Chapter Text
Christmas Eve, 1934. It was drizzling and cold. Ralph had half expected Lisbon to look and feel more like Malta, but it looked grey, dismal, and it was damned cold. It was his second Christmas after leaving school. The year before, he had been on board and they’d had a nice supper, pudding, hot punch, and a general party mood despite the wintry weather. It sure beat Christmas at his parents' any day. In January, as they touched Bristol, he had found a fat envelope from Julie and a small package from «the family» as it was written in the sender’s place. It contained a pair of warm knitted socks, a tin of homemade toffee, carefully sealed with paper tape and wrapped in a double layer of waxed paper, and a card.
«A happy Christmas, and all our love. We miss you.» They all had signed, and he had felt a complete whirlwind of mixed emotions. An immense joy for knowing there was a home where he was loved and thought about. A dull pain for not being there with them. A touch of shame for his weakness in being unable to put all those memories behind him and forget.
This time, they happened to be docking right on Christmas Eve. He had overheard the other men planning to return on board in time for hanging a few green garlands around the dining table, a rather festive supper and some kind of partying, and he wasn't in the mood for it. He gave an excuse that everybody might interpret at will - «I know someone here...» - and went ashore.
The streetlights turned on as he set foot on dry land. «Dry land» he thought «Why do we call it that, even when it’s not dry...?» People passed him hurriedly, holding glistening wet umbrellas and talking. He couldn't understand a word, but the language had a nice sound, rather musical, a bit like Italian only with less vowels.
Ralph had exchanged some money for the local currency – he would need money to spend the night out, he wanted a couple of drinks, a hot meal and maybe a hotel room for a good night's sleep or a proper celebration if he happened to find some company. He felt he deserved it, as a Christmas present to himself.
As he was trying to memorise a few landmarks, looking left and right, a bright yellow tramway halted just a few steps ahead. Some people got out and he hopped in, hoping it would take him to the city centre. It was packed up to the door and he had some difficulty in settling inside. After a few minutes, the conductor approached him and said something.
- Sete tostões!
The sound was exotic, and Ralph looked questioningly at the man. He was young and small, dressed in a grey uniform and a cap. He was the only dry person around and the only one who didn’t look angry or miserable, or both. Ralph smiled apologetically before uttering a few words.
- I’m sorry, I …
The man smiled, fished trough the small leather pouch he carried for a silver coin and showed it to the passenger. Ralph rummaged through his own coins to find an identical one and gave it to the conductor, receiving in exchange a coloured ticket and a couple of smaller copper coins.
As the tram proceeded with bumps and shakes, he tried to catch a glimpse out of the windows, but it proved impossible, they were fogged by the relative heat of the inside of the tram. After a couple of stops, he managed to stand by the rear window and cleaned it a bit with his gloved hand. At the right, he could see the docks and at the left the view began to change from warehouses to quite grandiose buildings. He got out the next time the tram stopped.
As the tram departed, Ralph looked around. The drizzle had stopped, but it was almost dark by then. He was standing at the end of a grand square, surrounded by a colonnade. There was an equestrian statue in the middle and two parallel rows of trees, now sporting naked branches, around the central space. The whole thing looked like an opera scenery, very theatrical, and had undoubtedly been built to be seen from the sea and impress, and it probably had done just that for centuries.
The buildings were probably official, there were flagpoles on the first-floor balconies, and were letting streams of people out. It was half past five on Christmas Eve; people were naturally leaving work and going home. He crossed the street and stood under the majestic portico looking one way and the other, trying to decide where to go next, and saw a lighted door at the end of it and the saviour words written in black, the first he could put a meaning to: «Café Restaurante». There were a few understandable words in the language then, thank God for it! He could have a drink, at the very least, and if he was lucky, he might even have a proper meal.
He could hear the echo of his own steps on the marble floor – because the floor under the colonnade was actually paved with big marble slabs. When he pushed the door, he found himself in a long room, wood panelled, black and white chequered floor and full of small square marble top tables, each surrounded by four wooden chairs. He could see two wooden arches dividing the room and on the last third the tables were set for dinner. He could see no one sitting as he walked to the small counter.
- Rum, please. – he asked.
The man behind the counter looked at him, knitting his brows. For the second time that day, Ralph remembered most people here didn’t understand him. From a hidden corner of the room, close to the first arch, came a man’s voice, soft but perfectly audible.
- O rapaz pediu rum. Dá-lhe do bom, os ingleses têm mais dinheiro do que nós, mesmo os marujos.
Whatever it was that the invisible man had said it produced the desired result. Ralph paid for his drink with the smallest of the few banknotes he had, received a stash of coins for change, and holding the glass, searched for the man in the corner. He was sitting alone at one of the small marble top tables, with a small cup, a newspaper, and a notebook in front of him. A black felt hat lay on the empty chair at his right.
- Thank you…
- You’re welcome – the man answered in a perfect English. He gestured to the chair in front of him – Care to sit down?
Ralph thanked again and sat. Now he could look at the man. He must be around Maurice’s or Frank’s age, late forties, maybe older, around his early fifties. Light olive complexion, as one who hasn’t been in the sun for some time. He was balding and what little hair he had left was grey and neatly trimmed, had bright brown eyes behind round wire-rimmed glasses, a small grey moustache, and an amused smile.
- No, I’m not English – he answered to Ralph’s unasked question – but I grew up in South Africa and made all of my schooling in English. Oh, by the way, I’m Bernardo, Bernard, if it is easier for you to say.
Ralph smiled, an open, honest smile, for the man’s amiability was disarming.
- Ralph… - he returned.
The man shut the notebook leaving the pen inside and watched as Ralph downed his rum. There was some light irony in his piercing brown eyes, and he appeared to be reading the young man like an open book. Ralph couldn’t help feeling thoroughly observed and interpreted, but strangely enough it didn’t worry him. He set the empty glass on the marble table and searched his pockets for a cigarette.
- Do you mind…?
Bernard smiled again, a smile that was both friendly and detached, strange as the blend might appear. Ralph was used to being given another kind of smiles and looks and would have detected it at once if it had been the case. It wasn’t. The man’s look conveyed both the cautious curiosity of a scientist observing a newfound species and the camaraderie of the self-appointed loner towards all loners in the world.
- No, no, do smoke if you want to. – and before Ralph had the time to search for his lighter, he took a matchbook out of his pocket and offered it – Here, use these.
Then, the man pointed at the empty glass.
- You shouldn’t drink like that, even if I completely lack any moral authority to say so. Heaven knows I have done exactly what I’m now advising you not to do. Still, you shouldn’t drink like that on an empty stomach at the very least. Believe me, I know… - he checked the time on his wristwatch – It’s early, but you won’t find many open places by dinner time on Christmas Eve. I was going to have a steak with fries. They have a good cook here, and the steak is one of his specials. Shall I order one for you as well?
– Well yes, thank you, I'd love a steak and fries, if you'd be so kind as to ask...
The man snapped his fingers.
- João! Pede-nos dois bifes com batatas fritas. O meu como de costume. Aqui para o rapaz, pede-o mal passado que os ingleses preferem assim. E dois copos de tinto, da casa.
Ralph had paid all his attention to the exotic sounds the man was uttering.
- Some language! I can't get a single word...
- It takes getting used... It's my language, the language I learned from my mother, and I took some time getting used to hearing it everywhere when I came back from Durban...We spoke it at home, of course, but it's not the same thing. Have you studied Latin? You sound educated...
Ralph laughed as he stubbed his cigarette.
- It's shows, doesn't it?
The other man smiled, knowingly.
- It does. To me it does show, but most people here won't notice it, so if you are trying to go unnoticed, you'll succeed. As long as you’re in Lisbon you’ll just be another sailor.
- There were times I'd rather it didn't show on the ship, but that train has already passed, of course. The chaps are used to me by now.
They sat silent for a while. Ralph gave a side glance to the newspaper, but the language was even more exotic in writing. He gave a look at the man’s closed notebook.
- You were writing…
- No. Just noting down a few random ideas, nothing much. I prefer to type…
-You’re a writer, then?
Another amused smile.
- Heavens, no. I’m a bookkeeper who happens to like writing.
- I always prefer my pen and notebook. I’m not a writer… I just like to keep record of things. It’s not like I have anyone to talk to… or like I would talk if I had anyone to talk to…
- You are talking to me… - the man noted softly, the mere shadow of a smile on his face – But I started it, so it doesn’t count, I suppose. Anyway, freedom is the deliberate choice for loneliness...
- Well – Ralph answered – I’m as free as the wind then…
The man seemed to study him again, with those terribly sharp eyes. Ralph felt he could read every single thought of his, even the ones he dared not put in words. That didn’t scare him, strangely enough. After all he was just passing by, the next day he would be gone, and there was freedom in that. He had chosen loneliness, hadn’t he?
- You know, if it is impossible for you to live alone, you were born a slave… - the man said in his soft, calm voice.
-I know… Aren’t we all?
Another almost invisible smile made the man’s lips twitch.
- Not at all, no. I work very hard not to become one. But you certainly are… You are in love and love is something that you allow to happen because you’re tired of being alone. It is a weakness therefore, and a self-betrayal.