Chapter 15
What’s in a Name?
Ed went to Coimbra for the weekend, hoping to track down his wife. The train journey north took a couple of hours. Warm rain greeted him as he alighted. He surveyed what he could see of his fellow passengers under a sea of umbrellas. No-one he recognised. Then he perused the people waiting to greet the new arrivals. They did include three women with a small daughter each, but all three greeted men, with whom they left the station. Ed headed for the hotel he used for his business trips there, located in the centre of the small city.
Despite its modest size, Coimbra is Portugal’s third city, after Lisbon and Oporto. It houses one of Europe’s oldest universities, and students form a large and noisy segment of its population. Ed hoped that his wife’s lover, and hence Ção too, would have integrated into this community and so might show up in town for one of its many activities that weekend, even though Mr. Cunha’s words had suggested that they were indulging in a life of splendid isolation.
After checking in to his hotel and changing into dry clothes, Ed set out for the University. The rain had stopped, the clouds had cleared and the ceramic tiles that graced many of the city’s buildings sparkled. It was a Saturday, near the end of the academic year, so the University itself was almost deserted. Ed found himself admiring its medieval architecture as a tourist might. His spirits lifted slightly.
The sun brought the students out into the city streets. Ed did not know where they had sprung from, but he did know they would celebrate term’s end very noisily and very publicly, especially those who were graduating. It was very different from Lisbon, where any such festivities tended to be private. Ção had once told him that students in Coimbra were more independent because they were more likely to come from outside the city and to live not with parents but with other students. There was a tradition of declaring shared student flats to be independent republics. According to Ção, some of them even designed their own flags. Ah, Ção!
Ed tramped the streets of Coimbra looking for his wife. His gaze fell upon very many beautiful, short, curvy young women, none of whom was her. There was no lack of women alone with small children, but Ed had no idea what João might look like. A more mature version of Ção herself, or completely different? Someone like Lourdes? Like him? Like Ção’s father? Her mother?
As the afternoon cooled into the long evening, Ed sat in one of the city’s central gardens and examined the passers-by. Since his marriage, he had not really looked at women. Doing so now, he was surprised at the sheer variety of faces, of bodies, of clothes that concealed or emphasised them. The clothes tended to be smart, formal, the make-up heavy. The concept of casual chic was absent here, even among the students. He recalled the time when he had looked at women as potential girlfriends or lovers. Now all he cared about was whether they might metamorphosise into his wife.
When he caught himself shivering, Ed walked back to his hotel, collected a jacket and set out to tour the bars. He favoured those where he could sit outside and keep an eye on the comings and goings. He snacked on sandwiches and local finger food, and stuck to small glasses of beer that would not blur his vision. The students who made up most of the clientele had no such inhibitions. Ed started to feel the weight of his twenty-five years.
When night fell, Ed turned his quest to the fado houses. Coimbra claimed to be the true home of fado. So did Lisbon and Oporto. Ed was not an aficionado of the music, but tonight its melancholy nostalgia suited his mood. He sunk into it, he sunk into the beer, and he sunk into himself. He had neither sight nor sound nor smell of Ção.
Ed got up early the next morning and strolled down to the river that passed through the city. The River Mondego conditioned Coimbra’s air less than the salty estuary of the River Tagus did Lisbon’s, and Ed let the light breeze that lifted off it filter through the cobwebs that clogged his mind. By ten o’clock, the day was already hot, but then clouds gathered above the city and sheltered it from the sun. Ed paused twice to consume pastries and coffee, but continued to examine every female form for signs of Ção. A twinge in his left leg, the one whose slight shortness made him limp, reminded him that he was out of condition now that he no longer frequented the rowing club or engaged in the physical activity of sex.
This is ridiculous. She’s not here, and she’s not going to miraculously appear like Our Lady of Fátima!
Ed continued to search, but decided to do so at a couple of tourist sites: the Carmo church and the Celas convent. The contrast with his father’s spartan parish church disturbed him. He wondered when he had stopped believing that gods could be found in buildings, and could not remember the moment. Outside the convent, he looked down at the narrow streets as they tumbled toward the river.
What can I sacrifice to the god of love to bring my wife home?
He did not expect an answer, but the next young woman he scrutinised smiled at him.
At lunchtime, the streets emptied. Ed found a small restaurant and dined on trout. The local white wine, full and mellow, helped him reflect on the futility of his quest. When he tired of his own dark thoughts, he moved to a city centre café for a small, strong coffee among a crowd of voluble patrons, and then out to the city’s botanical garden, where he sat and watched it fill with families and couples. They were having a good time, but he was not. He was tired and lonely. He even missed Lisbon. When the day’s first drops of rain fell, he hastened back to his hotel, checked out a day earlier than he had intended, and caught the first train back home. He stared at his reflection in the compartment window and asked himself what was wrong with him, what had frightened his wife away. Then he watched the countryside pass by: so green in the Spring, so fertile.
When the train pulled in at Lisbon, Ed staggered out of the carriage. He felt that he had abandoned a piece of himself in Coimbra, leaving him no longer whole. At the station bar, he surprised the barman by asking for a dark beer at room temperature. Fortunately, they had one. While he swigged it, he phoned Mark. Simone answered. Hearing his tone of voice, she invited him to come up to their place and have a bite to eat. Ed lurched out of the station and got into a taxi.
He was relieved to be with friends again, though their smiles faded when they saw him.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, old chap. Something the matter?”
“I feel like a bloody ghost. Form, no substance. Nothing inside. I left my heart, I don’t know where. Must be somewhere.”
“Anyway, come in and have a drink.”
“I think Ed could use some food. I’ll rustle up a couple of quick sandwiches and get cooking. Fancy something French?”
Ed did. They sat in the kitchen while Simone cooked. Mark made culinary suggestions that she ignored. Ed poured his heart out and replaced it with beer while Simone and Mark shared gin and tonics. Mark made wife-hunting suggestions that Ed ignored. They let Ed ramble on, though he became less and less lucid. When Simone served the food, Ed shut up and concentrated on that. Simone was pleased to see him enjoying it. She started to tell him about progress on their plans for Azenhas do Mar. She and Mark became animated with their enthusiasm. Ed kept nodding and prompted them with a “Delicious!” whenever they paused. He finished his plate, emptied his bottle of beer and passed out.
The next morning, Ed felt fine. He woke up on top of the bed in Mark and Simone’s spare room, fully clothed but minus his shoes. They had been placed in a corner, next to his grip. Someone’s been looking after me, he thought.
Ed found himself singing as he freshened up in the bathroom. He changed into some cleaner clothes that he dug out of his grip, and ambled into the kitchen. Mark was there, washing dishes. He smiled when Ed came in.
“You look better than I feel, Ed. Start the morning well and take a look at those photos on the table. Tea or coffee?”
The kitchen table was laden with photos of whitewashed houses in Azenhas do Mar. Next to them were estate agents’ brochures and some leaflets emblazoned with the word PANGAIA.
“Coffee, please. I’ll make it. May I?”
“Be my guest. Same for me.”
“Fancy a run this morning? It is still morning, isn’t it?”
“Barely half past ten. You know, I don’t mind if I do. As long as we’re not in a hurry.”
Mark finished the dishes. Ed dried. They drank their coffee.
“Beautiful photos, eh? Just imagine owning all these and turning them into a gambler’s paradise!”
“Not my cup of tea, as you know, but I’m sure you two can make it work. Where’s Pangaia? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It isn’t a place, old bean, it’s a movement. A jolly interesting one, actually. It can teach us how to live in harmony with everything on this Earth. Here, grab yourself a leaflet. Someone I did the show with put me on to them. I’m really glad she did.”
Ed folded the leaflet and put it in his back pocket. They set out. The morning was hot and dusty, the traffic snarly, drivers incredulous when they saw them running. They reached Praça da Alegria, where Mark had a sneezing fit and called a halt.
“Bloody hay fever! Do you ever get it?”
“Never. Let’s sit down.”
“Lucky you.”
They sat on a bench in the garden in the middle of the square, underneath a banyan tree brought over from the colonies. Ed was feeling even better for the exercise.
“Fabulous day, isn’t it?”
“A lot better than yesterday, judging by the way you look.”
“Funny how one’s mood can change, don’t you think?”
“Listen, Ed, Simone is going to ask about Ção and that João among her contacts at the School, in the French community, wherever. Someone must’ve heard something.”
“I’ve heard something. I just need to know where to find her, then I’ll go and bring her back. I know that’s what she wants me to do. It stands to reason. Shall we get running?”
“No. I’ve got to get back indoors, where I won’t have to sneeze so much. Let’s just stroll back to my place. You’ve left your grip there, I think. Come on.”
Once Ed was reunited with his holdall, Mark bade him farewell.
“Remember old boy, any time you’re short of cash, I’ve got some for you. Like right now, for instance, have you got some?”
Ed checked his wallet. “Erm, actually, next to nothing. I can call in at the bank.”
“Don’t waste your day in queues.” Mark pressed a wad of escudo notes into Ed’s palm. “Think of me as a time-saving machine bank.”
“Thanks, mate. You know what, that gives me an idea. What if banks used machines instead of cashiers? A machine in the street would take your fingerprints, you’d type in your account number, and if the two matched, the machine would give you some cash. How about that?”
“Then you’d queue up in front of a machine instead of a person. Not a big improvement, I venture to say.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. But the machines could maybe turn on after the banks close. Anyway, thanks again, pal. Be seeing you.”
Ed soon shed his jacket as he walked home across the city, which had wound down for lunch. Ed himself stopped at a snack bar for a local-style burger – a thin sliver of beef and a fried egg filled the bun. He drank cold fizzy mineral water with it.
At home, he decided to turn his attention to his own students. Those in Coimbra had reminded him that the end of the academic year was imminent at Lisbon University, too, bringing with it the annual assessment ritual, and Ed wanted to be very well prepared for that this year. The teaching had been easier. For one thing, student numbers had stabilised. Although Ed’s evening classes were always packed, they now had specific rooms assigned to them, and as often as not these were free of squatters. Moreover, not all the blackboards were damaged beyond use.
At first, Ed had mentally divided his fellow teachers into two groups: those who wanted to change the academic system and the education it offered for the better, and those who wanted to turn it back into a rigid structure geared towards preserving the status quo. Naturally, he placed himself in the first group. Now he saw that the divisions were not so simple. The progressive camp included both independent thinkers and people who were following party doctrine, which changed faster than the seasons, whatever the party. The reactionary camp was starting to find its voice again, and it was flanked by a group of people who felt that tradition had given them a right to command, no matter the underlying ideology. Then there was a large group of people following Paulo’s advice and bending in whatever wind rose so as to conserve their job and salary. Ed could imagine himself joining them, once he started receiving a salary: as long as he could teach, he could help his students. He talked these things over with Rupert, Carolina and Ashley when they met in the University café. Ashley was a hardline progressive, though a law unto himself; Rupert liked to have good rules that people could understand, endorse and stick to; Carolina just wanted to keep her job and be liked. That was how Ed saw them, though he tried not to judge them: they were first and foremost his friends.
He found them all together in the café the evening he completed his assessments.
“Same bloody story!” He sat himself at their table, still clutching his pile of forms.
Ashley passed him a full but uncapped bottle of cold beer. “I saw you coming.”
Ed swigged from it. “Ace, man! Thanks. I needed that!”
“What’s the story?”
“You spend the whole year meticulously grading every assignment you give them, oral or written, you propose grades based on all that, you present it to them in as much detail as there is – ”
“And still it’s a free-for-all, isn’t it?”
Ed was quick to answer Carolina’s question.
“Not in my classes. Really. They’re happy enough with the grades I give them. They see the logic. They just won’t let me fail anyone. At least, no-one who’s present.”
“Why would you want to?”
Ed turned to Ashley. “Personally, I think it’s my duty to the Portuguese state, which will shortly be paying my salary, I hope. You know, not to let university degrees go to people who don’t deserve them.”
“It’s my duty to make them deserve them,” said Carolina, “so I don’t fail anyone.”
“Did you say you were going to get paid?” Rupert asked.
“That’s right. End of the month. It’s only been two years or so.”
“Gosh, you poor wee thing!” Carolina looked distraught.
“I’ll get you another drink. Remember me next month. Same again, everyone?” Ashley took his portly frame to the till.
Ed ran into Carolina in the administration block the next day. They were both handing in their student records. She looked good in a loose-fitting cheesecloth blouse, a silk scarf caressing her neck and inching down her back to meet the top of a colourful ankle-length skirt. Her long red hair was lustrous, and her face was more relaxed than when he saw her at work, but she tightened it briefly.
“It’s a disgrace that they haven’t paid you all this time. How have you managed to survive?”
“I’m not sure. As much by luck as judgement, I’ll readily admit.”
Carolina turned to the clerk who was examining her papers. “Is it true that you’re going to pay this fella at last?”
The clerk smiled.
“We certainly are, at the end of this very month. We’re really looking forward to it.”
Carolina turned to Ed.
“Seems you’re famous.”
They left the administration block together, emerging from musty coolness into searing heat.
“Are you on foot? I’ve got the car.”
She drove skilfully and parked below Ed’s flat.
“Can you cook?”
“Only when I have no alternative.”
“Even a hopeless wee Sassenach can make coffee, though. Have you got some milk in the house?” Milk was often in short supply in the city.
“Sure. Come on up.”
Ed was glad of the company, and glad that Carolina was a married woman who would never put herself into a compromising position. He made coffee for them and she drank it without comment. Then Carolina asked Ed to show her around the flat. She looked curiously at each room and nodded noncommittally. In the bathroom, she said:
“It’s awful hot today. Do you think I could have a quick shower?”
“OK.” He showed her how to get hot water, backed out of the room and closed the door. He was relieved to hear Carolina turn the key in the lock. Ed went to what was now the study and set out his Open University textbooks for some studying of his own. He was delving into Durkheim when he heard his name called. He went to the bathroom and stopped outside.
“Ed, could I have a towel, please. You know, a clean one.”
“Sure, I’ll fetch you one right away.” He padded down the corridor and into the spare bedroom where he – they – kept the towels. The towels were all new. He thought a green one would suit her: it would match her eyes. He turned and found himself looking into them. Then at the rest of her, standing in front of him, dripping water onto the floor, with only the scarf around her neck to absorb it. She was slim, less curvy than Ção, perhaps better proportioned. A feeling in his loins told him he appreciated the sight, and he sent words after it.
“By God, you’re beautiful!”
“You’re easy on the eye yourself, Mr. Scripps.” She flipped her scarf over Ed’s neck and used it to draw him to her. The feel of her lips and the taste of her tongue sent Ed’s mind reeling. He broke off the kiss.
“We shouldn’t do this.”
“Do it!”
She took the towel that Ed still had in one hand, spread it on the spare bed and lay on her back on top of it, splaying her legs. Ed could not take his eyes off her.
“Come on Ed. What are you waiting for?”
Ed’s mind fought his body, and his body won. He pulled off his clothes and approached the bed, trying to control his breathing.
“Carolina ...”
“It’s all right, Ed. Honestly.”
“No, I mean, I don’t have any condoms.”
“With me, you don’t need them. I’m on the Pill.”
The wetness of her body excited Ed even more, but he took pains to bring her level of arousal up towards his own before he entered her. Her vagina was not as tight around him as was Ção’s, but she exercised more control over her internal muscles. She was noisier. As Ed brought her towards orgasm, she shouted words in a foreign language. He could make out something like Razguarman and assumed it was her husband’s first name. His performance anxiety was smoothed when she came before he did.
Soon afterwards, Carolina eased herself from below Ed and off the bed. She picked up the green towel.
“Now that I can dry myself, I’ll take another shower.”
She draped the towel around her pale body. It did suit her. At the door, she turned to Ed.
“That’s it. You can get dressed now.”
Ed did so, then waited outside the bathroom door. Carolina emerged fully clothed.
“What was that all about, Carolina, Mrs. Isfahan?”
“I just thought you needed cheering up a little. And indeed you do look more sprightly already. Mission accomplished, I’d say. Now, excuse me, I have to get home. Oh, and thanks, Ed, that was good for me, too.”
He accompanied her down to her car. Carolina gave him a smile full of warmth and complicity, then got in and drove away. Ed felt dazed, but warm too. It was as though a door in a wall had opened on to an enchanting garden. He had long known the door was there, but he had stopped seeing it.
At the end of the month, Ed went to the University to collect his pay. He had already signed the pre-payment form, so he knew the money was there. He had considered splashing as much of it as he could on a blow-out for his friends, but not even the thought of two years’ back pay could put him in a mood for celebration. He went in the morning, so that he would have time to put the money into his account during bank hours.
“Good morning, Jaime, what are you looking so glum about? It’s my big day. You know you’ve been longing to pay me, ever since I first set foot in your august office.”
“I have, Professor, I have. And I would love to pay you today.” Ed could swear he saw tears in his eyes.
“What’s up? You’ve spent my money on custard and tarts, I mean custard tarts?”
“We’ve done something terrible, Professor, I’m so sorry. It’s like this: we’ve paid your money to someone else.”
“Very funny, Jaime. Now just give me my cash. Please.”
“No, look, here.” The clerk pointed regretfully at a form with a long list of names. “It happened yesterday, while I was away at a seminar. The woman who stood in for me isn’t familiar with foreign names, and she gave your money to this colleague from another department.”
He pointed to a line where Ed’s name was typed, with an enormous sum in escudos set next to it. Ed deciphered the signature of the person who had received the money: Maria Pia Antunes da Silva Clemente.
“Clemente,” said Jaime, “my colleague said she paid the money to someone with the same name as you.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you, Jaime? It isn’t funny, but you are joking, aren’t you? Jaime?”
The clerk averted his eyes and shook his head.
“I swear on my mother’s grave that we’ll pay you next month.”
“No, don’t do that. I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Look, I’m so sorry. I feel terrible about his. If you’re broke, Professor, I can lend you some money to tide you over for another month, I think.”
“Thank you, Jaime. One more month won’t kill me. I have other sources. I’ll survive.”
Ed wondered briefly how he would survive, then curiosity overcame bitterness.
“By the way, Jaime, what was the seminar on?”
“Advanced Public Relations in the Modern University Context.”
Ed had enough loose change with him to pay for a taxi to the English Council. He found Mark between classes, surrounded by a group of students hanging on his every word. Ed signalled urgently to him. Mark excused himself and came over.
“Hello, old fruit. Something wrong? You look agitated.”
“Mark, I need to speak to you urgently. Have you got time?”
“Not right now. I’m about to go into class. If you could possibly stick around for an hour or so, I’ll take you to lunch and we can chat all afternoon, if that suits you.”
“Yes, fine. Sure. I’ll be in the library.”
Mark took him to a chic new restaurant that specialised in vegetarian food. Ed explained his predicament and asked Mark to lend him a month’s salary.
“Oh, sure, no problem. I’m pleased I can do something for you. Actually, we’d better make that two months’ whack, just to be on the safe side. I can give you the cash this time tomorrow, if that’s all right. Why don’t you come over for lunch? Simone’ll be at home, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to put something together for us. As long as you don’t want to eat murdered animals.”
“Er, no. I’m quite happy with vegetarian food. How long have you been – ?”
“Ever since I joined Pangaia. I wish Simone would, too. She hasn’t joined yet, even though she admits it makes total sense. Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? We’ve only got one world, haven’t we? So we’ve got to look after it, right?”
“Of course.”
“Omomnos says we’re like a spaceship hurtling through the void. If we break the windows, we’re done for.”
“Quite. But Omomnos?”
“He’s our marvellous, magical guru. The person the world needs as captain of the spaceship. You should meet him, face to face, if you can. Did you read that pamphlet I gave you?”
“Er, not yet. I’ve been preoccupied with mundane stuff, as you know.”
“Do read it, Ed. Pangaia can change your life, and very much for the better. I was lost before I joined, I tell you, lost.”
When Ed got home, he rummaged around for the Pangaia pamphlet. He found i