Mask of the Monk’s Inner Demon

This morning when I stepped out to get coffee from the kiosk of my dreams, the streets were damp and the moisture in the air spritzed me intermittently. I thought, “This is it, Lisbon as advertised, rain soon to follow.” Ella, on the other hand, chooses to make weather predictions from reports on her cell, and she informed me that there was only a 24% chance. So no umbrella. And I had brought one all the way from Albuquerque! I mean I’m ready. Paul got caught here with a storm pattern that settled in for weeks. Ella can scoff at an unnecessary addition to my luggage, but I am prepared to become Aqua Man at a moment’s notice.

Since it was overcast and breezy we figured it was a good day to head north away from the river and hike over the Barrio Alto hill to visit the Gulbenkian Museum next to Park Edwardo VII. A low flat concrete building, one of those aesthetically modest bunkers that protect art collections the world over, the Gulbenkian was tastefully hidden in a small well-maintained park. The collection inside, privately acquired by a Shell Oil executive, had minor masterpieces by a variety of masters, but the artwork that particularly caught our eye was the Turkish tile work from the 16th century. After whisking through shards of ancient Mediterranean pottery and yards of Persian tapestry, we took a breather from the outer regions of the Portuguese Empire and its plunder to imagine the splendor of Ottoman palace decorative design. Was it me, or were the intricate interlacing floral tiles meant, after a few puffs on a hookah, to transport sultans to some hypnotic state of inner bliss?

Although I was transported by a Turner shipwreck, Ella started coughing as if she were sinking in the storm and gasping for air. This was a signal that I wasn’t to dawdle over the large pre-raphaelite painting of maidens gazing in a peaceful stream at their own reflection. So we emerged from the oil exec’s stash and climbed another hill to get to Edward VII park where Ella can be your guide.

Leaving Edward VII park, we descended towards the river to find the Museum of Marionettes in a hilly neighborhood of narrow cobblestone streets. Unlike the Gulbenkian with the certainty of rich acquisitions, I didn’t know what to expect other than Punch and Judy puppets on a string.

But what a treat! High point of the day. Apparently, like other cultures (Indian and Balinese come to mind), the Portuguese have a highly refined and greatly appreciated tradition of marionette theater. The museum had an extensive collection of marionettes ranging in sizes from doll to full-grown from different historical periods all over the world. I was laughing at a display of German marionettes—they were all grim-faced as if they couldn’t stand being string-puppets—when I heard Ella cry out.

Ducking into a short corridor between rooms, I found her backing away from an arrangement of masks where the head of a jaguar thrust out from a bright orange-red ring of fire.

But that’s not what arrested me. No, it was the mask below to the left that spoke, or should I say, hissed to the torments of my inner monk. It seems that no matter where I go during this trip, he’s lurking ready to freak me out.