Cristiano and I climbed into the carriage Beatriz had supplied, along with her driver. Samuel had given us a basket of food. I couldn’t eat, but urged Cristiano to take what he needed.
It was much longer returning to Lisboa than it had been leaving it. Pilgrims were making their way into the city to attend Masses at the city’s churches the following day, All Saints’ Day.
“Lisboa is preparing for one of the biggest celebrations in the religious calendar,” the driver told us. The roads were thronged with those travelling by carriage or by horse or donkey or on foot. “It will be late by the time we get there. We may have to stay in Lisboa overnight—the roads will be dangerous after dark. Highwaymen do their worst at these times. Dona Beatriz instructed me not to return if it was too late, and to arrange an inn for you.”
I wished to jump out of the carriage and run; I had no patience with the milling throngs.
We finally drove into Lisboa, and slowly made our way through a warren of hilly, narrow cobbled streets. Eventually we came into a more aristocratic area, with elegant homes surrounded by walled gardens. The driver stopped in front of a set of high gates. There were three carriages lined up along the wall, their drivers standing together, talking. “This is the place,” he said.
I hurried to the door. Let Henry be here, let him be here. If he wasn’t, I had nowhere else to turn, no way to search for Abílio.
It was Henry himself who opened the door at my knock. I felt weak at the sight of his friendly, familiar face.
“Diamantina! What are you doing here? How did you find me? Come in, come in, this is such a—”
“Henry. I’m looking for Abílio. I must find him.”
“I don’t know where he is, Diamantina. Have you been to his home—”
“Yes, yes, I’ve just come from Santa Maria de Belém. Dona Beatriz gave me your address.”
“Please come in. I’m having a small dinner party. You must join us.” He glanced behind me, out to the street. “Is that Cristiano in the carriage?”
“Yes. But I can’t stop. I have to find Abílio. Please, Henry. It’s … it’s about my Candelária.”
“Your little girl?”
I nodded. “I need to find Abílio,” I said again, gripping his arm, and he looked at my hand, then back to my face.
“I have no idea where he might be, but maybe Lajes can help you find him.”
“In Oporto?” It came out a high, desperate wail. “No! Isn’t it many leagues from here?”
“Plácido Fernandez Lajes has a home here as well. Maybe he would know Abílio’s whereabouts,” he said, trying to give me hope.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll go there.”
“I’ll come with you—”
“No. I can’t take you from your guests. I have Cristiano, and the driver. If you can just tell me where he lives, I’ll go there right now.”
“I’ll find the address. Please, step inside.”
I did as he asked, standing in the entrance hall. There were decorative candelabras and thick tallow torches throwing warm yellow light on the walls. A burst of laughter came from somewhere inside the house, and I smelled tobacco and perfume and pomade.
Within moments, Henry returned with a slip of paper. “Let me know if you need my help,” he said to me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the paper and running down the steps and back to the carriage. I told the driver the address.
“Alfama?” He shook his head. “I can’t get the carriage through the streets there. It’s all uphill steps, and very narrow.”
“Just take me as close as possible, and we’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“But Dona Beatriz wanted me to make sure you were safe, and—” ’
“Take me there,” I demanded. He opened his mouth, then closed it and slapped the reins on the horses’ backs.
It was dark when Cristiano and I entered the narrow, twisting streets and steep cobbled lanes of old Alfama. It was a jumble of leaning houses with flower-laden balconies and red-tiled roofs, the alleys and tiny squares laid out in a puzzling manner, connected by winding stone steps. We frequently stopped to ask the way of men sitting in the squares, smoking their pipes and playing cards by lamplight.
When we finally found the address, I had to knock twice before the door was opened by a wide-eyed serving girl.
“I wish to speak to Senhor Plácido Fernandez Lajes,” I said.
She looked at me, and then at Cristiano.
“Please. Fetch him for me,” I said, wanting the authority in my voice to make him materialize.
When she nodded and disappeared, I took a deep breath. In a moment a middle-aged man in his shirt sleeves came to the door. A wide napkin, smeared with tomato sauce, was tucked into the top of his shirt.
“Yes?” he said, obviously displeased at having his dinner interrupted.
“I’m looking for Abílio Perez,” I said.
He raised his chin, glancing at Cristiano. “Who are you, senhora, coming to my door after dark? And why do you think I would know where Perez is?”
“Senhor Lajes. I work for Kipling’s on Madeira. I am a friend of Dona Beatriz. I’ve been with her at her home today. It’s imperative that I speak to Senhor Perez as soon as possible. It was suggested you might be able to help me find him.”
“What do you mean, you work for Kipling’s?”
“Surely Senhor Perez has spoken of the overseer there, Espirito Rivaldo. The former overseer. I am his sister-in-law. Please. Do you know where I might find Senhor Perez?”
He pulled the napkin from his collar. “Is there some trouble at Kipling’s?”
“No, it’s more of a … it’s a personal matter.”
He glanced out at the quiet street, as if confirming we were alone. “Abílio was here earlier,” he said, and I put my hand to my chest.
“And … where is he now?”
“He told me he had an event to attend, and then was going home.”
“So he’ll be back in Santa Maria de Belém tonight,” I said, thinking about making the dark journey back along the same route we’d just taken. In spite of Dona Beatriz’s instructions to the driver not to traverse the roads at night, I would insist he take us back.
“Santa Maria de Belém? No. Not the summer residence. His home here, in Príncipe Real. Didn’t you say you were there, with his wife today?”
“I’ve just come from Santa Maria de Belém. That’s where I saw her.”
He shrugged. “I’m afraid there’s some misunderstanding, senhora. I’ll be going out to Santa Maria de Belém in the next few days, to see the house. I own it now—it’s part of the sale of Kipling’s. But tonight Abílio is with Dona Beatriz in Principe Real.”
I stared at him. He had a fleck of dark spice caught on his top lip. “Can you tell me where in Principe Real?” I asked slowly.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ve always met at my homes, either here or in Oporto. But he’s coming here tomorrow for lunch with Dona Beatriz, after Mass, to drink a bottle of Kipling’s wine he’s bringing to seal our transaction.”
I put my hand against the door frame. “Dona Beatriz? You’re saying she’s coming as well?”
“Yes.”
I felt as though I were back in the convent, speaking to the Abbess, full of confusion over Abílio again.
“I only met her recently, when she provided the signatures necessary for the sale,” he said. “Charming lady.”
He has another life in Lisboa, Beatriz had told me.
“Tomorrow after Mass,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Senhor Lajes. I’m sorry for disturbing your dinner.”
He nodded and closed the door.
The driver was waiting for us at the base of Alfama. He had already arranged for us to stay the night at a small inn there.
“Would you like me to come for you early tomorrow morning, to take you to one of the grand cathedrals for Mass, Senhora Rivaldo?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I will need to get back to Santa Maria de Belém tomorrow, I’m sure, but I don’t know what time. Just come here, to the inn, at noon, and wait for me.” I had no idea what would happen when I went to Plácido Lajes’s home the next day, and saw Abílio and the woman posing as Beatriz. I only knew I would force him to get Candelária back for me.
I would force him.
Cristiano and I climbed the stairs to our rooms across the hall from each other. We had left our bags at Santa Maria de Belém. All I’d brought was my small drawstring bag with a purse of coins. I had not thought of anything apart from finding Abílio.
“Good night, Cristiano,” I told him. “And … thank you for accompanying me. I’m sorry for all I’m subjecting you to.”
“Tomorrow is All Saints’ Day,” he said. “I know it will be a good day. Tomorrow we will get Candelária back.”
I was sleepless through much of the night. Before dawn I rose and went for a walk along the quiet streets. I passed a chapel and heard the low voices of monks or friars or priests intoning their prayers.
When the day broke with a serene sky and a gentle breeze, I went back to the inn, imagining Cristiano to still be asleep. But he was standing outside, his hair damp. He came towards me, relief on his face. “I was worried when I found your room empty,” he said.
“I just went for a walk. We’ll have to wait until after Mass, and then return to the home of the man we saw last night. I’m sure the inn serves breakfast. You must be hungry.”
“Avó told me about a church with her name in Lisboa: Santa Luzia. I asked the innkeeper about it while I waited for you. It’s here, in Alfama. We could go to it and light a candle for Espirito after breakfast. It’s his birthday today.” He gave me a half smile. He looked like a young man, but was still a boy. “Espirito, named as all boys born on this day of saints.”
I knew Espirito’s birthday was the first of November but hadn’t thought of it today; all I could think about was Candelária. There were a number of empty hours before I once more stood at Plácido Lajes’s door. Going to the church would fill some of them.
“As long as we are at Senhor Lajes’s home by noon,” I said, and we went back into the inn.
I watched Cristiano eat, still unable to think of putting food in my mouth and chewing and swallowing. And then we set off again, climbing the stone steps, which Cristiano, with his new knowledge from the innkeeper, told me led all the way to the highest point, where Castel de São Jorge sat above the city.
We trailed a row of pilgrims, and eventually arrived at Santa Luzia. Standing on the large open terrace outside the church, we surveyed the vista of Lisboa and the Tagus spread below us. Murmurs came through the open doors. “The Mass has begun,” Cristiano said.
Just as I opened my mouth to respond, there came a noise like the hollow, distant rumbling of thunder. It grew louder and louder, terrible in its intensity. The great thudding seemed inside me, and I thought, for that instant, that my time had come: that this is what it was when the heart lurched and tore and then stopped.
And yet in the next instant, I realized I had no pain, and that it wasn’t my heart but the heart of the earth that pounded and shook.