The Recovery

The counting house was borrowed from Santarém & Filhos, who had relocated to Porto and expected not to return. It was larger than Croft needed and smaller than he was used to. He had been working from it since January.

He was at the main desk when Pedrosa arrived with the morning correspondence. He sorted it himself now — he had let Pedrosa's colleague go in April, a parting he had managed without ceremony and without sentiment, the way you close an account that can no longer be serviced. Two years ago he had run three clerks and a warehouseman. At present he ran Pedrosa, who was eighteen and quick with figures, and the warehouseman, who was fifty-three and slow with everything except the work.

The correspondence was light. A letter from his sister in Bristol, which he set aside. A payment notice from a Porto factor who had processed a wine shipment through on commission — the commission was small and the payment was on time, both of which he noted without pleasure. A query from a London correspondent about Lisbon's reconstruction timeline, which he answered in three lines: the clearance is proceeding faster than expected; the new streets are being staked; the commercial premises, as designed, will be available for letting in 1759 at the earliest. I would not commit capital before that date. He sealed it and gave it to Pedrosa for the afternoon post.

He then walked up to the British consul's residence, which was in the Estrela quarter and had survived the earthquake without significant damage, as the upper city generally had. Castres received him in the study.

Castres poured the wine himself. He was a slight man in his mid-fifties, with the careful manner of someone who had spent his professional life in rooms where the wrong word was irreversible. He was good at his work, which in Croft's experience of British consuls was less common than it should have been. He said: How is the counting house.

Croft said: Functional.

Castres said: Good. He did not ask more specifically, which Croft noted as either fact or deliberate restraint; with Castres, these were not always distinguishable.

They talked for several minutes about the Factory's general condition — the two members who had left permanently, the three who had consolidated operations, the question of the surcharge and whether the October deadline was firm. Croft said he believed it was. He said the Secretary's office had not softened its position on any point since February. Castres said that was consistent with his own reading of the situation, and looked out the window.

Then he said: I wanted to speak to you about the property question.

Croft set down his glass.

Castres said: I am aware that you have been making enquiries. Into the Baixa acquisitions — the pre-earthquake transactions. He said it in the tone of a man describing a thing that has been brought to his attention rather than a thing he has pursued.

Croft said: I have been following a commercial question that affects Factory interests. The surcharge arguments required it.

Castres said: Yes. The surcharge. He turned his glass once in his hand. He said: I am not sure this is a matter the Factory should be seen to be pursuing.

The word was exact. Croft heard it and set it beside the others he had been collecting — well in advance, properly documented, established — precise words from precise men, each one designed to close a question rather than open it. He said: The Factory's interests include understanding the commercial terms of the reconstruction.

Castres said: Of course. He said it without emphasis. He said: The Secretary has been a reliable ally on the port duties question and on the wine treaties. I think it is worth our while to maintain that relationship carefully. He said: I am sure you agree.

Croft said: Of course.

Castres moved on. They discussed the port duties for perhaps ten minutes. Croft said what was expected on the relevant points, which were matters he had been managing for three years and could address without thinking. He drank the wine, which was better than what he could currently afford to keep himself. He thanked Castres and walked back down through the Estrela and the Bairro Alto toward the counting house.

The word seen. He had been practising it as he walked. Not: I am not sure this is a matter the Factory should be pursuing. That would have been a prohibition, and Castres was not in a position to prohibit and would not have framed it as one. What he had said instead was: I am not sure this is a matter the Factory should be seen to be pursuing. The distinction was everything. What was done was one question. What was visible was another. What the consul required was not that Croft stop — he had said nothing about stopping — but that the enquiry be conducted in a manner that the consulate could, if asked, honestly say it had no knowledge of.

He had given Castres nothing about Bristow. Bristow had not come up. The letter was in Bristow's possession, in Bristow's house, under Bristow's floorboards. Castres did not know Bristow's name had been mentioned.

At the counting house he found Pedrosa had gone to the post. He sat at the desk and opened his private ledger — not the commercial accounts, but the smaller one, the one that no one else read, in which he recorded the things that did not belong in the commercial accounts. He wrote the date, and then the word seen, and beside it in his close, disciplined hand: the consul's interest is in deniability, not in ignorance. He does not want to know more than he already does. He will not act against me. He will not help me.

He read this back. Then he added a line below it: Bristow to wait.

He closed the ledger and went back to the correspondence.

Outside, below the borrowed window, a cart was working its way up from the Chiado with a load of dressed stone — the new city's material, moving north through the old city's streets in the early summer light. He watched it for a moment, the way you watch a thing whose meaning you have already resolved. Then he turned to the correspondence.

There was still the letter from his sister in Bristol. He opened it. She said his daughter was well and had lost a milk tooth and asked when he was coming home. He read this once and put it in the drawer.