Susana appeared next to the luggage looking around for him. He crossed the highly polished floor on stiff legs, his thigh muscles feeling weak and cold. Susana asked if anything was the matter. He shook his head. They checked in. The flight was delayed until three in the afternoon. Susana fumed silently as she reclaimed her passport and boarding card. They went to the restaurant and sat opposite each other. The place was as crowded as Felsen's head. He ordered wine and looked out of the window as the four propeller engines of a cargo plane started up with a clatter followed by a long, unending howl.
The wine was poured into the palpable silence between them. Susana looked around, aware that the presence in front of her was not where she wanted her eyes to rest. Felsen relaxed his shoulders down from around his ears, leaned back.
'Saude!' he said, raising his glass, forcing some lightness.
She matched him.
'I never asked,' he said, lighting a cigarette, 'how you found me.'
'By accident,' she said. 'I was looking for the number of a friend of mine whose surname is Felizardo, yours was underneath. I didn't think it would be you but I called anyway. There was no answer. The next day I was in Lisbon I went to the address and found your apartment above the bank. My friend's father knew who you were. When I came back to Lisbon after my trip, with my extra week, I called again-this time the bank. They put me through to your partner.'
He nodded through the plausibility. The lengthy, well-thought-out, plausibility.
'But you didn't go to Paris, did you?'
'Is this…' she paused, '…an interrogation?'
He laid the ticket stub out in front of her.
'I was in Germany,' she said, coolly, eyes sliding to the right.
'That number on the back,' said Felsen, 'comes from Curitiba in Brazil. You've called that number every day since we've been in the Palacio. Whose is it? Your friends?'
'My family…'
'A different one to your mother and children in'sao Paulo?'
The waiter came and reared away from Felsen who'd shown him the back of his hand.
'Yes,' she said, defiant now, teeth gritted behind her lips.
'You never showed me any photographs of your children,' he said, and lunged at her purse.
She snatched it away from him.
'You didn't ask.'
'I'm asking now.'
She tore out two photographs and held them to his face for a fraction of a second. The boy was dark, Brazilian-looking, but the girl, although dark-skinned, had blonde hair and blue eyes. Susana's mouth was bent into a sneer.
'I've heard of Curitiba,' said Felsen. 'There's a very large German community there. I know what they'd have been doing… just three days ago, in fact. The 20th of April every year. The Fuhrer's birthday. They raise the flag. Who sent you, Susana?'
She didn't answer.
'I can't think of anybody who would know about me, except perhaps ODESSA. They might have have had the resources, the information. The Organisation der SS-Angehorigen… was it them, Susana?'
'The most important thing I learnt from Eva,' she said, sitting back, chin up, the contempt radiating out of her, 'was that Klaus Felsen only ever thinks with his big, stupid, Swabian cock.'
That cut him, right through, and he hit her for saying it. He slapped her across her face with his big open hand. It went off like a tyre blow-out and everybody looked out of the window. Susana wheeled out of her chair and came up with the mark of his hand on her cheek. Her eyes were fixed and dark, flashing with anger, an intensity of hate. She muttered something at him. He'd have liked to smack her again, so raw was his humiliation, but the eyes of the restaurant were on them now. He turned and went to retrieve his luggage. 1st July 1955, Abrantes" apartment, Rua do Ouro, Baixa, Lisbon, Portugal Maria Abrantes sat at the arm end of the chaise longue in a blue pencil skirt and a white blouse with the suit jacket open. She had a tight string of pearls at her throat which was red with anger, right up to her earlobes and had infected her cheeks too. She smoked and listened as she had been doing for the last three-quarters of an hour, crossing, uncrossing and recrossing her legs once every three or four minutes, waiting for what was going on in the next room to come to an end.
She'd thought that it was over three times already and had braced herself, tightened her mouth, and clenched her fist. But each time it had resumed and she'd breathe in a slow, deep breath through her nose and unlock her jaws. In the hand that wasn't smoking she held a card of the type distributed by tobacco kiosks for the last ten or fifteen years. She tapped the arm of the chaise longue with it. The card was a photograph of an actress who called herself Pica but whose real name was Arlinda Monteiro. Maria looked at the card for the hundredth time-Pica the dyed blonde with large glossed lips trying to look American. She straightened her own true blonde hair as if it conferred a higher status.
The bedroom door opened a crack and shut. Maria Abrantes' foot started nodding and stopped. The bedroom door was flung open with a laugh and Pica, with her head thrown back over her shoulder, came into the living room. Her high heels were strict with the wooden floor. She didn't see Maria at first but the bristling presence in the room slowed her heels' progress. When she did see her, the heels took four little steps back and her shoulder hit the closed half of the double doors to the bedroom. She glanced into the bedroom and lengthened her neck to muster some drama-class dignity. She tilted her jaw and resumed her passage across the bare wooden floor, swinging her white handbag from her left hand.
' Puta ' said Maria Abrantes, quietly.
The word thudded into the actress's back and turned her round. Her bosom inflated. Maria Abrantes was hoping for a spew of abuse but the hatchet she'd set her face into must have been too sharp. The actress only managed the kind of hiss she must have heard from the back stalls on a slow weekday night.
Joaquim Abrantes appeared at the bedroom door, sensing wildlife in his living room. He was in the grey trousers from a suit, a white shirt with cuffs already linked up, and a silk tie in his hands which Maria had never seen before.
'What are you doing here?' he asked.
Pica turned, her heels rapped the floorboards and the apartment door opened with a gust of wind and closed, gun-shot loud. Abrantes slowly made up his tie and stretched his neck free of his collar. Everything Maria had rehearsed scrambled and fled from her mind, leaving neat spite and no words.
'I thought you said you were going to be in Estoril today,' said Joaquim Abrantes, who left the doorway, went into the bedroom and came back in a grey suit jacket.
'I was…' she started.
'What brought you back into the city?' he asked, performing as if Pica had never been in the apartment. 'Shopping?'
He took a seat in front of her and shot his cuffs. He opened a silver box on the table and removed a cigarette, which he tapped on the lid. He lit it and sat back, inhaling the smoke grossly into his snarling mouth. It maddened her.
'No, it wasn't shopping,' she said. 'Oh?'
'It was because I can't stand any more talk in Estoril about the whores you're entertaining down here.'
'They talk in Estoril about whores down here? I don't think so.'
'They do. They might not call them putas, they might call them… actresses, maybe, but they're paid in presents and dinners just as surely as the whores at the docks get cash.'
Abrantes wondered who'd helped her rehearse that. He didn't think those words were her own. In the cafes of Estoril they might see tie Parisian cut of her suits, the American nylons, the millinery in from London, but he saw a girl from the Beira with an urn of water on her head.
And you?' he asked, the imitation Lisboeta making him cruel.
'I'm your wife!' she shouted, and flung the kiosk card of Pica in his lap.