CHAPTER 30
Joanna
Lisbon
When at last she finished writing, after she’d eaten her sandwiches and the delicious creamy custard pastel de nata she’d bought from a nearby café, Joanna left the praca and strolled along the road, past steep cobbled side streets that led down towards the river, on her way to the square that held the reservoir of water and signalled the end of the old aqueduct.
A warm afternoon light was shining over the tiled buildings and intricately carved wooden doors.
The road opened out at last, into red-rooftop views of Lisbon and the first sighting of the suspension bridge in the distance, spanning the Tagus.
The old and the new, she thought. Like Joanna and Emmy perhaps.
Two moments in time colliding. The reservoir was in a park where strong and ancient trees stood guard, and old men played boules and cards or sat on park benches chatting.
There was a Victorian pavilion-style café with a modern, glass conservatory, a large round pond with a fountain, and underneath this, M?e d’Agua, Mother of Water itself, a building now mainly used for housing art exhibitions.
Joanna began to walk down the concrete steps into the underground reservoir.
Inside, the wall of the aqueduct had been turned into a dimly lit grotto.
Water dripped, slowly, remorselessly. It was cool and eerie; music was playing, like fingers being run around the rim of a glass bottle, the sound echoing through the stone chambers.
She glanced at the leaflet she’d picked up from the ticket office, as she negotiated the split-level metal walkways.
The central tank apparently had the capacity to hold 5,500 cubic metres of water.
That was an awful lot. At the top, she peered back down the passage.
She made a mental note to find out a bit more about the construction – whether she’d use the information in her brochure, she wasn’t sure. But she’d like to know.
Joanna stood for a moment, listening to the music and the sound of the water, breathing in the damp metallic smell.
There was something about music and bridges.
The drone of traffic, the rush of water, footsteps on a walkway – these were all the music of the bridge, the wind being the main player.
The music here, though, was haunting, and she had to fight the sensation that she was drowning.
In a tin can; in a submarine. She didn’t like it. She headed for the fresh air outside.
As Joanna went into the café for a restorative glass of fresh juice, she heard the ping of an email notification.
She gave her order to the waitress and settled herself at a table by the window.
She checked her phone. A reply from Nicholas Tresillion.
She found herself smiling. That was quick. She opened it.
Dear Joanna Shepherd, she read.
Thanks for replying. I’m sure you get lots of mail about things that you’ve written (I was wondering, what else have you written?) and that you’re very busy. I appreciate it.
Joanna liked the way his mind wandered and the way he allowed these tangential thoughts to spill out. But what else had she written? No doubt he was expecting something a bit more worthy than her usual columns and features. A novel?
When she and Martin had first moved to London, that had been Joanna’s dream. Martin had supported her then. He’d convinced her that he could earn enough money to keep both of them – for a while, at least. He had given her time and opportunity. He had believed in her, they had been a team.
But it had never happened. Perhaps the problem was that Joanna had never fully believed in herself.
Because she’d never finished that novel.
There had been a few false starts but the text never seemed good enough, funny enough, clever enough.
Features, though, she knew she was good at.
She could think up different angles, winkle out truths that others might have missed; she could explore.
The Internet had made the features market more competitive but had also opened up a lot of new avenues. Joanna might be a failed novelist, but at least she made some sort of a living from her writing. She hadn’t, though, given up on her dream . . .
I’m writing again, he continued, (sorry about that if you were hoping to get rid of me!) to say that I know what you mean about directions and getting lost and finding yourself – which is how I interpreted what you wrote, anyway.
It’s been the same for me. For years you play a certain role; I played a certain role, did what was expected of me.
Then the role disappeared and I wasn’t sure what was left.
Joanna paused as the waitress brought her juice. She thanked her and continued reading.
I won’t go into details, he went on, I’m probably saying far too much as it is, but it was as if most of me had disappeared with it. Who had I been before? I could barely remember for a while.
She sipped her juice. What he was telling her so frankly was sending echoes into her head and her heart. Disconcertingly, she knew exactly what he meant.
In case you’re thinking I’m some sort of depressive soul, I should say that I’ve remembered now – who I was, I mean.
Who I am. And it’s all good. What I really wrote to ask you is: are you doing another bridge walk in another European city?
If so, I’d love to hear about it. In the meantime, it’s good to talk to you and sorry for rambling on.
Yours, Nicholas
Joanna read the email through three times.
She hadn’t quite expected things to get so personal with her mystery correspondent.
But she wasn’t complaining and, after all, she’d started it.
She was intrigued. She wanted to know more about what had happened to him and how he had lost and then found himself again.
Behind it all, she thought, there must be a woman.
She pulled her laptop from her bag and tapped out a reply straightaway.
Dear Nicholas,
I’m really glad it’s all good, she began. Her fingers flew over the keys. He was easy to write to . . .
It was the right kind of end to the walk through the old and the new, Joanna thought, as she finished her juice.
She pressed ‘send’ straightaway this time and put her laptop away once more.
Tracing the path of the ancient waterway through to its original stone, walking out into the square and seeing the new suspension bridge in the far distance, heaving with traffic.
The lovers beside the mulberry tree. Even Nicholas’s email had seemed a part of it.
And it had been a discovery in more ways than she’d expected.
As if the past and the present had somehow melded into one.
And the future? Had she found any clues about the woman she could be?