who cleared out the workers and blew up the station.
The north and the south of the country differed sharply from each other in climate, history and other significant ways. Their contrasting land inheritance systems had profound repercussions. In the south, the eldest son inherited everything. This resulted in vast estates, often with an absentee landlord, and an army of landless labourers, fertile terrain for collectivist ideas. In the north, land went to all children equally, so that everyone and their dog owned a tiny patch that they would defend to the death against their closest neighbours, never mind a distant government. The far right saw this potential army of smallholders as its ideal conduit back to power and started to scare them into mobilising against a “red menace”, with considerable help from local priests. Left-wing party offices were attacked and burned, and bombs were placed in offices of the land reform agency, with the blame being attributed to “the Cubans” or local Communists.
The left-wing forces did not take this lying down. Building workers demonstrated outside Parliament and locked its Members inside. Soldiers swore their loyalty to the flag with clenched fists raised.
On the same day as the Revolutionary Council sacked Otelo, the architect of the military coup, from his post as chief of the Lisbon military region, the government itself went on strike, saying it could not do its job in safety and therefore would not.
Everyone, even an incorrigible optimist like Ed, could see that things were coming to a head.