Page 9 of The Truth About Myths
Of course not. Henrique loved women. "Society is misogynist. I'm merely prudent." He pointed at Dio with his screwdriver. "I find it hard to understand all the fuss around the hymen. Women cling to it as if it were their Achilles’ heel, while men venerate it like the holy grail. The body possesses countless membranes, synovial, cutaneous, connective, mucosal... Among all those, society chose one to determine the fate of fifty percent of the population—the hymen. Is a one-inch membrane sealing the vagina more important than its five-foot owner? Nature tried to lock the vulva from bacteria, but it locked women in a lust-free prison."
Dio's face flushed bright red, and he glanced at the crowded street. "You love to squander scientific terms, don't you? Was she attractive?"
He shouldn't have mentioned the girl to Dio. The sudden light in his black eyes meant trouble. And Henrique didn't find her attractive. Too thin and stiff, she had swaddled herself to the neck with starched cloth and piled up her hair atop her head like chains. High-strung. That was the right word. High-strung like a mountain lioness. But then he witnessed her combustion. His provocation had been the catalyst for a thermal reaction. Her eyes... Her eyes burned.
She'd singed him.
If he was frustrated, it was not attraction but the futility of it all. Why should a healthy woman be kept from nature's pleasures? A ripe grape forcing herself to be a raisin? What a waste.
"I never saw your interests engaged so." Dio smoothed his goatee and eyed Henrique thoughtfully. "The muse came to you at last. Will you forget England? Will thisbelle dame sans mercisettle your quest for meaning in life?"
Henrique scoffed. "If you are searching for meaning in life, you better find yourself a microscope." True happiness lay in hunting for pleasure and avoiding pain. All else was mental masturbation, and he much preferred the physical kind.
Henrique gave one last shove, and the engine sputtered awake. "If anything, it means I must leave with all haste."
By the time they neared their destination, Henrique had pushed thoughts of the green-eyed she-cat to the recesses of his mind. He breathed in the afternoon, the river's breeze mixed with the gas lamp's oil. Sunset shone copper on the mosaic walkway. The golden hour. When the hard-working city sighed, doffed its uniform, and went back home, while the fun-loving city yawned awake, donned its finery, preparing for the opera, the Fado taverns down the Aterro, the cabarets.
"Won't you miss Lisbon?" Dio asked, lifting his hat to greet the Count of Burnay. The older man stopped chatting with clients in front of his double business—Burnay Bank and the Havanesa House. "Where else in the world can a gentleman enter the bank, contract a loan, and, on his way out, buy Cuban cigars?"
"They have cigars in London." As Henrique watched people strolling, their faces illuminated by the last traces of sunset, an empty feeling swept his chest. Why this now? He had experienced Lisbon to its dregs, bedding all available women, tasting every wine and pleasure. Now, to ladies plenty and pastures new.
The church bells started their six o'clock toll as they climbed the steps to the Grand Central Hotel. When the old doorman opened the oak portal, a cough racked his torso.
Henrique reached inside his coat pocket and passed him a package of mints. "Here, Damião." Poor man suffered from the luxurious hotel's constant drafts.
His rheumy eyes lit up. "Oh, Your Excellency, always so kind. Your guests have arrived already."
"Did the chef manage thepaiowith peas?"
"It came all the way from Quinta do Lobo. TheAnanássoaked in rum the whole day."
"Terrific. Same table?"
"Of course. Only the best for Your Excellency."
Henrique tapped Damião's bony shoulder and strolled over the crowded saloon to the separate room reserved for his dinner. A single candelabra cast shadows over the oak-paneled walls, adding to the cozy atmosphere. His friends occupied the round table. Griffin Maxwell and Pedro Daun were under the same roof, if not chatting amicably, at least tolerating each other. Whoever saw them like this couldn't guess that only last year they had been mortal enemies.
Pedro Daun clasped Henrique's shoulder, and Henrique pulled him in for a hug. It took a damn slave trader to make them close. Pedro dressed informally, a black velvet coat over a plain white shirt. At first glance, he seemed the same, with blond hair tied behind his neck, the old-world elegance that could turn into deadliness in a heartbeat. Still, after that horrible day at the bullfighting arena, his gaze was no longer haunted. Marriage to Maxwell's sister suited him.
"How's the sweet Anne?"
"Engaged with society functions."
Maxwell rose to greet him, his lean frame encased in the staid frock coat preferred by the British community. "Won't you ask about Julia?"
"I don't have to. I've seen your lovely wife today." Julia Costa blended the best port in the Douro, and he admired her tremendously. He had stopped at Maxwell's townhouse to give her one of his latest inventions, a steam machine to separate stems and seeds from grapes, reducing the wine's bitterness. Obviously, he omitted the business-like reason just to aggravate his friend.
Henrique ignored Maxwell's angry retort and turned to his last guest.
Charles Whitaker didn't bother to stand. He lifted his eyes from a full glass of Scotch and shook Henrique's hand distractedly. The lad also seemed different. And when Henrique sat by his side, and alcohol fumes didn't attack his nostrils, he understood why. Charles was sober.
Dio greeted the others and slouched by Henrique's left.
The waitress brought his favorite dish—paiowith peas. He would miss the sausage filled with pig blood after he moved to England. While they attacked the food, they talked about wine specifically and politics in general. Henrique noticed with amusement that his friends avoided the subject of his departure with the same effort as the picky eater Maxwell avoided thepaio.
After the plates were cleared, they covered the table with green baize. Pedro chose dice to begin their game night.
A few rounds later, thoughts mildly murky after a bottle of Vesuvio's Port and pockets considerably lighter, Henrique leaned back. "I should give up. I have the devil's luck tonight."
