The High Mountains of Portugal. Yann MartelЧитать онлайн книгу.
within. He notes the features of the cabin. It has the elements of a domestic space, with a black sofa of the finest leather and walls and a ceiling of polished cedar strips. The front window and the side windows look like the windows of an elegant home, boasting clear, good-quality panes and gleaming metal sashes. And the back window above the sofa, so neatly framed, could well be a painting hanging on a wall. But the scale of it! The ceiling is so low. The sofa will accommodate no more than two people comfortably. Each side window is of a size that will allow only a single person to look out of it. As for the back window, if it were a painting, it would be a miniature. And to get into this confined space, one must bend down to get through the door. What happened to the opulent openness of the horse-drawn carriage? He pulls back and gazes at one of the automobile’s side mirrors. It might plausibly belong in a washroom. And didn’t his uncle mention something about a fire in the engine? He feels an inward sinking. This tiny habitation on wheels, with bit parts of the living room, the washroom, and the fireplace, is a pathetic admission that human life is no more than this: an attempt to feel at home while racing towards oblivion.
He has also noticed the multitude of objects in the cabin. There is his suitcase, with his few personal necessities. More important, there is his trunk of papers, which contains all sorts of essential items: his correspondence with the secretary of the Bishop of Bragança and with a number of parish priests across the High Mountains of Portugal; the transcription of Father Ulisses’ diary; archival newspaper clippings on the occurrences of fires in village churches in that same region; excerpts from the logbook of a Portuguese ship returning to Lisbon in the mid-seventeenth century; as well as various monographs on the architectural history of northern Portugal. And usually, when he is not carrying it in his pocket—a folly, he reminds himself—the trunk would hold and protect Father Ulisses’ invaluable diary. But suitcase and trunk are crowded alongside barrels, boxes, tin containers, and bags. The cabin is a cave of goods that would glut the Forty Thieves.
“Ali Baba, Uncle Martim! So many things? I’m not crossing Africa. I’m only going to the High Mountains of Portugal, some few days away.”
“You’re going farther than you think,” his uncle replies. “You’ll be venturing into lands that have never seen an automobile. You’ll need the capacity to be autonomous. Which is why I’ve included a good canvas rain tarp and some blankets, although you might be better off sleeping in the cabin. That box there contains all the motoring tools you’ll need. Next to it is the oiling can. This five-gallon metal barrel is full of water, for the radiator, and this one of moto-naphtha, the automobile’s elixir of life. Resupply yourself as often as you can, because at some point you’ll have to rely on your own stock. Along the way, look out for apothecaries, bicycle shops, blacksmiths, ironmongers. They’ll have moto-naphtha, though they may give it another name: petroleum spirit, mineral spirit, something like that. Smell it before you buy it. I’ve also provided you with victuals. An automobile is best operated by a well-fed driver. Now, see if these fit.”
From a bag on the floor of the cabin, his uncle pulls out a pair of pale leather gloves. Tomás tries them on, baffled. The fit is snug. The leather is pleasingly elastic and creaks when he makes a fist.
“Thank you,” he says uncertainly.
“Take good care of them. They’re from France too.”
Next his uncle hands him goggles that are big and hideous. Tomás has hardly put them on when his uncle brings out a beige coat lined with fur that reaches well below his knees.
“Waxed cotton and mink. The finest quality,” he says.
Tomás puts it on. The coat is heavy and bulky. Finally, Lobo slaps a hat on him that has straps that tie under the chin. Gloved, goggled, coated, and hatted, he feels like a giant mushroom. “Uncle, what is this costume for?”
“For motoring, of course. For the wind and the dust. For the rain and the cold. It is December. Have you not noticed the driving compartment?”
He looks. His uncle has a point. The back part of the automobile consists of the enclosed cubicle for the passengers. The driving compartment in front of it, however, is open to the elements but for the roof and a front window. There are no doors or windows on either side. Wind, dust, and rain will easily come in. He grouses internally. If his uncle hadn’t cluttered the cabin with so much gear, making it impossible for him to sit within, he could take shelter there while Sabio drove the machine.
His uncle presses on. “I’ve included maps as good as they exist. When they’re of no help, rely on the compass. You’re heading north-northeast. The roads of Portugal are of the poorest quality, but the vehicle has a fine suspension system—leaf springs. They will handle any ruts. If the roads get to you, drink plenty of wine. There are two wineskins in the cabin. Avoid roadside inns and stagecoaches. They are not your friends. It’s understandable. A degree of hostility is to be expected from those whose livelihood the automobile directly threatens. Right, as for the rest of the supplies, you’ll figure out what’s what. We should get going. Sabio, are you ready?”
“Yes, senhor,” replies Sabio with military promptness.
“Let me get my jacket. I’ll drive you to the edges of Lisbon, Tomás.”
His uncle returns to the house. Tomás doffs the ludicrous motoring costume and returns it to the cabin. His uncle bounces back into the courtyard, a jacket on his back, gloves upon his hands, his cheeks flushed with excitement, exuding a nearly terrifying joviality.
“By the way, Tomás,” he bellows, “I forgot to ask: Why on earth do you so badly want to go to the High Mountains of Portugal?”
“I’m looking for something,” Tomás replies.
“What?”
Tomás hesitates. “It’s in a church,” he finally says, “only I’m not sure which one, in which village.”
His uncle stands next to him and studies him. Tomás wonders whether he should say more. Whenever his uncle comes to the Museum of Ancient Art, he gazes at the exhibits with glazed eyes.
“Have you heard of Charles Darwin, Uncle?” Tomás asks.
“Yes, I’ve heard of Darwin,” Lobo replies. “What, is he buried in a church in the High Mountains of Portugal?” He laughs. “You want to bring his body back and give it pride of place in the Museum of Ancient Art?”
“No. Through my work I came upon a diary written on São Tomé, in the Gulf of Guinea. The island has been a Portuguese colony since the late fifteenth century.”
“A miserable one. I stopped there once on my way to Angola. I thought I might invest in some cocoa plantations there.”
“It was an important place during the slave trade.”
“Well, now it’s a producer of bad chocolate. Beautiful plantations, though.”
“No doubt. By a process of deduction involving three disparate elements—the diary I’ve just mentioned, the logbook of a ship returning to Lisbon, and a fire in a village church in the High Mountains of Portugal—I have discovered an unsuspected treasure and located it, approximately. I’m on the brink of a great find.”
“Are you? And what is this treasure, exactly?” his uncle asks, his eyes steady on Tomás.
Tomás is sorely tempted. All these months he has told no one, especially not his colleagues, about his discovery, nor even about his research. He did it all on his own time, privately. But a secret yearns to be divulged. And in mere days the object will be found. So why not his uncle?
“It is . . . a religious statuary, a crucifix, I believe,” he replies.
“Just what this Catholic country needs.”
“No, you don’t understand. It’s a very odd crucifix. A wondrous crucifix.”
“Is it? And what does it have to do with Darwin?”
“You’ll see,” Tomás replies, flushing with zeal. “This Christ on the Cross has something important