The Man from Lisbon, page 36
“I must be in Lisbon. Everything is there, everything I am. …”
“You are now a citizen of Europe, darling. You will have interests everywhere. You will move through the great cities like the wind. You must not limit yourself.”
“Greta …” He made a gesture of confusion. “I must think. It is not simple. You must see that I am torn between my love for you and the responsibilities of a lifetime.”
“Something will have to happen, that’s all I’m saying. I cannot go on like this indefinitely. I have never tried to be faithful before. I have always been free to do as I please. I’ve always made that a condition. … I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“I thought the future was now,” Alves said.
“Don’t tease me, darling.”
“Don’t push me, then. I can’t simply make a decision that is bound to smash lives to bits. … It’s not fair.”
“Fair,” she said, jaws clenched. “Fair? To whom? I have willingly closed my life to everyone but you. …”
He was sweating and felt ill. “Do as you please. I cannot command your fidelity … you must give it but only if you choose.”
She turned away angrily, stared out the window into the shadows of trees.
“Leave me alone, then,” she said. “Just leave me alone.”
Weak with anger and frustration, he went away, pretended to inspect the Rembrandt.
“Alves, come sit by me.” It was Maria, making room on the couch. “Are you all right, my dear? You look so pale.”
“No, I’m fine.” He sank down on the couch. He saw Greta with the Swedish girl who had sat beside him at dinner. They went off together.
“I was just asking Ivar why he’d never married,” Maria said. Alves flinched. How could she be so familiar with such a man?
“I cannot marry,” Kreuger said solemnly. “It would take at least eight days. I can’t spare the time. …”
“Be serious,” the other blond Swede said. Her mouth was wide, her lips thin like Greta’s. “You must not joke about such important matters.”
“I’m sorry, my child. Could I tie myself permanently to a woman? Well, I believe I could, externally—because I should see her only occasionally anyhow. But spiritually, I must honestly say no. And I don’t care about children. I’m sure you have lovely, beautiful children, Senhora Reis. But they always seem to do things differently from what one would like, which must be so annoying. Nor do I wish to be burdened with love. … Love requires time and attention. Swedish Match is my son, my only child.”
Maria was watching him, appraising him as he spoke. She seemed more mature to Alves. It was the same thing he’d noticed in Arnaldo, a process that must have been going on without his noticing it. Everyone was growing older and time seemed to be going faster.
Maria was pulling his sleeve, speaking to him.
“Alves, you’re somewhere else. Come back and join the party.” There was an edge to her voice. “Ivar has an entertainment planned.”
He stood up, gave her his hand. She led the way, and he watched her move ahead; yes, she had changed with the years. The girlishness was going, and a woman, less yielding, more substantial, was appearing. The past year had been difficult, taking its toll on the girl she had once been.
They entered a smaller sitting room with soft low chairs facing a raised platform where a plush chaise longue stood, bathed in a warm, dim red glow from spotlights hung from the ceiling. Greta and José sat nearest the platform. Alves and Maria moved in behind them. He saw Arnaldo wiping his brow, Silvia clinging to his arm. Hennies had attached himself to a gaunt woman. Marang sat stiffly, curious. There was a sweet aroma of incense. He thought he saw Kreuger in the doorway. A jazz record began very softly and the voices died.
The two Swedish girls appeared at the edge of the platform, mounted it and sat on the divan. Their eyes met, and slowly one reached out, stroked the other’s pale cheek. They kissed, their mouths open. The aggressor carefully pushed the other backward until she was at rest, then began undoing the front of her dress, exposing large white breasts. She leaned down, sucked the small, hard nipples while the girl moaned softly. Alves shook his head. He heard the distinct breathing of the audience. A small gasp escaped Maria, who leaned forward. Greta smoked a cigarette, her attention riveted. One girl was naked, her legs spread to rest on either side of the chaise longue. The hair between her legs made a blond halo in the light. The other girl, his dinner partner, slipped out of her gown and knelt between the spread thighs, slowly burying her sweet face in the hair. The legs bent upward, the knees holding her partner in place, fingers working in the blond hair, holding her face while the hips and belly began to push rhythmically.
Maria’s face was wet, her lips parted.
“My God,” Alves said under his breath. The girl being acted upon let out a soft cry, said something in Swedish. With one hand she squeezed her breast, pulling the nipple tight. She grunted deep in her throat, bucked against the burrowing face. “This is too much,” Alves said aloud. “Maria!” He grabbed Maria’s wrist and pulled her to her feet. There were tears on her face. She was biting her lip. Arnaldo and Silvia bolted for the door. “Greta,” Alves said. “Please leave with us. …”
José turned, caught Alves’ eye, winked. “Sit down, Alves,” he said. “It’s a harmless diversion.”
No one seemed to hear them. The girl had moved from between her partner’s thighs and had slid lengthwise the other way, settling her own parted hips across the eager waiting mouth, crying out thinly as she received the tongue’s probe. Her fingers clutched the air. The music was louder, more insistent. The spotlights had gone blue.
“Greta …”
But Greta was straining forward, watching the darting tongue. José bent toward her, said something, laughed soundlessly. Alves turned, holding Maria’s elbow, propelling her out of the room. The light in the outer chamber struck like a blow, burning his eyes. Arnaldo was talking to Silvia, who listened solemnly. Maria was sobbing. Alves looked around in a fury, spotted a wineglass and hurled it against the wall.
“What does he think he’s doing? We need dirty shows to enjoy our evening? Dinner and whores?” He trod on the broken glass. “Maria, calm yourself. Arnaldo, let’s get out of here. Maria, my sweet little wife,” he cooed, holding her against him. “Forget it, forget it. …” He mumbled on until Arnaldo returned to help Maria into her cape.
Alves glowered. “What a nightmare. How can they sit there and watch, I ask you? How?”
“Human nature.” Arnaldo opened the door to the first parlor. “Take your own advice, forget it. We’re above this, that’s what it amounts to.”
A movement on the small balcony overlooking a courtyard caught his eye. A huge figure loomed, a red eye glowed.
“Senhor Reis.” Kreuger moved into the opening of the French windows. He was smoking one of the Turkish cigarettes. Smoke hung in the cool night behind him.
“Please,” Kreuger said, “accept my apologies. Some of these people expect such a show. I’m told it is very much the rage in Paris these days. However, among my countless faults, I do not number voyeurism. Senhora …” He turned to Maria. “Can you forgive me? How can I make it up to you?”
“Don’t try,” Alves said harshly. “When you come to Lisbon, I can assure you, you will be spared such an exhibition!”
“You are truly offended,” Kreuger said quite calmly, “and rightly so. Well, I must make it up to you. Maria and Silvia,” he said with perfect recall of their names, “a small token, an apology.” He handed them each a small leather pouch. “Now, ladies, don’t peek until you are home for the night. Promise. …”
The women nodded. Alves felt as if they were all children
Kreuger was placating. It was like passing out candy to remove the pain of a scraped knee. Kreuger turned to escort them to the foyer, across the parquet floor, heels clicking.
“The two girls came to me, you know,” he said, “asked if they could perform. They needed the money and they know of my generosity. … What could I do? Odd thing,” he mused, pursing his lips, looking down at them, “the Spaniards always love this sort of show, emerge telling me what a grand fellow I am.”
“Apparently a difference between Spaniards and Portuguese,” Alves said stiffly.
“Please accept my explanation, Senhor. We must be friends. We are two of a kind.”
They shook hands.
Maria went to bed without speaking further of the evening’s events. Thunder in the early-morning hours woke Alves. He lay still, waiting for his head to clear.
It wasn’t the two girls that had upset him. It was the fact of Greta’s reaction, the way she had pressed forward to see the girls, had refused to leave. He could not explain it, at least not to his satisfaction.
In any case, given their disturbing conversation, he would have to see her again. They would have to straighten things out. He went to the window and watched the rain falling on the Champs-Elysées, making it shine.
They were sitting on opposite sides of the breakfast table, Alves dressed for the day, Maria in a filmy peignoir over her nightgown. He poured hot coffee and milk, buttered a flaky croissant and vowed to take a swim and a steam bath. “Kreuger was certainly most generous to you.” He nodded to the bedside table where a tiny leather bag lay, a gold, diamond-encrusted pin beside it. The diamonds formed a matchstick with rubies at the tip.
Maria set her cup down with a clatter, splashing coffee onto the heavy linen. “I can’t eat. Oh, Alves …” She broke off, threw herself on the bed, hiding her face. Her body shook. “I am losing you.” The words were muffled.
“Have you been talking with José?”
“Why? Does he know the truth about you?”
“No, my dearest … but he is a mischief-maker—and I am your Alves, your husband.” He kissed her hair.
“Something has gone wrong with our lives,” she said, half choking. “I don’t know what you want of me. … What do you want me to be, Alves? Do you want me to be like her?”
“Like whom?”
“Alves!” she screamed, turning, fists flashing at his face. He felt the nose piece of his spectacles cut his face. He reached to stop her too late. She hit him again and the spectacles fell to the floor. “Don’t treat me like a fool. …” He had her by the wrists, holding her away. “Like her, like her,” she croaked, face screwed into an ugly mask. “Greta, Greta … Greta …”
“For God’s sake be quiet,” he shouted. He had no experience with madwomen. “The children. …”
“I watched you with her last night at Ivar Kreuger’s,” she gasped, trying to whisper. “I saw the way she looked at you.” She pulled loose and threw herself back on the pillows. “Don’t think I’m blind just because I’m your little wife. Don’t underestimate me, Alves Reis.” She thrust out her jaw, wiped her eyes. “I’m more than you think.”
“I love you.”
“Don’t say that to me, Alves.”
“What do you want me to say, then?”
“Nothing, I want to go home.” She swallowed with difficulty. “Come back with me. …” She softened. “I don’t know what’s happening, Alves. I’m afraid. …”
“You go,” he said. “I have business for another few days. See your parents, relax … and I’ll be home by the end of the week.” He kissed her nose, hoping that the worst was over. “And stop being so silly.”
She lay back and closed her eyes, spent. Alves watched her until her breathing steadied and she fell asleep. He wiped blood off his face, retrieved his spectacles from the floor.
He couldn’t see that he had any choice. He’d give José and Arnaldo their instructions. But he had to stay in Paris. He had to see Greta. …
He had never had such a scene with Maria, nothing remotely comparable. Seldom had there been so much as a cross word. Now he had somehow driven her to striking him. Had he given himself away? But the fact was that she’d seen nothing between him and Greta. She was guessing it, speculating on a possibility. Damned complexity, way too much on his mind. To succeed in business you had to have some peaceful retreat, a haven, somewhere to rest. That was what he had had with Maria, and, being human, he had never realized it, had assumed it would always be there. Now it was slipping away from him. It had begun slipping when he had committed his energies to the scheme. He had grown impatient with her silliness, bored by the pettiness of her world. He had sought a new kind of peace—brought about by the distraction and excitement of a romance—and Greta had eased his mind of the cares of the scheme. Rather, to his surprise she had returned his passion and desire with a fervent gift of her own. He had come to depend on her. Undeniably, he knew, he had been influenced by her worldliness. He had ignored the subtle implications of his infidelity. He felt as if an earthquake were rumbling, sending fissures shooting across the foundations of his life.
Now Maria was gone, her eyes so lifeless and dull, remote, hurt, not understanding what was happening but afraid and angry, as if a phantom tiger had been loosed on her soul. …
And he had let her go. Because of Greta. Her hold on him was too great, and the time was at hand to face up to it. He was a man alone, if he only had the courage.
He walked the streets of Paris, ignoring the people around him, moving like a man in a dream, his lips silently forming the words in his mind. Kreuger had the answer. Somehow there was no time for anything other than Swedish Match; it was his life. Kreuger knew. And fate had placed Kreuger in the path of Alves Reis, had put him there for Alves to learn a lesson. …
Greta was wearing a lime-green sleeveless dress that had no waist and hung straight from the shoulders to cling briefly at her hips, pleats swinging from her thighs. She smiled to him when he opened the door, went on humming, watering her plants. The Javanese maid followed her, wiping up any overflow with a white cloth. Sunshine streamed in the windows, and the plants seemed to be exploding with green health. The phonograph was playing, and he recognized Josephine Baker’s voice. Greta was cool, civil, told him her manager had just called to tell her she was being offered a wonderful role in a play for the fall, Outward Bound. She asked him to sit, dismissing the Javanese girl with a nod of the head.
“You are angry with me.” She sighed, crossing her legs, staring at him. “There’s no point in asking why, I suppose.” She was smiling faintly, tolerantly. “I, who have every right to be angry. I was forced to watch you with your wife all last evening. I was very frustrated, do you understand that? Sexually frustrated. …”
Alves’ head had begun to throb. A thought crossed his mind: none of this would have bothered José in the least. José was no romantic when it came to women.
Greta lit a cigarette and went to the window, touched the leaves of an immense fern. “I have said all I intend to say. I take what life offers me. It you want me, take me as I am.”
“Last night we talked of my giving up Maria. … Now you calmly give me the gate.”
“Listen to me, Alves.” She knelt beside his chair. He thought, she should be on the stage; there should be an audience waiting to applaud. “I would not have given up my other small amours, my sweet careless afternoons, if I didn’t love you. I want you and I need you. You must realize, however, that I am not an ordinary little housewife, subordinating myself, my desires, my needs to yours … and you must see, my darling, that you are a great man, that the rules for us are different. …”
“Maybe I am ordinary, after all. …” He took her face in his hands, gently searched the lavender eyes.
“No, not you, not Kreuger, not me. … It’s part of us, inevitable. Either love me and accept me, or go back to Lisbon and stay there, making your money, shrouding Maria in jewels. …” She kissed his fingertips. “And be careful of her, my love. I have never spoken of her this way, but now—well, we’re past good manners, aren’t we? She is boring, tedious, and she can be a dangerous woman, too, believe me, a woman knows. She doesn’t know how to behave, she lets you walk on her and she will wait, wondering what to do, and then, I warn you, she will go crazy and you will wish you’d never set eyes on her that day at the beach. If you understand what I am saying, stay. I love you, but understand that I am as I am. …
“I do, I understand.” He took her hand, squeezed.
“Do you love me, then? Are you prepared to love me?”
“Yes.”
“Then we will go on, Alves, but you must solve your problems in Lisbon. You are making the choice.”
“I know.”
“Well, there is hope for you.” She smiled again, at last.
They went to bed rather solemnly, as if sealing their new agreement. The shadows outside were turning the day a velvety purple. He heard the wind in the trees; the softness teased him, like a dream. His guard was down, he was tired. He felt as if he had passed through hazard and emerged intact.
“You say I am a great man,” he said absently, stroking her hair. She used his chest as a pillow, toyed with the thunderbolt around his neck.
“You are,” she said softly.
“I’ve done more than you know,” he said. “You have no idea. …”
And leaning back, looking up at the shadows slanting across the ceiling, he let the flood of his secret accomplishment wash across them. It all came out: from the days in the Oporto jail where he dared to conceive the scheme, on through the assembling of his syndicate and the first sets of stationery and forgeries. He told her of how he had given all that was in him in Angola, how he had returned to Lisbon and been treacherously brought down, how he had decided that a great success required great daring. She listened silently as he told her of the agonies of the past winter, when everything hung in the balance, dangling by the frayed threads of his nerve.
“You mean to tell me,” she said at last, propping herself on one elbow, a puzzled smile crossing her wide mouth, “that there are no connections between your syndicate and the Bank of Portugal? It is all the product of your own mind?” She brushed the hair from her eyes.
“Yes.” He nodded proudly, his voice hushed. He couldn’t quite believe he was doing it. “The only connections are the forged documents, which, on the face of it, are decisive. … But they are forgeries. Yes. I dreamed it up in the Oporto jail. …” He let a smile creep into his voice.
