The Man from Lisbon, page 47
The Waterlow party arrived on Sunday evening, the thirteenth of December. Normally I would have been limited to whatever was reported in the papers, but I had a special correspondent of my own, the judge himself, who spent the entire week questioning Sir William and his associates. Most of the week’s events were carried off in a manner I had thought existed only in the novels of the immortal Wodehouse. Ridiculous confusion and missed appointments between the bank’s board and Sir William, mistaken identities and the virtual arrest of Sir William by the judge. Most days he found time to stop by the cell and fill me in on Sir William’s difficulties.
“He’s all right, for an Englishman,” he said one day. “Stuffed shirt, but I don’t suppose he’s used to dealing with slippery bastards like these bank fellows. The fact is, there are no honest trade practices in our country, and he just got caught in one of the biggest swindles of all. Would you care to join us tomorrow? You might help clear up a few points.” I assented and he filled his pipe, settling in for another half hour. He sighed resignedly, laughing softly. “The reporters are waiting nervously each day. They don’t want to be somewhere else when I shoot myself!”
My appearance was simple enough. Sir William and I shook hands soberly.
“Sorry to see you in this state, Senhor Reis,” he said.
“These things happen,” I said. “I have been used by these criminals at the bank, but it will all straighten itself out in the end. I thank you for your concern, Sir William.” His face was terribly red. I had the feeling that he was a sick man, whether he knew it or not.
Under the judge’s questioning I merely stated that the contracts on which we had acted were genuine, given me by the governor of the Bank of Portugal. That seemed to satisfy everyone. Sir William’s main concern was clearly how much he might be judged to owe the Bank of Portugal, if it came to that. How much was Waterlow going to have to make good on?
Very little was actually decided when the Waterlow party departed a week later. But their presence had caused a stir in the press, and the judge suggested that to avoid a scene in Rossio Station they make their exit under assumed names. Sir William used the name of “Smith,” but the judge and some of his investigators saw them off, focusing attention on their much photographed faces and causing a huge onrush of the curious. My one greatest fear at that moment was that Judge Pinto Magalhaes would foul things up so badly that he would be removed from the case. That would be very bad luck for Alves Reis.
On the day Waterlow left Lisbon, O Seculo called all of Portugal to the barricades of outrage at the state of things.
THIS IS MORALITY?
We shall say it again: the Angola and Metropole Bank scandal could only be possible in a country such as ours, where misery prevails. In another country of sound morality, or even a less venal morality, the Reises and their ilk could never put into practice such a large-scale plan. This could only happen in a country where rottenness has corrupted all the fibers that make up the honor, the dignity and the prestige of a nation. All of the collective virtues have vanished. All of the basic qualities of the race, maintained by tradition through the centuries, through every calamity and sacrifice, have been throttled and despised by political gangs, greedy for money, no matter how acquired. Then there appeared Marang, a diplomat from a republic of blacks; Bandeira, the South African convict and then the Oporto thief, and then their trunks of 500-escudo notes. Everyone bowed low before them. The gang’s success was complete.
Up in Coimbra at the university a pale, intense professor of economics was reading the accounts of the banknote case with more than routine interest. His doctoral thesis had dealt with the evolution of Portuguese currency; he was, at thirty-six, one of the country’s leading economists. Not without political ambitions of his own, it had not struck him yet how my difficulties might involve him, Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, personally.
During my first weeks in prison I found the time going quickly, rather to my surprise. There was so much intrigue: the friendship and confidences extended me by Judge Pinto Magalhaes, the messages I was sending to Hennies and Marang in hopes that we might all buttress one another’s defenses, the messages Maria would take out to my lawyer, the purchasing of furniture for my cell, the odd relationship developing between José and me, the longing I felt regarding Greta, who had vanished from my life, though I knew perfectly well she was in Paris performing in Outward Bound. I suppose at such moments I’d have given ten years of my life to spend whatever remained with her in Paris, having our picnics and walking by the bookstalls along the Seine and riding her horses on the cold, foggy mornings in the Bois de Boulogne. That was the life I wanted.
Maria remained in the Menino d’Ouro. Once again her parents were called on to comfort her. She was not the same helpless child they had always known, and that no doubt made their job easier, though I suppose they also found it sad, too.
One day under a bright, chilly sky José and I walked in the small exercise yard. We were allowed our own clothing, and he was surely the best-dressed prisoner in the world, though in my Parisian suits I was a good deal more stylish than I had once been. Regrettably there was a small round smudge on José’s pearl-gray Borsalino.
“It’s almost Christmas,” he said glumly.
“Happy Christmas,” I said.
“We’re never going to get out of here. …” He was near tears. “Damn it, Alves, I’m so afraid. …”
“Of course we are. Trust me, José. Have I ever let you down?”
“No, but I’ve let you down in so many ways.” He kicked a stone that bounded against the high brick wall. “I never gave you back the money you sent me in Mozambique. …” I laughed, shaking my head. “I’ve let you down in more ways than you know. …” He couldn’t look me in the eye.
“Is that right, José? You want to get it off your chest? You can always confide in me. Remember that, José. Come on,” I said, cuffing him on the shoulder. We were being watched by officers behind the glass, smoking cigarettes. “We’ve been down before and come back.”
“Not this time,” he said. “I’m going to die in here.”
There was no consoling him.
Much of our finances were locked up tight, but I had taken precautions; there were other accounts elsewhere, under a variety of names. My agents made certain that Maria had plenty of money for the children’s Christmas. I tried not to worry about them.
Judge Pinto Magalhaes visited me on Christmas Day, bringing with him an English plum pudding and hard sauce. Ceremoniously he stuck a candle in the center and lit it. I couldn’t help shedding a tear. This man believed in me.
After I’d cut the plum pudding, he withdrew a fine port from his overcoat pocket and we toasted our Savior.
“It makes me think,” he said, half to himself. “They’re crucifying me, too.” He laughed mirthlessly. “There’s no doubt about it. They’re out to get me.”
I leaned back in my deep club chair, sinking a fork into the rich sweet as I listened to his story.
The directors of the bank had been threatening to resign for a week or so, blaming their persecution by the judge. Yesterday they had called a meeting in the directors’ room at the bank, making sure that the press and the judge were there. They began by steadfastly proclaiming their innocence of any wrongdoing of any kind.
After interjecting the suggestion that the Communists were probably behind it, they got to the real purpose of the meeting. They announced their joint resignations!
By now it was becoming apparent that this was indeed the most dramatic moment in the bank’s history. The group adjourned for the length of time it took to march to a larger meeting room, where a stockholders’ meeting had been convened. Pandemonium. Our shares, officially owned by the Bank of Angola and Metropole, were now in the custody of the Liquidating Commission and would not be voted.
Vice-Governor Mota Gomes—both he and Camacho had been released from prison several days before, the Premier overruling the judge’s orders—spoke first, sobbing openly as he described the insane judge’s behavior. His chins quivered, enveloping his collar, the knot in his tie. His pudgy hands trembled as he fought to control himself.
“There gradually appeared in the press,” Gomes said, voice choked with emotion, “and in the streets a campaign of discredit against this great institution. They accuse it of a crime of which it was the sole immediate victim. … Not only in our country but also abroad, newspapers with wide circulation have no hesitation in presenting the Bank of Portugal as swindlers. This was the result of a gesture by a magistrate absolutely unworthy of occupying such a position!”
The judge’s eyes misted over as he revealed the calumny to which he had been subjected on Christmas Eve. Then came Governor Innocencio Camacho Rodrigues, and the applause that had rattled the room following Gomes’ remarks was redoubled as the crowd spotted him! He cried, too. What a scene! The judge grimaced over his plum pudding, re-creating it for me. Camacho gathered his composure and began with an apology, babbled on in an excess of self-pity as the crowd cheered.
“Anyway,” the judge said, preparing to take his leave, “there are other crowds in other places cheering your name, Alves.” He looked at me in an almost fatherly way, this strange and inexplicable man. “Don’t lose faith. You will be vindicated yet. …”At the door he whispered, “Merry Christmas.”
His belief in me was touching.
In London Edgar Waterlow had successfully challenged Sir William’s control of the firm over the issue of a company committee resolved to investigate the “facts and circumstances” surrounding their dealings with us. Sir William fought it, proposing instead that he have ten days to draw up his own complete report. The issue was joined, and Edgar’s supporters carried the day, five votes to four. To all intents and purposes, Sir William’s control of the company was finished. His bitterest enemy was now in effective command.
New Year’s Eve was a low point. José came to my cell and we drank champagne. He was more talkative than he’d been lately. He wanted to reminisce, and we naturally turned to the New Year’s Eve exactly a year before. The party at Greta’s apartment, the snow drifting down through the glow of street lamps outside the cafés …
José chuckled. “God, how I misbehaved that night.”
“You were a very bad boy,” I agreed.
“I’d gladly go through it again if we could be back in Paris tonight.” His grin faded. Reality was a little closer each day. “Those days are gone forever.”
“No, no, we’ll see Paris again.”
“Tell me, Alves, did you forge the contracts? Was it all a swindle?”
“Of course,” I said.
“By God! You really did it!” Life filled his face again.
He threw his arms around me, hugged me to him, kissed my cheeks like a French politician dispensing the Legion of Honor.
Late that night, as 1925 passed on into 1926, the year of my thirtieth birthday, I sat by myself. I’d been reading my dear Wodehouse. I was finally beginning to understand his books; perhaps I was going crazy myself. But I put the book aside and rubbed my tired eyes. Then I went to my small writing desk and took a sheet of stationery, uncapped my Big Red.
Dear Greta, I began. It is 1926, my love, and I am beginning it with thoughts of you. …
1926 did not begin well for any of us.
In The Hague the authorities celebrated New Year’s Day by arresting Marang. Up to the last minute Hennies had urged him to disappear into Germany with him, but Marang demurred. Thirty minutes before the police came for Karel, Adolf slipped away, resumed one of his previous identities, fading into the crowd.
The judge sent Antonio to The Hague to get the contracts from Marang, and that was another mess. José finally got word to him that Greta had the contracts in Paris. Antonio went to Paris to get them.
The Lisbon daily ABC had sent a reporter to Paris, and much to my surprise the copy that was delivered to my cell on January 3 featured a front-page interview with Greta.
When she was visiting in Lisbon last summer, the elegant actress was a woman of mystery. Her picture appeared regularly in the papers in the company of the notorious Reis and his partner in rascality, José Bandeira. She became a subject of gossip and speculation. Where was Senhora Reis? Who was the famous actress really visiting? There were stories that she left her hotel late at night for secret trysts. But with whom? All was forgiven her, then, however. She was daring, vivacious, world-famous. We expected excitement where she was involved.
But with the uncovering of Senhor Reis’s unusual manipulations of the Portuguese economy, the gossip and rumor turned against Greta Nordlund. Praise in Lisbon became insults, admirers turned into accusers.
“Tell me, what will the future hold for Alves?” she asked when contacted by our reporter in Paris, where she is currently starring in a successful production of Outward Bound. “Is it true that he is being harshly treated? Has he done anything wrong? And poor petit José, what of him? They’ve told me what the Portuguese papers are saying about me—that I wasn’t even an actress, had only walk-on parts. They called me a cocotte and said that everything I did was for their money, that I am responsible for wrecking Alves Reis’s marriage, that I spent all his money. What nonsense!
“When I was in Lisbon they called me the Scandinavian Sarah Bernhardt! But from such people it was silly praise! What did they know of my art, my class, my position? And now they insult me. But I don’t care. What hurts me is not that they should doubt me as a woman but as an actress. You’ve seen for yourself. All Europe honors me. In the streets, in hotel lobbies, in restaurants, wherever I go, people whisper about me: ‘It’s Greta, it’s Greta!’ For them I mean nights of emotion, tears and happiness. To think they consider me in Lisbon a grasping, ambitious, wasteful woman. … They slander me. All I want to know is what is to become of my dear friend Alves Reis.”
It was very good to hear of her, and her concern buoyed my spirits. Soon I would hear from her personally, obviously. I was amused by her question: has he done anything wrong? I could imagine the performance she gave for the reporter, knowing the truth the whole time. What a remarkable creature!
The worst news of all came the same day. Pressure from the Bank of Portugal had led to the removal of Judge Pinto Magalhaes from the case. My last, best ally was gone! His replacement was Dr. Joaquim Augustes Alves Ferreira, an Inspector of the Courts, a Judge of the Supreme Court—an impressive fellow and distressingly sane. He forbade Judge Magalhaes even to visit my cell to say farewell.
With Ferreira heading the investigation I began to feel the full force of the state. I was cut off from the outside world; the more they questioned me, the more implacable my reserve became. Police Chief José Xavier stormed into my cell one day to tell me that not only had Maria been arrested but was being held in a filthy, rat-infested cell. They had been questioning me—two teams working in relays—for twenty hours. I was exhausted; finally I broke down, sobbing. I told them that Maria was innocent, that only I was guilty.
An hour later I was myself again. It had been a trick. I was not at all sure they had even arrested Maria. I retracted my confession. “Not another word,” I told them, “until I am brought to trial.”
January 11 found Sir William and his Scottish attorneys back in Lisbon at Dr. Ferreira’s request. Sir William wanted to make a settlement with the bank, but reaching a sum of indemnity agreeable to both parties was a difficult task, indeed. Both parties saw different animals. Waterlow saw a small skunk, not too dangerous but potentially awfully smelly. The bank looked about fearfully and saw an enormous monster, so big and dangerous they hadn’t even been able to establish its measurements. They suspected that it might be getting bigger and more destructive all the time. Obviously Waterlow and the bank were on a collision course to litigation; in the meantime Waterlow would get no more business from Portugal.
Marang hired the best lawyers in Holland, and he remained utterly loyal to me. Although we were in jails hundreds of miles apart we managed to stay in contact by means of secret couriers. We prearranged our defenses. He cleverly guarded his money and its whereabouts. Unlike poor, foolish José, Marang never for a moment lost his head. Some of mine had been seized, but I had other accounts they simply could not find.
January passed into February, February into March. I learned that the international police were after Hennies. They knew he was in Berlin and were using an old mistress in their attempts to find him. I wrote to Marang, asking him somehow to get word to Hennies if he had a way to keep in touch. The Bank of Portugal also sent an agent to Berlin.
By now I knew for certain that Maria—my sweet little Maria, who had been through so much—was being held in Ajube Women’s Prison. Through our courier system I had Marang give the messenger the money to stop in Paris for the purchase of six brassieres and matching vests in good crepe de Chine embroidered in pink from the Galeries Lafayette; also six boxes of Doge face powder, twelve pairs of silk stockings. … I was deeply concerned about keeping her spirits up.
The Bank of Portugal opposed her release, believing still that she was their only hope of getting a confession out of me. They knew of my love for her and the children; they were counting on my nature to collapse my resolve. Bravely Maria clung to the stories I had told her to tell the investigators. Not until late March did she break down and tell the truth, after being held almost ninety days.
Antonio Horta Osario, the Bank of Portugal’s attorney, argued vehemently against her release.
The consequences of my acts against the Bank of Portugal kept spreading even wider. Even in my cell I could hear the mobs outside in the streets. From them I drew the strength to go on. I heard them chant my name, heard myself become a symbol, a rallying cry. … On May 28 the government was overthrown! The revolution was led by General Gomes da Costa, who issued a proclamation in the city of Braga, up in the northeast corner of Portugal, calling on his countrymen to join the struggle for national honor and dignity by throwing out the incumbent Democratic Party. It wasn’t much of a revolution, nothing compared to what we experienced in Angola during the 1960s. But between May 28 and 31 the country did rise more or less in arms—at least most of the army garrisons mobilized and the government in Lisbon went down without a casualty. During the days of the revolution no one made the slightest effort to save the government! There was simply no will to survive. It was like a dead, hollow tree slowly toppling over in nothing more than a high wind. The woodsman’s ax wasn’t needed. What had been done to me—the Hero of Angola—had brought Portugal back to life. What had been done to me and what the people knew I had tried to do for Portugal. …
