As soon as we’d left the car, Manuel insisted on carrying the overnight bag.
“It hardly weighs anything, there’s no need,” I said, trying not to let go of it.
The battle was lost even before I’d begun, and I knew that I couldn’t insist. We went into the main hall of the train station, the most elegant couple of the evening—I wrapped in all my glamour, and he unwittingly carrying the evidence of his betrayal. Santa Apolónia Station, looking like a huge mansion, was receiving the trickle of nighttime travelers bound for Madrid. Couples, families, friends, men traveling alone. Some of them seemed ready to set off with cool indifference, as though leaving something that hadn’t affected them at all; others shed tears, hugged, sighed, made promises for the future that they might never keep. I didn’t fit into either one of those categories: I wasn’t one of the detached, nor one of the sentimental. I was quite different—one of those running away, trying to put some distance between themselves and this place, to dust themselves off and forget what they’d left behind forever.
I’d spent most of the day in my room preparing for my return journey. Supposedly. Yes, I took the clothes down from their hangers, emptied the drawers, and put everything in the suitcases. But that didn’t take me long. I spent the rest of the time dedicated to something more important: transferring all the information I’d gathered at Da Silva’s party into thousands of little pencil-sketched stitches. The task took me many hours. I started on it as soon as I’d arrived back at the hotel in the small hours of the morning, when everything I’d heard was still fresh in my mind; there were so many dozens of details that a lot of it ran the risk of dissolving into oblivion if I didn’t make note immediately. I slept no more than three or four hours; when I woke up, I set about finishing the job. Over the course of the morning and the early afternoon, one piece of information at a time, stitch by stitch, I emptied my head out onto the paper until it made up an arsenal of terse messages. The result comprised more than forty supposed patterns covered in names, numbers, dates, places, and operations, all gathered in the pages of my innocent sketchbook. Patterns for sleeves, cuffs, and backs; for waistbands, body lengths, and fronts; outlines for parts and segments of clothing I would never sew, within whose edges were hidden the details of a grim business transaction intended to facilitate the devastating progress of the German troops.
In the midmorning the telephone rang. The call made me jump, so much so that one of the telegraphic dashes I’d been marking down at that moment was transformed into a harsh twisted stroke that I had to erase.
“Arish? Good morning, it’s Manuel. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Though I was wide awake—showered and alert, having been working for several hours—I contorted my voice to sound sleepy. Under no circumstances could I let him know that what I’d seen and heard the previous night had sent me off into a torrent of nonstop activity.
“Don’t worry, it must be terribly late already . . . ,” I lied.
“Nearly noon. I was just calling to thank you for attending my gathering last night and for behaving the way you did with my friends’ wives.”
“No need to thank me, I had a very pleasant evening, too.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t get bored? Now I feel bad for not having paid you a bit more attention.”
Careful, Sira—be careful. He’s just testing you, I thought. Gamboa, Marcus, the forgotten hat, Bernhardt, the tungsten, Beira, everything was coming together in my head with the coolness of frozen glass, while I kept on faking an untroubled, sleepy voice.
“No, Manuel, really, don’t worry about it. The conversations with your friends’ wives kept me very well entertained.”
“And so what do you have planned for your last day in Portugal?”
“Nothing at all. Taking a long bath and preparing my luggage. I don’t mean to leave the hotel all day.”
I hoped the reply would satisfy him. If Gamboa had informed on me, and he thought I was going around with some man, perhaps a prolonged stay within the hotel walls would dispel his suspicions. Of course, my word wouldn’t be strong enough—he would already be getting someone to watch my room, and perhaps also monitor my telephone conversations, but with the exception of him I had no intention of speaking to anyone today. I’d be a good girl—I wouldn’t move from the hotel, I wouldn’t use the telephone and wouldn’t entertain any visitors. I’d let myself be seen, bored and alone, in the restaurant, at reception, and in the sitting rooms, and when the time came for me to leave I’d do it in full view of all the hotel’s other guests and employees, with only my luggage for company. Or at least that’s what I thought until he made me another proposition.
“Yes, of course, you deserve a rest. But I don’t want you to go without my getting the chance to say good-bye to you first. Let me take you to the station. What time does your train leave?”
“At ten,” I replied. Damn me for wanting to see him again.
“I’ll come by your hotel at nine, then, all right? I’d like to be able to come earlier, but my whole day is going to be busy.”
“Don’t worry, Manuel, I’ll need time to arrange my things, too. I’ll send my luggage on to the station in the early evening, then I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Till nine o’clock, then.”
“Nine o’clock—I’ll be ready.”
Instead of João’s Bentley, I found a dazzling new Aston Martin sports car. I felt a knot of nerves when I realized that the old chauffeur wasn’t anywhere to be seen: the idea that we were alone made me feel unsettled and vulnerable. Manuel didn’t feel the same way, apparently.
I couldn’t see any change in his attitude toward me. He didn’t show the least sign of suspicion; he was just as he’d always been—attentive, pleasant, and seductive, as though his whole world revolved around those rolls of beautiful Macao silk that he’d shown me in his office and had nothing to do with the foul darkness of the tungsten mines. We made our final journey down the coast road, then raced along the streets of Lisbon, making the pedestrians’ heads turn. We were on the platform twenty minutes before the train’s scheduled departure time, and Manuel insisted on boarding the train with me and accompanying me to my cabin. We made our way down the side corridor, me ahead and him behind me, just a step behind, still carrying my little overnight bag in which the proof of his foul enterprise was muddled up with innocent toiletries, cosmetics, and lingerie.
“Number eight, I think this is it,” I announced.
The door opened into an elegant, clean cabin. Wood-paneled walls, curtains open, a chair in place, and the bed not yet made up.
“Well then, my dear Arish, the time has come to say good-bye,” he said, putting my overnight bag down on the floor. “It’s been a real pleasure getting to know you. It’s not going to be at all easy for me to get used to not having you around.”
His feelings seemed genuine; perhaps my speculations about Gamboa’s accusation were unfounded after all. Perhaps I’d been more alarmed than I needed to be. Perhaps he’d never even thought of saying anything to his boss, whose esteem for me remained perfectly intact.
“It’s been an unforgettable visit, Manuel,” I said holding my hands out to him. “It couldn’t have been more satisfactory—my clients are going to be most impressed. And you’ve done so much to make it easy and enjoyable—I don’t know how to thank you.”
He took my hands and held them protected in his. And in exchange received my most dazzling of smiles, a smile that hid a huge desire for the final curtain to fall on that whole farce once and for all. In just a few minutes the stationmaster would blow his whistle and lower his little flag, and the Lusitania Express would begin to roll along the tracks, getting farther and farther from the Atlantic toward the center of the Peninsula. And I would be leaving Manuel Da Silva and his dark dealings, vibrant Lisbon, and that whole universe of strangers behind me forever.
The final travelers were hurrying onto the train; every few seconds we had to step aside to let someone past,
leaning back against the carriage walls.
“Best for you to go, Manuel.”
“I think so, yes I ought to go now.”
The moment to bring that pantomime farewell to an end had arrived, time to enter my cabin and resume my privacy. All I needed was for him to vanish, and everything else was all set. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt his left hand on the back of my neck, his right arm around my shoulders and the hot, strange taste of his mouth on mine and a shudder running right down my body from my head to my toes. It was an intense kiss; a long, powerful kiss that left me confused, disarmed, and unable to react.
“Bon voyage, Arish.”
I wasn’t able to respond; he didn’t give me enough time. Before I was able to find the right words, he was gone.
Chapter Sixty-Three
__________
I fell back into my seat, my head filling with the scenes of the previous days as if on a cinema screen. As I recalled the events and settings, I wondered how many of the characters from that strange film would make another appearance in my life, and which ones I would never see again. I reminded myself how each of the strands of the drama had ended: a few of them happily; most, inconclusively. And when the reel was about to end, everything filled with that final scene: the kiss from Manuel Da Silva. I could still taste it in my mouth, but I felt unable to find an adjective to describe it. Spontaneous, passionate, cynical, sensual. Perhaps all of them. Perhaps none.
I sat up in my seat and looked through the window, already being rocked by the gentle clatter of the train. The last lights of Lisbon sped past my eyes, becoming less and less dense, more diffuse, thinning out further and further until the landscape was filled with darkness. I got up; I needed some air. It was time for dinner.
I went into the restaurant car, which was already almost filled with people, as well as the smell of food, the noise of cutlery and conversations. It only took the staff a few minutes to seat me; I chose from the menu and ordered some wine to celebrate my freedom. Killing time while I waited to be served, I thought ahead to my arrival in Madrid and pictured Hillgarth’s reaction when he learned the results of my mission. He probably never imagined that it would end up being so productive.
The food and wine arrived quickly, but by the time they did I already knew for certain that the dinner wasn’t going to be a particularly pleasant one. Luck had decided to position me close to a couple of coarse-looking individuals who didn’t stop staring at me quite brazenly from the moment I’d sat down. Two rough guys who didn’t fit the tranquil setting that surrounded us. They had a couple of bottles of wine on their table and a crowd of dishes that they were devouring as though the world were set to end that very night. I barely enjoyed my bacalhau à brás; the linen tablecloth, the engraved glass, and the formal attentiveness of the waiters were all quickly relegated to secondary importance. My priority had become gulping down my food as quickly as possible in order to get back to my cabin and escape from that unwelcome company.
I found the curtains drawn and the bed made, everything ready for the night. Bit by bit the train was calming down and falling silent; almost without noticing it we would be leaving Portugal and crossing the border. I realized how little I’d been sleeping. I’d spent the early hours of the day transcribing messages, and the previous morning I’d been visiting Rosalinda. My poor body needed a break, so I decided to go to bed right away.
I opened my hand luggage, but I didn’t have time to take anything out of it because a call from the door made me stop.
“Tickets,” I heard. I opened the door cautiously and checked that it was indeed the ticket collector. But I also realized that, though he probably didn’t even know it himself, he wasn’t alone in the corridor. Behind the conscientious railway worker, just a few feet away, I could make out two shadows swaying to the rhythm of the train. Two shadows that were unmistakable: the two men who’d unsettled me during dinner.
The moment the ticket collector had finished his task I bolted the door shut, planning not to open it again until we arrived in Madrid. The last thing I wanted after the tough times I’d had in Lisbon was a couple of uncouth travelers with nothing more to do than spend the night bothering me. So at last I readied myself for bed; I was exhausted, both physically and mentally; I needed to forget everything, even if it was only for a couple of hours.
I began to take everything I needed out of my hand luggage: the toothbrush, a soap dish, my night cream. A few minutes later I noticed that the train was slowing down: we were approaching a station, the first on the journey. I drew open the little curtain that covered the window. “Entroncamento,” I read.
Just a few seconds later, there was another knock at my door. Hard, insistent. It didn’t sound like the ticket collector. I stayed quite still, my back to the door, with no intention of answering. I guessed that it was the men from the restaurant car, and there was no way I was going to open up for them.
But they knocked again. Harder than before. And then I heard my name on the other side. And I recognized the voice.
I drew back the bolt.
“You’ve got to get off the train. Da Silva has two men on board. They’ve come for you.”
“The hat?”
“The hat.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
__________
Panic mixed with a desire to burst out laughing. A laughter that was bitter, and dark. How strange our emotions are, how easily they can deceive us. One simple kiss from Manuel Da Silva had toppled all my convictions about his shady morals, and just an hour later I’d learned that he’d given the order to have me eliminated, my body tossed out through a train window into the night. The Judas kiss.
“You don’t need to take anything, just your papers,” Marcus warned me. “You’ll get everything back in Madrid.”
“There’s one thing I can’t leave behind.”
“You can’t take anything, Sira. There isn’t time, the train’s about to leave again; if we don’t hurry, we’ll have to jump while it’s on the move.”
“Just a second . . .” I went over to the overnight bag and grabbed its contents out with both hands. The silk nightgown, a slipper, the hairbrush, a bottle of eau de cologne: everything was spread out on the bed, as though hurled around by the fury of a madman or the strength of a tornado. Finally I found what I’d been looking for right at the bottom: the notebook with the fake patterns, the minutely stitched statement of Manuel Da Silva’s betrayal of the British. I squeezed it hard to my chest.
“Let’s go,” I said, grabbing my handbag with my other hand. I couldn’t leave that behind either; it contained my passport.
We raced out into the corridor just as the whistle sounded; when we reached the door, the locomotive had already replied with its own, and the train was beginning to pull away from the station. Marcus got off first as I threw the notebook, handbag, and shoes onto the platform—it would have been impossible to jump with the shoes on: I’d sprain an ankle the moment I hit the ground. Then he reached his hand out to me; I took it and jumped.
The furious shouts of the stationmaster weren’t long in coming; we saw him running toward us, flapping his arms. Two railway workers came out from inside the station, alerted by the voices; meanwhile the train, oblivious to what it was leaving behind, continued on its way, picking up speed.
“Come, Sira, come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” Marcus said tensely.
He picked up one of my shoes and handed it to me, then the other. I held them in my hands but didn’t put them on: my attention was on something else. The three railway employees had gathered around us, while the stationmaster reprimanded us for our behavior with angry shouts and gestures. A couple of tramps wandered toward us, curious, and a few moments later the man from the station canteen and a young waiter joined the group, wondering what had happened.
And then, in the middle of that chaos of urgent movement and clamorous voices, we heard the sharp squeal of the train braking.
Everyone on the pl
atform suddenly fell silent and still, blanketed in silence, while the wheels crunched over the tracks, emitting a long, high-pitched sound.
Marcus was the first to speak.
“They’ve set off the alarm.” His voice turned more serious, more commanding. “They’ve realized that we jumped. Come on, Sira, we’ve got to get out of here right away.”
The whole group automatically sprang into action again. We were back to the bellowing, the orders, the steps in no particular direction, and the irate gestures.
“We can’t go,” I replied, turning around and around, scanning the ground. “I can’t find my notebook.”
“Forget the damned notebook, for God’s sake!” he shouted, furious. “They’re coming for you, Sira, they’re under orders to kill you!”
He grasped my arm and pulled, as though ready to drag me bodily after him.
“You don’t understand, Marcus, I’ve got to find it, whatever happens, we can’t leave it behind,” I insisted as I kept looking. Then I spotted something. “There it is! There!” I shouted, trying to wriggle free while gesturing at something in the middle of the darkness. “There, on the tracks!”
The screeching sound of the brakes was lessening and finally the train drew to a halt, the windows filled with heads leaning out, trying to see what was going on. The voices and shouts of the passengers added to the incessant scolding of the railway workers. And then we saw them. Two shadows, dropping down from one of the coaches and running toward us.
I calculated the distance and time. I could still climb down and get the notebook, but climbing back up onto the platform would take much longer; it was a considerable height and my legs probably weren’t up to it. But in any case I had to try to recover those patterns, whatever it took. I couldn’t go back to Madrid without all the information I’d recorded in them. Then I felt Marcus’s arms grabbing me hard from behind. He moved me away from the edge, almost knocking me off my feet, and jumped down onto the tracks.