After the War: A Novella of the Golden City (7 page)

“He recalls stories he wrote before,” Joaquim said to Raimundo. “Gaspar thinks the hex on him only affects actual memories, but stories Alejandro wrote still exist inside his head because they’re only stories.”

“Stories?”

“He used to write adventure stories,” Joaquim explained, “as soon as he learned to read and write. Some were quite fantastical, but many of the events in them were borrowed from real life.”

“Could I have written one of my . . .” What was the word for it? He hadn’t had visions, he’d simply known things. “Um . . .
foresights . . .
before I actually did those things?”

“I don’t know.” Joaquim pushed himself out of his armchair. “Let’s find out.”

Would there exist, among all those notebooks, the story of a Portuguese soldier asked to steal something for the British? Certainly enough seers had predicted the Great War. Joaquim led the way up to his bedroom, and gave Alejandro a moment to knock first to be sure Serafina wasn’t in any state of undress.

She came to the door, her thick braid hanging down. Her guitar dangled from her webbed fingers.

“Darling, we need to look at the notebooks.”

“Of course,” she said, stepping aside. Then she saw that he and Joaquim weren’t alone. Her eyes went wide, and she curtsied deeply to Raimundo. “Duke.”

Alejandro turned an eye on Raimundo, and saw what he should have before. Not just a wealthy man, a man with power . . . but a man who had surrendered his power willingly to make the two Portugals into one. He
had
seen photographs of this man before. This was the former Prince of Northern Portugal, now the Duke of Coimbra, come to help a mere Portuguese soldier who’d lost his memory. “Sir? Have I offended. . . ?”

“It’s fine, Alejandro,” the duke said quickly with a dismissive wave of one hand. “I didn’t expect you to remember who I am. That’s why I’m here, after all.”

“We’re old friends,” Joaquim offered. “And Raimundo knows I won’t bend my knee to him.”

Alejandro chewed his upper lip, but the duke seemed unoffended by Joaquim’s lack of correctness.

“Why don’t you come in and get the notebooks,” Serafina said, looking uncharacteristically shy. She tried surreptitiously to pin up her braid.

Alejandro suppressed his smile.
All it takes is a former prince to quell her forwardness
. “Actually, I don’t know which one I need. I’ve only read a couple.”

“Why don’t we take them all down to the library,” Joaquim suggested. “We can sort them out there.”

So they trooped into his bedroom and divided up the old notebooks. Serafina laid her guitar aside and joined them. Since Joaquim couldn’t carry things downstairs
—
not and handle his cane at the same time
—
the duke ended up with a third of the pile, carrying them down the steps like a footman.

“What are we looking for?” Serafina asked when they’d set the books on the old round marquetry table in the library.

“A story about a theft where one of the participants is burned to death,” he told her.

She shuddered delicately. “Like the man the army thought was you.”

“Exactly. Or any mention of diamonds,” he added. “If we all scan through these stories, we should be able to find it.”

The talk of diamonds caught her attention, reminding Alejandro that he should purchase a new pair of earrings for her in lieu of a wedding ring.

“Sir, you don’t need to stay,” he said when the duke grabbed a handful of notebooks and settled at the table.

“Nonsense,” the duke said. “Currently Ana is preparing our daughter to meet her soon-to-be husband. There are seamstresses there at all hours. I assure you, they don’t need me.”

If Alejandro recalled the newspaper stories correctly, the duke had only one child, a daughter who would marry the young heir to the Portuguese throne in Sintra, thus bringing the two halves of the House of Aviz back together and ending any question of the divided throne. “I appreciate your help, then, sir.”

“You truly can call me Raimundo,” the duke said, eyes on the pages before him.

Joaquim took another seat at the table and claimed a handful of the notebooks, while Serafina took one and settled on the couch. Alejandro gathered the remainder of the notebooks and sat in the armchair next to his wife. He loved this library with its musty smell and walls of old books. For a time it was silent in the room, until the duke sighed, got up, and rang for coffee. The butler popped his head into the room and dashed off to do the duke’s bidding.

“You should get these published,” the duke pronounced.

Alejandro realized that directive was aimed at him. “I think they need work, sir.”

“I agree,” he said. “However, the ones I’ve read are quite diverting.”

“Half of them are autobiographical,” Joaquim said, “and the other half are pure fancy. It’s difficult to decide which is which at times.”

“But still publishable,” the duke said. “I have connections in that arena.”

“You have connections everywhere,” Joaquim replied blandly.

It was a tempting prospect, and might provide some income for him and Serafina. “I’ll consider your suggestion, sir.”

“Raimundo,” the duke repeated.

Roberto came in then, bearing the coffee.

The duke glanced at the footman as he set the tray down on the table. “Are you one of our veterans?”

Roberto flushed, his scar turning red. “Yes, sir. I served in Flanders.”

The duke rose and shook Roberto’s hand. “I would love to speak with you after we finish here.”

“Of course, sir.” The footman bowed his way out of the room, apparently flustered by the attention.

Serafina poured for everyone. After a few minutes, they settled back to their reading. The room fell silent again save for the sound of turning pages and the occasional clatter of a cup in a saucer.

“I have it,” the duke said after opening his third notebook. His dark eyes flicked across the pages as he began to read more thoroughly and they all waited expectantly on his verdict. “The hero of this story is named João, and he is, indeed, a common Portuguese soldier, caught up in an effort to steal some invasion plans from the German army.”

He was flipping pages backward, as if to figure out how the story started. “Aha! The Englishman in charge saw João steal another soldier’s wallet, apparently a jest of some sort. Since he needed keys stolen from a guard, he asked João because not only could he lift the keys, but he could also pass for a French civilian because he was fluent.”

Alejandro licked his lips. Yes, he
remembered
that part of the story now. “Was there a Russian?”

The duke flipped through the pages. “Yes. The Englishman is actually Russian by birth and claims he’s related to that dead madman, Rasputin.” He glanced up. “When was this written?”

“There should be a date in the front of the notebook,” Alejandro told him.

The duke looked and then regarded Alejandro with surprise. “1915. Rasputin didn’t die until the end of the next year.”

“The events in that story would have occurred in 1918, though,” Joaquim noted.

“Impressive,” the duke said. “You predicted Rasputin’s death. In any case, why would the Englishman boast that he’s related to a madman?”

“Because he was a witch,” Alejandro recalled, “and having someone like that in your family makes you sound more threatening than you actually are.”

“Is this the witch who curses João in the end?” Joaquim asked. “The Russian, I mean.”

Alejandro tried to recall the story. “Yes, I think so.”

Joaquim gave Alejandro a strange look. “A maledictor? That’s a rare talent.”

Alejandro had to bow to Joaquim’s greater knowledge of witches
—
after all, he did work for the Special Police. “The man in the story specializes in cursing, if that’s what it’s called.”

“Well what happened to them?” Serafina asked loudly, impatient with their digressions.

“They’re sent to steal a battle plan,” Alejandro said, finally recalling more of the details. “Behind the enemy lines in a town called . . . Lille. They were there for days hiding from the occupying forces before everything was right to make a move. João realizes after he does his part that the two who went inside stole
more
than the plans. They tell him and the Englishman that there were jewels, already stolen from a jeweler in town. If he keeps his mouth shut, they can divide the stones among themselves after the war . . . but João refuses to go along with it. One of the English tries to set him afire, but his effort rebounds on him and he dies instead, burned to death.”

“Why?” Joaquim asked.

The duke squinted at the page. “Ah. Because João has an amulet given to him by an African witch doctor.” He looked up. “Where would João have met a witch doctor?”

“An amulet?” Serafina asked, eyes wide. “Like an old piece of bone on a strip of leather?”

Alejandro blinked at her. “What?”

“Yes,” the duke said. “It’s described exactly that way in the story.”

“You had one,” Serafina said, bouncing in her seat like a little girl. “When you came back from Angola, you were wearing it about your neck. You told me some tribal leader gave it to you after you saved his son from a German bomb.”

He felt idiotic for not knowing about an incident Serafina thought obvious. By now he should be accustomed to that. “German bomb?”

Joaquim answered. “An effort to sow discord between the Angolan troops and the Portuguese troops. The Germans planted bombs under several of the Angolan barracks, and then spread word that the Portuguese were responsible.”

“Why would we ever do such a thing?” Alejandro protested. Even though Germany hadn’t yet declared war against Portugal, the Portuguese had sent troops to their former colony in eastern Africa to help the Angolans protect their territory from the encroaching Germans.

“Some people don’t need a great deal of urging to become angry,” the duke said, “and there will always be those in our former colonies who blame us
—
often with just cause
—
for many ills they suffer.”

Those sounded like the words of a man with a great deal of experience in diplomacy. “And I saved someone?”

Joaquim laughed. “You foresaw the incident and informed your commander ahead of time. At first they thought you were making it up. They didn’t know you’re a seer. But when they began to find the devices, they evacuated all the barracks before too many were hurt. Several men were injured, but no one died. One of the bombs wasn’t caught in time, and you took a piece of shrapnel when you tried to hold back an Angolan soldier.”

And that explained the wound to his thigh. “I see.”

“I forgot to tell you that story,” Joaquim said apologetically.

“Well, it’s probably in these notebooks somewhere.” Alejandro wished he hadn’t been such a prolific writer as a young man. It would take him weeks to work through all these notebooks. “So I evidently was involved in an attempt to steal some battle plans, but became a casualty along with way because I didn’t agree with their . . . additional theft. One of them tried to burn me to death, only to have the curse bounce back on him. I’m less inclined to inform the man’s family now if we learn his identity.”

“Even if he tried to kill you,” Joaquim said gently, “his family would still want to know.”

Alejandro sighed. Joaquim was a kinder man than he was.

The duke, who’d been reading all the while, lifted his head. “So the Russian curses you
—
I mean João
—
to forget everything, using the dead man’s blood as the sacrifice, and he and the remaining man flee.”

Alejandro pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wait. If I was incapacitated, how could I know they fled? So that I could put that in the story, I mean.”

“This
is
a story,” Joaquim said patiently. “Perhaps when you wrote it, you simply inserted the most logical conclusion.”

It would have been better if he hadn’t made things up. Now they couldn’t be sure the man who’d cursed him was a Russian or that he’d even been involved in an effort to steal German battle plans. He might have been brought in to help steal someone’s lunch menus. This wasn’t evidence at all, and it didn’t bring back his memories. “How does knowing this help us?”

“It gives me information to give to Bastião,” the duke said, “something more to pry with. We know the approximate date, and now we have an idea what the operation was intended to do. With that he might be able to wheedle out the names of the others involved.”

“And the one with a Russian name is the one who can take this curse off me,” Alejandro said.

Serafina regarded Alejandro with knitted brows.

Joaquim’s lips pursed as he thought that over. “True. I suspect the Russian isn’t the one pursuing Alejandro, though. More likely to be the final member of the team.”

The duke’s brows pinched together. “Why do you say that?”

“Because the Russian would
know
whether or not his curse would hold. The person leaving notes for Alejandro seemed unaware that Alejandro still didn’t remember who he was. He fears that Alejandro will tell someone where to find the missing stones.”

Now they had an idea what the man threatening Alejandro wanted.

Diamonds
. This was all about diamonds.

Friday, 25 June 1920

S
ERAFINA HAD CHOSEN
the Café Elite for lunch that day, and Alejandro could guess why. Her younger sister, Mariona, had joined them, and after eating, the two suggested they might wander along Santa Catarina Street where the new café sat. The street was lined with shops and close to the Herminios department store.

Mariona sat with them now, sipping her coffee and trying hard to look sophisticated. Only eighteen, she was young enough to gape at the café’s ornate Flemish mirrors, the plaster carvings of cupids and flowers, and the conservatory in the back. The newly opened café had been decorated in the Art Nouveau style and Alejandro didn’t think he’d ever seen one more beautiful. He suspected it would soon become one of the city’s most popular cafés, although he didn’t care for the name. He didn’t see himself as one of the
elite,
not after nearly two years spent digging sewers and laying paving stones.