Francie Again (9 page)

“Really I have suffered,” she now continued, pinning a sheet of thick paper on her stand with deft fingers. “Only my work,
my work
, would be worth all this suffering.”

She looked pathetic and fragile. “Poor Catarina,” said Francie. “It must have been very bad this time.” She would have liked to ask questions, but she and Catarina would not be alone much longer. In the little anteroom that served as Fontoura's private office, she heard Monteiro moving about selecting supplies for the day.

Catarina said her trials had been inexpressible. “My mother-in-law,” she added. “She was so cruel, Francesca. You would not believe her cruelty. For three days I have been in bed with a crisis of nerves, and even now, look at my hand, how it trembles. That is the worst. I am not able to work properly when my nerves are so tortured.”

“Oh dear, Catarina, I'm so sorry. I am, really. I do wish I could help you,” said Francie. “Anyway, you're here among your friends now.”

Catarina sighed and began to draw. The door opened to admit three more students, and she only had time to say rapidly before they came over, “Francesca, never marry a Portuguese.”

It sounded sinister. Considering her recent thoughts about Ruy, it gave Francie quite a shock. Had Catarina meant anything in particular? Francie stole a look at the other girl's grave profile, and decided she had not. She couldn't possibly look so innocent if she had been hinting.

There was a dinner party scheduled that evening for Mrs. Barclay and Francie, at one of the Lisbon hotels. Their host was an elderly British wine importer who had spent most of his life in Oporto. Mark was invited as a matter of course, because his father was Mr. Sinclair's friend. As for Mrs. Barclay, she had brought a letter to the Englishman from someone in Paris. The two ladies hired a taxi, because Aunt Lolly did not yet feel well enough to brave the train.

Francie was unusually silent during the ride, and Mrs. Barclay looked at her inquiringly. She said, “Tired, dear? I'm afraid this going back and forth twice in a day is tedious for you.”

“Oh, I'm not tired. Not in the ordinary way,” said Francie, “but it does seem an awful waste of time, this social life.” Aunt Lolly looked amused, and Francie went on defensively, “I suppose it sounds funny coming from me, but it's the way I feel. One party after another—what does it prove?”

“One art class after another doesn't prove much more, if it comes to that,” said Aunt Lolly. “Too much of any one thing isn't good.”

“You can't compare them,” said Francie.

“Perhaps not, but it's a mistake, I think, to go in for any one activity exclusively,” said Mrs. Barclay. “Of course I wouldn't like to see you satisfied with a completely idle life, but I wonder if you aren't inclined to be over-enthusiastic just now about this painting.”

There seemed to be no reply necessary, which was fortunate. Francie couldn't trust herself to speak mildly. “This painting” indeed! She wondered what the reaction would be with the crowd at Fontoura's if she should repeat Aunt Lolly's speech to them. Sheer amazement, most likely. They wouldn't understand Mrs. Barclay at all.

Everyone seemed determined to rub her the wrong way that night. Mr. Sinclair hit on another unfortunate phrase when he was talking about Portuguese life. He had asked Aunt Lolly if she'd met any of the local families.

“A few,” she said, “those who are friendly with our American and English acquaintances, and they've been very kind. I must say I like the Portuguese way of life. I like their devotion to their families.”

Mr. Sinclair was pleased. “That's very true. Yes, it's charming,” he said.

“Devotion?” cried Francie in emphatic tones. “
I
think they're perfectly
disgusting.”

Everyone turned to look at her in surprise. “That sounds very convinced in such a young lady,” said Mr. Sinclair mildly. “In what way are they so disgusting?”

“Oh, it's all hypocrisy,” said Francie, thinking of Catarina. “The men pretend they're nice quiet types when really they're the most terrible tyrants. They're awfully mean to their wives.”

“I say,” said Mark, protesting. “That's a pretty sweeping statement. Anybody would think you speak from personal experience.”

Mr. Sinclair laughed as if Mark had made a joke, and began talking to Mrs. Barclay about some less controversial subject. Mark regarded Francie with a puzzled, displeased stare.

“If you don't mind a word of advice,” he said, “I'd go easy on the criticism if I were you. They're inclined to be sensitive in this country. Of course, I don't know just what called forth your outburst, but that's my advice for what it's worth.”

“I'm entitled to my opinions,” said Francie.

“Never said you weren't. Shall we dance?”

They danced. Mark seemed to have forgotten Francie's bad manners, but she was uneasily aware of a certain coldness that remained in his treatment of her. Francie didn't like undercurrents. She said impulsively, “Mark, I was wrong. I'm sorry I snapped at you. I don't know why I'm so crabby. I guess it's something I heard today at Fontoura's. I'm sorry.”

He thawed immediately. “That's quite all right, poppet. I was sorry for poor old Sinclair, that's all. You gave him a turn, I think, speaking up like that. In his world, little school chits know their place.” Francie laughed. “And speaking of Fontoura's,” went on Mark, “am I ever to see something of this wonderful place, or is the door closed to outsiders? I've only had my nose in the door, remember.”

“Well,” said Francie dubiously, “I don't know. I don't suppose there's any reason you shouldn't come. They'd let you
in
, of course …”

“But you don't urge me, is that it?”

She hesitated again. “I'm not good enough yet,” she said at last. “If you don't mind, I'd rather you didn't come for a while. Hardly anybody does drop in except other students, and people in Fontoura's crowd. People who
understand.”

“I see,” said Mark.

“When I think I'm getting along better,” said Francie, “I would like you to come, honestly.”

“Don't give it another thought,” said Mark coolly.

“Oh dear,” she said to herself, “now I've offended him again.”

Uncomfortably she braced herself for a few words of rebuke from Aunt Lolly as soon as they were alone together in the car. Mrs. Barclay could hardly be expected to overlook her speaking out of turn as she had done at dinner. But to her relief, nothing was said until they separated for the night.

“Good night, my dear,” said Aunt Lolly. “I wish you could sleep late tomorrow; I'm sure you need a rest. You did seem tired tonight.”

“I'll be getting a rest soon enough. I forgot to tell you,” said Francie, “that Fontoura's going away to an exhibition in Madrid, and while he's gone the studio closes down for a week or two. I'll have a rest whether I like it or not.”

“Splendid!” said Mrs. Barclay. Nothing more was said about the dinner party.

CHAPTER 8

I suppose it was a sensible thing to come away on our own.” Mrs. Barclay sounded as if she didn't believe what she was saying; she glanced suspiciously around the unfamiliar dining room. “Obviously we are early for lunch. Now if we'd come on a properly conducted tour—” She broke off and looked reproachfully at Francie. They had come rather suddenly on this trip, by ordinary bus, and she hated impromptu decisions.

Francie laughed at her. “Be a big girl, Aunt Lolly, and try to enjoy your adventure. You wouldn't be so timid in France.”

“People speak a reasonable language in France. You know where you are with them.”

“I know where we are now,” said Francie. “We're in Evora, enjoying every minute of it.”

She went on talking until the soup came, gently teasing her godmother as gaily as she could manage, but her heart was not in it. Her thoughts kept straying back to the letter she was carrying in her handbag, right there on her lap under the table. It had come yesterday, and she had not yet spoken of it to Aunt Lolly, though usually she reported on every letter of Pop's. She had a feeling he didn't want her to mention it, even to Mrs. Barclay.

It wasn't at all the kind of letter she would have expected from Pop, because it was vague and he was always very downright. “Keep this under your hat,” he wrote, “until I have a better idea of where we stand, but I just wanted to tell you we ought to cut down a little on expenses. I can't say any more as yet, but don't go in for anything that costs very much, not at the moment anyway. Wait till I give you the go-ahead signal, but don't worry.”

Don't worry! How could she help worrying? Never in her whole life had Pop told her to be careful about money. There must be something very wrong if he was saying it now. Francie thought with a qualm of conscience about a number of her recent extravagances. That shopping trip last week, for example—and the fees for Fontoura! She had insisted on paying them all in advance, though it hadn't been necessary.

“I wish I could be sure it's all right to tell Aunt Lolly,” she reflected, “but Pop didn't say definitely that I might. I'll have to wait.”

Mrs. Barclay was looking with alarm at the glass of wine that stood by her plate. “I'm sure we haven't ordered this,” she said.

Francie said, “It comes automatically with the meal, I think.”

Resolutely she put Pop out of her mind for the moment. After all, what was the use of worrying until she knew more about it? She sat back and looked at the surroundings. The thick walls of the Alentajano were faced with white plaster, on which hung gay, hand-woven blankets and a few medieval weapons. A barred window looked out on a courtyard and a whitewashed house gleaming in the sun, against the high, dark tower of the church across the square.

Francie said, “It's like being in a fairy story. I love the way their castles stick up on mountain tops, with roads circling round and round, going up. It's like the picture books I used to read when I was little.”

“All Europe must have looked like this at one time,” said Aunt Lolly.

After lunch they lost themselves trying to find their room. The hotel was an immense building, full of puzzling corridors and passages that took sudden twists, or went up or down by means of unexpected steps. It was a very old palace, and had been used as a combined prison and court of justice during the Inquisition. Thinking of this, Francie felt that the lower rooms would always be cold, no matter how brilliant and warm the sun might be out of doors.

“It's probably imagination, but it does feel much colder the minute you come in,” she reflected. “Yet it was terribly hot in the bus. All those funny little cork trees on the way looked hot, too.” She resolved to make a sketch of the cork trees now, before the effect was dulled in her mind. In the room, she began unstrapping her sketch-block.

“What are you going to do?” demanded Mrs. Barclay. “You're not going to paint here and now, are you?”

“I thought I might.”

“But my dear Francie, we'll waste the whole afternoon if you do that sort of thing. Don't you want to come out and look at Evora? The book says it's the most interesting town for architecture in the entire country. Or at least, one of the most interesting.”

“I might as well be on a conducted tour,” said Francie in resignation. “Oh, all right. What a bully you are, Aunt Lolly!” She put down her sketch-block and with feigned resentment meekly trotted out of doors in Mrs. Barclay's wake.

They were soon lost, on the wrong side of the square. Evora is closely built, and carefully planned to save space on its steep slopes, so that it is almost impossible to see plainly where you are going unless you stand very high up in one of the towers. Resignedly the Americans retraced their steps and started off again in the opposite direction. This meant following a curving street like a cool white canyon between high houses, which went under an arch and suddenly brought them into a market square with a fountain, farther away than ever from their destination.

“Never mind, Aunt Lolly,” said Francie. “We'll find your Temple of Diana if it's the last thing we do.”

“But one feels such an idiot. Why, it was right there. I could almost have touched it through the window!”

Francie said, “I should have brought my sketch-block. I'd like to do this square. Don't let me go out without it again—that is, if we ever get back.”

Fortunately they now happened on a shop that sold postcards and books and maps of the city, and there they got their bearings and started to work their way carefully back towards the Alentejano. “‘The Temple of Diana, so-called,'” read Aunt Lolly aloud as they climbed a steep cobbled road, “‘stands next to the Cathedral.' There, I knew it. Francie, where are you going? That isn't the way back.”

“No, but let's save the Temple and follow one of these bigger streets to the edge of town, shall we? We can't possibly lose our way now.”

For an hour they walked outside the little city, near the great thick walls. Two men driving small donkeys loaded with firewood and vegetables passed them and said something in greeting; a little boy accompanied them quite a long way, chattering incomprehensibly; they met a family of girls and old women in black, who smiled at them. Everything was intensely quiet otherwise. The ground looked nearly as barren as the deserts of Arizona. For the first time since they had arrived in Portugal, Francie felt as if she were really far away from home, alone in a strange land. It was a good sensation.

When they turned their steps towards the Alentejano again, Aunt Lolly insisted upon stopping here and there to look at cathedrals. “We didn't come only to relax, remember,” she admonished Francie. “We can always go for walks and picnics, anywhere in the world. This is a unique chance. My hip? It never felt better; this dry air is doing me a lot of good.”