“I make them ready this morning.”
“I prepared them this morning. P-r-e-p-a-r-e-d.” He looks at Manuel and is quite pleased to hear his pupil softly utter the word and phrase a couple of times to himself.
“Good. Now I’ll play my guitarra—you sing.”
“I no sing fado.”
“Are you Portuguese?” Duarte holds Manuel with his rodent-like eyes. “Açoreano?”
Mateus picks up his instrument again. It is Manuel’s cue to leave—he notices the twitch of Mateus’s L-shaped sideburns that thin to a pencil point before meeting his perfectly trimmed mustache—and he moves down the corridor. Mateus knows the story, how Manuel was left for drowned and that he was saved by a fisherman and his daughter. He also knows of the betrayal by the girl called Pepsi. He smiled when Manuel told him. It had angered Manuel to have his notion of love met with laughter. Until Mateus came home the next day with a coffee-colored liquid inside a bottle; Pepsi-Cola, the label read. Manuel tasted it and didn’t like it very much, too sweet. They had both smiled. Mateus knows of the struggle, how Manuel worked his way down the tiny outports dotting Conception Bay until, somewhat exhausted and disillusioned, he settled in St. John’s and into Mateus’s home on the corner of Duckworth and Cathedral streets.
Manuel does not have the security of official papers and it is best that no one else knows he is here. The commander of the Gil Eannes—Portugal’s official representative in the North Atlantic—is in St. John’s. He is powerful, respected, and feared. Unlike some, he does not derive pleasure from the challenge of making the crooked straight. That is work. What he reveres is maintenance and control. The idea that Manuel drowned, his bloated body never skimmed from the sea’s frothy surface, is a blemish on his record. Even though he was not the Argus’s captain, he was responsible for all of the men signed to the White Fleet.
After five months Manuel’s room remains uncluttered, empty of anything that is his. There are a dozen or so letters addressed to his mother that may never be mailed. Manuel is uncertain of what it is he wants to say to her, whether he wants to remain. The letters were written at a time when the world lay sprawled in front of him, so full of hope and promise. He still wears his father’s gold crucifix and his old fisherman’s sweater. There is a single bed with a patchwork quilt, a simple night table (the drawer doesn’t open), an infuriating small lamp with a yellowing shade that he tilts to stop the bulb from flickering, a chipped stand-up ashtray, and a strong wooden chair—the last two things he drags every night to his window for a cigarette. Manuel doesn’t want to own anything—to feel the burden of having to care for things. He’s young. He wants to be able to pick up and leave, go anytime.
Manuel can hear the tinkling of Mateus’s guitarra; his trembling vocals spill over from the kitchen window. Mateus never knew his father. At least Manuel has an image of his father firmly imprinted in his head that occasionally flings itself to the forefront of his thoughts. Mateus is certain his father was a fisherman, convinced he was lost at sea. His mother was a fishmonger in the open market in Lisbon; she never said much. Mateus is always there to greet the men of the White Fleet as they get off their ships. “They’ve been out for so long, so alone. We’re their family, now,” he says. Manuel believes that it is more of a hope—that Mateus will one day see his father step out onto the dock, out into the glaring sun, reclaimed.
Manuel’s room is on the top floor of the four-story house. He looks out his bay window, down toward the black harbor. It was last year that he had stepped off the great fishing vessel Argus and onto the dock to gaze at the wood-clad buildings and the twin towers of the church looming over this city. He looked upon the bustling port with slit eyes and grinned with wonder, delight. Now he thinks of his struggle to get back here. Manuel doubts if there is still a place for him in this Terra Nova, if his dream is worth holding on to.
He remembers the bitter night he left Pepsi in her little house on the hill, how the snow began to fall the very moment he stepped out the front door with a bundle on his back. He could see Brigus in the distance, a grouping of pinprick lights piercing the dark. He thought he would be able to find work there, but there would be no work for a fisherman in December.
The next morning he came upon a sign, EAST COAST ROPE AND LINE, and attempted to open the door. Everything was locked and an eerie solitude lay among the small cluster of homes scattered in the distance.
He spent another night in an open shed behind the factory. The next day he was hired by a short man with no neck. Manuel was instructed to call him Mr. Johnson. He lasted three days working for this brutish little man who waddled along the factory aisle between fishermen, unsympathetic to their yearnings for the familiar roar of the sea. Manuel cut his hands as he guided the jute onto spools that spun wildly atop metal rods. When he could bear it no longer he took the money he was reluctantly offered and moved again. As long as he kept moving in the direction of St. John’s, he thought.
A couple days later he found himself in a smaller town where he met a few men who had gathered near a dock and who magically seemed to repel the splashing ocean that crashed against the concrete breaker. They were all dressed in tattered costumes, some in women’s garb. One of the men held a mask between his knees, the others had tied their veils around their necks. Manuel knew about these men who would wander from village to village at night, playing the fool with their ceremonial knocks. In Portugal, the new year always began with church and then a night of wild revelry. There was dancing and drinking, all disguised while greeting neighbors with “boas festas!” Manuel was warmed by these recollections of boyhood, dashing through the small village singing old songs called janeiras. Once their true identities were guessed correctly the children were required to “unveil” and were rewarded with food or coins.
A few days later he found himself in a town with no name. Feeling abandoned, he turned about for some sense of direction. He was lost. A car passed by and stopped. The red curly hair and freckled face of a young man popped out the window. His name was Jack and he was on his way to St. John’s and just wanted someone to talk to. “A man gets lonely,” he said. “That’s why I’m searching for something more, understand? Something that ain’t going to be found on this here rock. Ontario’s where I’m goin’ to get me a future.” He shouted his conversation as if he were speaking over loud music. Manuel listened and nodded, grateful that he was warm and in the company of a good soul.
… Parched in my desert of loneliness.
Nothing left.
Bread, bitter and dry,
is what I’m given for food.
I need nothing more.
Hope is my only companion.
Let me eat my bread
which I will moisten with wine …
Mateus’s voice is tiring. They will all be in bed soon. Manuel’s eyes land upon the men near the docks wearing mining lights strapped to their foreheads, casting their intersecting beams. That morning he looked down to the sea, to the piers in the harbor and the schooners of the White Fleet. He had scanned the Battery to the west of him, the gray flat flakes cutting horizontal lines against the rusty cliffsides. He saw them on the docks beginning to lay the large square frame made of mashed ferns and bound with twine. They will work through the night decorating the posts along the streets of St. John’s with garlands of pine and cedar. It would certainly be a relief from the smell of fish and oil that wafted over the course of the day. The roads will be paved with colorful petals that mark the processional route. It is at this moment, with Mateus’s fado as a backdrop, that Manuel’s heart longs for home.
… But I will come to you.
The early promise
awakened by the sea
is now hidden in a mist
of fear of being alone …
It is a beautiful May morning. The crowds are beginning to trickle in, appearing around the corners and clumping along the roads that move from the wharves to the gates of St. John the Baptist Church set high on the
ridge. Mateus has tried unsuccessfully to convince Manuel to attend mass with him on Sundays. He never pushes. There are too many scars … those who serve me, serve God … it’s between us and God, understand? The priest’s voice still haunts him.
The city is alive with a flurry of activity. Men scurry up poles like mice to connect loudspeakers. Earlier, the people of St. John’s, to be drawn into the celebration, had been asked by an ad in The Telegram to decorate their homes and other buildings along the route. Wanting everyone to join in the festivities, parishioners knocked on the doors that lined the processional route, handing out colorful scrolls of silk to unfurl from their windows. The statue of Nossa Senhora de Fátima, Portugal’s gift of friendship, will be carried up to the church to receive a solemn benediction, then set up for temporary display before being placed in the carefully prepared alcove for idol worship.
Many of the Portuguese fishermen are working in hurried preparation. A small cluster of four is standing on the corner, directly underneath Manuel’s window. Their torsos disappear into burlap sacks and then reappear with greedy arms full of petals. Pink and blue hydrangea, scarlet dahlias, pale peonies, and golden sunflowers are slightly faded from the journey. The four men fill the geometric shapes within the frame with swatches of color, water the petals to weigh them down and prevent them from being blown away, then lift the large eight-by-eight template, careful not to disturb the stained glass–like mural that remains on the ground. Again, they tumble the frame over, dive into their burlap sacks, arms and fists full of petals to complete the next eight feet of fragile tapestry. They are working up the steep slope of Cathedral Street and will reach the church by noon, in time for the start of the procession.
Manuel curls back in bed, brings his knees up to his chest. He can taste the ache. He thinks of his own island, sees the excited women gathered outside their homes during the town’s festa honoring Nossa Senhora do Rosário, decorating the street outside their stretch of windows in the same way. He wants to hear his mother’s voice, yelling at his sisters to raise the wooden frame carefully so as not to disturb the flowers and to ensure perfection—“God sees everything,” she’d say. And behind the front door, in the dark and cool recesses of their sundrenched houses, he and his brothers, along with the men in the village, would pray by raising their shot glasses of agua ardente, before toppling them into their gullets with squints, a flush of red, a horsey snort, and a grin.
I came to harvest
the greatness of the sea,
and stormy winds did blow.
The heavens above closed, roared their anger
in dismal gloom.
Mother, weep for your cherished son.
Your wails carry across
blasting waves, trumpeting gales.
We must endure.
The old ways remain;
new hopes are crushed by jagged rocks
of the mind …
“Manuel. Wake up. Manuel.” Mateus’s thin mustache hovers over Manuel’s face. “We’re going to miss the parade.” He smiles, exposing the large gap between his teeth. He motions for Manuel to take a seat with him by the window.
Mateus has taken the liberty of setting up the space for a celebration. The nightstand has been dragged next to the window. A boxed record player sits atop it. A black-and-white album cover of Amalia Rodrigues looking up to the sky leans against the crank. A few bottles of wine, two cups, and an ashtray sit on the sill. Manuel can hear the buzz of crowds gathered under the window.
“Come, Manuel.”
“I … I must have fallen asleep, Mateus.”
“It’s okay. Your head is filled with too many thoughts.”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“Manuel, I know … I can see.”
Mateus had stowed away in the hull of one of the White Fleet’s ships almost forty years ago. He had made a place for himself here. At first it had been difficult, a boy lost in an unknown, faraway place, not certain of what to do next. Repairing fishing nets had shredded his hands but fed his body. He had grown up on the docks, moved up in a world where there was promise of reward in hard work and perseverance. This was the dream of this land. Manuel wanted it to become his.
“You’re young, Manuel. At twenty-one you have everything ahead of you.”
“Then why do I feel I have nothing?” Manuel wants Mateus to turn and look his way, to answer the question. Instead, he turns the crank and places the album on the turntable. The record wobbles slightly. Amalia’s voice erupts as Mateus’s eyes urge Manuel to look out the window.
The thousands of men are moving up the street in step with Amalia’s painful cries. The long floral carpet winds through the city streets. Thousands more have lined the roads to see the pageantry and to catch a glimpse of “the gift.” Manuel is certain they have scrubbed themselves with cold seawater and large bars of glycerin soap. All of them—even those with curly and kinked hair—have their hair parted, greased flat, so that in the afternoon sun their heads look like glistening watermelon seeds. Manuel cannot help but grin.
“It’s nice to see you smile, Manuel … a man who truly has nothing doesn’t smile.
“Manuel. Listen to me …” It is his erect posture, straight like a mast, that tells Manuel he must listen. Mateus doesn’t want Manuel to look at him; they will have the conversation, side by side, looking out the window.
“Don’t let the idea,” his strained neck stresses this word, “of a dream conquer you, Manuel. If you are going to stay … if you are going to fazer uma América, as many of these men say,” he makes a tight ball with his fist. “Let this country shape you.”
“Can you mail some letters for me, Mateus?”
Mateus does not answer. He gets up, fills their glasses of wine to the brim, reaches to his side to crank the record player again and then leans out the window. His crisp white shirt billows in the spring breeze.
“Here she comes,” he smiles.
The wave of men are outside their window now, somberly walking in uniform step. Some of them look up to catch the bittersweet longing in Amalia’s voice. Some smile, others casually salute Mateus. Many have stayed with him before—their home away from home. In the near distance floats the four-foot-high statue of Nossa Senhora do Fátima, her floor-length veils topped with a silver crown. The twelve chosen carry her proudly on their shoulders. They move her slowly up the road, their steps soft. The statue is held tightly in place by wooden brackets covered with crimson velvet. It’s clear the men know of the steep inclines on the route to the basilica.
A plump woman raises her stringy daughter above her head and onto her shoulders. This is her chance to see the Holy Mother, the gift that Portugal sent with its fishermen to commemorate a relationship that has lasted more than four hundred years.
“She’s so small.” Manuel hears the little girl say this amid the approaching hum of a band. So young to be disappointed, he thinks. Nossa Senhora stands on her crushed-velvet base looking sadly down at the three shepherd children that kneel at her feet. They too are part of the statue, but only their necks poke through the mound of flowers as the crowd continues to pelt her with daisies and carnations as the men turn the corner and make their way up Cathedral Street. Many cross themselves as the statue passes; some even kneel and bow their heads. The pantomime adds to the reverence of the morning. Amalia’s fado—the songs thought to have been born from gypsy prostitutes—is respectfully silenced by Mateus as she passes. Mateus makes the sign of the cross. Manuel can’t cross himself. Behind the statue is the white top of the baldachin, sheltering the honored guests and priests from the sun. Four young altar boys struggle to hold its poles. They look concerned, afraid the wind will tear the canopy from their grip. Their faces betray their fear of failing. Manuel was an altar boy once and understands. He catches a glimpse of the men shaded underneath, and in an instant that same fear that he felt as a child courses through him once again.
“Who is that, Mateus?”
Mateus, sti
ll leaning out the window with his arms crossed on the sill, forces Manuel back into the room. “Stay inside, Manuel. Get away from the window.” But Manuel resists and pushes his chest hard against Mateus’s hand. “That’s Commander Alberto Sousa of the Gil Eannes.” Mateus whispers through clenched teeth as if someone is listening. Manuel has never seen the commander. The commander’s eyes trace Manuel’s round face, take note of his blue eyes, and recognize the blond hair of the one they had called Boneco, the doll. Manuel Antonio Rebelo—found. It is then that Manuel thinks of the photographs and documentation that must have been splayed across the commander’s desk only a few months earlier. It would have been his responsibility to explain the loss of one of his men, and it certainly would have been his troublesome duty to travel to Manuel’s small town of Lomba da Maia and place a standard pewter cross in the hands of his mother. Manuel notes the commander’s excitement, glimpses his eyes darting about, looking for a gracious way out of the procession. But he is cordoned off by the thick rope of people that line the road, carried away and redirected by the wave of men.
“You’re not safe here any longer, Manuel. The commander could report you, have you deported.”
“Not him, Mateus.” With open palms Manuel presses Mateus’s cheeks hard and directs his view again. “The priest, for Christ’s sake. What is his name?” Manuel knows Mateus does not understand the desperation in his voice. He lets go of his friend’s smoothly shaved cheeks; the white imprint of his trembling hands remains.
“Padre Carlos, Manuel. He’s the parish priest at the basilica. If you would only come … Why?”
It isn’t the priest’s oversized horn-rimmed glasses that force Manuel’s memory, but the way his body favors his left side.
Padre Carlos would ask him to stay later than the other altar boys. When everything had been stored in the rectory and turned quiet, he would lock the door and demand that Manuel kneel at the upholstered prayer bench; kneel down and pray to Our Lady who looked at them both atop her wooden shelf.
Barnacle Love Page 5
