We spent the morning walking round the Baixa going from sweetshop to sweetshop looking for one that sold crystallised violets. Out of six confeiteiros we found only one with a stock of the sweets. We returned with Joao from the hotel to help us translate.
“They sell many types of sweets,” Joao said needlessly as we looked round the small shop. It was narrow and dark and looked more like an apothecary’s with its crammed shelves of ornate glass bottles, some of them tinted green and blue. “But they have no regular order for the violets. They do not despatch them to special clients.”
“What about regular customers?”
Joao conferred with the bemused couple who ran the shop. Yes, they did have some regular customers. They peered curiously at Carriscant’s picture. No, they didn’t recognise the woman.
Undeterred, Carriscant secured the name of the wholesaler who supplied them with the sweets; from him he would obtain a list of other stockists in the city, he explained.
I was beginning to grow a little worried. If ever there was an example of clutching at straws…But Carriscant persisted, extracting a promise from them that they would ask anyone who bought the sweets to provide their name and address. They would try, they said, obviously affected by the earnestness of Carriscant’s demand, but they warned that not everyone would be prepared to divulge that information.
We found a small café nearby, the Cafe Adamastor, and stopped there for refreshment. It was little more than a smoke-darkened room with a long zinc-topped bar running the length of the rear wall with a shelf above ranged with small dumpy barrels, with spigots attached, labelled Moscatel, Clarete, Ginebra. Fixed to the ceiling was a small fan mounted vertically on the end of a hanging pole so that it resembled a propeller shaft on an outboard motor. This revolved slowly round and round, ensuring that the cigarette smoke reached every corner of the room.
We sat at a round marble-topped table. I ordered a vinho verde, Carriscant a brandy. I sipped eagerly at my cold wine, it tasted fresh and young, like crushed grass. I took out my cigarettes.
“I don’t think you should do that, Kay.”
“Do what?”
“Smoke.”
“Everyone else is, why not me, for heaven’s sake?”
“None of the women are…I have a feeling it’s not the done thing.”
“Well, I shall blaze a trail,” I said, defiantly setting fire to my Picayune. Carriscant’s instincts were correct, however:
I became the object of fascinated stares and whispered conversations for a minute or two.
“We’ve made a real start,” Carriscant said, with genuine enthusiasm, “a real start. I’ll look into that shop daily. I’ll find out others in the city. We should begin to build up a list of names.”
I felt indescribably weary at the prospect of seeking out every crystallised violets lover in Lisbon.
“Dr Carriscant, you really can’t—”
“How many times have I told you, Kay? I wish you’d call me Father.”
“It’s hard for me, you know that.”
“I don’t see why. At least Salvador, then. We’re friends, Kay, good chums, you and I. I don’t want to feel that I’m here on sufferance. I’ll have another brandy, I think. What about you?”