The Portuguese Escape (2 page)

‘Oh Townsend, you'll be the death of me,' the young man said when he could speak. ‘NO! I'm only saying that a wise man, trained all his life to wisdom and self-abnegation—as well as being as clever as a sackful of monkeys anyhow—probably gives advice worth listening to when, if, he's asked for it. What's the worry?'

‘I don't like Catholics,' the American said slowly. ‘You mightn't, either, if you lived in Boston.'

‘Why not?'

‘They run the city, and rackets—and anyway they're mostly Irish.'

Atherley laughed again, but less loudly.

‘Subercaseaux isn't Irish, whatever other sins you may lay at his door,' he said. ‘I don't know what his nationality is, as a matter of fact. But look, Townsend, I must leave in
ten minutes—I'm dining with H.E., who keeps English time—and I think I had better mingle a little before I go. In fact you ought to mingle too.' He rose, threw a note on the table, and walked off towards the throng of guests at the farther end of the terrace.

The Rossio Station is a curious place. In some ways it resembles the entrance to a rabbit-burrow, for the railway, tunnelling through one of Lisbon's seven hills, only emerges in the station itself, which is practically scooped out of the cliff of houses that overhangs it; it is cramped, gloomy, and awkward of access for cars.

Here, on the following morning, Townsend Waller stood beside Countess Páloczy on the platform, reluctantly inhaling the sulphurous fumes which always hang round the mouths of tunnels; these were also being inhaled by a group of reporters, several press photographers, and a man with a television apparatus, who all stood as close to the two principals—Waller hated the realisation that he was, inescapably, a principal—as even Press decency permitted, which was about seven feet away. The Countess was nervous; she tapped her foot on the ground, constantly uttered rather disconnected remarks, and snapped at one of the camera-men, who asked if he could take a picture of her ‘awaiting reunion with a beloved child'—he couldn't, she told him curtly. The train was late, it often is; the strain increased. Turning to her companion, the Countess at last made a perfectly natural utterance, a thing not common with her—‘Townsend, shall I
know
her? She was only a child when I saw her last.'

Mr. Waller reassured her hastily. He had got Countess Hetta's coach and sleeper numbers from Madrid, and had caused the Wagons-Lits man to be instructed to contact the Station-Master as soon as the train arrived. This worthy was already on the platform, and Townsend went and spoke to him, glad to escape for a moment from the atmosphere of emotional disturbance generated by the Countess; a moment or so later the train steamed in, propelling fresh clouds of smoke and sulphur in front of it. Everything was managed with the unobtrusive skill and
smoothness characteristic of the Portuguese. The StationMaster went over to stand beside Countess Páloczy, nodded at the Wagons-Lits attendant, standing by his half-open door, and when the train came to a halt said— ‘
That
is the young lady, Minha Senhora,' as a dark pale girl, short but slender, climbed down out of the sleeping car.

Countess Páloczy went forward and put her arms round her daughter. While the cameras clicked, and the TV man cursed a correspondent and several porters who got in his way, Townsend stood by, assessing the new arrival. She too was clearly very nervous—her small ungloved hands were shaking. She was shabbily dressed—well, what could you expect?—and wore no make-up, and her hair was all wrong. But she had a pair of huge, splendid dark eyes under decisive brows, and that amusing and unmistakeable structure of Central European faces, both lips and cheek-bones much more prominent than in western ones, and rather flaring nostrils; the whole thing was clean-cut, a good
strong
face—and her complexion was perfectly clear, pale but not dead. His instant private conclusion was that the Countess might have her hands full with this new acquisition; certainly she would not have the walk-over that she was accustomed to.

When he was introduced the girl spoke in good English, though with the pretty, rather full and plummy Hungarian accent. For something to say he complimented her on her English—‘There used to be a nun from England at the convent,' she answered, with what he noted as admirable self-possession.

The American Press Attaché now came up. Would she have just two words for the correspondents?—they were all keyed up, it would be very much appreciated. Before anyone else could speak Townsend intervened.

‘Perce, I fancy the little Countess is starving—there's no restaurant-car on this wretched train. Let her get home and rest—the Press can go out to Es toril tomorrow.' Perce Nixon tried to press it, while the correspondents crowded round. Townsend was prepared for a glance of enquiry from the girl to her mother, but nothing of the sort happened; courteously but quite decidedly, Hetta Páloczy
said—‘Not this morning. I am tired and, as Mr. Waller says, hungry; and not recollected. At another time.' Mr. Nixon, his jaw dropping at this display of firmness, could do nothing but drive off his press-men, while the girl turned unconcernedly to the Countess.

‘Mama, where is the car? Can we not go home? I should so much like to have breakfast.'

‘
Well!
' Nixon said, as he and Townsend drove off to the Chancery together, the ruffled feelings of the Press having been soothed by the promise of an interview the following day in the Countess's suite at the Castelo-Imperial in Estoril. ‘
Well!
' he repeated—he seemed unable to say anything else.

‘That's some girl,' said Townsend, with his gloomy chuckle. ‘She was one too many for you, Perce.'

‘I don't see why
you
had to put in your two-cents' worth,' Mr. Nixon replied, not without irritation. ‘You gave her the tip—she might have talked, otherwise.'

‘I don't believe that young woman stands in any need of tips from anyone,' said Townsend thoughtfully.

‘The Countess wouldn't have objected; in fact I know she wanted it.'

‘The Countess is a hard-baked, publicity-minded old So-and-so, with about as much consideration for other people as a sack of dried beans!' Townsend responded vigorously. ‘That train leaves Madrid at 10 p.m. and it's now'—he shot out his left wrist—‘ten ten. That unfortunate girl can't have had anything to eat for over twelve hours; she's coming into an unknown world, and you want to let these damned vultures drop on her with a lot of phoney questions! I'm ashamed of you, Perce.'

‘I don't see what difference two minutes would have made. You exaggerate, Townsend,' Nixon said discontentedly. ‘You generally do. Anyway what did she mean by saying she “wasn't recollected”? To recollect means to remember, but you can't remember yourself.'

‘I never heard the word used that way before,' said Townsend, who had also been struck by the phrase. ‘I assume it's a Hungarian expression for not having pulled yourself together—if so, it makes sense.' As the car pulled up outside one of the large bright modern buildings of
which the newer parts of Lisbon are full—‘Here we are,' he said. ‘For mercy's sake leave the girl in peace till tomorrow, Perce. Will you?'

‘All het up, aren't you?' his colleague said sourly, getting out of the car. ‘Yeah—I've fixed tomorrow morning for the boys. Don't you butt in on that!' he added menacingly. ‘Don't forget it was the Press that got her out!'

In the other car, spinning over the grey-blue tarmac surface of the speed-way which leads along the estuary of the Tagus from Lisbon to Estoril, more reprehension of Hetta's refusal to speak to the Press was going on. The girl sat gazing out of the window, delighted by all she saw; the stately houses and black-and-white pavements in the Rossio Square and its adjoining streets—rebuilt by Pombal after the earthquake of 1755 had reduced most of Lisbon to rubble; then the shining river on her left, and to the right the heaped white houses with their coral-pink roofs, rising up against the brilliant blue sky. ‘Oh, but it is beautiful!' she exclaimed. ‘Lisbon is much more beautiful than Madrid, Mama.'

‘Lisbon is one of the most beautiful cities in the world,' said her mother, rather repressively. ‘But listen, Hetti—of course you have everything to learn about life in the ordinary world, so I shall not hold it against you; but you should not have refused to speak to the correspondents. It was not gracious—they had all come to meet you, and waited a long time.'

‘Mama, how could I? I was quite unprepared for this request.'

‘You should have consulted me, instead of taking your own decision. I know the importance of these things.'

The girl turned and looked at her mother.

‘But you could not have told me what to say—and surely that was the important thing? I mean, that was what they wanted to hear?'

The Countess made a small rapid movement of impatience, quickly controlled.

‘Dear child, you have a great deal to learn. Probably you don't realise that getting you out at all took some doing.
I
had to give a Press Conference.'

‘Did you, Mama? How good of you. But today I assure
you that I am not equal to it. One should always be sure of saying the
right
thing, should one not? And this morning I am too tired and also too hungry, as this kind Mr. Waller understood.'

It was the Countess's turn to stare at the pale face beside her in the Rolls-Royce—serious, calm, assured. Was that last remark, with its rather damaging implications, made innocently? Innocence gazed back at her from the immense dark eyes, but there was also that troubling assurance, that complete composure.

‘Oh well, we'll leave it,' she said, rather shortly.

‘Yes; and today when I have eaten, and rested, I will recollect myself, so that tomorrow I may be able to satisfy these journalists—and to please you, dear Mama, I hope.' She turned to the window again. ‘Oh, how beautiful those white waves are, below that big round tower standing in the sea. What is it? I suppose that
is
the sea? Do you know that I have never seen it?'

‘Why, Hetti, you
have
! We went to Brioni, when you were little.'

‘How little?'

‘Four or five, I suppose.'

‘Ah, well then I have forgotten. But what
is
the tower?'

‘A lighthouse—it flashes at night,' said the Countess, rather absently. She was wondering which was likely to prove the more disconcerting—Hetta's tendency to take her own decisions, or her dutiful-daughter attitude. ‘Attitude' was the word she used in her own mind—she was not very familiar with spontaneity, in herself or in others; she did not, by choice, move in very spontaneous circles.

‘And why do the waves break white just there?' Hetta asked. ‘Not above, not below—just at that point?'

‘I have no idea.'

It was a fact that Countess Páloczy had lived for ten years on the Tagus estuary without ever realising that a sand-bar stretches across it, and that the
raison d'être
of the two lighthouses, one on the great fort of São Julião da Barra, is to draw the attention of ships to this obstruction. How tiresome it was going to be if Hetti was always asking questions and demanding facts, she thought. Oh well, she
would have to turn her over to the Monsignor, who knew everything.

The car presently turned inland past a public garden brilliant with flowers, and drew up before a large modern hotel. Porters and pages in uniform swarmed round the door; more porters and more pages stood bowing as they passed in through the big glass doors. The interior of the Castelo-Imperial is like that of any other super-luxury hotel, except that it is in rather better taste than most, the deep carpets and brocade upholstery of the hall and salons being mainly in a warm grey, with touches of soft pinks and soft blues; the rooms of course vast, but with the undignified low ceilings which hotel architects, forgetting the noise that human voices in bulk make, always seem to design. Hetta's eyes grew round as she glanced about her on the way to the lift—the enormous spaces of floor, the masses of flowers, the numbers of people and still more of those inclining uniformed attendants, who seemed to have no other occupation. ‘Do they keep so many, just to bow to people?' she murmured to her mother. The Countess gave a little laugh, not displeased; if Hetta could do an observant ingenue act it would not be at all out of place. But here was the manager, washing his hands and also bowing; she introduced him to Hetta, and he made an elegant little speech of welcome and congratulation before they entered the lift and were borne aloft. In fact, though Hetta did not realise it, most of the occupants of the hotel, and as many as possible of the staff had assembled in the hall simply in order to catch a glimpse of the young lady who had just come out, so romantically, from behind the Iron Curtain.

Countess Páloczy had a large suite in an upper corner of the big building, looking out on one side over the flowerbeds of the public garden, on the other onto the sparkling estuary—it was even fuller of flowers than the public rooms, and Hetta exclaimed at them in delight. ‘I like flowers—I am glad you do too,' her mother vouchsafed. The apartment contained a dining-room and a salon, but they took breakfast in a small pretty morning-room; Hetta tucked in thankfully to the omelette which the Countess ordered for her, in addition to the normal coffee
and rolls. Then she was led to her own room, where a Portuguese maid had already unpacked her few possessions, and was putting a hot-water bottle into the bed.

‘I have ordered a cheval-glass for you, and a proper dressing-table at which you can
sit
to do your face,' said the Countess; the only mirror, a small one, stood on a high chest of drawers. ‘This was your father's room, so it is rather austere.'

‘Pappi's room? Oh then do leave it as it is—I should prefer it so.
Darling
Pappi—how I wish he was not dead!' And to her mother's dismay Hetta Páloczy burst into tears.