1st November 2005 marked the 250th anniversary of Lisbon’s “Great Earthquake.”
by Ruth Underwood
1st November 2005 marked the 250th anniversary of Lisbon’s “Great Earthquake.” But the destruction goes on.
We turn the corner, and are faced with sudden commotion. A murmuring crowd is gathering and spilling onto the road. All eyes are collectively cast upward, as if awaiting judgement from above. The unintelligible, almost Slavic sounds of Portuguese hum around us, as we find a space on the pavement, and look up.
The crowd’s gaze seems to be directed at an iron balcony on a typical Lisbon apartment block.
“What are they looking at?” I wonder aloud, not having noticed anything unusual happening on the balcony aside from a tiny dog yapping at his audience and intermittently chasing his tail.
An unexpected voice from somewhere behind me answers huskily, “The tiles are falling.”
Her voice intones an odd combination of despair and resignation. I turn around to see my informant drawing on a filterless cigarette and gesturing to a patch of wall next to the balcony.
The building is covered in “azulejos,” the blue and white tiles that form the striking façades unique to Portuguese architecture. I look at where she is pointing and see a rectangular gap in the intricate ceramic-work, like a tooth missing from a beautiful smile.
As we stare at the space and the crowd expostulates, an antique looking fire engine, sirens blazing, pulls up and parks in the middle of the road. Three firemen spring out, and before we know it a ladder has been erected and one of them is clambering up it.
The crowd seems to sense what is about to happen. It moves, with urgency, out of the road and onto the pavement.
We, on the other hand, sense nothing as we jostle for space and wait.
Once at the top, the fireman produces a chisel from an inside pocket. He then brings out a hammer, and begins to carefully chip away at one of the tiles next to the gap.
I am inwardly praising Portugal’s emergency service for respecting its city’s aesthetics, when I am stopped in my tracks. The fireman peels the tile away from the wall, and calmly throws it into the road.
It lands, face up, and breaks into hundreds of pieces.
The crowd shakes its head and glances accusingly at the shattered tile; before looking back at the wall where the fireman continues with his day’s work.
Another tile comes down, and breaks.
And another.
Fragments of centuries-old tradition land at our feet. From somewhere I hear an American tourist gasp excitedly,
“Hey! Do you think I can take a piece of that?”
Lisbon is a city haunted by destruction. The earthquake of 1755, the subsequent tsunami, and the three-day fire that followed that, combined to wipe out a quarter of the city’s population and the majority of the city’s buildings.
Lisbon was rebuilt, and azulejos, previously a privilege of the aristocracy, were liberally applied throughout. The city was resurrected the neoclassical tiles contributing to the renewed grandeur in no small part.
What is happening today may pale in comparison to the devastation of the city’s past but it is, nonetheless, devastating to watch.
I turn back to the woman behind me to gauge her reaction. She obviously interprets this as a demand for explanation, and says,
“It is because it is dangerous. The tiles might hit people.”
“But they could save the tiles, couldn’t they? They don’t have to throw them away.” She shrugs.
“They don’t care,” she says. With that, she props her sunglasses on her nose, and walks away.
