“That the end justifies the means,” replied Firmino promptly.
“Not exactly my own conclusion,” replied the lawyer, “and please don’t utter that cliché again, I detest it, in its name mankind has committed the most appalling atrocities, let us merely say that I am shamelessly exploiting you, which is to say your newspaper, is that clear?”
“As clear as daylight,” replied Firmino.
“And let us say that I could always justify myself with definitions provided by the theory of law, that not without some measure of cynicism I could claim to belong to the school of those who believe in the so-called intuitionist concept, but no, let us go so far as to call it an act of arbitrary fantasy, how do you like the definition?”
“I like it,” said Firmino.
“In that case,” said the lawyer, “with our act of arbitrary fantasy we shall work De Quincey’s paradox backwards, which is to say: since I am absolutely convinced that it will not be easy to prove that the Green Cricket cuts people’s heads off with electric carving knives, we shall attempt to show that he behaves anti-socially, for example that he smashes plates over his wife’s head, do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” replied Firmino.
The lawyer seemed content. He leant back in his chair. A dreamy look came into his eyes.
“And at this point we might even introduce your friend Lukács,” said he.
“Lukács?” queried Firmino.
“The principle of reality,” replied the lawyer, “the principle of reality, I wouldn’t be surprised if in spite of everything it might not prove useful to you this evening. But now I think you’d better be off, young man, in fact it seems to me just the right time of night for a place such as ‘Puccini’s Butterfly,’ after which you will report everything to me in minute detail, but keep your mind concentrated on that principle of reality, I think it might be useful to you.”
Fifteen
AVENIDA DE MONTEVIDEU, together with the Avenida do Brasil, combined to form an interminable seafront, far longer than Firmino had bargained for, but he had no choice but to trudge along it until he came to the nightclub, because he didn’t know the number. A fresh breeze off the Atlantic ruffled the flags outside a big hotel. At first the seafront was swarming with people, mostly young families outside ice-cream parlors, with children nodding off to sleep as they sucked wearily at their ices. It occurred to Firmino that his compatriots put their children to bed far too late and maybe had too many children anyway. But then it occurred to him that that was a cretinous thing to think. He noticed that the first, crowded stretch of seafront gradually gave way to a less frequented, more classy area of austere villas and early twentieth-century buildings with iron-balustraded balconies and stuccoed façades. The ocean was pretty rough and its violent waves crashed against the cliffs.
‘Puccini’s Butterfly’ occupied the whole of a detached building which Firmino off the cuff dated to be from the 1920s, a fine construction in the Art Nouveau style, with green-tiled cornices and verandas with small tympana in imitation of the Manueline Style of architecture. On the first-floor balcony a violet neon sign with rococo flourishes, read: ‘Puccini’s Butterfly.’ And over each of the three entrances of the club were other and less glaring signs indicating respectively the Butterfly Restaurant, the Butterfly Nightclub and the Butterfly Discotheque. The discotheque was the only entrance which didn’t have a red carpet. The others did and were attended quite smartly by a uniformed doorman. Firmino decided that the discotheque was not the one to aim for. It would certainly be a place impossible to talk in, with psychedelic lights and deafening music. There seemed no point in the restaurant, those meatballs would see him through the evening. There was nothing for it but the nightclub. The doorman let him in and gave an imperceptible bow. The light inside had a bluish hue. Further down the lobby was a small bar in old-fashioned English style, with a solid wooden counter and red leather chairs. It was completely empty. Firmino went through it, drew aside a velvet curtain and entered the nightclub proper. Here also the light had a bluish hue. Like a stage servant awaiting his cue in the wings, a solicitous figure murmured in a faintly off-putting tone of voice:
“Good evening sir, have you booked?”
It was the maître d’: about fifty years old, impeccable dinner-jacket, grey hair that looked blue in that blue light, an imposing stereotyped smile.
“No,” replied Firmino, “I absolutely forgot to.”
“No matter,” murmured the other, “I have a good table for you if you would care to step this way.”
Firmino did so. He reckoned there were thirty tables in the room, almost all of them occupied. Mostly by middle-aged clients, regulars it seemed to him, the ladies rather dressy and their squires on the whole more informal, in light linen jackets and even a few sports shirts. There was a small stage with a proscenium arch at the far end of the room. It was deserted. This was plainly an interval, and through the blue-tinted room filtered some piped music Firmino thought he recognized. He cupped a questioning hand to his ear and the maître d’ murmured to him, “Puccini, sir. Is this table to your liking?”
The table was in fact not too near the stage and slightly to one side, which gave him a good view of the whole room.
“Have you already dined sir, or shall I bring you the menu?” asked the maître d’.
“Can one dine here as well?” asked Firmino, “I thought the restaurant was next door.”
“Here we serve only snacks,” was the answer, “side dishes.”
“Such as?”
“Smoked swordfish,” specified the maître d’, “cold lobster, that sort of thing. But would you care to see the menu or do you simply wish for something to drink?”
“Well,” said Firmino vaguely, “what do you suggest?”
“You cannot go wrong with a nice glass of champagne to start with,” responded the maître d’.
It occurred to Firmino that he had to make an urgent call to the Editor to telegraph more money, he had already run through his advance expenses and was living on a loan from Dona Rosa.
“Very well,” he replied nonchalantly, “bring me champagne, as long as it’s the best you have.”
The maître d’ tiptoed away. The Puccini music ceased, the lights were dimmed and a spotlight illuminated the stage. It was bluish, needless to say. In the cone of light appeared a pretty young girl, her hair done up in a chignon, and she began to sing. She sang without accompaniment, and the words were Portuguese but the tune was some kind of blues, and only after a while did Firmino realize that it was an old fado from Coimbra which the girl was performing as if it were a jazz number. There was some very muted applause and the lights went up again. The waiter arrived with the glass of champagne and placed it on the table. Firmino took a sip. He didn’t claim to know much about champagne, but this stuff was terrible, with a sickly sweet taste. He peered around him. Everything was soft and quiet, the atmosphere was padded. The waiters moved between the tables with cat-like tread, the speakers relayed a muted morna by Cesária Évora, the customers chatted in undertones.
At the next table sat a man on his own, chain-smoking and staring fixedly before him at the ice-bucket with its bottle of champagne. It was genuine French champagne, Firmino noted from the label of a well-known brand. The man became aware that Firmino was staring at him and he stared back. He was about fifty with horn-rim glasses, little mustache and ginger hair. He affected a sporting air, with a mauve sports shirt and crumpled linen jacket. With shaky hand he raised his glass in Firmino’s direction as if drinking his health. Firmino also raised his glass, but did not drink. The other gave him an enquiring look and brought over his chair.