by Dev Bentham
“I’m not a miracle worker.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, clenching my teeth in frustration. “I couldn’t save him then, and I still can’t.”
“I never asked you to save me, Sean.” The sound of his voice hit my spine like it was a tuning fork. How was it possible that after all these years, I still remembered his exact intonation? My whole body responded, and I was afraid to turn around.
Tia Bel flew past me. “Martim. What are you doing? I thought you were going to Porto today.”
I felt like an idiot standing there, staring at the wall in front of me while people talked behind my back. Still, I took my time turning around. I wanted my face to be neutral and not betray how fast my heart was pounding.
I turned.
There he was, still dressed in his running clothes, his shirt sweat damp. I focused on a few dark curls that stuck to his forehead so I wouldn’t have to look in his eyes.
Martim ignored Tia Bel and spoke to me. “Why are you here, wearing a suit and talking to my tia?”
I steeled myself and let my gaze moved down to his eyes, still the same dark green, although the whites were less bloodshot than last I’d seen him, and now tiny crow’s-feet creased the edges. Still kind. I held his gaze, looking for recognition that whatever I was doing, it wasn’t my fault. Just following orders.
Martim lifted an eyebrow.
Tia Bel spoke urgently to him in Portuguese.
I was suddenly tired of secrecy. And of not knowing how he’d react. “Your hotel owes my boss a lot of money. I’m here to discuss your options.”
Martim’s brow creased. He turned to his tia.
She shrugged. “What else could I do?”
“What else? You mean other than involving Sean in our problems?” Martim stared at her. “There were no other financial institutions?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Not that would lend to us. Our credit never recovered from your father’s mistakes. Everyone turned us down. I wrote Sean. He said he would put in a good word for us.” She shrugged. “And here we are.”
Martim turned away. “I need a shower.” He looked over his shoulder at me. His gaze was cold. “Give me an hour. We’ll talk. Tia Bel has done what she could, but now it is time for me to take over.”
“But the doctor said no stress,” Bel protested.
He held up his hand. “Basta.”
He strode out of the room.
I turned to Tia Bel. “Doctor? Is something wrong?”
She shook her head. “Please, Sean, make yourself at home. I will talk to the kitchen about dinner.”
She swept out in a swirl of fabric and lavender, leaving me standing alone in the foyer surrounded by the newly remodeled hotel and my fears.
I SAT at a table, nursing an espresso. Outside the rain drenched Lisbon. People strolled by under umbrellas. The rain didn’t seem to faze them. Perhaps it was simply expected, like wind and sleet in Chicago.
The Alfama was a warren of ancient cobblestone streets and concrete stairways that led up to the ruined castle of St. George. Down the street was an old church. Tourists took selfies with the building in the background. I wondered if anyone still worshiped there. Idly, I estimated the relative wealth of the tourists passing by. The stores that lined the old town streets were a mixture of upscale and budget. No one looked like they were starving. The economy could be on the upswing.
Martim slid into the seat across from me. I smelled his shampoo and imagined that I could detect the fresh soapy scent of his skin. I had to quit thinking like this. I tried to picture him as I’d last seen him, strung out and naked with another man, but the emotional energy of that betrayal was gone. All I remembered was want.
A waiter put down an espresso, two packets of sugar nestled next to the cup. Automatically, as if no time had passed since the last time we had coffee, I slid my sugar packets toward him.
Martim fingered them with a sad smile. “I’m having trouble believing you are here, Sean.”
“You look good, Martim.” He was too thin, and his face had a sallow cast, which was surprising, given how healthy he’d looked from a distance when I’d seen him running. It didn’t matter. He looked good to me.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry you got caught in our domestic problems. My tia had no right to get you involved.”
“What happened, Martim? How did you end up in this much debt? When Tia Bel contacted me, I had no idea that things would get this bad. Did you know her spending was over-the-top like this?”
He shrugged. “She was doing the best she could.”
“But the renovations—there’s no way you can recoup the cost.”
“The numbers lie.” He held my gaze. I resisted the unprofessional shiver that ran down my spine. “The renovations weren’t the problem. I was.”
“Are you sick? What’s wrong?” I leaned forward, inclining my head and dropping my voice. He didn’t need the staff speculating about his health.
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Of course it mattered. But I let it go. I’d forfeited a right to be concerned when I kicked him out of my apartment years ago, then again when I agreed to come to Portugal and take everything he cared about. I leaned back, giving him his privacy.
Martim toyed with his espresso. “This money we owe. We will pay it back.”
“You’ve run out of time.” I didn’t want to play him like I would another client, so I told the truth. “My boss is going to foreclose unless you pay by the end of the month.”
Martim inhaled sharply. He chewed his lip. “And you? Can you stop this?”
“I don’t see how.”
He nodded and stared out at the rain.
“I’m sorry, Martim. Really I am.”
Again he nodded. After a moment he sighed and turned back to me. “Okay. Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” I braced myself—not knowing whether what he wanted was personal or professional, and unsure which would be worse.
He leaned across the table, his gaze intense on mine. “We have two weeks until the end of the month. Stay. Get to know the staff. Maybe then at least you can recommend that they stay on.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
He touched my arm. “We have good people. I don’t want my bad decisions to ruin their lives.”
I let myself look into his eyes, seeing there, in his concern for his staff, some of the passion that used to take my breath away.
I blew air out. “I’ll call my boss. See what I can do.”
“Thank you.” Martim smiled. It was the first time in years that I’d seen that all-out joyous smile of his. I had to look away.
I checked my watch. “It’s midmorning in Chicago. I’ll call in and see if I can get the okay to stay.” I dared a glance at Martim. “I can’t promise anything, but I will try.”
“That’s all I ask.” He sat back and took a sip of his espresso. “Go ahead and call. I’ll be here.”
I walked up to my room. The idea of two weeks with Martim was frightening, exciting, and sure to end in pain.
And yet, I hoped.
“GREAT IDEA.” Rex’s voice boomed through the computer. “It’ll give you an opportunity to check the place out thoroughly. Bring me a full inventory and a list of their suppliers. Getting that now will save time later.”
Oh, that was a relief. Now I could spend two weeks with Martim figuring out how to best screw him out of his inheritance. Sometimes I hated my job. Clearly, it didn’t bring out my best self.
I went back downstairs to tell Martim I was staying. My heart ached. And yet I smiled. And I’d thought Martim was the fucked-up one.
MY JOB usually required stealth and a certain amount of subterfuge as I tried to get information that hotel owners wanted to keep hidden. Martim did none of that. He gave me full access to the books and introduced me to his staff, from the Moroccan housekeepers, to the Lisboan front desk workers, even to a couple of Syrian dishwashers who had been hired in the kitchen the week before. In
each case, he introduced me, told them to be helpful in whatever way they could, and then left me alone to ask whatever questions I wanted.
The Moroccans, Syrians, Bolivians, Pakistanis, and I all fumbled along in a mix of Portuguese, Spanish, and English. As the week went by, I remembered more of the vocabulary Martim had taught me all those years ago. Portuguese and Spanish have strong similarities, and I had years of experience speaking Spanish with Central and South Americans working under the table in the best hotels in the States.
The stories Martim’s workers told me were as heartbreaking as immigrant stories always are. Aya, the woman in charge of housekeeping, had fled crushing poverty in Morocco. An Afghan man’s home had been destroyed in the war, and the Syrians, who didn’t yet speak Portuguese, had a haunted look in their eyes that spoke louder than words about why they fled the violence. These were the stories Martim had hoped I would hear, about men and women whose families desperately needed the euros that working at the hotel brought in. Over the years, I had tried to harden myself to this. After all, there wasn’t much I could do about it. Rex wouldn’t care if Aya’s children had to beg in the street. But I still did.
Studying the books was another issue. Martim had been right. There was a lie hidden in the numbers. When I added the bills for the renovation, the total was about a hundred thousand euros short. I was afraid that on top of everything else, I’d uncover something that would land Tia Bel in jail. It was a good thing that Martim and I weren’t lovers anymore. I wanted to find a way to save the hotel, to save him, but everywhere I looked, it just got worse. I was afraid by the end I’d have to take his hotel, fire his staff, and jail his tia, if not Martim himself. I was getting more depressed.
That’s the only explanation I have for what happened next. I was poring over the books, trying to find the missing cash, when Martim stepped into the office. He wore jeans and a black turtleneck, and with one finger held a sleek leather jacket slung over his shoulder. Looking at him was enough to make a man break out in a cold sweat.
He leaned against the doorway. “Stop working, Sean. The sun is out. Let me show you the sights. Then you’ll know why people want to come here.”
My first thought was that I was looking at it. But of course, even Martim in his most promiscuous days couldn’t have satisfied all the tourists.
I shook my head. “I’ve been to Lisbon before. Remember?”
“I remember.” He let it hang. After a moment he rubbed his hands together. “Okay. I have a new plan. I’ll take you someplace we did not go to back then.”
I couldn’t help but smile a little at his enthusiasm. It was so much like the old Martim, the one I knew before he fell apart.
He raised one eyebrow. “Come on, Sean. I promise I won’t bite.”
I looked down at the muddled books. The numbers could wait. They were giving me eyestrain, which wasn’t always a precursor to a migraine, but there was a possibility that if I kept peering at numbers on a screen, I might end up flat on my back in the dark.
I pushed away from the desk and stood up. “No museums.”
“Agreed.” He looked down at my loafers. “Did you bring good walking shoes?” At my nod, he simply said, “You’re going to need them.”
I took in his trainers.
“We’re running?”
“You’ll see.” He nodded his head in the direction of my room. “Go change. I’ll get the car and meet you out front.”
As I laced up my Nikes, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Martim was the most dangerous part of this whole assignment. Staring at the computer screen all afternoon might trigger a migraine, but spending time alone with him could hurt even more. If I had any sense, I’d stay as far away as possible. Instead I grabbed a windbreaker and headed down to the lobby and out onto the street, where Martim’s ancient Peugeot idled by the curb.
I climbed in and patted the dash. “Now I know where you haven’t been spending the money. Hope we aren’t going too far. Are you sure this thing won’t break down on the way to our big excursion?”
Martim laughed. “You Americans and your cars. You lease a new car every two years. Am I right?”
Of course he was. I just grunted. “At least I have reliable transportation.”
“So do I.” Martim caressed the steering wheel. “There were some years where this car was more reliable than I was. It’s a miracle we’re both still around.”
It felt like he was touching an old wound to see if it still hurt. It did. But maybe he was telling me something else, something true.
“And now? Are you reliable now?” I watched his profile as he considered.
He glanced at me. “Most days.”
We both let it drop.
I stayed quiet while Martim wove in and out of traffic. He drove like he always had—aggressive but with the assurance of a man who knew how to meld with his car. That was pure Martim, a contradictory combination of control and lawlessness. I tore my gaze away from the way his thin fingers curled around the steering wheel and stared out at the passing landscape.
“Where are we going?”
“Sintra.”
I’d read something about that. Was there a castle? “What’s there?”
“There are many things to see in Sintra, even museums.” He gave me a sideways look. “But those are not for today. Today we’ll visit a magical castle.”
“And the shoes?”
He grinned. “If it was easy to get to, it wouldn’t be magical, would it?”
We didn’t speak much on the drive, but I had to admit to myself that it was pleasant there beside him. I watched the landscape roll by as the apartment buildings and retail space of Lisbon gave way to beautiful green hills, fresh with spring.
Martim broke the silence. “Do you remember that guy in my study group who used to play the harmonica?”
“Sure.” Two years older and already in graduate school, I’d been the study group’s unofficial tutor.
“He passed through Lisbon last month, and we had coffee. He has his own start-up now. Making money like crazy. It’s funny how people change. I would never have expected it of him.”
I stiffened. “But you would have of me? And that’s a disappointment?” Back when we were in school, I’d dreamed of opening my own company. I’d sworn never to be a wage slave.
“That’s not what I meant. We all change, Sean. You haven’t cornered the market on it.”
He had pulled off the thruway and we were weaving through narrow streets.
I asked, “How have you changed?”
He shook his head. “If you can’t see that, then it isn’t real.”
“Aren’t you enigmatic.”
He shrugged. “We’ll park here.”
He pulled into a parking spot. On one side were residences fronted by concrete walls covered in lush ivy. On the other side of the road, past a low wall, trees and bushes covered the hill that sloped sharply down from us. In the distance, white buildings with red tile roofs climbed the next hill.
Martim turned off the ignition and got out of the car. I followed. He pointed down the road. “Driving in town is a nightmare. We’ll walk from here.”
He led me along a winding path of sun-dappled roads. The sidewalks were cluttered, but not overcrowded, with groups of tourists. According to Martim, the congestion later in the summer made the trip difficult, particularly in the heat of the day. I walked beside him, aware that with his runner’s legs he would probably be able to bound up and down the hills much faster than me. Back in grad school, I’d been in better shape. I hoped he hadn’t noticed that change. The castle, which I assumed was our final destination, perched on the top of a mountain. Even from a distance it was gorgeous and intriguing with yellow, red, and white walls and turrets of every imaginable shape. I was tempted to suggest we admire it from down below, but we’d driven almost an hour to get there. No use quitting before we finished the adventure.
We came to the bottom of one hill and started ascending the
next. Martim turned down an alleyway, and we were confronted with a set of stairs. I paused at the bottom. From where I stood, the stairway looked longer than a football field.
Martim smiled at me. “You ready for this, old man?”
“I’m only two years older. Besides, you’re in the overthirty crowd yourself now.”
“Do you want to race?”
“Not on your life. My ego won’t take it.”
Martim laughed. “Since when does your ego need pampering?”
“Since you reminded me of my age.”
“Come on.” Martim started up the steps. “Sintra is known for its pastries. We’ll earn our treat.”
I was out of breath by the time I topped the stairway. Martim wasn’t even flushed. I followed him onto another residential street, vowing to start an exercise program as soon as I got back to the States. After the stairway, the road ascended gently, and I caught my breath. A few minutes later, Martim turned us onto a single lane road bordered by ancient ivy-covered walls. As we kept climbing, cars passed within inches of us, and we were forced to walk single file. I let Martim go ahead, relieved that I wouldn’t need to keep up my side of the conversation. Talking with Martim felt like moving between land mines. The past sat beneath us like a smoldering fire.
The road went steadily upward. My thighs ached. Despite the cool April weather, sweat trickled down my back. And still we kept walking. The trees closed over the narrow road, and we could no longer see the top of the hill. I despaired of ever reaching the castle. I put one foot in front of the other and watched Martim’s back. Following him up the mountain became a metaphor for how it had been with us at the end. I was chasing, and he was always walking away.
Except I was the one who ended things by tossing him out on the street with nowhere to go. In Massachusetts. In the winter. I still didn’t want to think about that. Better to focus on everything he’d done to deserve that. Because otherwise there was no way I’d be able to do the same thing all over again.
We emerged from the forest into the parking lot. I stared up at the castle. Martim stood close beside me. His body radiated heat. Despite the crowd, for the moment we were alone.
