The apron baked in the bright sun. The passengers descended the metal steps cautiously, blinking at the dazzling glare, and then moved gratefully to the welcome shade of the building, herded by a young girl in uniform. Huuygens undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie a trifle, taking his place in the ragged queue that had formed before the first desk. He brought his passport from an inner pocket, holding it in his hand for presentation. The line shuffled forward; passports were examined, stamped, and returned. He found himself at the desk and handed the green booklet over; the official before him exhibited neither curiosity nor delay. The stamp rose and fell; the cold eye of the official passed on to the next passenger. The uniformed man might have been a machine stamping labels on bottles as they moved evenly down a conveyor.
Kek shrugged. He allowed the police to add their stamp to the growing collection with an equal lack of interest, and then tucked the booklet into his pocket for easy access and followed the others into the customs section. The passengers here, released from the restrictions of the queue, were scattered along the barrier, searching out their luggage, waving at friends beyond the guarded doorway, attempting to attract the attention of any one of the inspectors, all of whom were grouped about a desk in the center of the room, seemingly shuffling declaration forms as a means of postponing release of the prisoners as long as possible. Huuygens noted his lone piece of luggage at the very end of the low counter, set apart from the others. He smiled slightly with an awareness of history, and moved up to it; an inspector detached himself from the group at the desk and came over immediately, accepting the proffered passport. The briefest of glances and it was immediately returned; even before Huuygens could unfasten the latch of the bag, a chalkmark had been scribbled on the leather, and the inspector had retired without looking back, almost as if he were being chased. Kek’s eyebrows rose; he smiled in appreciation. In this untidy world in which we live, he thought, it is truly pleasant to encounter good organization once in a while. Pleasant, but also thought-provoking.
He stopped in the main lobby of the airport long enough to exchange some francs for escudos, using the opportunity to scan the faces about him, but they all exhibited the normal blank self-concern of any group of strangers preoccupied with their own affairs. He surrendered his bag to a porter and followed him to the taxi-rank.
The ride to the hotel was extremely pleasant. The driver maneuvered his cab carefully and slowly, as if wishing the foreigner to have the opportunity of appreciating the lovely city, nor did he attempt to act as combination guide and philosopher, but kept his eyes forward and his mouth closed. A man like this could make a fortune in New York City, Kek thought with a smile, and leaned back, relaxed, to take full advantage of the rare trip.
Their route took them down the Avenida do Brasil to the landscaped Campo Grande, past sidewalk cafés mottled by the swaying shadows of overhanging trees, along streets where traffic moved calmly and evenly under the watchful and slightly threatening eye of military-clad police, and the strollers seemed to adjust their leisurely pace as if to better savor the rich flavor of the city. In the distance the Castelo de São Jorge watched their progress with calm detachment from its rugged and safe height. The cab paused at a traffic circle and then eased itself into the Avenida da República; it turned off the wide avenue halfway along its length and began winding through a series of narrow streets. The driver was aware that it was not the quickest way, but he recognized that his passenger was simpático to his beloved Lisbon, and he wished to show him the full heritage of beauty stored behind the barriers of the wide avenues. Other cities, he seemed to be saying by his action, hide their decay in their back streets; Lisbon merely stores the overflow of its richness there.
They swung from the last of the travesías, pulling into the Rua Sidónia Pais. The hotel to which Huuygens had cabled for reservations was the Ouro Vermelho; it was a narrow six-story building that faced the park, and from the outside seemed to bear out the description given by the friend in Paris who had recommended it on the basis of its “beautiful privacy.” Kek paid off the cab with a generous tip and carried his bag into the lobby; the “beautiful privacy” was partially maintained, it appeared, by the lack of a doorman. He noted that the registration desk was set in an alcove that did not permit vision of the self-service elevator, nor of the stairway that ran discreetly beside it. Here one could come and go without undue notice.
He approached the desk and leaned against it; a card was instantly slid in his direction by a young clerk whose smile seemed tattooed on his plump and pimpled face. Huuygens filled it out, referring to his passport for the myriad details required of foreigners, and then looked up to discover the clerk’s smile had vanished and had been replaced, for no apparent reason, by a look of acute embarrassment. The young man picked up the completed registration card and clutched it tightly, as if to be sure it would not be taken from him.
“Senhor...”
Huuygens’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes?”
The embarrassment deepened. “I’m afraid, senhor, that we have no bellmen. One of them is out sick today, and the other...” He shrugged elaborately, as if this gesture might somehow explain the other’s absence, or at least excuse it. “I should be happy to carry your bag myself, but...” He glanced about the cluttered desk, his eyes enumerating the many reasons why he could not leave.
Kek smiled in understanding. “It’s of no consequence. I can manage quite well.”
“Ah!” The clerk was happy again. He handed over a key and then bent as far over the desk as his ample stomach permitted, waving one hand. “The lift is just around the corner. Your room is Sala 607. On the third floor...”
Kek had traveled in Europe too extensively to be surprised by the system — or lack of it — used in numbering hotel rooms. He nodded pleasantly, picked up his bag, and found the elevator, closing the door behind him. The ancient beast of burden awoke from its catatonic slumber with a jerk and rose grumpily through the open grillwork of the shaft, petulantly enumerating its numerous infirmities by a series of groans and clanks. At the third floor Huuygens tugged the door open and closed it again, respecting the age of the lift, and the fact that he might have to use it again. He walked down the carpeted hallway, located his room, slid the key in the lock, and swung the door back. And then froze, his jaw tight, his eyes immediately on the alert.
Two men, glasses in hand, were facing him from either side of a small table near the windows; a bottle and a third glass on the table completed the tableau. For a second Kek stood tense, frowning at his unexpected visitors, and then visibly relaxed. He came into the room with a broad grin, closing the door behind him.
“Ah! A welcoming committee!”
André cocked his grizzled, giant head to one side, considering the newcomer critically a moment, and then turned to Michel. “He’s grown a bit in the past twelve years. But then, I suppose it was only to be expected.”
Michel nodded morosely and reached for the bottle. His little black eyes looked through and beyond Huuygens a moment, and then returned to see that he did not cheat himself in replenishing his drink. “Physically, anyway. If not mentally.”
Huuygens laughed. He dropped his bag on the bed and came to stand between the two. “So this is the greeting after twelve long years? This is the extent of the warmth?”
“They don’t permit firecrackers in the hotel,” André said dryly, and raised his glass in a silent toast, after which he drank it and winked congenially at Huuygens over the top of the glass. His huge hand almost engulfed the small bit of crystal. “Yes. You’ve grown quite a bit in the last twelve years.”