Night Train to Lisbon

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I don’t know why that suddenly interested him, but he was fascinated by books that dealt with the fear that people in the Middle Ages experienced when they found themselves at the westernmost point of Europe and questioned what might be on the other side of the apparently endless sea.’

  Gregorius pulled the book towards him and read a Spanish quotation: Más allá no hay nada más que las aguas del mar, cuyo término nadie más que Dios conoce. Beyond that there is nothing except the water of the sea, whose borders no one knows but God.

  ‘Cabo Finisterre,’ said Adriana, ‘up in Galicia. The westernmost point of Spain. He was obsessed by that. The end of the world at the time. “But here in Portugal there is a point that is even further west, so why Spain?” I said and pointed to it on the map. But he didn’t want to hear anything about it and kept talking about Finisterre; it was like an idée fixe. He had a haunted, feverish expression on his face when he spoke of it.’

  SOLIDÃO, LONELINESS, was at the top of the last page Prado had written on. Adriana had followed Gregorius’s look.

  ‘He often complained in his last year that he didn’t understand what it really meant, the loneliness we all feared so much. What is it that we call loneliness? he said. It can’t simply be the absence of others. You can be alone and not lonely, and you can be among people and yet be lonely. So what is it? It always concerned him that we could be lonely in the middle of the hustle and bustle. All right, he said, it isn’t only when others are there, when they occupy the space next to us. Even when they praise us or give us advice in a friendly way, clever, sensitive advice: even then we can be lonely. So loneliness is not something simply connected with the presence of others or with what they do. Then what? What on earth is it?

  ‘He didn’t talk to me about Fátima and his feelings for her, Intimacy is our last sanctuary, he used to say. Only once that I can remember did he get carried away with a remark. I lie next to her, I hear her breathe, I feel her warmth – and am horribly lonely, he said. What is it?WHAT?’

  Solidão por proscrição. Loneliness through ostracism, Prado had written. When others withdraw affection, respect and recognition from us, why can’t we simply say to them: ‘I don’t need all that, I am self-sufficient?’ Isn’t it a horrible form of bondage that we can’t acknowledge that? Doesn’t it make us the slaves of others? What feeling can we summon to protect ourselves?

  Gregorius bent over the desk and read the faded words on the notes on the wall.

  Extortion through trust. ‘Patients confided the most intimate things to him, and also the most dangerous,’ said Adriana. ‘Politically dangerous, I mean. And then they expected him to reciprocate. So they wouldn’t have to feel vulnerable. He hated that. He hated it from the bottom of his heart. I don’t want anybody to expect anything of me, he said and stamped his foot. And why the devil is it so hard to keep my distance? “Mamã,” I was tempted to say, “Mamã.” But I didn’t. He knew it himself.’

  The dangerous virtue of patience. ‘Paciência: in the last years of his life he developed a real allergy to this word. His face darkened abruptly whenever anybody mentioned patience to him. Nothing more than a blessed way of missing out on yourself, he said, annoyed. Fear of the fountains that can shoot up inside us. I understood that properly only when I learned of the aneurysm.’

  The last note was longer than the others: If the force of the soul is more powerful than we are: why then attach praise and blame? Why not simply say: “was lucky,” “had bad luck”? And it is more powerful than we are, this surge; it always is.

  ‘Before, the whole wall was filled with notes,’ said Adriana. ‘He was constantly writing down something and pinning it to the wall. Until that wretched trip to Spain a year and a half before his death. After that, he seldom picked up his pen; he often sat here at the desk and simply stared into space.’

  Gregorius waited. Now and then he glanced at her. She sat in the reading chair next to the mountain of books on the floor, which she hadn’t touched; the big book with the reproduction of the brain was still there. She clasped her dark-veined hands, released them, clasped them again. Her face contorted with the strain. The resistance to remembering seemed to have gained the upper hand.

  He would like to learn something about this time, too, said Gregorius. ‘To understand him even better.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said and then relapsed into silence. When she started talking again, the words seemed to come from far away.

  ‘I thought I knew him. Yes, I would have said: I know him, I know him inside and out; after all, I had seen him every day for years and heard him talk about his thoughts and feelings, even his dreams. But then he came home from this meeting, that was two years before his death, in December; he would have been fifty-one. It was one of those meetings where João was also present, João something. The man who wasn’t good for him. Jorge was also there, I think, Jorge O’Kelly, sacred friend. I wished he hadn’t gone to these meetings. They weren’t good for him.’

  ‘There, the people of the Resistance met,’ said Gregorius. ‘Amadeu was working for the Resistance, you must have known that. He wanted to do something, he wanted to strike a blow against people like Mendes.’

  ‘Resistência,’ said Adriana, and then again, ‘Resistência.’ She said the word as if she had never heard anything about it, and refused to believe such a thing could have been.

  Gregorius cursed his need to force her to acknowledge reality because for a moment it looked as if she would fall silent again. But then the annoyance died out of her face and she was back with the brother who came home after one of those mysterious meetings.

  ‘He hadn’t slept and was still wearing the clothes from the night before when I met him in the kitchen the next morning. I always knew when he hadn’t slept. But this time it was different. He didn’t look tormented as usual, despite the dark circles under his eyes. And he did something he never did: he tipped the chair back and rocked back and forth. Later, when I thought about it, I said to myself: it’s as if he had set off on a trip. In the office, he was incredibly fast and light in the way he did everything; things seemed to require little effort, and he hit the waste paper basket whenever he threw things into it.

  ‘In love, you might think. Weren’t those clear signs that he was in love? Naturally, I also thought of that. But at one of those meetings, meetings of men? And it was so different from his manner with Fátima. Wilder, more boisterous, lustier. Thoroughly unbridled, so to speak. He scared me. He was a stranger to me. Especially after I had seen her. As soon as she entered the waiting room, I felt that she wasn’t simply a patient. Early to middle twenties. A remarkable blend of innocent maiden and vamp. Glittering eyes, Asian features, swaying walk. The men in the waiting room glanced at her furtively, the women narrowed their eyes.

  ‘I led her into the consulting room. Amadeu was just washing his hands. He turned around and it was as if he was struck by lightning. The blood shot into his face. Then he got himself under control.

  ‘“Adriana, this is Estefânia,” he said. “Would you please leave us alone for a moment? We have something to discuss.”

  ‘That had never happened before. Nothing was said in this room that I wasn’t allowed to hear. Nothing.

  ‘She came back, four or five times. He always sent me out of the room, spoke with her and then escorted her to the door. Every time, his face was flushed and for the rest of the day, he was jumpy and his hand shook when he gave injections, he who was renowned for his sure touch. The last time, she didn’t come to the office, but rang the bell up here; it was after midnight. He took his coat and went downstairs. I saw the two of them turn the corner; he was talking intensely to her. An hour later, he came back with ruffled hair and smelling of scent.

  ‘After that, she stayed away. Amadeu started to have blackouts. As if a hidden force was sucking him down. He was edgy and sometimes rough, even with patients. For the first time I thought: he doesn’t like the medical p
rofession any more; it doesn’t suit him. He would like to escape from it.

  ‘Once I came across Jorge and the same girl. He had his arm around her waist and she didn’t seem to like it. I was confused. Jorge acted as if he didn’t know me and pulled the girl into a side street. The temptation to tell Amadeu was great but I didn’t. He was suffering enough already. Once, on an especially bad evening, he asked me to play Bach’s Goldberg Variations. He sat there with his eyes shut and I was absolutely sure he was thinking of her.

  ‘The chess games with Jorge, which had become part of the rhythm of Amadeu’s life, were dropped. All winter long, Jorge didn’t come to us once, not even at Christmas. Amadeu didn’t mention him.

  ‘One evening in early March, O’Kelly stood at the door. I could hear Amadeu opening it.

  ‘“You,” he said.

  ‘“Yes, me,” said Jorge.

  ‘They went downstairs to the office so I wouldn’t hear the conversation. I opened the door of the flat and tried to listen but could hear nothing, not a single word. Later, I heard the front door slam. O’Kelly, his coat collar pulled up, a cigarette between his lips, vanished round the corner. Silence. Amadeu didn’t come up. Finally, I went downstairs. He was sitting in the dark and didn’t move.

  ‘“Leave me alone,” he said. “I don’t want to talk.”

  ‘Late at night when he came upstairs, he was pale, silent and thoroughly distraught. I didn’t dare ask what was going on.

  ‘The next day, the practice was closed. João came. I didn’t learn anything from their conversation. Ever since the girl had appeared, Amadeu had overlooked me. All the pleasure had gone out of our working together. I hated this person, the long black hair, the swaying walk, the short skirt. I didn’t play the piano any more. I didn’t matter to him any more. It was … it was humiliating.

  ‘Two or three days later, in the middle of the night, João and the girl stood at the door.

  “I would like Estefânia to stay here,” said João.

  ‘The way he said it, refusal was impossible. I hated him and his domineering way. Amadeu didn’t say a word when he saw her, but he fumbled with the keys and dropped the key ring when he took her upstairs to the office. He made up a bed for her on the examining table, I saw it later.

  ‘Towards morning, he came up, had a shower and made breakfast. The girl looked bleary-eyed and scared; she was wearing jeans or something, and now there was nothing provocative about her. I controlled myself, made a second pot of coffee and another one for the road. Amadeu didn’t explain anything to me.

  ‘“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” was all he said. “Don’t worry.”

  ‘He stuffed a few things in a bag, put in a few medications, and then they went into the street. To my surprise, Amadeu took a car key out of his pocket and unlocked a car that hadn’t been there the day before. But he can’t drive, I thought, and then the girl got in behind the wheel. That was the last time I saw her.’

  Adriana sat still, her hands in her lap, her head resting on the back of the chair, her eyes closed. Her breathing was rapid, she was reliving those events. The black velvet ribbon had slid up her neck and Gregorius could see the scar, an ugly, jagged scar with a small greyish bulge. Amadeu had sat astride her lap. I have to do this, he had said, otherwise you’ll die. Take your hands away. Trust me. Then he had cut into her. And half a lifetime later, Adriana had seen him get into a car with a young woman and be driven away for an undetermined time without any explanation.

  Gregorius waited until Adriana’s breathing had calmed down. How had it been when Amadeu came back? he asked.

  ‘I happened to be standing at the window when I saw him getting out of a taxi. Alone. He must have come back by train. He had been gone for a week. He didn’t say a word about that time, not then and not later either. He was unshaven and hollow-cheeked, I think he had hardly eaten anything while he had been away. Famished, he devoured everything I put before him. Then he went upstairs to bed and slept for a day and a night. He must have taken a pill. I found the packet later.

  ‘When he reappeared he had washed his hair, shaved, and dressed carefully. I had cleaned the office in the meantime.

  ‘“Everything’s gleaming,” he said and attempted a smile. “Thanks, Adriana. What would I do without you?”

  ‘We let the patients know that the practice was open again and an hour later, the waiting room was full. Amadeu was slower than usual, or maybe it was the after-effects of the sleeping pill or maybe it was the onset of the illness. The patients felt he wasn’t the same person and looked at him uncertainly. In the middle of the morning, he asked for coffee. He had never done that before.

  ‘Two days later, he developed a fever and raging headaches. No medicine helped.

  ‘“No reason for panic,” he said to calm me, his hands on his temples. “After all, the body is also the mind.”

  ‘But I observed him secretly. I saw his fear, he must have been thinking of the aneurysm. He asked me to put on Berlioz, Fátima’s music.

  ‘“Turn it off!” he yelled after a few bars. “Turn it off right now!”

  ‘Maybe it was the headaches, maybe he also felt that he couldn’t bear memories of Fátima after what happened with the girl.

  ‘Then they caught João. We found out through a patient. Amadeu’s headaches became so violent that he paced back and forth up here like a lunatic, with his head in his hands. A blood vessel burst in one eye, turning the eye dark red. He looked horrible, desperate and a bit brutalized. Shouldn’t I fetch Jorge? I asked helplessly.

  ‘“Don’t you dare!” he yelled.

  ‘He and Jorge didn’t meet again until a year later, a few months before Amadeu’s death. In that year, Amadeu had changed. After two or three weeks, the fever and the headaches disappeared. They left my brother like a man sunk in deep melancholy. Melancolia – he had loved the word even as a little boy and later had read books about it. One of them said it was a typically modern phenomenon. “Rubbish” he said. He considered it to be a timeless affliction and thought it was one of the most precious conditions known to humans.

  ‘“Because it shows all the fragility of man,” he said.

  ‘It wasn’t harmless. Naturally he knew that melancholy and clinical depression aren’t the same thing. But when he had to treat a depressed patient, he sometimes hesitated much too long before sending him to a psychiatrist. He told the patient he was suffering from melancholy. He tended to idealize the condition of such people and to offend them with his particular interest in their suffering. After the trip with the girl, this tendency became stronger and sometimes bordered on gross negligence.

  ‘His physical diagnoses remained sound to the end. But he was a marked man and when he had to deal with a difficult patient, sometimes he was no longer up to it. With women, on the other hand, he became over-zealous and sent them to specialists sooner than before.

  ‘Whatever happened on that trip, it distressed him as nothing else had, even more than Fátima’s death. It was as if a tectonic plate had shifted the deepest layers of his soul. Everything that rested on these layers of rock had become shaky and fragile. The whole atmosphere in this house changed. I had to shelter and protect him as if we were living in a sanitorium. It was horrible.’

  Adriana wiped a tear from her eye.

  ‘But wonderful. He belonged … He belonged to me again. Or he would have belonged to me if Jorge hadn’t stood at the door one evening.’

  O’Kelly had brought Amadeu a chessboard and carved pieces from Bali.

  ‘It’s been a long time since we played,’ he said. ‘Too long. Much too long.’

  The first time they played, there was little conversation. Adriana brought them tea.

  ‘There was a tense silence,’ she said. ‘Not hostile, but tense. They searched for each other. Searched in themselves for a possibility to be friends again.’

  Now and then they tried a joke or reliving a memory from their schooldays, but the laughter died before it rea
ched their lips. A month before Prado’s death, they went down to the office after playing chess and stayed there talking late into the night. Adriana stood in the doorway of the flat the whole time.

  ‘The door of the office opened and they came out. Amadeu didn’t turn on a light and the light from the office door barely illuminated the hall. They walked slowly, almost in slow motion, to the front door. They seemed to be standing unnaturally far apart.

  ‘“So,” said Amadeu.

  ‘“Yes,” said Jorge.

  ‘And then they fell … yes, they fell into each other, I don’t know how I can express it better. They must have wanted to embrace each other one last time. The action once begun seemed impossible, but was not to be stopped any more. They stumbled against each other, groped for each other, clumsy as blind men. Their heads butted into each other’s shoulders, then they straightened up, recoiled, and didn’t know what to do with their arms and hands. One, two seconds of horrible embarrassment, then Jorge tore open the door and stormed out. The door slammed shut. Amadeu turned to the wall, leaned his forehead against it and started sobbing. They were deep, raw, almost animal sounds, accompanied by violent twitches of his whole body. I know that I thought: How much a part of him Jorge has been, for almost a lifetime! And will remain so, even after this parting. It was the last time the two men met.’

  Prado’s sleeplessness became even worse than before. He complained of dizziness and had to take breaks between seeing patients. He sometimes asked Adriana to play the Goldberg Variations. Twice he went to the Liceu and came back with traces of tears on his face. At the funeral, Adriana learned from Mélodie that she had seen him coming out of a church.

  There were a few days when he took up his pen. On those days he ate nothing. On the evening before his death, he had another bad headache. Adriana stayed with him until the sleeping pill took effect. When she left him, he looked as if he was about to fall asleep. But when she looked in on him at five in the morning, the bed was empty. He was on his way to the beloved Rua Augusta, where he collapsed an hour later. At six twenty-three, Adriana was notified. Later, when she came home, she put the clock back and stopped the pendulum.