they are sorry, we should try another country. But where, I ask you? Terre de Feu?”
It seemed it was always Terre de Feu.
“We will go back to Antwerp,” Madame Fischbein said. “Whatever the Germans do, it cannot be worse than this.”
With a fatalistic flourish, the old couple took to the dance floor. Around and around they waltzed, to the tune of “When I Grow Too Old to Dream,” Madame leaning her forehead against Monsieur’s bony shoulder. “Look at them,” Edward said. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may and all that. It’s the end of Europe, that’s why they’re dancing, and of course Lisbon is the end of Europe, too. The fingertipof Europe. And everything that Europe is and means is pressed into that fingertip. Too much of it. It’s a cistern full to overflowing—and each time a ship sails, the water level goes down a little. But not nearly enough. And in the meantime the floodgates remain open.”
“Hold on a minute. According to what you just said, Lisbon is a cistern—”
“Right.”
“So the refugees are water—”
“Correct.”
“But that means that when they get on the ship—the ship is carrying water as its cargo. Carrying as its cargo the very element on which it sails.”
“What, you’re saying my metaphor
doesn’t hold water
?”
We both burst out laughing.
“Now are you feeling it?”
“I believe I am.”
“Shall we have some more?”
“Let’s.”
He refilled our glasses. How long had I known him then? Twelve hours? Fourteen? It’s true: in war, trains never run on time. And now this one, like the Wabash Cannonball, was about to arrive at its destination—only it hadn’t yet left. Or had it left the moment he’d stepped on my glasses?
Half an hour later, he asked for the bill. “Don’t even try,” he said when I took out my wallet.
I stood, and was surprised that my legs still worked.
“Where to?”
“The beach. Not the one here in Estoril—it’s crawling with police. We’ll go down the coast, to Guincho.”
We got into the car. For a moment I entertained the possibility that I ought not to be driving in such a condition. I entertained itand dismissed it. For I felt none of the symptoms of inebriation, not giddiness nor agitation nor sleepiness. Rather, what I felt—have you ever driven on a wet road in winter? Do you know that moment when suddenly the car seems to lift right off the surface of the earth? That was what I felt.
I had no idea what time it was. There were timepieces everywhere—on my wrist, on the dashboard—yet I didn’t look at any of them. After Cascais, the road grew narrower and more windy, far too windy to accommodate such a gargantuan vehicle—and still I navigated them effortlessly, as if the laws of nature had ceased to apply, as if the car had suddenly acquired an unsuspected elasticity, allowing it to bend like an accordion. Even when a bicyclist appeared in my headlights, I didn’t flinch. I simply veered around him. In retrospect, I understand that it was all the absinthe, and that this is one of the many reasons why absinthe is dangerous. Now I wonder that we didn’t kill someone, or get killed ourselves.
Then we got to Guincho, where two or three other cars were parked on the road’s shoulder. Through a grove of umbrella pines, Edward led me out onto dunes that descended to a crescent-shaped beach. Here and there, shadowy hummocks rose where couples slept or made love under blankets. The moon was high. “Now do you see what I mean about the difference between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean?” he said, taking off his shoes. White-tipped breakers slapped the shore. He rolled up his cuffs and waded into the surf. As I followed, I tried to fit my footprints into his, so that there would be only one set.
The water stung my ankles. “It’s cold,” I said, stepping back, but Edward wasn’t listening.
“Where the land ends and the sea begins,” he said. “That’s Camões, the great Lusitanian poet. He
It seemed it was always Terre de Feu.
“We will go back to Antwerp,” Madame Fischbein said. “Whatever the Germans do, it cannot be worse than this.”
With a fatalistic flourish, the old couple took to the dance floor. Around and around they waltzed, to the tune of “When I Grow Too Old to Dream,” Madame leaning her forehead against Monsieur’s bony shoulder. “Look at them,” Edward said. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may and all that. It’s the end of Europe, that’s why they’re dancing, and of course Lisbon is the end of Europe, too. The fingertipof Europe. And everything that Europe is and means is pressed into that fingertip. Too much of it. It’s a cistern full to overflowing—and each time a ship sails, the water level goes down a little. But not nearly enough. And in the meantime the floodgates remain open.”
“Hold on a minute. According to what you just said, Lisbon is a cistern—”
“Right.”
“So the refugees are water—”
“Correct.”
“But that means that when they get on the ship—the ship is carrying water as its cargo. Carrying as its cargo the very element on which it sails.”
“What, you’re saying my metaphor
doesn’t hold water
?”
We both burst out laughing.
“Now are you feeling it?”
“I believe I am.”
“Shall we have some more?”
“Let’s.”
He refilled our glasses. How long had I known him then? Twelve hours? Fourteen? It’s true: in war, trains never run on time. And now this one, like the Wabash Cannonball, was about to arrive at its destination—only it hadn’t yet left. Or had it left the moment he’d stepped on my glasses?
Half an hour later, he asked for the bill. “Don’t even try,” he said when I took out my wallet.
I stood, and was surprised that my legs still worked.
“Where to?”
“The beach. Not the one here in Estoril—it’s crawling with police. We’ll go down the coast, to Guincho.”
We got into the car. For a moment I entertained the possibility that I ought not to be driving in such a condition. I entertained itand dismissed it. For I felt none of the symptoms of inebriation, not giddiness nor agitation nor sleepiness. Rather, what I felt—have you ever driven on a wet road in winter? Do you know that moment when suddenly the car seems to lift right off the surface of the earth? That was what I felt.
I had no idea what time it was. There were timepieces everywhere—on my wrist, on the dashboard—yet I didn’t look at any of them. After Cascais, the road grew narrower and more windy, far too windy to accommodate such a gargantuan vehicle—and still I navigated them effortlessly, as if the laws of nature had ceased to apply, as if the car had suddenly acquired an unsuspected elasticity, allowing it to bend like an accordion. Even when a bicyclist appeared in my headlights, I didn’t flinch. I simply veered around him. In retrospect, I understand that it was all the absinthe, and that this is one of the many reasons why absinthe is dangerous. Now I wonder that we didn’t kill someone, or get killed ourselves.
Then we got to Guincho, where two or three other cars were parked on the road’s shoulder. Through a grove of umbrella pines, Edward led me out onto dunes that descended to a crescent-shaped beach. Here and there, shadowy hummocks rose where couples slept or made love under blankets. The moon was high. “Now do you see what I mean about the difference between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean?” he said, taking off his shoes. White-tipped breakers slapped the shore. He rolled up his cuffs and waded into the surf. As I followed, I tried to fit my footprints into his, so that there would be only one set.
The water stung my ankles. “It’s cold,” I said, stepping back, but Edward wasn’t listening.
“Where the land ends and the sea begins,” he said. “That’s Camões, the great Lusitanian poet. He
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