Silva in Lisbon

 

I’d never intended for the spirit of my cat to accompany me to Lisbon, after all she’d been dead for almost three years and had only returned to me occasionally in dreams as a wispy presence, distant and indifferent. However there she was, indisputable, the late great Silva, clawing my lap, purring in my ear.

 

The sound of the plane filled my ears, splitting my brain, a heavy throbbing sensation pulsed in my sinuses. I closed my eyes and immediately felt as if we were plummeting through the air, spiralling headlong  towards earth and into fiery oblivion. Opening them again I only saw a sea of dull heads, brown frizzy hair, dandruff-ridden scalp; the craft level, coasting through the clouds, safe if not preposterous.

 

Silva’s ghost was old, elderly, it was the ghost of her latterly self, the final life of her nine, bony and demanding, stiff and angry. Her appearance on my lap went unnoticed at first, she slotted in, her light furry frame nestling into the contours on my body as she had done for almost eighteen years of earthly life. The perception of her presence dawned on me slowly until it was undeniable and it triggered an unexpected physiological response which I can only describe as unemotional tears; they filled my eyes, wet and copious, uncontrollable but with none of the pain or facial anamorphosis of standard sobbing.

 

Keen to hide my apparent blubbering from the airline staff I once again closed my eyes and tried to ignore the accompanying sense of freefall. There was something about flying that put me out of touch with my emotions despite its proximity to heaven, was it heaven or space, something else? All of the above will surely do nicely as a place for the deceased to hang out, reside, swirl in the form of microscopic particles. I was within touching distance of departed friends but my tears were a lie, I felt nothing, it was as if everything were on hold.

 

Air Portugal pushed unlabelled ham rolls into the hands of unsuspecting passengers quite unapologetically. I peered through the cellophane, it was that sort of cheap ham, thin and pale with holes where pigs veins had once pumped with blood. Silva wouldn’t have touched such meat and I wasn’t going to either. Thankfully my tears dried out, time passed, we landed safely and alighted the plane. A scruffy wrinkled man stood with a cardboard sign displaying my name, we followed him into a waiting taxi and made the short journey to my apartment.

 

It was my first visit to Portugal and naively I had expected a dustier version of Spain. How wrong. Even the trees were different, they didn’t go in for palms, here were pines and Jacarandas. And the language was harsh sounding, I was not going to be able to say ‘Buenos dias’, my favourite holiday phrase, delivered in a very high pitched voice which often fooled the Spaniards. Unfortunately it was a phrase I hadn’t built on and stood like a rabbit in the headlights as they continued our conversation in their home tongue. The British are embarrassing, unashamedly so.

 

Lisbon is not a lonely place, even the buildings stand close together like old friends. Silva had made no such appearance in Monaco where I could really have used some spiritual company. Monaco is the loneliest place on earth although the ice cream is cheaper than you’d expect. Those shady people have switched off all the buttons on their dispositional dashboard, except the one that says money. There I had felt desperate after a night in the local jail, a harsh punishment for stealing some Agapanthus root from the palace gardens, to take back to England, a small dull thing to nurture into something beautiful, a reminder of the futility of excessive wealth.

 

My Lisbon apartment turned out to be a microscopic version of how it had appeared in the photos and a good deal dirtier. Silva wandered around as I unpacked some essentials. I recalled how she had been a selfish pet, demanding of attention, affectionate yet brimming with spite. This had worsened after the acquisition of my greyhounds; huge, silent lumps which hogged the sofas, we sat on the floor with their long slender paws dangling between our heads. Those dogs had added two hundred pounds to the cost of my holiday.

 

I was on a budget and intended to cook most of my meals in the apartment and so made a trip to the nearest supermercado. I have no sense of direction and navigating strange places takes a great deal of my mental energy. We walked down an inconveniently steep hill, passing many strange little shops and windows filled with lying sardines, they told us they were octopi but they were neatly arranged nevertheless. It struck me how Silva had no interest in food now that she was a ghost.

 

She had always had such a good appetite, despite her slender frame, even in her last weeks she had still eaten. Had I put her down too early? This was a question which troubled me from time to time. I had been so sure that the time was right for her to go, she’d been wobbly on her feet, pained in appearance, terribly incontinent; her many expunges set like cement on the floor. The vet said I could hold her and whisked her away to ‘Find a vain, this could take some time’ he’d said, ‘given her age.’ Five minutes passed, ten? He returned clutching a black eyed zombie, a lifeless bag of bones, her little heart just about ticking as I held her for the injection of finality, feeling cheated and that I’d cheated her too.

 

I made it back to the apartment passing many lone policeman who stood on corners chain-smoking. I had spent three euros on some eggs and fresh bread rolls. The rest of Europe are interminably superior to us when it comes to bread. Fortunately somebody had left some cooking oil in a cupboard and unusually for a holiday let, the frying pan had its Teflon coating intact. The eggs were almost cooked when a puff of bat guano shot down from the chimney above the stove, coating my eggs and the surrounding area. Now I had to reduce my budget for outings and increase it for meals out.

 

The taxi driver had advised me to visit the Monastery Geronimo and see Vasco da Garma’s grave, being rather frightened by the idea of packed buses and baffling ticket machines I decided to walk. There was a sort of coastal path which felt relatively safe except the middle-aged Germans who travelled by Segway in packs, looking awkward, sunburned but financially comfortable. I was treated to the sight of a large white jellyfish which floated on the surface of the estuary, captivating me for several minutes, at one point I thought it might be a plastic bag but no it was undoubtedly a jellyfish, they have no brain or heart FACT.

 

It was a longer walk than I had envisaged but eventually I arrived and joined a very long queue for entry to the monastery, the adjoining church was free but being a tourist it was my duty to queue in the hot sun while Silva wandered ahead, weaving through people’s legs. She met me forty minutes later inside the monastery, we walked around slowly, trying hard to look cultured. It turned out to be quite boring although built from exquisitely carved white stone. The church next door was far more interesting and this was where Vasco was buried and also where I overheard a guide talking to a group of Japanese tourists. ‘After the earthquake,’ she said, ‘the great earthquake of 1755….’

 

I hadn’t done my Lisbon homework, what earthquake? I thought. Silva glared at me, ‘You always were quite stupid,’ she said, ‘you make bad choices, you’re an inconsistent parent and you are just one of those people who…..’

 

‘Who what?’

 

The cat spirit turned away. I returned to the apartment, picked up my phone, typed in an ultra complex password umpteen times, turned to Google and learned disparate ‘facts’ about the great earthquake; between 10,000 and 100,000 people died, the chances of it happening again in Lisbon are slim but they are also estimated to be around eighty percent. Lisbon is built where  the Africa and Eurasia plates meet FACT, they rub up against each other causing pressure. The great earthquake marked the beginning of atheism since it occurred on All Saint’s day and the red light district was unaffected. Something positive came of it then, it became okay to question as well as to believe.

 

I felt uneasy, as if there were a distant rumbling somewhere down below the ground. I lay in my bed (which was extremely comfortable), I left the windows and shutters open wide, Silva sat and listened to the sound of the streets, the local cats, mangy and uneducated, yowling in the local dialect. I pictured those plates rubbing up against each other and I ground my teeth.

 

I am not the most adventurous when it comes to food and despite comprehensive menu options in Lisbon, all too frequently I settled for the margarita pizza. For breakfast I had a different cake each day but they all contained a large quantity of custard, by the end of the week I had eaten my weight in custard. My budget drained away on meals out, the bat guano piled up on the stove and I still couldn’t entertain it as a condiment.

 

I kept myself amused just wandering around the city, exploring. I was both appalled and impressed by the abundant graffiti, on houses, trains, bus stops, stairs, shops. The pavements were a challenge, they were delightful and also dangerous, those sweet little patterns paved into the cobbles, flowers, stars, patterns and then the uneven, missing tiles, the 1:2 gradient, the many fire hydrants randomly set into the ground. This is no place for wheelchair users FACT.  

 

By the end of the week I was a little claustrophobic and in need of green open spaces. I liked Lisbon, it was magical and shabby, there was more to see but I needed a break, I longed for the comforts of home. I received a text from the dogsitter, ‘One of your greyhounds is manipulating me.’ I didn’t reply. Having decided to take a final few slurps at culture I made my way to a modern art exhibition back near the monastery, walking again but stopping for a custard tart on the way.

 

The sun was hot, my thighs rubbed together as I walked, there was no getting away from the fear of tectonic friction, the hidden threat beneath the city. The cool shady air of the gallery was physically refreshing but mentally oppressive. A moustached man stood in front of a plain black canvass in a frame, tilting his head slightly. Silva rubbed her tail against my legs, I noticed she seemed to be getting younger, do ghosts grow younger? Perhaps I was starting to forgive myself for putting her to sleep. I stood still and listened to the shuffling feet of the art lovers, real and feigned love, I watched their eyebrows go up and down and heard another sound, a faint growling. The moustached man turned around and I realised it was me who was growling.

 

‘If you look hard enough you’ll see a pattern,’ he whispered, pointing at the black canvass.

 

It just so happened I’d already noticed a pattern, ninety percent of the exhibits were by male artists, one hundred percent of the nudes were female and eighty percent of it was boring. I barked at him a few times and left the building. It was a pattern I’d noticed before and it made me feel sad for my daughters.

 

Continuing the theme of cultural acid reflux I found an expensive restaurant and ordered traditional dried salt fish on a bed of chickpea puree. It arrived lukewarm and slightly smelly but slowly I got through it, holding it in my mouth until it was partially digested, all the time blinking  like a true connoisseur….of Cow and Gate.

 

My final night passed without earthquake. Silva slept on my bed but I felt her presence drifting away. In the morning I gathered my stuff and walked down to the taxi rank. It was the hottest day yet, my suitcase bounced up and down on the cobbles and concerned that it might actually break I decided to carry it. By the time I got down there I was sweating out pure custard.

 

I was targeted by a German cannibal who clocked me from afar and began his approach. Fortunately a taxi was waiting and flustered I blurted out ‘Airport,’ and got in.  I turned around to look through the rear window, he stood sniffing the air, inhaling the vanilla, deflated as we sped out of sight.

 

‘You British?’

 

‘Yes...it’s very hot today. Is it normally like this in October?’

 

‘Oh, er, only in the last few years. It’s global warming, my children cannot go out in the sun anymore during summer....Have you enjoyed your time in Lisbon?’

 

‘Yes, it’s a lovely city.’

 

‘There’s lots to do here, lots of er culture. Many British come to Portugal and just head down the The Algarve and just sit on the beach.’

 

‘Yes, well I’m not just one of those people who….’

 

I looked around for Silva but she was nowhere to be seen.

 

‘The food is good here, there are so many restaurants. You could eat in a different one every night for three years..and have a different dish too.’

 

‘Mmmm.’ I said.

 

It was lonely in the airport without my ghost cat but I was pleased she had joined me. The plane took off, unfortunately I was sitting next to an itchy man. I wondered how an earthquake might affect an aircraft in flight, would there be a swell of air to cause it fall out of the sky? I closed my eyes and felt the sensation of plummeting. The sound filled my ears, my head, the pressure made my brain feel as if it would explode.