Chapter 28 third quarter

Manuel da Silva was waiting for me at the hotel bar.The bar was already full of people, in groups of three and four, coming and going in pairs, and some men were alone.As soon as I walked through the double doors at the entrance, I knew which was him, and he knew who I was. He was thin, stylishly dressed, dark skinned, with strands of white hair in both strands, and wearing a light-colored dress coat.The fingers are neat and slender, the eyes are deep, and the manners are elegant.That's right, it looks like a master of love.But besides being good at Fengyue, there is something else about him.I could see it from the moment we said hello and he leaned over to invite me onto the balcony facing the garden.Something that set me on my toes all at once: witty, shrewd, determined, insightful.It takes more than sweet smiles, winks and coquettish pouts to deceive such a man.

"You don't know how sorry I am that I can't have dinner with you. As I told you on the phone just now, I made an appointment a few weeks ago." Get an ottoman and support the back of the chair. "You mustn't be so polite," I replied.I pretended to be exhausted as I sat down, dragging my saffron dress almost to the floor.I used the gestures I had studied long ago to pull my long hair back, spread it over my bare shoulders, and then naturally crossed my legs, exposing the ankle of one foot, most of the top of the foot, and the pointed shoes with high heels head.I noticed that he didn't take his eyes off me for a second. "Besides," I added, "I'm a little tired from the journey. It would be nice if I could rest earlier."

A waiter placed a bottle of champagne and two wine glasses next to us.Outside the balcony is a lush garden full of various green plants.The sky has darkened, but the last ray of the setting sun can still be seen.The gentle wind always reminds people that the sea is not far away.The air smelled of flowers, of French perfume, and of the damp saltiness of the sea.A pianist in the bar is playing soft music, and there are soft conversations in various languages ​​​​from adjacent tables.At that moment, the dry and dusty Madrid I had left less than twenty-four hours ago seemed to me like a nightmare from another time and place.

"I must confess something to you," said the host when the glass was filled. "Please tell me." I brought my cup to my mouth. "You're the first Moroccan woman I've ever known. It's full of foreigners now, but they're all from Europe." "You've never been to Morocco?" "No, what a pity. Especially if all Moroccan women are like you, it would be a pity not to have been." "It's a very fascinating country and the people are amazing. But I'm afraid you'd have a hard time finding many women like me there. I'm not purely Moroccan, my mother is Spanish. I'm not Muslim and my mother tongue is not Arabic, it's Spanish. But I love Morocco. Besides, I have my family, my house and my friends there. But at the moment I live in Madrid."

I took another sip of my drink, glad I only had to tell a little fib.Brazen lies have become a part of my life, but I still feel safer if I don't have to rely too much on them. "You speak excellent Spanish, too," I said. "I do a lot of work with the Spaniards. In fact, my father had a regular client in Madrid. Before the war started, of course, I mean the Spanish Civil War, I was in Madrid a lot. But lately there has been a lot of other business, So I don’t go to Spain much.” "Of course, the current situation is not good, and business is not easy." "Not necessarily." He said with a hint of sarcasm, "It seems that your business is very prosperous."

I responded with another charming smile, wondering what those damned guys were saying about me in front of him. "It seems that you are very well informed." "At least I try to do that." "Well, I have to admit, my business isn't bad. In fact, you know, that's exactly what I'm here for." "I plan to bring the best fabrics back to Spain and release the new season's fashion." "Yes, that's exactly what I hope. It is said that you have very beautiful Chinese silk there." "Do you want to know the facts?" He winked at me with a mysterious look.

"Of course, tell me." I lowered the volume and played the game with him. "The truth is, I don't know!" he laughed. "I don't even know what kind of silk we import from Macau. I've never been directly involved in these things. About textiles..." At this time, a thin young man came to us quietly, with a neatly trimmed mustache.He said "excuse me" in Portuguese, and then leaned towards Da Silva's left ear and said something, but I couldn't hear it.I pretended to appreciate the growing night in the garden.The round white street lamp has just been turned on, the conversations on the adjacent tables are getting more and more lively, and the beautiful sound of the piano is still echoing on the platform.However, in this heavenly environment, my mind did not relax at all, and I kept paying close attention to everything that happened between these two men.I guessed that this seemingly sudden interruption was a pre-arranged appointment.If the meeting with me was not pleasant, da Silva would have an excuse to disappear immediately, just make up some unexpected situation.But if on the contrary, if he thinks I'm worth his time, he can pretend to know about it and send the person away.

Fortunately, he chose the latter. "As I told you just now," continued the young man as soon as he had left, "I have never had direct contact with the textiles we import. I mean, I know the material and the quantity of the cloth, but I don't know much about their I don't know anything about aesthetic value, and I think that's what interests you." "Maybe you can send a subordinate to help me," I suggested. "Of course, I have a very efficient team. But I'd rather work for you myself." "I don't want you to be too..." I interrupted him.

He didn't let me finish. "It's an honor to serve you," he said, gesturing to the waiter for a refill. "How long do you expect to be here?" "About two weeks. Besides fabrics, I'd like to drop by a few other suppliers, and maybe some boutiques and shops. Shoes, hats, underwear, haberdashery... as you know, in Spain these days It's almost impossible to find anything decent." "I can provide all the supplier information you need, you don't have to worry. Let me see, I have to go out early tomorrow morning, but I believe I will be back in two days at most. How about we meet on Thursday morning?"

"Of course, but I still don't want to cause you too much trouble..." He got up from the back of the chair, approached me, and stared at me closely. "You never bother me." Then you just wait and see, I thought.But there was a bright smile on his face.We continued talking about trivial matters for a while, ten minutes, maybe fifteen minutes.When I thought it was time to end the meeting, I feigned a yawn, and quickly apologized in a low, feigned panic. "I'm sorry. It's exhausting to spend the night on the train." "Then go and rest quickly." He said and stood up.

"Besides, didn't you make an appointment for dinner?" "Oh, yes, and dinner, yes," he said casually, without even looking at his watch. "I think they'll be waiting for me," he added listlessly.I think he is lying.But maybe it's true. We walked together to the entrance of the hall, and all the way he greeted people incessantly, changing languages ​​with astonishing ease and ease.A handshake here, a pat on the shoulder there affectionately.Affectionate kisses on the cheeks of a haggard, paper-fragile old lady, and winks at two rich ladies in head-to-toe jewels. "Estoril is full of these old parrots, once rich and now penniless," he whispered in my ear, "but they cling to the past and won't let it go Just eating white bread and sardines has to maintain their little face. They wear gold and silver all over their bodies, and even want to wear mink fur coats in summer, but the wallets in their hands are almost growing green hair. It is estimated that there are several Not a penny will come in or out every month." My simple and elegant clothes complement the surrounding environment, and he is responsible for everyone around to see this.He didn't introduce me to anyone or who they were, he just walked beside me and followed me as if he was guarding me, showing off his gallantry. I walked to the exit with him, while quickly evaluating the results of today's meeting in my mind.Manuel da Silva greeted me, invited me for a glass of champagne and assessed me for himself: using his own eyes to judge whether I, who had come to him from Madrido connections, were worth him personally reception.This relationship is full of twists and turns. Although the client asks him to treat me kindly, he can have two completely different ways of dealing with it: one is to send other people to find a capable subordinate to treat me hospitablely, and to avoid this situation completely by himself. The second is to receive me personally.His time is precious, and there is no doubt that there are many things at hand.Therefore, he can decide to deal with these unimportant things of mine personally, which shows that my task is developing in a favorable direction. "I will contact you as soon as I have time." He said goodbye and held out his hand to me. "Thank you very much, Mr. da Silva." I said and held out my hands to him.Not one hand, but two hands. "Please call me Manuel," he said.I noticed that he held my hand a little longer than protocol required. "Then you have to call me Iris." "Good evening, Iris, it was a pleasure meeting you. See you next time, rest well and enjoy your time in our country." I walked into the elevator and kept staring at him until the golden elevator door slowly closed, and the scene of the hall narrowed little by little before my eyes.Manuel da Silva stood in the doorway, first with his shoulders, then his ears and neck, and finally his nose, before he disappeared completely. As the elevator began to ascend, I made sure I was out of his sight, and I sighed so hard that the young elevator attendant almost asked me if I wasn't feeling well.The first step of the task is done, I pass the test. The next morning, I went down early for breakfast.Under the coolness of the awning, I ate butter biscuits, drank fragrant coffee, and stayed in the garden as long as possible.Compared with the tense toil every morning in Madrid, this is a day like a fairy.When I returned to the room, there was a beautiful bouquet of flowers on the desk.Almost unconsciously, I hastily untied the ribbon adorning the bouquet, looking for some coded message.But there are neither dots nor horizontal lines on it, let alone any instructions, and there is a handwritten card in the bouquet. His handwriting is strong and elegant.While I should have made a good impression on him the night before, his message this morning was anything but flattering or even overly gracious.Courteous and very modest, very measured.This is better, at least temporarily. Jon was a gray-haired man in a gray uniform with a bushy beard who looked at least seventy years old.He waited for me in front of the hotel, smoking a cigarette to pass the time while chatting with people of the same occupation as his but much younger. "Monsieur da Silva sent me to take Missy wherever you want," he said, looking me up and down.I guess this is not the first time he has taken on such a task. "Please, I'm going to do some shopping in Lisbon." Actually, I'm not interested in those streets and shops, I just want to pass the time until Manuel da Silva shows up again. It soon became apparent that Jon was far from your typical cautious and focused driver.Not long after starting the black Bentley, he said something about the weather, complained about the road a few minutes later, and cursed about the price and other trivial matters of life.In the face of his obvious desire to talk, I can have two completely different attitudes: put on a high-ranking posture, seem to think that employees are inferior, and don't even look at me; Be an approachable foreigner who can get along with the service staff on an equal footing, though reserved.I can choose to be the first kind of person, it will be more comfortable, hiding in my own little world, and not letting this talkative old guy bother me.But I knew I couldn't do that because within a short drive he mentioned that he had worked for Da Silva for fifty-three years.Yes, playing the haughty dame would have been so easy for me not to bother with him, but the other option would have been more practical.As unbearable as his chatter was, I hoped he would keep talking, because since he knew da Silva's past so well, he might as well understand his present. We are driving on the coastal road with the roaring sea on our right.By the time Lisbon loomed in sight, I had a rough idea of ​​the ins and outs of the da Silva family business.Manuel da Silva bears the same name as his father and grandfather, and the three-generation fortune started in a port tavern.His grandfather only sold wine behind the counter in the tavern at first, and later he started to wholesale wine in large barrels, and the business site moved to a huge warehouse, which is now abandoned. When passing by, Jon pointed out to me .His father inherited and expanded the business: besides wine, he also wholesaled other goods, and soon entered into a series of tentative commercial dealings with the colonies.By his generation, the family business has been very prosperous, but the business status was finally stabilized by the third generation Manuel da Silva, who I just met.Cotton from Cape Verde, wood from Mozambique, Chinese silk from Macau.Recently, he has opened up some new businesses in the country, and he travels to other places in the country from time to time, but Jon failed to tell me what kind of business he does there. In fact, old Jon has retired, and a nephew replaced him as da Silva's personal driver a few years ago.But he is still very active, and from time to time he is asked by his master to do some less important chores: short trips, sending a message, small-scale deliveries, and so on.For example, wandering around Lisbon with an idle female fashionista on a May morning. In a shop in Chiado I bought a few pairs of gloves, which are hard to find in Madrid these days.In another shop I bought a dozen pairs of silk stockings, a distant dream for Spanish women after the war.A little further on, I bought a spring hat, a few bars of soap, and two pairs of sandals; then American cosmetics, eyelashes, lipstick, and night cream that smelled intoxicating.Compared with Spain, where supplies are scarce, this place is a paradise.Everything is at your fingertips, so colorful and diverse, you can get it right out of your pocket.Jon dutifully took me from place to place, helped me with my purchases, and opened and closed the doors countless times to get me in and out comfortably.He recommended me to eat in a very pleasant restaurant and explained the streets, squares and monuments to me.And inadvertently and generously delivered what I crave most, bits and pieces about da Silva and his family.Some things don't make much sense, like his grandmother who was the real mover in the original business, his mother who died young, his sister who married a mystic, and his younger sister who entered a run-down convent.But other pieces of information lifted my spirits.The old driver was so proactive about these things that he barely needed my help.Mr. Manuel has many friends, both Portuguese and foreigners.Among the foreigners, the British are of course the most numerous, but recently there have also been some Germans.He often entertains guests at home, in fact, he likes to keep everything ready at all times in case he suddenly decides to bring guests back for dinner, sometimes at his home on Lapa Avenue in Lisbon, sometimes at the Fonte Estate, which is his Suburban villa. On this day, I also had the opportunity to observe people of all types and economic conditions living in the city of Lisbon.There were men and elegant ladies in dark suits, nouveau riche who had just arrived in the capital from the countryside and bought gold watches and teeth, women dressed in black like crows, menacing Germans, dejected Jews refugees.There are those hurrying through the streets, those standing in long lines just to buy a ticket to salvation, and foreigners with all kinds of accents fleeing from wars and war-torn places.I knew that Rosalinda was among them.I pretended to be on a whim and asked Jon to take me to see the beautiful Liberty Avenue, those black and white gravel roads, and the towering trees on both sides.That's where she lives, number 114.It was the address that appeared on the letters that Bergbel sent to my house, and that night was probably the most bitter moment of his life.I searched for the house number and found it at the door of a magnificent building with fine porcelain walls. The number 114 was impressively engraved on the huge wooden foyer in the middle.How much I miss her, a trace of sadness wells up. We continued to wander around in the afternoon, but I felt tired around five o'clock.It was a sweltering day and my head was about to explode from Jon's blah blah blah. "Last stop, right here." When I said it was time to go back, he suggested.He parked the car opposite the entrance to a café on Carrett Avenue that said Brazilian Coffee. "Whoever comes to Lisbon, no one wants to miss such a cup of delicious coffee." He added. "But, Jon, it's getting late..." I complained. "Five minutes is enough! Go ahead and order a drink, you won't regret it." I accepted listlessly, because I didn't want to upset him.This unexpected intelligence agent may still be useful to me in the future.Although the decoration inside is rather artificial, and most of the customers are locals, the environment is quite pleasant.As soon as you enter the door, there is a bar counter on the right, a coffee seat on the left, and a huge clock directly opposite. The ceiling is decorated with golden moldings, and the walls are covered with huge paintings.They brought me a small white china cup, and I took a sip.Black coffee, very strong and very tasty.Jon is right, this coffee really lifts your spirits.As I wait for my coffee to cool, I organize my thoughts for the day.Recall every detail about da Silva, evaluating and categorizing it in your head.When there are only a few coffee grounds left in the cup, I put a bill beside it and stand up. That's when we met.This reunion came too suddenly, too abruptly, too swiftly, and I didn't even have time to react.Just when I got up and was about to leave, three men wearing top hats came in from the door: three top hats, three ties, and three faces of foreigners, talking in English. Two of them don't know each other, but the third one is so familiar.We have been separated for more than three years.And in all these years, Marcus Logan doesn't seem to have changed at all. I saw the other party before him, so by the time he spotted me, I had already set my eyes anxiously on the door. "Sheila..." he whispered. It's been a long, long time since anyone called me that.There was a spasm in my stomach and I nearly spit the coffee I had just drank onto the marble floor.In front of me, only two meters away from me, was the man who was calling my name and still had such a surprised expression on his face. He was the man who had shared my joys and sorrows, shared my fears and joys with me, and I laughed together, chatted together, walked together, danced together, cried together: he helped me find my mother back, but I tried my best to resist falling in love with him, although during the time we were together, the relationship between us had already faded. Far beyond friendship.Memories of the past suddenly flashed before my eyes like a movie: Tetouan, Rosalinda, Bergbebel, the National Hotel, the boutiques on Sidi Manderley Street... those hectic days and the long The Long Night, and the stories that could have happened but didn't.The past can never be turned back.I just want to hug him and tell him that yes, Marcus, it's me.I want to ask him to take me away from here again, grab his hand and run like we did that night in the African garden.We returned to Morocco together, forgetting that there is something called intelligence work in this world, forgetting that I still have a thousand tasks to complete, and a gloomy and sad Madrid waiting for me to go back.But I didn't do anything.Reason overwhelmed my emotions with its sweeping power, telling myself that I had no choice but to pretend I didn't know him.So I just had to do it. I didn't answer when I heard my name, and I didn't look at him again.Like being deaf and dumb, like this man never had a place in my life, like I never wet his collar with tears and begged him not to leave me, like between us The deep feelings have completely melted and disappeared in the memory.I could only pretend that I didn't see him, focused my eyes on the door, and walked out with indifferent but firm steps. Jon was waiting for me, the rear door was open.Fortunately, his attention was completely absorbed by a small accident on the opposite sidewalk.There was a group of people arguing loudly, a dog and a bicycle inside.I walked up to him and called him before he noticed my presence. "Let's go, Jon, I'm exhausted," I said as I sat down. He closed the back door as soon as I got in the car, sat back behind the wheel, and started the car while asking me how I felt about his recommendation.But I didn't answer, but used all my strength to force myself to focus on the front instead of looking back.I almost did it.But when the Bentley started to slide on the road, an inner impulse overcame my perseverance, and I finally couldn't help but do what I shouldn't: look back at him. Marcus has chased out the gate, standing there motionless, cap on his head, focused expression, hands in his trouser pockets, watching me go.Maybe he was asking himself if the woman he had just seen was really the one he had almost fallen in love with, or a phantom. When I got back to the hotel I told Jon not to pick me up the next day.Although Lisbon is still a large and medium-sized city, I can't take any more risks. I'm afraid of meeting Marcus Logan again.I made the excuse that I was tired and had a headache.I know that the news that Miss Iris doesn't plan to go out the next day will reach Silva soon, and I don't want him to feel that I am rejecting his kindness, so I have to find something to stand up to. foot grounds.I spent the evening soaking in the tub, and spent the evening on the patio, absent-mindedly admiring the lights on the sea.During this time, I didn't let Marcus go for a minute in my heart: thinking about him, thinking about what the time spent by his side meant to me, thinking about what it would be like if we met again someday , what consequences will I face.By the time I fell asleep, it was already dawn, my stomach was empty, my lips were dry, and my heart was in a mess. The garden and breakfast the next morning were the same as the day before, but although I tried to be natural, I couldn't enjoy everything as much as the day before.I forced myself to finish my breakfast, although I didn't feel hungry at all.I stayed on the terrace as long as I could, flipping through a few magazines in a language I couldn't understand, and didn't get up until the last few customers were left in the restaurant.It's not even eleven o'clock in the morning, and I've had a whole day with nothing to do but wallow in my own thoughts. I went back to the room and the room had been tidied.I lie on the bed and close my eyes.ten minutes. twenty minutes.thirty minutes.But I couldn't lie down for forty minutes, because I couldn't stand myself thinking about the same thing all the time.I changed into a lightweight skirt, a white cotton shirt, and flat sandals, wrapped my hair in a printed silk scarf, put on a pair of giant sunglasses, and walked out of the room.I couldn't bear to look in the mirror along the way, I didn't want to see the gloomy expression on my face. The beach was almost deserted.Wide flat waves come in wave after wave, with a monotonous rhythm.Not far away, there is a building that looks like a castle, and a magnificent cape villa.Opposite is the wide ocean, as endless as my troubles.I sat on the beach and watched the sea quietly, my eyes were focused on the waves that kept gathering and being crushed, I forgot the time and let myself fall into endless memories.Every wave brings a memory, an imprint of the past, the once young me, my achievements, my fears, those friends I have forgotten in a corner of time; the scene of another time and space, the voice .In particular, the sea this morning allowed me to dig out a long-forgotten feeling from a certain fold in my memory: the intimate touch of a hand, the strong arms, the joy shared together, and the endless eager. It was just before three o'clock in the afternoon, and I stood up and slapped the sand off my skirt.It's time to go back, although this time is not particularly meaningful, as good as any other time, and just as bad.I walked across the road to the hotel with very little traffic.One car is moving away and another is slowly approaching.The latter makes me feel familiar, I have vaguely seen it somewhere.A hint of curiosity made me slow down until it passed me.So I saw the car and the people in it clearly.Da Silva's Bentley, with Jon in the driver's seat.What a coincidence, what a chance reunion.No, I couldn't help shivering.The veteran driver certainly had good reasons for wandering the streets of Estoril, but my gut told me he was coming for me.Wake up, girl, wake up!If it was Candelaria or the mother, they would have said so.But they weren't there, so I had to remind myself.Yes, it's time for me to wake up, I'm letting my guard down.The reunion with Marcus has stirred my heart and flooded me with countless memories and emotions.However, now is not the time to indulge sentimentality.I have a mission and a promise to people: I must play a certain role, appear in the image specified, and try to complete the mission.Sitting by the sea and watching the tide ebb and flow does nothing but waste time and plunge yourself into infinite sadness.It's time to get back to reality. I quickened my pace, trying to look energetic and light on my feet.Although Jon has disappeared, there may still be eyes watching me in other unknown corners, fulfilling the task assigned by Da Silva.Of course it was impossible for him to have any doubts about me, but maybe his domineering and manipulative personality made him want to find out what his Moroccan guests were up to if they didn't enjoy the car he provided.And I should fully show him all this. I returned to my room by a side staircase, freshened and dressed, and appeared again in front of the crowd.The previous white shirt print skirt was replaced by an elegant orange suit, and the flat sandals were replaced by a pair of snakeskin high heels.I took off my sunglasses and carefully put on makeup with the cosmetics I bought a few days ago.The silk scarf was also untied, and her hair was loose on her shoulders.I descended the main staircase and walked leisurely through the second-floor terrace, under which is the spacious vestibule.I went down another flight of steps to the first floor, and smiled at everyone I met along the way: to ladies, no matter how old they were, what language they spoke, or whether they noticed me or not, I bowed gracefully and lightly. Nod lightly to express greetings; for men, they always wink.Most of them are foreigners.Some were so old that I even responded with an exaggerated, almost coquettish look.Then I went to the front desk and asked the waiter for a telegram, addressed to Ms. Manuela, to the address of my boutique. "Portugal is great, shopping spree. Rest from the headache today. Tomorrow I will start visiting suppliers with all my heart. Sincerely, Iris Agrek." Finally, I chose a four-seater sofa in the lobby and sat down.The place was so crowded and conspicuous that I crossed my legs gracefully, ordered two aspirins and a cup of tea, and decided to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening in public view. I tried to hide my boredom there, and endured it for nearly three hours until I was hungry.Well, let's call it a day, it's time to go back to the room and order some dinner.I was about to stand up when a young waiter came up, holding a silver tray with an envelope on it and a card in the envelope. It seems that I was right in my prediction, the news spread quickly.I was tempted to turn around and look for the eyeliner driver, or even da Silva himself, but finally refrained.Although one of them must not have gone far, I put on a nonchalant, absent-minded look and resumed flipping through an American magazine with feigned concentration.In fact, I have read this magazine in the afternoon.Half an hour later, the hall was empty, and the guests had dispersed to the bar, terrace and restaurant.I went back to my room, determined to get Marcus out of my head entirely, and focus on the tough fight that awaited me the next day. Jon threw the cigarette butt on the ground, said good morning, stomped out the cigarette butt with the sole of his shoe, opened the door for me, and looked me up and down.But this time, there's no need for him to tell his master anything, because I'm going to see him in person soon.