when it was our turn to give the lunch, we went to the beach restaurant with the yellow and blue tiled floor. It was Correia's idea afterwards that we should all go to see his beach house, the investment. Ana and I and many of the others had never seen it, and he said he hadn't been there for two years. We drove from the restaurant back to the narrow asphalt coast road, a black crust on the sand, and after a while we turned off into a firm sandy road that led between brilliant green sand shrubs and tropical almond trees back to the sea. We saw an African hut, its smooth grass roof shining and almost auburn in the light. We stopped. Correia called out, “Auntie! Auntie!” An old black woman in an African cloth came out from behind the straight reed fence. Correia said to us, “Her son is half-Portuguese. He is the caretaker.” He was loud and friendly with the African woman, overdoing it a little, perhaps to show off to us, acting out the twin roles of the man who got on with Africans and the employer who treated his people well. The woman was worried. She was resisting Correia's role-playing. Correia asked for Sebastiao. Sebastiao wasn't at home. And we followed Correia, who was making a lot of noise, to the house on the beach.
We found a half ruin. Windows had been broken; in the moist salt air nails had rusted everywhere, and the rust had run, staining faded paint and bleached wood. The French doors on the ground floor had been taken off their hinges. Half in and half out of what should have been the sitting room there was a high-sided fishing boat propped up on timbers as in a dry dock.
The old African woman stood some distance behind Correia. He said nothing. He just looked. His face creased and went strange. He was beyond anger, and far away from the scene about him. He was helpless, drowning in pain. I thought, “He's mad. I wonder why I never saw it before.” And it was as if Carla, the convent girl, was used to living with what I had just seen. She went to him and, as though we were not there, talked to him as to a child, using language I had never heard her use. She said, “We'll burn the fucking place down. I'll go and get the kerosene right now and we'll come back and burn the whole damned thing, with the fucking boat.” He said nothing, and allowed her to lead him by the arm back to the car, past Auntie's hut.
When we next saw them, some weeks later, he looked drained. His thin cheeks were soft and slack. Carla said, “We're going to Europe for a while.”
Mrs. Noronha, hunched up in her chair, said in her soft voice, “A bad time.” Carla said, “We want to go and see the children.” The Correias' two children, who were in their teens, had been sent a year or so before to boarding schools in Portugal. Mrs. Noronha said, “A better time for them.” And then, without any change of tone, “What's the matter with the boy? Why is he so ill?” Carla became agitated. She said, “I didn't know he was ill. He hasn't written that.”
Mrs. Noronha paid no attention. She said, “I made a journey once at a bad time. It was not long after the war. And it was long before I took to this chair. Before I took the throne, you might say. We went to South Africa, to Durban. A pretty town, but it was a bad time. About a week after we got there the natives began to riot. Shop-burning, looting. The riots were against the Indians, but I got caught up in the trouble one day. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know the streets. In the distance I saw a white lady with fair hair and a long dress. She beckoned to me and I went to her. She led me without a word through various side streets to a big house, and there I stayed until the streets were quiet. I told my friends about the incident that evening. They said, ‘What was this lady like?' I told them. They said, ‘Describe the house.' I described the house. And somebody said, ‘But that house was pulled down twenty years ago. The lady you met lived there, and the house