“Aren’t you drinking?” he asked.
“The stuff’s no good,” replied Firmino, “but I join with your toast in spirit.”
“You know the secret?” asked the man winking, “it’s to order a whole bottle, then you know what you’re getting, if you just ask for one glass they give you local bubbly and charge the earth for it.”
He poured himself another glass and knocked it straight back.
“I’m down in the dumps,” he murmured in confidential tones, “dear friend I’m way down in the dumps.”
He heaved a deep sigh and propped his head on his hand. He looked disconsolate. He muttered: “She tells me: pull up. Just like that, without warning: pull up. And this on the road to Guimarães, which is one bend after another. I slow down and look at her and she says: I told you to pull up. She opens the door, rips off the pearl necklace I gave her in the morning, throws it in my face, gets out without a single word and slams the door shut. Have I a right to be down in the dumps?”
Firmino offered no opinion, but he made a motion that could have been a nod.
“Twenty-five years’ difference in age if you get me,” confided the man. “Am I right to be down in the dumps?”
Firmino was on the point of saying something but his companion went on, there was no stopping him: “That’s why I came to ‘Puccini’s,’ it’s just the spot when one’s feeling down in the dumps, don’t you think? It’s just the place to put you right again, as I don’t have to tell you.”
“Of course,” replied Firmino,” I understand perfectly, it’s just the place.”
The man gave a tap to the bottle of champagne and then he touched the side of his nose.
“This,” he said, “we need this, that’s obvious enough, but it’s better through there in the ‘den’.” He made a vague gesture towards the far end of the room.
“Ah,” murmured Firmino, “the den, yes that’s certainly what we need.”
The man gave another tap to the side of his nose.
“It’s the best, the price is reasonable and discretion is guaranteed, but you come after me.”
“The fact is,” said Firmino, “I’m a bit low myself this evening, but of course I’ll wait my turn.”
The depressed fifty-year-old made a gesture towards a velvet curtain alongside the stage.
“La Bohème is just the job,” he chuckled, “just the right kind of music to raise your spirits.” And once again he tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger.
Firmino got casually to his feet and edged his way round the room, keeping close to the wall. Beside the curtain indicated by the depressed fifty-year-old was another with a notice reading “Washrooms,” on which were depicted two young peasants, male and female, in traditional local costume. Firmino slipped into the Gents, washed his hands and studied himself in the mirror. He remembered the lawyer’s advice not to think of himself as Philip Marlowe. Really not his role, but what the depressed fifty-year-old had said was intriguing him. He left the Gents and, still with a nonchalant air, slipped behind the curtain next door. He found himself in a passageway completely muffled with carpeting, both floor and walls. He pushed ahead confidently. To his right was a padded door bearing a silver plaque engraved with the words “La Bohème”. He opened it with a jerk and stuck his head in. It was a small boudoir with blue carpeting and wallpaper, suffused lighting and a divan. On the divan lay a man and the music was Puccini’s, he thought, though he didn’t know offhand which opera it came from. Firmino approached the body stretched out belly upwards and gave him a gentle cuff on the shoulder. Nothing stirred. Firmino shook him by the arm. The man didn’t move. Firmino quickly left the room and closed the door behind him.
Back at his table the depressed fifty-year-old was still staring fixedly at his champagne bottle.
“You’ll have to wait a while yet,” Firmino whispered in his ear, “because the den is occupied.”
“You think so?” asked the other anxiously.
“I’m dead sure of it,” said Firmino, “there’s a fellow there who’s in the world of dreams.”
The depressed fifty-year-old's face sagged in desperation.
“But for me it wouldn’t take a minute, a couple of minutes at the most, maybe I ought to drop in on the manager right there in his office.”
“Ah, certainly,” said Firmino.
The man beckoned the maître d’, there was a brief confabulation, and off they went together round the side of the room and disappeared behind the velvet curtain. The lights were dimmed, the girl who had previously sung the blues reappeared on the platform, entertained the public with a couple of jokes and promised to sing a fado of the 1930s if they would just hang on for ten minutes because, she said, the viola-player had had a slight mishap. Firmino kept his eyes riveted on the curtain. The depressed fifty-year-old emerged and passed with sprightly step between the tables. As soon as he sat down he looked at Firmino. He was no longer depressed, his eyes were shining with the light of tremendous vitality. He gave the thumbs-up sign, like a pilot signaling “chocks away.”
“Feeling fit?” enquired Firmino.
“Twenty-five years younger than me, but she was a little whore,” mumbled the man, “except that it took a moment’s thought for me to realize it.”
“A rather expensive moment,” murmured Firmino.
“Two hundred dollars well spent,” said the bloke, “really cheap at the price, especially considering the secrecy.”
“As a matter of fact it’s not all that expensive,” said Firmino, “but worse luck I left my roll of dollars at home.”
“Senhor Titânio accepts nothing but dollars, friend,” said the fifty-year-old, “just think of his position and all the risks he has to run, would you accept Portuguese escudos if you were in his shoes?”
“Not on your life,” Firmino assured him.
“Well if you booked for La Bohème,” said the man, “it’s tough luck on you.”
Firmino looked at his bill and counted out the exact amount. Luckily, payment was in escudos. He had an urge to walk the whole length of the seafront, he was sure that a breath of fresh air would do him a world of good.
Sixteen
FIRMINO ENTERED THE COURTYARD of the house in Rua das Flores and passed the concierge’s cubbyhole. The woman gave him a quick glance and plunged back into her knitting. Firmino crossed the corridor and rang the bell. As before, the door clicked open.
Don Fernando was seated at a green baize table, practically perched on a chair too small to contain his bulk, with a game of patience set out before him. His cigar was alight, but burning itself slowly out in an ashtray. The room smelt of mold and stale tobacco-smoke.
“I’m playing Spite and Malice,” said Don Fernando, “but it’s not coming out, I’m not on form. Do you know how to play Spite and Malice?”
Firmino stood stock-still before him with a sheaf of newspapers under his arm, watching the old lawyer in silence.
“They call them games of patience,” said Don Firmino, “but the definition is inexact, they require instinct and logic, as well as luck of course. This is a variant of Milligan, though perhaps you don’t know Milligan either.”
“Frankly no,” replied Firmino.
“Milligan,” explained Don Fernando, “is played with several players and two packs of fifty-two cards and stacks in sequence, the opening is made with the ace or the queen, with the ace the stack goes in ascending order, and in descending order if the queen opens, but that is not the best part, the beauty of it is in the obstacles.”