A Small Death in lisbon (51 page)

Pedro didn't say anything. He loved his brother, but he thought he was exaggerating his importance in the
ancien régime.
His brother had never told him about General Machedo. His brother thought that Pedro was an innocent—an intelligent man, a charming and gifted banker, a much-respected and well-liked person, but an innocent.

'I sold the gold,' said Pedro to get off the old subject, back on to something he felt confident with and the future.

'Seeing as we're talking about history, you mean?' said Miguel.

'I used it to capitalize the bank.'

'Who bought it?'

'A Swiss-based Colombian.'

'What did you get for it?'

'It seemed the right time to sell. This U.S. budget deficit scare is nothing. It's just a...'

'How much?'

'Six hundred dollars an ounce.'

'Didn't it go as high as eight hundred?'

It did, but he was the right buyer in the right climate. Not inquisitive, if you understand my meaning.'

'Doesn't this U.S. budget deficit bring into question the real value of the dollar?' asked Miguel, trying to sound knowledgeable, spouting stuff he didn't fully understand, from reading
Time
on the aeroplane.

'That's why I've moved into property.'

'If the U.S. goes bust it won't matter what you've moved it into.'

Pedro stood up and spun the dial on a wall safe behind him. Miguel saw the small kid in him, the excited one at Christmas.

'The U.S. won't go bust, but if it does...' he said, and opened the safe door.

Inside were two gold bars. Miguel joined him on his side of the desk and rubbed his thumb over the eagle and swastika stamp of the old German Reichsbank.

'I'm hoping their value will be purely sentimental,' said Pedro.

'Tell me about the job,' said Miguel, sitting back down, sweating a little, not sure, in his slightly paranoid state, whether it was such a good idea to have kept those souvenirs.

'We've bought some property just off the Largo Dona Estefânia. Old apartments, falling to pieces. We're expanding. We don't fit in this old building any more. So we're going to demolish those old apartments and build ourselves a new office building. We'll take the top three floors and rent out the rest. I want you to manage the project. The architect's on my back and I haven't got the time for him.'

'When do you want me to start?' asked Miguel, unnerved at the immediate possibility of heavy responsibilities.

'As soon as you're comfortable. There's an office ready for you upstairs. We've had to convert the apartments to fit ourselves in here.'

Miguel stood and shook himself out.

'I need some time to get used to being back in Portugal. I want to go back to the Beira and smell the air again. I want to eat some fish on Guincho beach, you know, that sort of thing.'

Pedro, suddenly moved to have his brother back in the country, went round his desk to him and embraced him.

'Before you do any of these things we have to go to the notary tomorrow,' he said. 'Now that you're Miguel da Costa Rodrigues there are a few small problems. The first, and most important, is that I have to make you guardian to my children in case anything should happen to me and Isabel. Dr Aquilino Oliveira has arranged everything.'

'Of course,' said Miguel, nearly emotional.

They clapped each other's shoulders and Miguel made for the door.

'There's one other thing,' said Pedro. 'Klaus Felsen was released from prison last month.'

'Isn't that a year early?'

'Don't ask me why. You just have to know and you also have to remember that it was one of our father's dying wishes that we have nothing to do with him.'

Miguel was surprised to see his brother cross himself.

'Has
Senhor
Felsen called?'

'He's tried.'

'Well, he won't have much interest in Miguel da Costa Rodrigues.'

'I'm just telling you because ... he has every reason to be angry. Not with us, maybe, but...'

'You should make him an offer.'

'Father made me promise ... on his deathbed. I can't.'

Miguel shrugged. It felt good to have a heavy suit on his shoulders again, to not be sitting in the chill of air conditioning.

Pedro straightened the photograph on his desk and watched his brother's wide back fit through the doorway. He hadn't told him about his father's other dying wish, which was that his younger brother should inherit nothing from the Banco de Oceano e Rocha or any of its associated companies. It was the only thing he hadn't understood and his father hadn't explained but now, strangely, he'd been relieved of the problem—Manuel Abrantes no longer existed and Miguel da Costa Rodrigues would have to be on the board.

Miguel da Costa Rodrigues was a different man to Manuel Abrantes. The old Manuel wasn't just a shredded passport or an old skin left in a'são Paulo apartment. He was a dead man. Miguel da Costa Rodrigues proved to be more than just an identity change. He wasn't someone who'd tortured, raped, murdered and summarily executed anybody. He was a graduate from an American university, with an MBA and seven years' work-experience in Brazilian banking. He was charming and affable with a long line in bad after-dinner jokes. He liked children and children liked him. He was popular at work, respected for his unique relationship with the owner of the bank and his instinctive ability to manage people, to know their weaknesses and strengths.

For the second time in his life he became a success.

On January 19th 1981 he married the woman his brother had found for him—Lurdes Salvador Santos. Not even the name bothered him. That huge build-up of sainthood would have had him sweating in the dark ten years ago. Now he basked, if not in her beauty, then in her sweet nature and, of course, in her total dedication to him. Their only unhappiness was over two miscarriages in quick succession, and the doctor's advice not to try again.

That last miscarriage had come at a time when he believed that nothing could go wrong. In June he had delivered the planning permission for a twenty-storey high-rise on the Largo Dona Estefânia site. A week later construction had begun and he became known to the Lisbon business community as the
Director Geral de Oceano e Rocha Propriedades Lda
with a seat on the full board of the bank and a major shareholding.

His wife's news disappointed him and he unconsciously turned more of his attention to his work. He bought property around Saldanha for future development. He bought old factory sites on the outskirts of Lisbon for development into light industrial units and small businesses. He bought sites on the edge of Cascais, near Boca do Inferno, to build tourist apartments. He bought an apartment block in the Graça area of Lisbon, with a panoramic view of the city. He converted the top two floors into his Lisbon residence. He refurbished his wife's house in the old part of Cascais. He became fatter, and even more genial.

It was New Year's Day 1982 and Miguel and Lurdes Rodrigues had invited Pedro and Isabel Abrantes with their three children over to Cascais for lunch. The sun had shone all day but it was cold and when, in the late afternoon, the sun went down, the temperature hovered around freezing point.

Pedro's wife was seven and a half months pregnant with their fourth child. She was enormous which had surprised her, because with the first three she'd hardly altered shape. It meant that on the way back to Lisbon she sat in the back seat with the two girls, while the young Joaquim travelled up front with his father.

They were just driving out of'são Pedro do Estoril in their six-month-old Mercedes estate in the fast lane of the Marginal when three things happened at once. Little Joaquim stood on the seat, a car coming the other way swerved briefly over the double white line into the oncoming fast lane, and a BMW overtook Pedro on the inside. Pedro put his hand across to pull Joaquim back into his seat. He yanked the steering wheel across to his right but hadn't seen the BMW which hit him in the rear wing. The Mercedes span twice, turned over the roadside kerb, rolled on to its roof and back on to two wheels on a high bank which dropped down to some rocks by the sea. The Mercedes rolled, twisted, and slid down the bank. The front end crunched into the rocks shattering the windscreen. The three children spilled out. The car somersaulted over them and finished roof-down in the freezing Atlantic.

The
Bombeiros Voluntários
were there within ten minutes. People were already weeping at the crushed bodies of the three children on the rocks. The firemen quickly ascertained that Pedro had not survived but that Isabel was still breathing and crushed between the front and rear seats. It took an hour to cut her out and they rushed her straight into Lisbon with a police escort. The foetus, a baby girl
weighing 2.7 kilos, was delivered by Caesarean section and placed in an incubator. Her mother's heart, weakened by the shock of the accident, did not survive the operation.

The funerals took place twenty-four hours later at the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos in Belém. The coffins were all closed, the spirit of the congregation broken by the size of the smallest three. The Abrantes family were placed in a family mausoleum in the Cemitério dos Prazeres in Lisbon, which already contained Joaquim Abrantes senior whose body had been brought back from Lausanne in 1979.

Miguel da Costa Rodrigues didn't get out of dark glasses for weeks and when he did his eyes were bruised and ruched. His brother's death blackened him in a way that had only happened once before. He derived small consolation at the delivery from the incubator of the: child they named Sofia which had been her intended name.

It was from early January 1982 that Miguel da Costa Rodrigues began to get visits from Manuel Abrantes. The Banco de Oceano e Rocha moved from the Baixa into larger temporary offices on the Avenida da Liberdade while the construction of the Largo Dona Estefânia building was completed. Miguel decided to maintain his brother's office in the Rua do Ouro. He began trawling the streets around the Praça da Alegria for girls.

On the 26th March 1982 he found himself climbing the stairs of an old eighteenth-century building on the Rua da Gloria followed by a twenty-three-year-old prostitute from Sines. The top floors belonged to the Pensão Nuno, which rented rooms by the hour. He dinged the bell and heard a newspaper fold in a nearby room. Into the light of the neon strip above the reception came Jorge Raposo, his old colleague from the Caxias prison days.

Miguel da Costa Rodrigues no longer had to walk the streets of the Rua da Glória. Jorge Raposo arranged for the girls to visit him in his office on the Rua do Ouro.

From the beginning of April, Friday lunchtimes and afternoons were spent in the Rua do Ouro office. Any papers that needed to be signed were brought to him by secretaries from the main office who kne:w where to leave them.

On May 4th 1982 a secretary from the bank's law firm needed a signature which couldn't wait until Monday. There were no bank secretaries available to take the papers so she went down to the Rua do Ouro office herself.

Wednesday, 17th June 1998, Lisbon

I caught the train in early to Cais do Sodré. I walked along the river, buffeted by purposeful people arriving for work from the ferries. It was another hot day and I had my jacket off and over my shoulder. I looked out across the river and saw the massive Lisnave gantry crane rising up out of the early morning haze. I thought about Carlos Pinto. I thought about seeing him again, working with him, accepting him.

You think you know yourself until things start happening, until you lose the insulation of normality. I would have called myself 'aware' before I lost my wife. People would look at me, Narciso for instance, and think there goes Zé Coelho, a man who knows himself. But I'm like anybody else. I hide. My wife was right. I'm inquisitive for the truth but I hide from my own. The stuff I've carried with me and ignored.

My father—a good man who thought he was doing the right thing for his country. He died of a heart attack without ever talking to me. Maybe a three-line conversation would have been enough, and we could have unburdened ourselves.

My daughter, unable to bear my disappointment ... like an unfaithful lover. An horrific concept. The sight of her and Carlos in the graphic act...

An image flashed in my mind, Lucy Marques' description of what Teresa Oliveira had seen. Her daughter. Her lover. Pumping buttocks. Ankles around the ears. What an absurd act, but what a crucial one. An unrecoverable situation.

I saw it then looking out over the water of the Tagus, the dazzling, shimmering river. I saw that I could pick up another bag of rocks, hump another sack of guilt or history and carry that through the rest of my days. Or I could accept, trust, accommodate ... give myself a break.

But if I was going to do that there was something I had to see first.

I turned away from the river, walked up through the Baixa to the Largo Martim Moniz and caught the Metro north.

Carlos and I were called straight into Narciso's office without a word being exchanged.

'I sent you down to Alcântara yesterday,' said Narciso, his mood unchanged in twenty-four hours.

'That's where we went,
Senhor Engenheiro,'
I said.

'You went there but you didn't stay,
Senhor
Inspector. A PSP officer saw you leave the crime scene and board a train in the direction of Cascais. I want to know where you were going on police time?'

'I went to see Dr Oliveira...' I said, and Narciso's tanned face purpled, '...to offer my condolences.'

'As part of the Inspector Zé Coelho service?'

I didn't answer. Narciso looked between Carlos and me.

'And what can you tell me about the murder of this eighteen-year-old down in Alcântara,
Senhor
Inspector? The
maricão
in the bin ... what's his name?'

'He doesn't have a name,
Senhor Engenheiro
,' said Carlos. 'He's known as Xeta.'

'Cheta?
As in
não tenho cheta?
' I haven't got a penny.

'It's Brazilian for "kiss",
Senhor Engenheiro.'