The Portuguese Escape (3 page)

Hetta awoke from a long sleep to see Esperanza, her mother's Portuguese maid, setting down a huge vase of carnations on the businesslike writing-desk which stood under one of the windows. When she sat up and stretched the maid detached a small envelope from the flowers and brought it to the bed. On the card inside, below Townsend Waller's name, a few lines were scribbled—‘1 shall look in this evening about six-thirty to see how you are, if you are not too tired to see anyone. T. W.'

‘Oh, how kind! Please bring the flowers here,' she said to the maid. Esperanza, who had been with the Countess for some years and had learned a modicum of English in the course of them, brought over the vase, and the girl smelled the strong scent. ‘Thank you. What is the time?' she asked. Like most dwellers behind the Iron Curtain she had no watch; the Russian troops, who had arrived in Europe with no watches either, had seen to that. The Portuguese servant, however, had a neat wrist-watch— ‘Five less a quarter,' she said.

‘So late! Can I have a bath?' She could, in a bathroom next door to her bedroom. ‘Only for the
Menina
,' Esperanza explained; ‘the Condessa has her own'—from which Hetta guessed rightly that she herself was the
Menina
. While the bath was running she fingered the immense bath-towel and the fine linen face-towels, all with her mother's monogram, with astonishment—they seemed to her almost too beautiful to use. Esperanza meanwhile ran to and fro, bringing in freshly ironed underclothes—Hetta had only two sets, and neither had come up to the maid's standards of smoothness and cleanliness. Turning off the taps and dashing in bath essence—‘And will the
Menina
wear her little suit, or the black dress? The dress is pressed.' Hetta said she would wear the dress—this was in fact her only alternative to the suit. ‘I should like tea after my bath,' she added.

‘
Muito bem
. In the
Menina's
own room?'

‘Yes please.'

Bathed refreshingly in sweet-scented water, dressed in clean under-garments, Hetta, back in her room, lay on the freshly-made bed while she consumed a hearty tea of rusks,
marmelada
—a sort of quince cheese—and some very rich chocolatey creamy cakes. She was still hungry, and enjoyed it all hugely. As she was finishing the last cake her mother came in.

‘Did you have a good sleep?' she asked kindly.

While Hetta slept the Countess had persuaded Monsignor Subercaseaux to come round to luncheon, and had poured out her disappointment over Hetta's refusal to say ‘even one word' to the journalists at the station, and her general concern about their future relationship. ‘She is so —so
independent
,' she said, in tones of dissatisfaction.

‘But my dear Countess, how naturally! For ten years she has been without parents—how should she at once show a child's dependence on
your
judgement, when for so long she has been thrown on her own resources? You will have to be very patient, and let time, and your own affection and kindness, gradually develop what is usually a normal growth.' Then he had asked what Hetta was like?

‘Oh, small—small, and not pretty,' the tall once-beautiful woman had replied. ‘But I think she
could
be made chic'

‘You must be patient also with her lack of height and of beauty,' the priest said, smiling. ‘Beginning
now
. These first days and weeks are crucial.' Dorothée—whose real name was Dorothy, but who preferred to sign herself like a Frenchwoman—promised to be patient.

‘Show affection,' the priest further enjoined. ‘Neither of you can have much genuine affection for the other at present, since you are in effect strangers, and both grown women—but you can show it. Affection, after all, is one aspect of charity.'

The Countess had agreed to all this with suitable humility; later she asked Monsignor Subercaseaux if he had any news of ‘the invitation'.

‘Not so far. I understand that the lists are extremely long already—and as I told you before, dear lady, the
Bretagnes are very anxious to keep it as far as possible a family affair—indeed so is the King.'

‘The Fonte Negras are going, and the Ericeiras.'

‘Ah, but Countess de Fonte Negra was a Lencastre, so in a way a relation; and in the case of the Duke of Ericeira there is his position in the Order of Malta—quite apart from the fact that he puts up so many of the guests, here and in his house in Lisbon. Last time I believe he accommodated forty!' said the priest, laughing cheerfully. ‘You will agree, Countess, that this gives him a certain claim!— though he is not doing so this year; his sister has not been well.'

‘Well, I rely on you to do what you can, Monsignor. You know that it means a great deal to me—and I am devoted to little Princess Maxine—she will make a charming bride.'

However, sitting on a chair in her daughters bedroom three hours later, the Countess was concentrating on showing affection, as her confessor had bidden her.

‘I have made an appointment for you for 6.30 this evening with Alfred, the coiffeur,' she said. ‘Esperanza will show you the way.' Thoughtfully she studied her daughter's hair, which was dark, thick, straight, and at the moment merely a heavy mane. ‘Not a permanent wave, I think; but shaped to a rouleau at the back. I wish I could come with you, but I must go to a cocktail at the Belgian Embassy, so I shall have to leave soon after six. But Alfred is very clever about styling, and he will do you himself—so leave yourself entirely in his hands.' She considered again. ‘Should you like a fringe?'

‘Should
you
like me to have one, Mama?' Hetta also was anxious to be accommodating, up to a point.

‘I am not sure—I should ask Alfred. He is a very good judge. And then we must see about getting you some clothes—of course you can't go anywhere until you have something to put on. But fortunately there is one really good tailor here, who was with Lanvin for years, and a wonderful woman for blouses; and for
petites robes
we can get you a few things off the hook in the Chiado.'

For Countess Páloczy providing pretty clothes was one of the most genuine demonstrations of affection imaginable;
Hetta, vaguely recognising this, took her mother's words in the spirit in which they were meant.

‘That will be lovely, Mama. A person from the Government took me to get my suit and the black dress, but of course there was no time to get them altered and they are rather big and bunchy on me.'

Dorothée opened her eyes wide.

‘A person from the
Government
bought your clothes? What can you mean?'

‘Oh yes—they wished me to look nice when I came out, so this woman came and took me to a shop, and bought the suit and jersey, and the dress. But it was all done in a great hurry; and the clothes are not as pretty as yours. I see that,' said Hetta simply, little realising that her parent's exquisitely plain grey frock came from Balenciaga. Oh goodness, why couldn't she have told the Press that this morning, Dorothy Páloczy thought—
what
a story! Look
nice
indeed!—she must get that publicised somehow. But mindful of the Monsignor's exhortations, she said nothing for the moment.

‘Well, we'll have fun together, getting you fitted out,' she said.

‘Oh yes, indeed. Mama, do you think I could have a watch or a clock? It is so tiresome not to know the time.'

‘Of course. But what became of the little Rolex your father gave you?'

‘The Russians took it.'

‘Good gracious! Yes, we will get you one tomorrow— and for now'—she went to her own room and returned with a little travelling-clock. Glancing at it—‘I must be off,' the Countess said. ‘And you'll go along to Alfred this evening.'

But at that point Hetta's spirit of accommodation stopped short. She was determined not to miss the nice American.

‘No, Mama. I am too tired tonight. I will go to the coiffeur tomorrow, as early as you wish—but not today.'

The Countess did her best not to show her vexation.

‘You are sure? It is all arranged, and it is not so easy to get Monsieur Alfred himself.'

‘I am sorry, Mama, but I am quite sure.' Oddly enough
Hetta's conscience did not trouble her in the least about this white lie; people who live under Communist régimes soon develop callosities on the conscience.

The Countess, resignedly, took up the telephone beside Hetta's bed, cancelled the appointment in fluent French, and made one for the following afternoon. Then she kissed her daughter and went off to her party.

The moment she had gone Hetta sprang up, put on the government-provided black dress, which was indeed very bunchy, dragged a small cheap comb remorselessly through her thick mop of hair—hair-brushes are of rare occurrence in the People's Democracies—and then, standing in front of the small looking-glass on her father's tall chest of drawers, unskilfully applied a little powder to her pale face. The powder was of a rather tawny shade, and as cheap as the comb; like the black dress it had been provided by the female emissary of the Hungarian Government. About 1943 Moscow started a drive for cosmetics, but the quality was poor—Hetta, after looking at her face covered with Soviet powder, ran to the bathroom for a towel, and rubbed it all off again. ‘It does not
match
me!' she muttered disgustedly.

So it was unpowdered and in all her Communist inelegance that she went through into the drawing-room. Besides the flowers, mostly hot-house white lilac, it was full of signed photographs of celebrities in silver frames, newspapers, and French, English, American, and Spanish illustrated weeklies—there were ho books. She had only been sniffing the cold delicate scent of the lilac for a few moments, and wondering vaguely about her father in such surroundings—as she remembered him he was always knee-deep in books, with a gun somewhere close at hand— when Esperanza ushered in Townsend Waller.

‘Well!' he said, shaking her warmly by the hand—‘You look better. Are you fed, and rested?'

‘Yes—both, wonderfully. You were so
kind
this morning,' she said, with an earnest sincerity which struck the young man as almost frightening in a girl of her age. ‘And the flowers are lovely—thank you so much.' She paused.

‘Mama is not here,' she went on; ‘she had to go to a party.'

‘I know—the Belgians' cocktail. I cut it; I wanted to see how you were making out.'

‘Please?' ‘Making out' quite defeated Hetta.

‘Well, getting along,' he said, laughing—in fact not helping her much. But the mention of the word cocktail caused him to glance round the room. The usual tray with bottles was not there.

‘Don't you want a drink?' he asked.

‘Thank you, I am not thirsty. I had tea not long ago.'

He looked at her with incredulous amusement.

‘I didn't mean tea, or real thirst; I meant
drinks
, what one has at this time of day.'

‘What does one have? You see I do not know. Do you want something?'

‘Yes please. One has sherry, or cocktails, or whisky, before dinner, here,' he said.

‘Oh, I am sorry.' She too looked round the room, rather helplessly. ‘I wish you could have what you like, but there does not seem to be anything here.'

‘One rings the bell for it,' he said, doing so.

When Esperanza appeared he told her that the young Countess desired
as bebidas
—the maid smiled, said ‘Immediately,
Minho Senhor
,' and disappeared in the direction of the dining-room. Waller looked at Hetta thoughtfully.

‘Don't you have drinks before meals in Hungary?' he asked.

‘I did not. You must forgive me for entertaining you so badly, but I have never drunk a cocktail in my life.'

‘Well, try one now,' Townsend said, as Esperanza reappeared with the tray. He mixed two Martinis. ‘Only take a little—we mustn't make you tight!' he said.

‘Please?'

Oh God, what will become of her? Townsend thought. He explained.

‘But not
women?
' Hetta said, now as incredulous as he.

‘Not often, no; and never nice women, unless they are inexperienced, and it happens by mistake. Do you like that?'

Hetta sipped, then wrinkled up her nose in a funny grimace.

‘No. It has rather a disagreeable taste, I think; curious, but not agreeable. Wine is nicer.'

‘Then you'd better have some sherry.' He poured her out a glass of Manzanilla.

Townsend, well-brought-up in the high Bostonian sense of the phrase, nevertheless had few or no qualms about thus organising drinks for himself in Countess Páloczy's apartment. She was always liberal with them, and would have hated a compatriot, or anyone else, to sit dry and miserable in her rooms; she was fundamentally quite a kind person, he reflected, if she did tend to attach a rather exaggerated importance to social success.

‘So you do drink wine?' he said to Hetta, who was not making any faces over the sherry.

‘At Detvan we did, even I—it was always on the table at meals. Our own wine—we made it at home. Pappi loved his vineyards, and was so proud of his wine.'

‘I bet it was good.' The young man followed up this promising line; he asked questions, and listened with interest to the answers, which on this familiar and obviously well-loved subject came in an eager flow. He got a clear, even a vivid picture of a happy country childhood in patriarchal surroundings—the vast flat fields, intensively cultivated; the enormous herds of cows and oxen, the droves of pigs, the flocks of geese and turkeys being brought back to the village at night by the swineherds and goose-girls. ‘Of course the pigs and geese belonged mostly to the peasants, and when they came down the village street in the evening it was so funny, how each small flock knew its own homestead, and of its own accord turned in at the right gate—the geese stepping so sedately, the cows walking, the calves perhaps jumping a little, but the pigs
galloping
, kicking up their heels and squealing!' Her face was alight.