Page 31 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

30

LISBON, 1941

Of course, I’m not one to stew in my own juices, so by the time I saw Emilio again – a week later at the Hotel Aviz – I’d given myself a stern talking-to and I was over my malaise. As he strode through the bar towards me, I extended my hand as if greeting a business acquaintance.

‘I trust you’ll be able to control yourself if we shake hands,’ I said drily in greeting.

His face flamed red. ‘I was kind of hoping you’d forgotten,’ he said sheepishly.

‘Forgotten what?’ I gave him a brisk handshake and a wink.

He laughed. ‘Thanks for being such a sport.’

‘Well, at least you didn’t vomit on me, and speaking of which…’ We made our way to a table in the far corner, partially obscured by a silk screen with the picture of a lotus flower on it. ‘Did you have any joy with the camera?’

He nodded and pulled his chair closer to mine. ‘There were pictures on the microfilm that shouldn’t have been there,’ he whispered. ‘Pictures of secret files – that would be extremely useful to the Germans.’

‘Whoa!’ I hadn’t dared allow myself to get too excited about my find in case it didn’t amount to anything. Hearing this made it all worthwhile.

Emilio grinned. ‘Exactly.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘He’s been dealt with,’ he said with a knowing look.

‘But won’t he realise that I was the one who gave you the camera? He knows I was looking in his case. What if he’s told the Germans?’ My initial excitement gave way to feelings of alarm.

Emilio shook his head. ‘He wasn’t able to tell anyone anything. He was spirited off to Britain that evening before he’d even had a chance to leave his room.’

‘Oh.’ I felt a chill come over me.

‘We shouldn’t talk about it anymore here,’ Emilio said, waving at a waiter. ‘We don’t know who could be listening.’

I glanced around the bar and nodded. It was starting to feel as if even the cutlery might have ears.

My debut album came out March, and Alexandre arranged a whirlwind of interviews to help publicise it. We had some practice interviews beforehand to make sure I had the fake story of my childhood straight, in which my father was a good-for-nothing ne’er-do-well and my mother a ghostly figure hovering in the background, doing nothing. It baulked a bit to portray my mother in such an insipid way, but I cared more about protecting the truth of her. I didn’t see why I should serve up my personal details for all and sundry – surely my music should be enough for them? I did bare my soul in my songs after all.

But after the first couple of interviews, I started to enjoy it. It felt as if I was playing a role, and I became quite accomplished at pulling a harrowed expression as I denounced my brute of a father, and any time I felt the interviewer was getting a little too prying for comfort, I would instantly feign sorrow – even making tears spring to my eyes – telling them it was too painful to recount any more. All I had to do to make myself cry was think of my mother’s final moments and the sound of the last breath escaping her parched lips, like the gasp of a baby bird. To this day, I can’t think of the moment I lost her without welling up.

To promote the album, I did a tour around Portugal, returning to Lisbon to play at the Queen Maria II Theatre at the end of April. After the show, I was meant to be going for drinks with the band, but I couldn’t bear the thought of being around people all wanting to know me – it felt fake. Because it was fake. They were only interested in my celebrity. So I made my excuses and slipped out of a fire exit and found myself walking down to the river.

It felt as if I was walking back in time as I thought back to my sixteen-year-old self treading this exact same path as she arrived in Lisbon. If I’d told that feisty kid that in just a few years she’d be a recording artist and singing on the best stages in the city, she would have been so excited I’m sure, but now it was all starting to feel like smoke and mirrors. There was a loneliness to fame and fortune that I hadn’t anticipated.

I walked down to the edge of the Tagus and looked at the moon shimmering silver on the water. It wasn’t that I wanted to go back to life as a varina , but I craved the companionship I felt in those days, the camaraderie, and of course, I missed Judith acutely. I gazed up at the sky and found a star shining brighter than the others and focused my gaze upon it.

‘I’m not entirely sure that you exist,’ I whispered – the opening line to most of my prayers to God – ‘but if you do, I would really appreciate your help.’

I waited for a moment, as if expecting a booming voice from the heavens above to respond. But all I heard was music drifting from a bar somewhere.

I closed my eyes. ‘Please bring me someone – someone I can be close to. Thank you!’

I opened my eyes and gave a sigh of relief. I still didn’t know if God existed, but I felt better for speaking my desires out loud at least. I set off for the Aviz feeling comforted.

The next day I went for a meeting with Alexandre at his office.

‘So, Sofia,’ Alexandre said as soon as I sat down, ‘how do you fancy singing in Queen’s Hall?’

I frowned at him. ‘The only Queen’s Hall I’ve heard of is in London.’

Alexandre’s smile grew. ‘Exactly!’

‘But… but…’ I had so many questions, I didn’t know where to begin.

‘Your album is going over a storm in Britain, and the owner of your record label there has asked if there is any chance you’d consider playing a concert or two in London, to raise morale. They’ve been taking such a pounding by the Germans.’

I’d been reading all about the Blitz in the London papers. ‘Are they still having concerts in spite of all the bombing?’

‘Oh yes. It’s incredible really.’

I nodded. I had to admit I was hugely inspired by their defiant spirit.

‘But, of course, everyone would understand if you said no. It would be really dangerous – even flying there has its risks.’

I pursed my lips. ‘I hope you’re not implying that I’m a lily-livered coward.’

‘No, of course not. Never!’ he exclaimed with a laugh.

‘Good, because I’d be delighted to do it. I always wanted to see London in the spring,’ I added breezily and with all the naivete of one yet to experience a bombing raid.

‘That’s fantastic!’ Alexandre leaped to his feet and lit us both a celebratory cigarette. ‘The Brits are going to love you for this; the benefits for your career will be huge, I’m sure.’

I shrugged off his gushing words. I wasn’t interested in that. I was just so relieved to have something new to think of and a reason to leave Lisbon and my loneliness for a while. ‘How long are you thinking of sending me for?’

‘I think three days should be enough. It will give you the chance to do a show, and I’ll try to set up an interview with a friend at the BBC. Then we’ll need you back here to start recording some fresh material.’

‘Sounds good.’

Alexandre picked up his phone. ‘Fatima, could you bring us in some fizz – we’re celebrating.’

A moment later, his secretary appeared with a bottle of champagne.

‘So, what are you celebrating?’ she asked, her normally sour face softening slightly.

‘Oh, just that Sofia’s song has done really well in Britain.’

Fatima gave a distinctly unimpressed nod and left.

‘Why didn’t you tell her the whole story – that I’m going to London?’ I asked Alexandre as soon as she’d left. ‘Then she might finally start to like me.’

Alexandre laughed. ‘She does like you! She just doesn’t like to smile.’ His expression grew serious. ‘We can’t tell anyone – it’s too risky. Not until after you’ve been and you’re safely back home. There’s way too many Luftwaffe buzzing around up there.’ He looked skyward. ‘We don’t want to make your plane a target. By going to entertain the Brits, you’ll be seen as siding with the enemy.’

‘I’ll be proud to be seen as an enemy of the Nazis!’ I exclaimed, although his words caused my stomach to churn. The prospect of going on a plane for the first time was nerve- wracking enough, but the knowledge that the skies would be riddled with enemies was terrifying.

Two days later, Emilio came to see me in my room at the hotel. As soon as I opened the door to him, I blinked in shock. I’d never seen him look so dishevelled. His chin was covered in a dull shadow of stubble, and his hair looked greasy at the roots and greyer than ever at the temples.

‘What the hell happened?’ I asked. ‘You look rougher than a bucket of fish guts.’

‘Gee thanks.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. But I do want to talk about your exciting news.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘You’re going to London,’ he whispered once I’d shut the door.

So much for Alexandre not telling anyone.

‘Yes,’ I whispered back. ‘The Brits are crazy for me apparently. According to Alexandre’s friend at the BBC, they think I’m’ – I cleared my throat and put on my best British accent – ‘“a jolly good sport!”’

‘Well, of course you are, old chap,’ Emilio replied in his own hammed-up British accent. ‘Seriously though, this is awesome news.’

‘I know. Alexandre seems to think I could become a bestseller there if I just get a little more airplay.’

‘Not only that.’ He smiled. ‘It’s the perfect opportunity to help the Allies again.’

‘Please tell me you don’t have another drunken Brit lined up for me.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘I don’t think my stomach could take it.’

He laughed. ‘No, but you could pass some information on to them.’

‘Information for who?’

‘The SOE,’ he whispered.

‘The British secret service?’

‘Yes. We have some information from the French Resistance. We can code it into some sheet music, which, of course, you would be taking for your concert so it wouldn’t arouse any suspicion.’

‘Of course. Who would I be passing it to?’

‘One of their agents. His code name is Trafalgar. But don’t worry about finding him,’ he replied enigmatically. ‘He will find you.’

And so, once again, the path of my life took a fateful twist. Although I had no idea at the time quite how much I would come to regret it.