Chapter 19
Two Is Company
Ed was elated. He dumped the rest of the mail on the hall table and went to the bathroom to clean his cut hand. The eyes that looked back at him from the mirror glistened from more than the sting of the disinfectant. However long the journey, his wife had taken the first step back to him.
Only much later did Ed remember to check the rest of his mail. It comprised a couple of bills, a reassuring bank statement and a letter with a Brazilian stamp. The letter was from Clarice, the blonde bombshell he had encountered at Interlingua International. She told Ed that she had made good her plan to set up her own language school in Brazil. In two weeks’ time, she would be in Lisbon to recruit teachers. Could Ed put her up for a week, and would he, in any case, like to discuss a possible partnership?
Why not? Ed was always willing to talk business, and if Ção came home earlier than seemed likely, he could simply hustle Clarice out of his flat and into a hotel, which she could clearly afford now. He immediately wrote back to Clarice with an enthusiastic double affirmative. He also asked her to bring over some feminist literature from Brazil, to help him learn to talk to his wife on her own terms.
Before that could happen, Ed went to meetings at the University to prepare for the new academic year. Carolina was still away, in Iran, but the rest of his English-teaching colleagues were there, together with a couple of new ones, hired to meet the heightened demand for English now that Portugal was no longer the international pariah it had been under the fascist régime. After the meeting, the teachers adjourned to the bar, where Ed told them what had become of Mark, and asked for ideas on how to bring Pangaia and its dangers to the attention of his students. Ashley Beecroft had the most forceful suggestions.
“Make it a project. You can do anything that way. Last year I had a class refit a boat. In the summer, a group of us sailed it down to the Algarve and back. Then we sold it and split the profit.”
“Nice, but I’m supposed to be teaching English.”
“That’s the beauty of it. As long as they do everything in English, it’s a perfectly legitimate way to learn the language. Better than most, I’d say, given how it builds their motivation.”
“So something like a project to examine cults in Britain and Portugal, and compare them?”
“Yeah, with plenty of role-play on how to resist the bloody things.”
“You never know,” Xavier put in, “your students might come up with ways to get your friend out.”
“It’s certainly worth a try.”
Ed decided to devote one class a week with one of his three groups to his awareness-raising project. When he put it to the students, his suggestion was not very well received, but his enthusiasm eventually won them over, especially after he had made clear his personal motive for focusing on cults. He kept in touch with Ashley for advice, and sat in on classes of his to see how Ashley handled project work. Ed was interested by his colleague’s relaxed attitude to teaching, and relieved to see how well the students responded to it. Ashley was eternally patient, always supportive and encouraging, and this seemed to release his students from their linguistic inhibitions. Ed saw Ashley focusing on interaction, whereas he himself tended to focus on product. Maybe they could learn from each other.
The University’s language teachers were not a gossipy crowd. They had a strong sense of solidarity with each other and with the people they taught, and tended to spend their time together talking about the shifting sands of higher education and their own precarious place therein. Nevertheless, Ed’s lightning marriage and his wife’s desertion were known about. So when Ed asked Ashley for advice on getting Ção back, he did not feel the need to explain the situation in detail beforehand. The older man gave Ed a knowing look and laughed.
“Are you sure you really want her back?”
“Of course I do. She’s my wife. I love her!”
“It’s a wonderful thing, love. Does she love you?”
“Of course she does! She’s just sent me a postcard! It’s a sign she wants to come back.”
“Well, if she wants to come back, she will eventually. Meanwhile –”
“Meanwhile what?”
Ashley smirked.
“Life is long and the field is wide.”
Ashley’s reputation as a womaniser had not escaped Ed. But he was also known to be a devoted father, a state that Ed aspired to and the reason he thought that Ashley might have something of value to say to him.
“Some nice young women in my class, don’t you think? They liked you.”
“That’s very considerate of you, Ashley, but I keep my relationships with students strictly professional.”
“Come now. A little bit of language learning in bed never hurt anyone, in my experience. How did you learn Portuguese so fast, Ed? By the way, Carolina should be back next month.”
Ed felt himself blush as Ashley’s smirk widened.
When Ed next went to the airport, it was not to greet the Portuguese Scot back from Iran, but to welcome Clarice from Brazil.
Clarice had put on weight and deepened her tan. Ed, too, was darker, though thinner. The tropical sun had further bleached Clarice’s hair, making her even more of a blonde bombshell in Ed’s eyes and brain. They recognised each other immediately. Clarice dropped her bags, ran to Ed and clasped him in a tight embrace.
“Morfeu! I see you got up for me, in more ways than one. Boy, are you pleased to see me!”
Ed drew back and smiled.
“You said it, Clarice. I am pleased to see you!” He retrieved her bags and guided her through the touts towards the taxi rank. Ed asked the taxi driver to pass the nearby Old University so he could show his visitor where he worked.
“What dismal fascist architecture! I’ve rented an old colonial-style building for my school. Or should I say our school?”
“You’ll have to tell me more.”
Clarice moved closer to Ed and sat on his hand.
“Still married, Morfeu?”
“Still happily married, Clarry, though my wife is taking a sabbatical at the moment, without my consent.”
“How convenient.”
“And you?”
Clarice laughed, shook her hair and looked out of the window, marvelling at Portugal’s capital city.
“It’s so small! Where are all the people?”
“At work, I imagine.”
“They’re lucky to have jobs.”
Inside the flat, Ed placed Clarice’s luggage in his bedroom, then led her to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge door and pulled out the large jug of liquor that he had prepared.
“Caipirinha!” Ed poured two generous shots. Clarice downed hers in one, choking and laughing at the same time.
“Wow! Good! Pour me another, sir!” Ed obliged.
“You know what, Ed? I haven’t missed you for a minute, but it is so good to see you again!”
“I know just what you mean, Clarry.” She tasted of rum and lime and distance as they kissed. When they paused for breath, Clarice said:
“You know that stuff you asked me to get you? Feminist literature? Couldn’t find any. You didn’t mean girlie mags, did you?”
“No, no, serious feminist stuff.”
“Couldn’t find any. Our generals don’t approve, so they don’t allow it, the bastards. Hey, I’ve just realised, I can say whatever I think while I’m in Portugal!”
“Let’s drink to that!” They did.
“Anyway, I’ve got something else for you. You like music, don’t you?”
“Sure I do. I’ll show you my collection.” Ed picked up the jug and glasses, and led Clarice to the party room. While he turned on the record player, she went into the bedroom, where Ed had put her bags, and returned clutching an LP cover, which she handed to Ed.
“Happy whatever. Put it on, while I go and slip into something more suitable.” She walked back into the bedroom.
The LP cover was plain, and Ed did not recognise the name on the label. When he put it on the turntable, he was assailed by some discordant music which sounded Arabic to his ears. He lowered the volume. The bedroom door opened and Clarice swayed into view, wearing Middle-Eastern clothes that left her abdomen bare.
“What do you think? I’ve been getting to know the Lebanese community, and their dances.”
“I like it!”
Clarice began to gyrate her hips in time to the music, in an approximation of a belly dance.
“This is my Thursday night special!”
Ed did not catch the reference, and it was not Thursday, but the effect of the sight before him was indubitably special. He sank into an armchair to appreciate it better. Clarice beckoned to him. As he rose, she grabbed his hand and led him into the bedroom. He tore his clothes off as Clarice eased her own from her undulating body. Then they were on top of the bed, the music still wailing; then he was inside her, Clarice still twitching rhythmically, telling him to let go and come as he liked. As he did so, he understood the allure of the belly dance.
Whether it was the heat of the room, the effect of the drink, the dancing and sex, jet lag, or the mixture of them all, Clarice succumbed to sleep with Ed still inside her. After a while he pulled out, cleaned up, went for a quick shower, came back into the bed and caressed the sleeping dancer.
“Morfeuzinha,” he whispered. Contentment relaxed his muscles, and Ed slept, too.
Clarice dozed until midday, and, after a quick brunch, hastened out and about her business of recruiting teachers for Brazil. It was not an auspicious time, soon after the start of the academic year. Ed sent her to Keith, who was the best employer among private language schools in the city, and therefore the most likely to have a surplus of qualified teachers on his books. In the evening, he took her to a Brazilian restaurant to attenuate her culture shock and to learn her plans and his potential place in them.
Clarice told Ed she had opened her school not in Rio de Janeiro but in Salvador, further north, thus nearer the Equator and more torrid. The city was also known as Bahia, its full name being São Salvador da Bahia de Todos os Santos in reflection of the bay’s being “discovered” on All Saints’ Day. Ed knew it as the setting for Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon, a novel by the Brazilian writer Jorge Amado which was currently captivating Portuguese audiences in a televised soap opera version, the first the country had experienced. The city’s image as a centre of Afro-Brazilian culture and laid-back living amid Portuguese colonial architecture were good selling points for foreign teachers, while the fact that it was a thriving metropolis meant that it had plenty of potential language students for them to teach. Clarice’s drive and energy had succeeded in getting the new school launched, but she wanted someone with business acumen to consolidate and develop it.
“Wouldn’t a Brazilian partner be better?”
“I already have one. He’s a sleeping partner. You know, the kind of person who’s much better at sleeping than at any other kind of business.”
“I’d want a say on the teaching side of things. Since I’ve being doing it, I’ve got really interested in teaching, for its own sake.”
“Ah, now, you see, that’s my province. But it would be a partnership, so ...”
“Do you think my wife would like the place?”
“No! I mean, you never know.”
Later, when they lay in bed and Clarice was again feeling the effects of her horizontal dancing combined with jet lag, Ed imagined himself living without Ção in Brazil, making hay with the easy-going Clarice while the sun always shone, transforming her language school into one of the country’s finest as they waited for the generals’ régime to crumble like its Portuguese equivalent and offer people the same hope of doing everything anew and getting it right. But without Ção, all those possible joys would have a bitter edge. Maybe, when the generals fell, he could entice her over to team up with her Brazilian Maoist comrades to order the new state, or to galvanise a nascent feminist movement. It was an enticing option.
Ed stayed at home the next day, planning his lessons in his usual meticulous fashion, despite imagining Ashley standing at his shoulder, chuckling and telling him to relax. He phoned Simone, but she had no news of Mark and sounded close to breaking point.
“I’m going to do something, I tell you, Ed. They can’t just make my husband disappear. This isn’t Brazil!”
“I know how you feel, Simone. But we’ve got to stay calm. Mark will come back when he’s ready, and that will be sooner than you imagine, I’m sure of it.”
Am I? Ed asked himself. Yes, I have to be.
As soon as Ed put the phone down, it rang again. He expected Simone again, but he heard a different woman’s voice.
“Ed? I’ve come to collect that dinner you offered me. Ed? This is Lisa. Davies? Interlingua International. Wimbledon? I take it your offer still stands.”
“Lisa! Of course! What a pleasure! I was expecting you ages ago. We’ve got a lot to talk about. Do you know I’ve become a full-time language teacher?”
Ed was indeed looking forward to seeing Lisa. Her experience and her no-nonsense approach might generate some ideas on getting Ção back, or even on getting Mark back to Simone. Ed believed that time itself was enough to achieve that, but time seemed to be calling for a helping hand. He had given Clarice her own set of keys. Ed knew she did not expect him to wait for her and take her out: she just wanted him there later, for sex and sleep.
Ed prepared the rest of his lessons for the week, then set out into the warm, humid autumn evening. The rain held off as he ambled down the Avenida da Liberdade, assailed by the din of car engines and horns and by the reek of their exhaust fumes. Interlingua International had its Lisbon headquarters there, just down the road from a smaller, rival establishment called the Oxford Institute. Ed waited in the large entrance hall until the unmistakable, slim figure of Lisa Davies came down the stairs and greeted him. She was as intense as before, but her air was happier, more relaxed, more prosperous.
The rain still held off, so Ed walked Lisa up into the Bairro Alto, an area of bars, restaurants and discos both posh and proletarian, to a small eatery that served quality food with no pretensions, which he thought suited Lisa’s character. He was disconcerted to see a group of English teachers from the Sussex School already ensconced there, but they returned his cheery wave and then ignored him.
Lisa expertly filleted large fresh sardines while Ed demolished charcoal-grilled chicken. As Ed poured the full-bodied local red wine, Lisa asked after his business.
“Well, the Revolution made supermarkets unwilling to invest here, and small grocers never had much to invest anyway. But I got enough of them interested to set the ball rolling. Then my bosses in England got cold feet. They offered me a job back home but I was in love with Portugal and in Portugal, so I left them and stayed here.”
“How on earth did you make ends meet?”
“It was touch and go for a time. Thanks to your course, I realised I could do this teaching thing. I managed to get a language instructor’s job at the Old University and found I enjoyed it. I indulged in a few commercial things until they started paying me, and, now that they have, everything’s hunky-dory. How about you? You look, what – successful?”
“Well, yes, sort of. I’ve risen through the ranks of Interlingua International.”
“Blimey, you were already in charge of that teacher-training course.”
“You’re right. And now I’m Deputy Director of Studies of the whole shebang. You know the best thing about all this? As the salary went up, the work got more interesting.” Lisa smiled.
Lovely-lips Lisa. Ed watched them close over a piece of sardine.
They ended the meal with small cups of espresso coffee. Lisa asked for a drop of milk in hers. Ed told her, for future reference, that ask for a “garoto”, a little boy, when she wanted her coffee like that.
“Of course, if you want a boy, I’m your man.”
Lisa looked at him appraisingly.
“Aren’t you married these days? You made such a point of it in Wimbledon.”
That’s what Clarice said. Ah, yes, Clarice. Lisa plus Clarice. Now there’s an idea.
“Hello, dreamer!”
“What? Oh, I am, yes. It’s just that my wife’s on sabbatical, from me. How about you?”
“Me? I’m not married, except to my work, to which I’m always on call.”
“In that case, Lisa, let’s go to my place and relax together while we can.”
“That sounds promising.”
Ed gestured for the bill.
Outside the flat door, Ed pressed the bell. Lisa looked at him askance.
“Just in case my wife’s come back.”
Lisa’s look turned dark.
“Unlikely.” Ed smiled. The door opened. Clarice, wearing a negligee, stood on the threshold. Lisa’s eyes radiated fury.
“Clarice, Lisa. I’m sure you two remember each other, don’t you? From Wimbledon.” Ed ushered Lisa in. She shouldered Clarice out of the way as she entered the flat.
“Of course I know Clarry the Cow. This is the God-damned bitch who’s trying to steal my students!”
Clarice looked crestfallen. Then, seeing the attention with which Ed helped Lisa off with her coat, and the way he looked at her as he did so, fury flowed onto her face, too.
“You little bastard, Ed!”
“Hey, calm down, both of you. I just thought we could all get along, have a bit of fun together.”
Lisa looked at him in disbelief. Clarice glared at them both, then the anger left her face and she began to laugh.
“OK, Ed, I’ll show you something. Take Miss High-and-Mighty here into the lounge and put on that music I gave you. I’ll bet she didn’t bring you a gift, unless you count – Hmm, just do what I said, OK?”
Clarice disappeared into the bedroom. Ed thought he knew what she was up to. He gave Lisa what he intended to be a soulful look and guided her into the party room, where he sat her in an armchair, put on the Arabic music and offered Lisa a caipirinha. When he returned from the kitchen with the jug and glasses, Lisa had moved onto a bean bag. Ed sat in the armchair, facing her. Lisa’s eyes were as icy as the caipirinha. Nevertheless, she clinked glasses with Ed and her thin, expressive lips enunciated a cut-glass “Cheers” at the moment when the bedroom door opened and Clarice swayed into the room clad in her Brazilian-Lebanese dancing outfit. Ed moved his gaze from Lisa to Clarice as she sashayed towards him. He looked at her body as she picked up the glass he had filled for her. She downed its contents in one swallow, then turned her back on Ed and moved in time to the music over to Lisa. Lisa looked stricken as Clarice got too close for comfort. She pushed herself deeper into the bean bag. Clarice straddled her, rotating her hips and her breasts so that the tassels of her tunic brushed Lisa’s face. Lisa began to laugh. Clarice continued, increasing the pace. Her momentum popped open two buttons on her blouse, and one breast slid free of it; this breast she wiggled in front of Lisa’s face, bringing it ever closer. Lisa sighed. Her hand shot out, clasped Clarice’s lower back and pulled her even closer as her lips came together over Clarice’s exposed nipple. Clarice stopped dancing long enough to shed her blouse completely. Lisa turned her attention to Clarice’s other nipple, then used both hands to stop her dancing and pull her down, face forward, onto her lap.
Ed jumped out of the armchair. In time to the music, he unzipped his jeans, pulled out his erect penis and danced towards the two women. This was something he’d dreamed of. He caught Lisa’s eye. It was glazed. It did not look pleased to find him in its sights. For a moment, Lisa left Clarice’s breasts.
“Ed, there’s no room for you here. Get out.”
“Oh, come on! The three of us! Look at this!”
Clarice was undoing Lisa’s blouse. She turned her head and gave Ed a withering look.
“Sod off, Ed!”
“No, seriously!”
“I am serious, Ed, and I said sod off!”
“You don’t mean that. Lisa!”
“You heard what the lady said, Ed.”
“Maybe I’ll just stand here and –”
“You’ve got a spare room, haven’t you? Go and use it!”
“But –”
“Sod off, Ed!” Lisa and Clarice chanted in unison and went on disrobing each other. Ed watched as he backed out of the room, then came back in. He held up his hands to forestall further insults, grabbed the jug of caipirinha, turned on his heel and attempted a dignified exit, preceded by his rigid penis. Giggles followed him. Other sounds interspersed the music, which he could hear from the spare room. As he drank himself to sleep, for the first time he felt humiliated by the ostensible cause of Ção’s desertion being a woman.
A cold draught woke Ed the next morning. He made a mental note to fix the spare room window. He felt fine, but had a nagging suspicion that something was wrong. Then he remembered. He looked at the caipirinha jug, but it was empty. The flat was silent. He got up and padded towards the main bedroom. He stopped outside it and listened. No sound. Ed held his breath and opened the door. The bedroom was empty, the bed made. He went back to the spare room, via the empty party room, collected the caipirinha jug from the spare room and took it to the kitchen. Two notes waited for him on the table.
Lisa had written: Thanks, Ed, I always fancied her, never thought. XXXL.
Clarice’s note read: Gone to a nice hotel See you in Bahia Clarice (not Clarry).
Ed crumpled both, binned them and headed for the bathroom. When he came out, refreshed from a hot shower, he made some breakfast, took up his pen and set about love-bombing his wife.
So intent was Ed upon this task that he ignored the phone when it rang. It insisted, so he settled it off the hook. When he finished his letter, he pushed it into an envelope which he addressed to Ção at João’s house in Conimbriga. As he sealed it, he noticed the phone and put the receiver back in its cradle. It rang. Ed picked it up, hoping to hear a man’s voice. It was Simone.
“Ed, I’ve spoken to Mark. He called me.”
“Great!”
“It’s not great. He was incoherent! He went rambling on and on about ‘revolution number one’ and singing some children’s song.”
“Was that all?”
“Yes. He cut off abruptly, or was cut off, I don’t know. Then, today, a letter arrived. It’s just a slip of paper, with these words: Free, you’re mine. Instead? It’s Mark’s handwriting, so I know it’s from him. What does it mean, Ed?”