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  ESTORIL

  Dejan Tiago-Stanković

  Translated by Christina Pribichevich-Zoric

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  AN APOLLO BOOK

  www.headofzeus.com

  About Estoril

  Set in a luxurious grand hotel just outside Lisbon, at the height of the Second World War, Estoril is a delightful and poignant novel about exile, divided loyalties, fear and survival. The hotel’s guests include spies, fallen kings, refugees from the Balkans, Nazis, American diplomats and stateless Jews. The Portuguese secret police broodingly observe the visitors, terrified that their country’s neutrality will be compromised.

  The novel seamlessly fuses the stories of its invented characters with appearances by historical figures like the ex-King Carol of Romania, the great Polish pianist Jan Paderewski, the British agent Ian Fleming, the Russian chess grandmaster Alexander Alekhine and the French writer and flyer

  Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who forms a poignant friendship with a young Jewish boy living alone in the hotel.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Estoril

  Dedication

  The Golden Days of the Riviera

  Things I Invented Myself

  Willkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome

  Such a Pity

  Drop by for a Chat Some Time

  Chicken Stew

  Possibly Politically Sensitive

  The Tale of the Desert Fox

  Ivan

  It’s Just a Word of Warning

  Movie Actor

  Tricycle

  I’d Like to be a Traveller

  Deus Ex Machina

  His Eyes have Something Cold and Cruel about Them

  The Genie from the Lamp

  A Strange Child

  The Iron Crown

  Reviewed by the National Commission for Censorship

  Today is Tomorrow’s Yesterday

  Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori

  Everybody Comes to Black’s

  Where the Land Ends and the Sea Begins

  It’s a Sports Car

  The Grand Casino Estoril

  Quid Pro Quo

  Like a Jewel Lost in the Dark

  Silk Stockings, Three Pairs

  The Incredible, Sad Story of the Sensitive Miss Tonita and Hard Reality

  Always the Same Story

  A Boy Meets a Girl

  At Lunchtime

  Have You Ever Tried to Sell a Stone?

  There are Dead Bodies Inside!

  It is Only with the Heart That One Can See Rightly

  Things have Become A Little Complicated

  Rodriguez

  Half an Hour Before Lunch

  Nine Months

  In Between Two Historic Photographs

  The War is Over

  Chess Players

  Manufacture Nationale De Sèvres

  Oh! Life is so Hard!

  I’m Lucky to have You Close at Hand, My Friend

  Post-Mortem

  Quinta Dos Grilos

  Isaura Married!

  Stockings for Varicose Veins

  Note

  Selected Bibliography

  Soundtrack

  About Dejan Tiago-Stanković

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  To André, Filipe and Lúcia

  THE GOLDEN DAYS OF THE RIVIERA

  The story of mysterious wires first surfaced in the mid-eighties of the last century, when the Hotel Palácio Estoril underwent complete renovation and two more floors were added to the building. They found so much cabling under the carpets, behind the skirting boards and wallpaper, that, according to the press, ‘there was enough to circle the planet and still have some left over’. No one could say who had installed it, when or for what purpose, but it was widely suspected that it had to do with redundant listening devices from the Second World War, left behind and long forgotten.

  The news came as no surprise to Mr Black. He confirmed that various clandestine intelligence services had operated in these parts throughout the war, especially during the first two or three years, and that his hotel had been considered a spies’ nest, though of that there was no proof because, as he put it, ‘we shall never know the whole truth since the very nature of such work precludes it’.

  Sidestepping a request to relate a favourite story from his wartime days as the manager of the Palácio, he joked:

  ‘Please, don’t ask something like that of me. I’m so old that all I remember is what I’ve invented myself.’

  He was not prepared to say more. It was useless to try to persuade him otherwise. Mr Black was a hotelier of the old school, whose ethics did not allow for indiscretion, even in retirement. But it did get him thinking. If he had to pick a story from his already-fading, half-gone memory of the war, he would probably tell them about that sunny afternoon when he met Gaby.

  THINGS I INVENTED MYSELF

  The war had broken out in Europe the preceding autumn but nothing much had changed in the country until late spring, when refugees started inundating Lisbon and the coast.

  We were caught by surprise. There were no reports in the press about anything unusual happening but even the sliver of truth that did reach us was worrying. And not without reason. The refugee crisis, as we were later to learn, was getting worse and more complicated by the day. A state of emergency was declared, and it was not just because of the Portuguese leadership’s stubborn belief that the truth was harmful, especially if it was disclosed. Mr Black tried to perform his duties as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. When the need arose, he would spend days calming people down, always repeating the official line:

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen, there’s no cause for alarm. Just enjoy your stay here, everything will be just fine.’

  It wasn’t difficult to believe him. Everything did indeed look just fine. In fact, Estoril was more like Biarritz or Monte Carlo than ever. With hindsight, it is interesting that no one at the time realized what was more than palpable all around us: that these were the first days of the brief but glamorous period that was to become known as the golden age of the Riviera.

  The hotel manager was so busy that day that he didn’t even have time to smoke a cigarette. It was not until the late afternoon that he managed to extricate himself from his duties. He announced that he did not wish to be disturbed. Once alone in his office, he stretched out in his chair and put his feet up on the desk, like a cowboy. Even if he had been seen in that position, nobody would have blamed him: his feet were so sore that he could feel them tingle in bed at night. Also, he was an American and Americans did not consider such behaviour particularly rude.

  Noteworthy items on the desk included, apart from the Palácio manager’s feet, the daily newspaper and a folder containing the hotel guests’ registration forms. The front page of the paper República declared: The Longest Day of the Year! It was true; it was already past six o’clock on the wall clock but outside the sun was still shining bright. However, there was not a word in the paper about the refugees or the widely rumoured German invasion of Portugal. He had intended to look through the hotel registration forms before handing them in to the police but simply didn’t have the energy.

  He closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids he heard sounds he otherwise seldom noticed: the hubbub on the other side of the walls of his office, footsteps on the floor above, the distant whistle of a train.

  *

  A knock at the door startled him awake. He looked at his watch. It must be something urgent; it was only six-thirty. He sat up in his chair, straightened his cuffs and collar, brushed the dandruff off his shoulders and
waited for the second knock.

  ‘Come in!’ he called out.

  It was Lino, the concierge. He walked in and briefly stated the problem.

  ‘Excuse me, Sir, but the matter appears to be delicate. I’m afraid it requires your attention...’

  *

  Lino was an experienced member of staff and if he had had the choice he most certainly would not have disturbed Mr Black. But situations that only the manager could resolve, once rare, had become increasingly frequent of late. It was always the same story: guests wanted to pay their bill in valuables instead of cash. And Mr Black always had the same dilemma: whether to buy their jewellery, art and antiques at a price that suited him, or turn them away because they had no other way of paying.

  He did not need to ask any questions. He told the concierge to bring in the guest and since Lino was already acquainted with the problem he could stay and help out if there was a snag.

  *

  The guest squinted, as if he had emerged from a dark dungeon. He shook hands with Mr Black and sat down on the proffered chair. He was clasping a glass of lemonade.

  For the first few seconds they stared at each other across the desk. The manager kicked off the conversation with the conventional:

  ‘How can I help you, young man?’

  The guest, speaking fluent English with what sounded like an Afrikaans accent, briefly explained that he needed full room and board at the hotel for an indefinite period of time.

  ‘Are you travelling on your own?’ the manager inquired.

  ‘Yes, on my own,’ the guest replied. He did not seem bothered by the indiscreet question.

  The manager thought it might be a good idea to check the guest’s papers, and asked him for his travel document. He gleaned from the Belgian passport the following basic information:

  Name: Gavriel Franklin

  Sex: Male

  Marital Status: Single

  Date and Place of Birth: 23 July 1930, Antwerp

  Permanent address: Pelikaanstraat 612b, Antwerp.

  The proper Portuguese visa, issued in Bordeaux a few days earlier, was signed Mendes. The room had been booked in time. The only problem was that Master Franklin would be turning ten in less than a month. Master Franklin was a child; a lost child.

  From afar, the boy’s unusual clothes made him look older, but upon closer inspection you could see that he was a kid with freckles and a pug nose who looked even younger than ten. His hair was as ragged as a haystack; in the afternoon sun it looked as if a hairy animal was nesting in it. Golden side-locks framed his face. His clothing consisted of a white shirt and sombre black suit, long rekel and black, broad-brimmed hat. His outfit looked entirely inappropriate for a boy his age to be wearing on a hot day in the twentieth century. Had somebody dressed him à la mode and cut his hair, young Master Franklin would have looked like a perfectly nice little boy. This way, all he needed was a false beard to look like a child dressing up for carnival as a Ukrainian rabbi.

  The next question was painful but necessary:

  ‘Do you have parents, young man?’

  ‘Everybody has parents,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Not everybody,’ said the manager. ‘Where are your parents?’

  ‘They’re coming,’ the boy said.

  ‘When do you expect them?’

  ‘Very soon.’

  The boy was wan, the expression on his face wistful. Somebody later described him as looking lonelier than an asteroid in space.

  ‘Do you know approximately when? In how many days?’ the manager pressed, not being a man who knew how to deal with children.

  ‘I don’t know, but I know that my mother and father always keep their word. If they said they will come, then they will come,’ the homeless boy replied.

  ‘Where will they come?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘When you say “here”, what do you mean exactly?’ the manager asked.

  ‘Here. The Palácio Hotel,’ the boy answered.

  *

  No one will ever know why the manager did not simply conclude the conversation right there and then, because he already knew what he had to do. He had enough information to make a decision without thinking twice about it. Instead, however, whether out of curiosity or courtesy, or perhaps even pity or lack of heart, he continued questioning the boy.

  ‘Forgive me for sounding inquisitive, but I’d like to know why your parents didn’t come with you.’

  Gavriel Franklin replied one minute in French, the next in English, always calmly and more rationally than one might expect of someone his age. His tale matched the story of the recent exodus that the manager and concierge had already heard about from other refugees.

  Mr Black did not ask him his religion. Gavriel was obviously Jewish, belonging to one of those Hassidic sects that believe civilization reached its height some one hundred and fifty years ago and, ever since, its members have changed neither their costumes nor their customs.

  He said he was an only child, though not for long because his mother was pregnant. He said that his father and his uncles owned a gem-cutting workshop. That’s to say they had owned it until a month ago. And until a month ago he had gone every day, except for the Sabbath, to the school attached to the synagogue. He was good at interpreting the holy books and Gaby’s uncles teased his father that the boy would become a rabbi not a jeweller. Then, early one morning in mid-May, they picked Gaby up out of his bed and carried the bleary-eyed boy to a car. The rumble of warplanes flying over the stream of refugees on the road jolted him awake.

  They crossed into France and headed for Bordeaux. They had heard that evacuation ships were setting sail from there. But when they reached the port, the last ships had already left. War was approaching and the only safe passage led southwards, towards Spain. But for Spain they needed entry visas, and at the consulate they were rejected without explanation. A Polish rabbi there advised them to get Portuguese visas, which would automatically give them transit rights through Spain.

  They found the Portuguese consulate general in Bordeaux closed, and a crowd of people aimlessly standing around in front of the building. For several nights, they slept in the car. But the consulate, following orders from above, had stopped issuing visas. The consul general in Bordeaux, Dr Aristides de Sousa Mendes, sought instructions from Lisbon as to what to do in this situation of humanitarian catastrophe. The Ministry did not respond to his daily cables. The dense crowd of desperate people swelled, waiting for a miracle. And in the end, there was a miracle. For no apparent reason, the consul general assumed the responsibility himself and ordered that visas be issued to everybody, without restriction. Anybody presenting a passport at the Portuguese consulate was granted a visa, signed and stamped. They were not even charged any consular tax. This went on for several days until the consul general was declared to be of unsound mind and recalled.

  With visas now in their passports the family proceeded with their journey. But not for long. At the Spanish border they once again found themselves amid a crowd of refugees. The border crossing was closed. At Lisbon’s request the Spanish authorities had stopped accepting visas issued by Mendes. Gaby could not really explain how he wound up on Spanish soil without his parents. From what the boy said, Mr Black had the impression that, without telling the child, his parents had paid a Swiss man, who was on his way to Brazil, to take the boy across the border in his limousine, pretending he was his child. As soon as the boy realized that his parents were not following him, he tried to go back, but as he had no entry visa for France he was not allowed into the country.

  The last glimpse he had of his parents was from a distance. They were shouting to him across the checkpoint barrier, saying he should wait for them, but not there; he was to stay with Mr Rikli who knew where to take him. The Swiss gentleman wired the Palácio from Spain, booked a room in the name of Monsieur Franklin, drove the boy to Lisbon, helped him buy a ticket for Estoril and put him on the train. The boy walked from the Estoril station to
the hotel.

  When he had run out of questions, the manager again had to face the same unpleasant decision. Sensing his discomfort, the boy spoke unprompted for the first time.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sir. My parents will come. They always keep their promises.’

  ‘Of course they do,’ the manager agreed, nodding his head. He did not have the heart to tell the boy that the only possible decision he could take was to turn him away. The hotel was neither equipped nor qualified to take care of unaccompanied children. This was a commercial enterprise and there was no place for sentimentality.

  But the strange boy pressed on.

  ‘Don’t worry. I have enough money to pay. I have around twenty-five thousand dollars. I have pounds too. And Swiss francs. And I also have cut diamonds. See, here they are, in the lining,’ he said touching the hem of his rekel as if wanting to make sure that they were still there. ‘The money is in my suitcase.’

  ‘What suitcase? Where is it?’ asked the manager.

  ‘I left it by the door. Shall I go and fetch it?’

  But before he had finished his sentence, the manager was on his feet; he opened the door, picked up the abandoned little suitcase and placed it next to the boy’s chair. The boy thought the manager was angry at him for having left the suitcase outside.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s the first time I’ve done that. I’ll never leave it like that again.’

  Suddenly, the manager was not sure what he should do. He was not angry; he simply had a feeling of trepidation and a guilty conscience. How had the boy even survived? What was he to do with him? The room that had been reserved was waiting for him, but what if his parents got held up on the way? What if they never arrived? Given the value of the money the boy was carrying with him, all problems were soluble. Or were they? No, they certainly would not send him to an orphanage. He had enough money to go to a good boarding school in Switzerland or America.

  Lino, who had said nothing until then, jumped to the aid of his boss. He spoke to him in Portuguese so that the boy would not understand: