The Lie of You: I Will Have What Is Mine (12 page)

‘How did you know it was me?’ I asked.

‘I thought you looked like someone from London.’

‘Really?’

‘Maybe it’s your clothes that look London,’ he said.

I looked down at my black Capri trousers, my sleeveless red tunic top and my black sandals and couldn’t quite see it, yet his remark made me feel cheerful.

The tower is located at the entrance to Lisbon’s harbour, on the right bank of the Tagus, and we both stood and looked at it. It had been built as a defensive fortress to the entrance of the river estuary and was completed in 1520. Now, after centuries of silting, the shore has grown to meet the tower so that it stands as if moored to the riverbank.

Hector said, ‘We’d be much better off doing the establishing shots from the river if we get on one of the ferry boats later.’

‘That’s a good idea. We’ve got permission so let’s start at the top. Can you get shots of the vaulting on the fourth floor? That’s the only original vaulting left.’

‘Yes... and you’ll want the rhinoceros?’

‘Yes, please.’

On the sentinel box there’s a carved rhinoceros and it was the first depiction of the animal in Europe.

It was cool inside the tower and I breathed in that distinctive smell of stone and plaster that you find in old buildings and which I sometimes think I’m a bit addicted to. I offered to carry his tripod. Hector said he could manage, thanks, and he sprinted up the stairs in front of me as if he couldn’t wait to get started. From the window I could see the wide estuary and the western side of Lisbon stretching out before me. I took out my pad and started to make notes.

‘See those three-centred arches, they have an interesting perspective,’ he said.

He walked round the space for several minutes, stopping in front of the triple arches, then set up his tripod and took a long time photographing them. Then we went out on to the jetty and the view opened out onto the Tagus and the sky and I could smell a whiff of drains from the river.

‘Nearly finished here. Come on, I want you in this shot.’

‘I don’t think my boss would appreciate this narcissism! OK, just one with me.’

Hector positioned me against the wall. Then he moved in closer and took half a dozen close-ups of me. He had warm brown eyes that met mine over the eyepiece. Yet his look did not connect with mine. Again I felt that he was examining me as a series of shapes, of planes of light and shade.

We bought our ferry tickets and as we moved out onto the Tagus I watched him shooting the tower. It does look its best from the river and you can see the Moorish influence very clearly. I sat on the bench at the front of the ferry, which was half empty, and watched how he worked. His body conveyed the same level of intensity that Markus has when he’s bent over his drawing table.

Finally he turned to me and said, ‘Now I’m happy! Shall we get some lunch? I know a good place to eat on the other side.’

‘I want moules with lots and lots of garlic,’ I said.

‘That won’t be a problem.’

Just at that moment an old man, who had been sitting on a bench near me, staggered to his feet and tried to grab the ship’s rail. His arms went all stiff, his body rigid and he started to have a fit. His eyes were open and staring but they did not seem to register anything and his jaw hung open as he gasped for breath. I saw that he was going to fall. Then Hector was there. He had leapt forward and had caught the full weight of the old man’s body, which was now shaking violently.

‘Kathy, here, now!’ he shouted, in Portuguese.

I ran to his side and we held the old man’s body under his back. It was a dead weight and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to hold on to him. Somehow we both managed to kneel down very slowly and lower the old man to the deck. I saw the stubble on the grey skin of his face and a trickle of blood from the right side of his mouth where he had bitten his tongue in the fury of his fit. His body was still shaking although the tremors were subsiding. Hector rested the old man’s head on his knees, holding his face in his hands, stroking his cheeks and speaking gentle words to him. By this time one of the ship’s crew had come up.

Hector said, ‘We need medical aid at once. Can anyone help?’

He was still speaking reassuring words to the old man. The steward arrived and knelt down by us. The old man’s body had stopped shaking. His eyes were open and unseeing. Hector laid his head down very gently on the deck. The steward bent over his body and checked the pulse in his neck. I knew he was dead and I started to shake. I sat down with my back against the bench and closed my eyes.

Some minutes later I felt Hector’s hand on my bare arm. I shuddered.

‘I’ve never seen a dead body before,’ I said shakily.

He put his arm around me then. ‘He was an old man and he died quickly,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he knew much about it. And now I’m going to buy you a drink.’

I opened my eyes and saw them lifting the old man’s body on to a stretcher. His grey flannel trousers were wet around the crotch and I noticed his nicotine-stained fingers protruding from his brown cardigan. I had witnessed how tender Hector had been with the old man in his last moments and realized again that kindness was such an important quality in a person, the most important quality really.

Hector came back with two brandies in plastic tumblers and we sat on the deck with our backs against the bench. I felt the breeze on my neck, the sun on my face and the vibrations of the ship beneath my thighs. I heard the slap of the waves against the boat and the shriek of a bird overhead. I felt the brandy burn its track down my throat and into my stomach and I was very aware of Hector sitting next to me. My body was prickling with life. The old man was dead and I was alive.

The next day I met Hector at the Mosteiro dos Jeronimos. It was early and there weren’t many people about. He looked at me and asked quietly, ‘OK?’

I nodded and spoke quickly to cover a feeling of sudden breathlessness. ‘I think this is one of the most perfectly beautiful buildings on earth.’

We walked around the cloister, examining the detail of the carvings. On every span of every arch and on every slender column we saw the stonemasons’ unique designs – faces tormented and divine, garlands of flowers and fruits, animals mythical and real. The sun cast fantastic shadows on the stone walls and floors. We spent five hours at the Mosteiro as Hector kept finding more details he wanted to shoot. While he was working I walked around, taking notes. There’s a formal garden in the centre of the cloister and it’s a perfect Mediterranean garden, with small paths crisscrossing an arrangement of low shrubs with triangles of gravel in between. I sat on a bench and closed my eyes and let myself be still and I felt happy. Then I heard Hector’s footsteps on the gravel.

‘I owe you a bowl of moules,’ he said.

It was a small place and you wouldn’t have known it was a restaurant from the outside. Hector ordered moules for both of us and a bottle of white wine. They brought us bread and green olives and a saucer of olive oil.

‘I can do Porto now,’ he said, breaking off a piece of bread, dipping it in the oil and chewing it with strong white teeth that were slightly crossed at the front.

‘Great. Your agent wasn’t sure if you’d be free.’

‘She’s rearranged things. This is a big project, isn’t it?’

‘It is. A year-long survey of World Heritage Sites, just the ones in Europe.’

‘That should keep you busy...’

The waiter brought us a casserole of steaming moules and two wide bowls. Hector ladled a pile of black shells into my bowl then poured the milky white liquor over them.

‘Fantastic amount of garlic, just how I like it,’ he said.

‘Me too, though I have this odd English anxiety about smelling of garlic.’

‘It’s good for you.’

‘I know. If you eat a lot it comes out through your skin and your sweat, and that seems a bit too physical for us uptight English.’

‘You’re Portuguese too, though?’

‘Yes, my mum... and I do take after her when it comes to food!’

We both ate with great contentment as the pile of empty shells grew between us.

‘Do you ever work outside Portugal?’ I asked.

‘Yes, quite often in Spain and sometimes in Brazil...’

‘And you like working abroad?’

‘I do, but I loved doing the Mosteiro today even though I know it’s been photographed a thousand times. I like to think of those stonemasons, each man creating his own unique piece of work. It must have felt good knowing his carving would be there long after his death.’

‘Yes, his very own personal monument... Seeing the old man on the boat made me think about my grandmother. I often think about her when I’m here. She was a bit of a fearsome granny actually.’

‘Oh, I had one of those too.’

‘Did you? Mine loved the saints, especially Anthony of Lisbon. She’d tell me bedtime stories. Her heroes were never princes disguised as frogs; no, her stories were always about the saints and the battles they fought with the Devil and the temptations of the flesh!’

Hector laughed.

‘And she would use such funny phrases. She would say solemnly that Anthony of Lisbon was the Hammer of Heretics. I didn’t know what she meant except that it sounded very alarming.’

‘That’s enough to mark you for life! Now, my granny, who I’m sure would have got on famously with your granny, had a thing about the popes. She would do these jigsaws of paintings of the popes and they were really difficult because of all that white clothing!’

We were both laughing now. It was so easy being with him. He had a lovely mouth and somehow his slightly crossed teeth made it even more attractive.

I waved to him as he drove off on his scooter. Then I walked back to my parents’ apartment. It was very hot and still and most people would be sleeping off their lunches. I took a turning up a road that ran parallel to theirs and saw a small chapel, which the afternoon light was gilding, turning the stone into the loveliest shade of pale gold. I decided to take a quick look inside and crossed the road towards it. I had the wrought-iron ring in my hand and was pushing the heavy door open when I found I could not bring myself to walk over the threshold. My heart jolted as my head filled with a vivid image of the Devil sitting cross-legged and malevolent on the pulpit. He had a blackened body and scaly legs that ended in hooves. It was the expression on his face that paralysed me at the chapel door. He was grinning with a look of utter malice in his smoky black eyes.

When I arrived at the train station the next morning for our trip to Porto, Hector was sitting in the coffee bar, as we had arranged. He was reading a newspaper and drinking an espresso. His head was bent over the paper and his dark hair curled around the nape of his neck. He saw me walk in and stood up as I came towards him, and what started as a hug of greeting became a passionate embrace and I tasted the coffee in his mouth as we kissed.

JUNE

She is away in Portugal, recording her precious sites. She is not back until next week. Ever since I looked at his drawings and his books again a longing has been growing in me to see Markus. I feel that anything is possible. Markus is not like other men. He can never abandon a deeply held commitment and he told me I was the love of his life.

I called him at his office. He works at an architectural practice in Clerkenwell. The receptionist asked who was calling and I said, ‘Tell him it is Heja.’ He came to the phone straight away. His voice was tense and he spoke to me in Finnish.

‘I was wondering if you would ever call.’

‘I think we should see each other.’

There was a long pause. Then he said, ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Heja.’

‘Markus, it
is
a good idea. I want to know how you are. Are you happy and well? How is your work going? Come and have dinner at my new home. It is right on the river and I want to show it to you, to see if you approve.’

Another long pause and I knew I had chosen my moment well. He agreed to come to my flat for dinner the next evening.

I took the afternoon off work and took my time getting ready. I wore a black satin sheath dress and kept my hair down. Markus always liked me to wear my hair down. When we were students he would tease me about how I always wore my hair in a plait. Tonight it felt good to wear it down.

I live in a loft apartment that overlooks the Thames, near Blackfriars Bridge. My main living area is one huge high-ceilinged room. When the buzzer sounded I trembled, with fear as much as desire. He had not seen me for seven years. How much had I changed?

I opened the door to him and was able to say, ‘Welcome, dearest Markus.’

He did not kiss me as he stepped over the threshold. He just looked at me and said, ‘So many years, Heja...’

He has matured. There are some lines around his eyes and mouth that I have never seen before. Then he walked into the room and looked around slowly. The floor in the living area is pale limestone. The walls are parchment white, except for the back one, which is dull silver. The wall that fronts the river is all glass and on fine days it becomes a screen of light. I have kept the room uncluttered, almost empty except for two pale grey sofas. On the back wall there is a mosaic, which I made myself. It is in the shape of a giant conch shell and the tesserae are fragments of glass and shells – green, turquoise and mother of pearl. Against the left-hand wall is the kitchen area with a long bar that fronts pale wood cupboards.

He walked over and examined my mosaic. Then he crossed the room and looked at the kitchen fittings with an expert eye. Finally he walked over to look at the riverfront from my giant window. Turning round, he looked over at me, his eyes bright with appreciation.

‘It’s so good, Heja, and the colours are really subtle.’

‘I learnt so much from you. It’s not too rich for you?’

‘It’s all money you’ve earned, by your own labours.’

‘That’s true.’

We have always loved the same things. It is one of the deep things that connected us, but he does not allow himself to have them. Seeing him standing in my flat, which I created always with him in mind, I felt I could get him back. I walked over to the bar and offered him a glass of white wine. I asked him to pour the wine as my hands shake when I am deeply moved. He poured the wine. Then he sat down on the bar stool opposite me. He looked at me very intently and asked me the question I knew he would.