On the Lisbon Disaster Page 3

  “Yes.”

  “But I’ve got you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit.”

  That one curse is aimed at the injustice of a universe that leaves one useless contractor while taking away his prized Agency employees. It goes a way toward explaining CIA agnosticism.

  “For now,” he says, “you continue as planned. Set up house. Don’t call anymore, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. “The transport’s still scheduled?”

  “Far as I know. Get him to the house and keep him until morning. All right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, but I’m talking to a dial tone.

  Inside the car, Mohammed passes me a Coke Light. We drive on. He says, “Who did you call?”

  “My British friend.”

  “And everything’s all right?”

  “Everything’s perfect.”

  11

  It takes an hour to reach Santarém, and during that time Mohammed’s questions revolve around a single issue: Why would his brother want him? They haven’t spoken in nearly seven years; once Mohammed realized he couldn’t change Salih’s radical views, he dropped contact. Again, I don’t know how much of this is a fiction for my benefit—after all, I’m creating a fiction for him as well. So I play along. I tell him that our intel isn’t specific enough. We know that Salih’s people want him, but not why. Perhaps, I suggest, as if this is one of many prevailing theories, they want to use him as leverage against his brother. “Schisms and internal conflict—they’re as rife with them as we are. They have you, they gain power over him.”

  Mohammed doubts this. “Salih’s too far gone. An abstraction, God or politics, is always more important than flesh and blood.”

  “You haven’t spoken in seven years. Maybe he’s changed.”

  “Maybe,” he says.

  Anything, we both finally admit, is possible.

  Rua Vasco da Gama 14 is a six-story apartment building on a quiet street, north of the center of Santarém, across from a key maker’s and a car rental office. I park at the curb, and when we get out Mohammed says, “Pretty.”

  “What?”

  “The street.”

  I look, but I can’t see it. The mixture of anxiety and a grinding headache have killed my aesthetic sense.

  We push through the front door, which looks as if it was broken years ago and never repaired. The entryway smells of fried fish. I tell Mohammed to go to the top floor and wait in front of apartment 16. Once he’s out of sight, I listen at the supervisor’s door—television sounds—and buzz. The volume lowers and, after a few seconds, I hear a woman’s voice from the other side of the door, asking me what I want.

  “Oi, boa tarde,” I say. Then, trying to imitate the accent that Andy used when giving our instructions, I add, “Não se atiram pedras senão às árvores que têm fruto,” which translates roughly as “Rocks are only thrown at trees that bear fruit.”

  She sighs a phlegmy sigh and says, “Está bem.”

  Nearly a full minute of silence passes before the door opens a few inches, the length of a security chain. An old woman peers out at me and, without ceremony, hands over a ring with two keys. I begin to thank her, but she’s already closed the door.

  Like any safe house that’s been closed up for weeks, the apartment is stale and sparse. Someone left milk in the refrigerator, but it went bad weeks ago. There’s some cheap whisky, which I offer to Mohammed. He thinks about it a while before saying, “Just one.”

  Despite his reservations, we each have three shots over the next hour. He showers, dresses again in his battered clothes, and settles on the threadbare sofa. I get rid of my filthy jacket, take the chair, and ask about his research. Like Fiona, I know how to provoke a man like him into conversation, but unlike her, I’m not a pretty brunette with a seductive, smoky laugh. I’m a large black man with enough bulk to convince strangers to cross to the opposite side of the street when I approach. So it takes a while. He tells me about the book he’s been working on, a study of transitional moments in history, and how, once he looked more deeply into the Great Lisbon Earthquake of 1755, he decided to focus solely on Portugal.

  “It’s on a par with the sinking of Atlantis. It’s Pompeii. Mother Nature sweeps in and, without mercy, crushes an empire.”

  Like Fiona, I can’t help but question that. “Crushes?”

  He rocks his head to the side. “Well, it certainly gave that empire a smack across the face.”

  “It’s interesting,” I admit.

  “More than that,” he says, clutching his drink. “It’s a different way of looking at history. We tend to look at the past as something created by great men. There’s this conceit that humans create their destiny—even cyclical theories contend that the cycles of civilization, not nature, lead to progress and stagnation. This kind of reasoning is what we depend on to make us feel significant. But in 1755, human mastery of the world was turned on its head. By some estimates, after the earthquake, the fires, and the tsunami, the city lost a third of its population. The planet does this regularly, though we do our best to ignore it. Natural disasters, plagues—what did the bubonic plague do to Western Europe? It humbled the entirety of medieval civilization.”

  “But they weren’t humbled in front of nature,” I say, warming to the conversation. “They didn’t interpret the plague that way, did they? Where you say nature, they said God. People still reach for God to explain the world. You know that as well as anyone.”

  He waves me away. “Enough! I’m sick of that. If there’s any evidence against the existence of God, it’s people like my brother. God didn’t wipe out Western Europe, or Lisbon, or Pompeii. The planet did that.”

  “Gaia,” I suggest.

  “Don’t spiritualize everything,” he says. “Life’s interesting enough without having to reach for something beyond the natural world. Water rises; people drown. That’s interesting enough. Even Voltaire knew it.”

  “Voltaire?”

  Mohammed nods, almost eager now. “After the earthquake, preachers all over Europe were giving God responsibility. Lisbon’s decadence, its pride, its sin. Grand retribution. As if other European capitals weren’t worse. So Voltaire wrote his ‘Poem on the Lisbon Disaster.’ Another of his minimasterpieces.

  And can you then impute a sinful deed

  To babes who on their mothers’ bosoms bleed?”

  Mohammed shakes his head. “That man was too good for his time. His poem was a full rejection of the earthquake as divine judgment.”

  There is, I notice now, a light in his eyes as he speaks, and it doesn’t take a postdoctoral candidate to see where his drive is coming from. His brother’s orchestration of the 2007 and 2009 suicide attacks led to the murders, not of government officials, but of tourists—simple people, “babes …on their mothers’ bosoms.” In the name of God. Mohammed is not the kind of man who can easily argue the confusing contemporary world, so he wages his fight against modern superstition by reaching into the distant past. History is his sword, and he’s swinging it directly at Salih’s neck.

  I like him. I like him a lot.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask. It’s after ten, but when I peer through the terrace window I see the lights of restaurants still open.

  “I’m not sure I could eat,” he says. “But I should.”

  “You should stay in until we get you on that plane,” I tell him, and he nods with easy understanding. “Anything I should know? Lactose intolerance? Halal?”

  “No, nothing,” he says. “I don’t let invisible fairies tell me what I can and can’t eat.”

  12

  There’s a cafeteria a few doors down on Vasco da Gama called Pata Choca, where I spend twelve euros on two aromatic plates of feijoada à transmontana, a sauce of beans and pork with sides of rice. On my way back, I remember the Mercedes. It has no parking sticker, and I don’t see any machines to pay for parking. By eight in the morning, it’ll be ticketed, and when the cop types in its license plate the car will co
me up as stolen. I pause beside the car, wondering if I should move the Mercedes now or later, when a voice behind me says, “Hi, John.”

  I turn, nearly dropping the food. It’s Harriet Klein, one of Carl’s many assistants. She’s smiling.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Walk with me, will you?”

  She turns and heads in the direction I’ve just come from. I follow, the warm plastic bag swinging against my thigh. She’s walking fast. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Checking up. How’re you feeling?”

  “Tired. Sore. But I’m all right.”

  “You’ve got a scratch on your face.”

  “I know.”

  “You haven’t made any calls, have you?”

  “Just to Carl. We didn’t bring our cells, and Andy took apart Mohammed’s in the van.”

  “And he’s up there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s good.”

  “We’re still on?” I ask as we turn right, continuing to where Vasco da Gama narrows, lined with ancient, crumbling residences. “Mohammed’s cooperating. I convinced him that I saved him from his brother’s people. He thinks I’m Interpol.”

  She doesn’t answer, neither approving nor disapproving of my improvisation. Instead, she says, “Did you get here by car?”

  “The Merc I was looking at. We should be out of here before the meter maids show up, but I’m going to move it before then.”

  “Right.”

  “And we’ll need to look at Mohammed,” I tell her. “He might have internal injuries. You’ll have a doctor on the plane?”

  “All mod cons,” she says with a flash of smile.

  “One more thing,” I say, hesitating now, knowing that I’m stepping beyond my job description.

  “Yes?”

  “He’s innocent.”

  She stops and looks up into my face. “Excuse me?”

  “He’s the anti-Salih. Talk to him, you’ll see. He hates everything his brother stands for. It’s deep; it’s in his bones.”

  “And how many years of psychoanalytical experience do you have?”

  I ignore the edge in her voice, because maybe this is more important than me keeping my head down and just getting through another day. “We’ve got hours before the flight. Come up and talk to him. You’ll see—we’re wrong about him.”

  “You don’t have his whole file,” she says, as if it’s not the only thing I don’t have.

  This is true, of course, but sometimes what you know is so instinctive that the feeling of rightness is enough. It’s an aesthetic feeling. Sometimes beauty really is truth. We’ve abducted an innocent man. Further, I know that, down the road, we will pay for it.

  She gives me one of her lopsided smiles. “Not your worry, John.” She pats my forearm. “We’ll take it from here. You can go home.”

  I blink at her, unsure I’ve heard right. “Just like that?”

  “Look,” she says, beginning to walk again, “you’re in no shape to get him to the plane. Give me the keys to the safe house, then hoof it over to the train station.”

  I say nothing, for sometimes silence is better than exposing your ignorance. I just stare at the side of her head, at the hole in her earlobe where her dangling earrings usually hang, but she’s not wearing any right now. No necklace, either. Her wedding ring is also gone.

  Without bothering to look at me, she says, “You’ve missed the night train, but there’s one leaving at four forty-one. Arrives at Lisbon, Santa Apolónia, at five forty-three. You’ll be on it.” Looking into my face, she holds out a hand. “The keys.”

  “I’ll stay with Mohammed tonight.”

  “You won’t,” she says. “We’re taking over. You have enough cash?”

  “To get home? Yes. But let me at least look in on him. You show up without word from me, and he’s going to panic.”

  She smiles, but it’s a smile without warmth. “Everything’s been taken care of, John. Now give me the keys.”

  I switch the food to my other hand and dig the keys out of my pocket. I hand them over. “I’ll run up with you to get the car keys. I can ditch the Mercedes.”

  “We’ve got it under control, John. You’re off the clock.”

  I hold out the bag. “At least give him this. He’s hungry. I’ll grab something at the station.”

  “You eat it,” she says. “We’ll feed him steak.”

  We’ve reached a main street called Pedro de Santarém, which is mostly quiet. Santarém is a provincial town, and after nine the streets begin to close up. We continue along the sidewalk until we’ve circled back to the beginning of Vasco da Gama. Looking up the street, I can see the stolen Mercedes, but there’s no sign of Harriet’s backup. I wonder who she’s working with, but I’m not about to ask. She shakes my hand. “Excellent work, John. Go home and put it all out of your mind.”

  I give her one of her lopsided smiles in return. “And Fiona?”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she all right?”

  Harriet tilts her head. “Better now. Woke up, at least. But she won’t work in this country anymore. You know how to get to the station?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “See you back at the office in a couple days. Carl wants you to sleep it off for forty-eight.”

  “Understood,” I say, and watch her head to building number fourteen.

  13

  Utilizing bus station maps, it takes me a half hour on foot to reach Santarém station, which lies on a decaying cobblestone street bordered by shuttered houses. I buy a ticket from an automated kiosk as the station’s closing up, then wander down the street, wondering what to do with myself for the next five hours. After finding a park and using plastic utensils to eat a little of the cold feijoada, I head back into town. I look into two cafés, considering the effect some Madeira reds might have on me, but decide against it. The fact is that I’m too exhausted to drink. Then, chilled to the bone, I’m back at Vasco da Gama.

  I haven’t planned to return, but there’s no explaining the workings of the unconscious, particularly with no psychoanalytical training. Obviously, though, it isn’t coincidence. I imagine Mohammed up there, eating steak with Harriet and whatever young toughs she managed to gather at the last minute. I stand on the opposite side of the empty street and look up at number 14, counting terraces to the top. The light is out, and there’s no movement. The stolen Mercedes is gone.

  I should return to the station to nap on a bench, but the thought of sleeping outside through the cold night turns my stomach. A hotel is out of the question, because I’m not even supposed to be in this town. I also, admittedly, want to see Mohammed again.

  I enter through the broken front door and climb to the top floor. I put my ear to number 16 but hear nothing. I wait for five minutes before deciding to knock. Harriet is official, but she isn’t unreasonable. She’ll let me sleep on the couch. Maybe.

  There’s no answer.

  I bang harder, in case they’re all passed out, but there’s nothing.

  Determined now, I return to the ground floor and buzz the supervisor. After a few minutes I hear her muttering a stream of Portuguese abuse at me from behind the door. I say, as clearly as possible, “Não se atiram pedras senão às árvores que têm fruto,” which stops her unintelligible words. Again, she cracks the door, and her weathered hand tosses out the keys; they skid across the floor. “Obrigado,” I say as the door slams shut and the bolt is pulled.

  Even knowing that the safe house is empty, I hesitate, fearing of a panicked bullet in the face. I knock again and say, “It’s John. I’m coming in.” I unlock the door and enter.

  Streetlights bathe the place in dim light, and even before I turn on the lamp I know the place has been vacated. I can feel it. It’s also been cleaned. The dust and stuffy air are a memory. The tables gleam, and the refrigerator is empty and spotless, the sour milk gone. I look for whisky, but that, too, has been taken away.

  Once my
surprise fades, it occurs to me that this makes sense. I drove a stolen car to this very apartment—it’s compromised. The only safe bet was to transfer Mohammed somewhere else, and I know I’ll never see him again.

  Does it matter? Not really. Had everything gone according to plan, he and I never would have spoken at all. Yet I still feel the desire to drink with him, to learn more about the Great Lisbon Earthquake. I turn off the lights and lie on the sofa, wanting only a couple hours’ nap, but I’m out cold until the morning light wakes me seven hours later. I get up and search in vain for coffee—I’ll have to get some on the train. I wash off in the bathroom, and it’s then that I notice a stain on the right shoulder of my undershirt. Brown, like dried meat sauce, but it’s not sauce. I take off my shirt and examine my skin. I’m unmarked. I return to the living room and, on the otherwise clean sofa, find a dark spot on the cushion, where my shoulder rested as I slept. I didn’t notice it before. I turn the cushion over. The reverse is still wet, soaked through with blood.

  When it hits me, it hits hard. I stumble back and drop clumsily into the chair. I grip my forehead, one large hand squeezing my skull, while my other hand slaps the arm of the chair until my palm burns.

  There are moments in your life when you feel the weight of your stupidity as an unbearable thing. You hardly believe that the thoughts you’ve had and the beliefs you’ve held are actually your own, yet they have been, and you know, with the full certainty of religious conviction, that you are flawed in a deep and terrible way.

  Knowing how stupid and obtuse you are, you think back, and your past becomes a question mark. Perhaps you’ve been through a divorce, a thing you’ve always believed was caused by faults shared equally by you and your ex. Now, though, with the recognition of how broken your inner world is, you wonder if it wasn’t all your fault after all. And you go back further, scenes from your past changing as the light comes in at a different angle. All of it—every moment you’ve lived—is suddenly up for debate. Each time you’ve been right, you realize, you might very well have been wrong.