Carlotta who had cautioned me about the kind of young man who turned out to be more interested in my family’s money than in me. I loved Carlotta for her strengths as well as her weaknesses; I suppose it was because she reminded me a bit of myself.
Never mind her forgetting my arrival, though. Here I was at last in Portugal. I was surrounded by clusters of dark, foreign-looking people all chattering away in languages I couldn’t understand a word of.
I stood in the center of the main terminal for I don’t know how long, and carefully watched for Carlotta. For a while I was content just to stand and wait; then to sit and wait. But I don’t care how exciting a place is, waiting makes me restless, anxious. By the time a half hour had gone by, part of my excitement, I found, had gone with it.
Minute after minute passed by and I found it difficult to ignore the uneasy feeling that started nagging at me. I couldn’t continue just to sit here and do nothing, I told myself. Face facts, Jennifer. Carlotta forgot, or she got tied up. Don’t work yourself into a lather. Go telephone. Do something.
Of course. The telephone. I wondered briefly how and where to call Carlotta, but I quickly shrugged off the thought. After all I wasn’t in the middle of the Sahara Desert; I could easily find out how and where to telephone.
I stood and glanced around. There was a row of very American-looking telephone booths near the main entrance. Good, I said to myself, I could leave my bags where they were and keep an eye both on them and on the main entrance—in case Carlotta came bustling in—while I was at the telephone.
I had had enough foresight to exchange some of my dollars for escudos before leaving Kennedy Airport. I supposed the telephone systems in Europe operated on much the same principle as our own. I headed for the telephone booth.
There was a little sign over the instrument which I took to be instructions on operating the telephone; unfortunately it was not printed in English.
I took out my small assortment of unfamiliar coins and deposited the only one that fit the slot—assuming that it had to be the right one. I waited. I dialed “O” and waited some more. Nothing happened. I jiggled the hook a few times. Nothing. Reluctantly I replaced the receiver and waited for the funny little coin to be returned. It wasn’t.
I picked up the Lisbon directory, but I knew before I looked up Carlotta’s name that she would not be listed. She had told me that her villa was some distance from Lisbon—or Lisboa as she had called it.
I’d need some help, I decided.
I glanced over at my pile of suitcases. They were still there, untouched.
I studied the people moving through the terminal. Having sat alone on the flight over I had spoken to none of the passengers. I didn’t see a familiar face anywhere.
My gaze fell on a man walking slowly back and forth near the exit. He was wearing a uniform with a badge which assured me that he would more than likely know how to operate a Portuguese telephone.
I stepped directly into his path. “Do you speak English?” I asked brightly.
He smiled and touched his fingers to the brim of his cap. “Si, Senhorita. A little.”
“Good,” I said, trying not to sound anxious. “I wonder if you would help me?”
“If I can.” His accent was charming.
“My aunt was supposed to meet me but she hasn’t shown up. I thought I would telephone her but I can’t seem to operate the telephone.”
His smile broadened. “Ah, sim. Permit me.”
He stepped up to the telephone and took out what appeared to be a New York subway token. He dropped it into the same little slot that had swallowed up my coin. He pushed a little plunger, which I hadn’t seen before, then muttered something into the mouthpiece. He turned and asked me for my aunt’s name and address.
Quickly I rummaged in my handbag and pulled out her last letter. I pointed to the neatly written return address. The man repeated the name and address into the telephone. I waited. Another jumble of unfamiliar words followed.
He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, “The operator will look up the number and put your call through.”
“Thank you,” I said with relief and gratitude.
He spoke into the mouthpiece again. The language sounded so soft and gentle. All the words sounded more like music than spoken dialogue.
“It is—ah—how you say—ringing,” he said finally.
He held the receiver pressed lightly against his ear and waited for a long time.
Again he spoke into the mouthpiece then replaced the receiver. “The operator says that there is no answer,” he said, looking very apologetic. “I am sorry.”
I shrugged and tried not to look disappointed. “She is most likely on her way here,” I said.
He handed me the “subway token” that had dropped into the return slot when he replaced the receiver. “If you need to call again, Senhorita, use this. Tell the operator who you wish to speak to and she will get the number for you,” he assured me. “Sometimes they do not speak good English like me, but if you talk slowly they will understand.” His smile was infectious. “Now,” he said, giving me a polite bow. “Can I help you further?”
“Oh, thank you, no.” I said. “You have been very kind.” I wondered if I was supposed to tip him. I decided a tip might insult his gallantry. I put out my hand. He took it, and to my surprise turned it palm down and touched it to his lips. I felt my face turn scarlet.
He smiled again, turned, and went back to his post by the doors.
Now what? I asked myself as I walked slowly back to my luggage. I decided on a taxi. I looked up at the wall clock. My episode with the telephone had taken up another ten minutes. My feet hurt and I didn’t want to think about my empty stomach. I had been too excited to eat on the flight over and now I regretted having only picked at my food. There was, I supposed, some sort of eating place tucked away in the terminal, but I just did not feel up to trying to decipher a Portuguese menu, especially after my failure with the telephone.
I looked down at my pile of suitcases. I just couldn’t bring myself to struggle with them again. I’d need a porter.
“Senhorita!”
The man so startled me I jumped. He had come up behind me and had said “Senhorita” more in the tone of a command than a greeting.
I turned sharply and found myself facing a surly-looking individual dressed in a shabby waistcoat and formless trousers, the bottoms of which were stuffed into battered, mud-caked boots. By the look of him, he had apparently dressed in a hurry and had given little concern as to what he had put on. He was in his mid-thirties, I guessed, and far from unattractive—tall, with an olive complexion and black, curly hair, grown a little longer than I normally like, but very becoming. I noticed that he held his head at a peculiar angle—tilted slightly down and away from me. I thought he must have a kink in his neck.
The expression on his face was as unattractive as his clothes. He appeared to be very angry at something or someone, and by the way he scowled at me I got the distinct impression that it was I with whom he was angry. Looking
