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Authors: David Leavitt
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appeared to lean—an illusion, I soon learned, brought about by the city’s sheer verticality, the way the old buildings list, clinging to their perches. Almost nothing inLisbon is level, yet the hills are steep, which explains the necessity of the so-called
elevadores
, most of which are actually funiculars, shooting like arteries through the veining of narrow streets that crawl up the hillsides. In fact, the Santa Justa Elevator is the only one of these that is an elevator proper. The metal sheath through which its cars ascend soars up 150 feet in the air. “It will come as no surprise,” Edward said when our little group had recoalesced, “that the architect who built it studied with Eiffel.”
“Speaking of Eiffel,” Iris said, “did you hear what happened when Hitler marched on Paris? He wanted to ride the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but the operators cut the electrical cords.”
“Good for them,” I said.
“And he only stayed one night. I suppose Paris was too rich for his taste.”
We stepped into the foremost of the cars. It was paneled in polished oak and had been manufactured, a brass plaque informed us, by R. Waygood & Co., Engineers of London. “Further evidence of the enduring bond between England and Portugal,” Edward said, pirouetting to escape the tangle of Daisy’s leash. “The oldest unbroken alliance in Europe—which is probably the only reason they’re letting the British through to Lisbon instead of sending them off into
résidence forcée
.”
“And the Americans?” Julia said.
“America’s neutral, so no harm, no foul.”
“Speaking of England”—
speaking of
, I had discovered, was one of Iris’s favorite locutions, since it allowed her to change subject at will—“did you hear that the Duke of Kent is in town? He’s to be the guest of honor at the inauguration of Salazar’s Exposition, where there will also be delegations from France
and
Germany.”
“Leave it to Salazar to get those three eating out of the same trough,” Edward said.
“Something else we haven’t been to,” I said. “The Exposition.”
“The Exposition of the Portuguese World,” Edward said, adopting his tour-guide voice, “celebrating the nation’s double centenary—Portugal having been founded in 1140 and attained liberation from Spain in 1640.”
“I’ve heard it’s splendid,” Julia said. “They say an entire Angolan village has been shipped over for the occasion.”
“Isn’t that horrible?” Iris said. “Those poor people, on display behind ropes. Like animals at a zoo.” She glanced at Daisy, who had gone to sleep on the elevator floor. “Anyway, as I was saying, it’s because the Duke of Kent’s in town that the Duke of Windsor isn’t. He and the Duchess have to cool their heels in Madrid until George leaves. They’re furious about it, but there’s nothing they can do, since it would be a breach of protocol for the brothers to be in the same country.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I eavesdrop. It’s part of our method. I pick up the gossip, out of which I forge a plot. Then Eddie collects the facts so we can be sure it’s accurate.”
“What was it Oscar Wilde said?” Edward said. “‘Anyone can write accurately.’”
“‘Anyone can
play
accurately.’ He was talking about the piano.”
“What my wife is saying is that she’s the brains of the operation, while I do the drudge work. Make sure she’s got her facts straight, which she usually hasn’t. Correct her spelling, which is usually egregious.”
“So you’re writing a novel set in Lisbon?” Julia said. “How interesting. I wonder if we’ll end up being characters in it.”
“Don’t put ideas in her head,” Edward said.
“The premise—still very rough—is a suicide in a Lisbon hotel,” Iris said. “An
apparent
suicide. I got the idea because that was howwe got our room. You see, we’d been shown the door at a dozen other places, and so when we tried the
elevadores
, most of which are actually funiculars, shooting like arteries through the veining of narrow streets that crawl up the hillsides. In fact, the Santa Justa Elevator is the only one of these that is an elevator proper. The metal sheath through which its cars ascend soars up 150 feet in the air. “It will come as no surprise,” Edward said when our little group had recoalesced, “that the architect who built it studied with Eiffel.”
“Speaking of Eiffel,” Iris said, “did you hear what happened when Hitler marched on Paris? He wanted to ride the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but the operators cut the electrical cords.”
“Good for them,” I said.
“And he only stayed one night. I suppose Paris was too rich for his taste.”
We stepped into the foremost of the cars. It was paneled in polished oak and had been manufactured, a brass plaque informed us, by R. Waygood & Co., Engineers of London. “Further evidence of the enduring bond between England and Portugal,” Edward said, pirouetting to escape the tangle of Daisy’s leash. “The oldest unbroken alliance in Europe—which is probably the only reason they’re letting the British through to Lisbon instead of sending them off into
résidence forcée
.”
“And the Americans?” Julia said.
“America’s neutral, so no harm, no foul.”
“Speaking of England”—
speaking of
, I had discovered, was one of Iris’s favorite locutions, since it allowed her to change subject at will—“did you hear that the Duke of Kent is in town? He’s to be the guest of honor at the inauguration of Salazar’s Exposition, where there will also be delegations from France
and
Germany.”
“Leave it to Salazar to get those three eating out of the same trough,” Edward said.
“Something else we haven’t been to,” I said. “The Exposition.”
“The Exposition of the Portuguese World,” Edward said, adopting his tour-guide voice, “celebrating the nation’s double centenary—Portugal having been founded in 1140 and attained liberation from Spain in 1640.”
“I’ve heard it’s splendid,” Julia said. “They say an entire Angolan village has been shipped over for the occasion.”
“Isn’t that horrible?” Iris said. “Those poor people, on display behind ropes. Like animals at a zoo.” She glanced at Daisy, who had gone to sleep on the elevator floor. “Anyway, as I was saying, it’s because the Duke of Kent’s in town that the Duke of Windsor isn’t. He and the Duchess have to cool their heels in Madrid until George leaves. They’re furious about it, but there’s nothing they can do, since it would be a breach of protocol for the brothers to be in the same country.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I eavesdrop. It’s part of our method. I pick up the gossip, out of which I forge a plot. Then Eddie collects the facts so we can be sure it’s accurate.”
“What was it Oscar Wilde said?” Edward said. “‘Anyone can write accurately.’”
“‘Anyone can
play
accurately.’ He was talking about the piano.”
“What my wife is saying is that she’s the brains of the operation, while I do the drudge work. Make sure she’s got her facts straight, which she usually hasn’t. Correct her spelling, which is usually egregious.”
“So you’re writing a novel set in Lisbon?” Julia said. “How interesting. I wonder if we’ll end up being characters in it.”
“Don’t put ideas in her head,” Edward said.
“The premise—still very rough—is a suicide in a Lisbon hotel,” Iris said. “An
apparent
suicide. I got the idea because that was howwe got our room. You see, we’d been shown the door at a dozen other places, and so when we tried the
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