I got another job, this time with a semi-established writer
who dedicated all his time to his art (the poor man intended to leave his
writings to posterity, typed up by me with single spacing). This job lasted as
long as it took me to write up all the varying fortunes of a family who lived
in a country house near Viseu. Then once again I was without a job, with very
little money and without any prospects. Yet I was almost happy.
Sometimes I lie down and for hours I stare at the ceiling or
the wall on the left side of the bed. The wallpaper has a background that must
have been white at one time, but has been yellowed by time, and has damp
patches where I can make out the shapes of laughing faces, faces that perturb
me, with diabolical features, strange and silent in their laughter, clearer and
clearer the longer I stare at them without blinking, my stare completing the
shapes, sharpening their outline, bringing them to life. Sometimes I see
horrible faces etched in the plaster of the ceiling or formed by the shadows of
the furniture when I turn on the light. Sometimes one of these profiles is
transformed bit by bit into Estrela’s face, its laugh her own. I shut my eyes
but I find her there inside me. I take one pill, take another, but often it’s
only after the fourth pill that her face and her laugh dissolve in a deep and
heavy sleep.
One day I was reading the advertisements in the newspaper
and I found one that interested me. An English couple with two children were
looking for a Portuguese lady to accompany them on their travels abroad. I
regarded my knowledge of English to be good enough for the job so I replied.
They arranged that we meet in a hotel in the Baixa. I met a small thin woman,
no longer young, rosy cheeked and very freckly. Her husband was fat and
powerfully built, his brushed hair almost white. The boys, fair-haired and
charmless, staring precociously like young men, shook my hand earnestly.
The terms that they proposed were more than acceptable. The
Harpers wanted their sons to learn Portuguese. They were going to spend some
months, maybe a year, in London, and only then would they settle in Porto where
Mr. Harper had business interests. On the return journey they were hoping to
spend a few days in Paris. Ah, I already knew Paris? Then no doubt I would like
to see it again. Everyone who has been there, even for a few hours, dreamed of
returning, no? Mrs. Harper was smiling. Why bother telling her about Paris? Why
say anything to that woman who didn’t matter to me at all. She continued
talking. If at some time, for some reason, I fell ill, or was even simply
bored, or if I felt homesick, the Harpers would be happy to let me go, which
did not mean, of course, she added, that they would not be shocked by such a
decision. It was also agreed that I would enjoy a certain liberty. The husband
sat a little apart, contenting himself with smiles and nodding himself in
agreement with his wife. The house and the children were her domain while he
occupied himself with business. When I got up to leave after giving them the
name of the prolific writer and two or three other people as referees the two
boys came up and accompanied me to the door of the hotel.
There it was, a job that pleased me which had never occurred
to me before. Often I thought that maybe I would like to be a nurse or a
primary school teacher, but I was never really suited to either of these.
My experiences at the shipping company and in the novelist’s
office had been genuine nightmares. In the cold light of day I just couldn’t
face up to the possibility of weeks, months, years on end, until the end of my
days, sat in front of a desk, a typewriter beneath my fingers, writing letters
of no interest to me, or typing out immensely boring and empty novels. Getting
old, getting fat (because I believe that boredom makes you fat), forever
wallowing in other people’s mire. When I had finished the costume drama novel
the novelist had offered to speak about me to some sub-secretary or other, who
at the time was in the newspapers a lot.
“I’ll see if he can arrange something…….He is a great friend
of mine, he’ll be glad to do me a favour. He is an excellent person. He is
admirable as a private citizen and also a public servant…..Why are you
laughing?”
That terrible habit of mine of laughing at things that were
not at all funny to other people! A public servant! A public man or even a
public woman perhaps! There must be some connection there. I stifled my laugh
and he continued to sing the praises of his friend.
“Here take this letter of recommendation.”
I rejected his kind offer of help. In my bag I had a twenty
escudo note. I had already asked for most of my wages in advance.
Now I was going to do a job that I was interested in. Once
again there was hope in my life…………, not a lot, but a bit of hope, conscious
hope. Who knows if the change of atmosphere, a job that pleased me, the
presence of those children, would bring with them healthier thoughts, would
sweep away those obsessive thoughts that wouldn’t let me sleep. I sorted out
the passport and two visas almost enthusiastically. So great was my desire to
return to normal life that I even rang up two or three people that I vaguely
knew, including Alice Mendes, to say my goodbyes. I think I needed to convince
myself that things were going to go well and the most efficient and certain way
of ensuring it was to hear it proclaimed by my own voice.
Then, a couple of days before departure Mr. Harper rang me.
He was very upset, jumbling his words. His wife had just gone into hospital for
an urgent operation. The doctors had said that her case was quite serious, and
Mr. Harper feared the worst. He had cancelled all of his appointments and
clearly the idea of a journey was now out of the question. Even if everything
went well Mrs. Harper would be weak for quite some time and he had just
telephoned her sister, who lived in London, to ask her to take care of the
children. He was expecting her on the first plane the next day. Naturally he
asked me to tell him the amount of my expenses.
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