After the War: A Novella of the Golden City

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  He slid away from her and out of the bed, stopping to peer down at her sleeping form. He hoped to heaven she was his wife. Evidence certainly upheld her claim, as she knew his body far better than any woman save a wife should. Even so, he felt guilty for bedding a woman he’d just met. Sighing, he headed for the bathroom. The electric lights there were startlingly bright, and he stared at his reflection, wondering who this Alexandre Ferreira actually was.

  Are you Alexandre? he asked that face in the mirror. Are you Alejandro?

  Neither name sounded like his. But nothing had so far, not in two years.

  He spoke Spanish, English, and French well but simply didn’t have the vocabulary in those tongues that he had in Portuguese. That was why he’d slowly made his way to Portugal. Lisbon had been his first stop in the country, and he’d found work quickly enough. Menial labor, but it paid for meals and a tiny room. He’d been comfortable. The need to flee he’d felt in other locations hadn’t crept over him yet.

  Perhaps this was home, this or the Golden City.

  He stared at his face in the mirror. He wanted this life. He wanted her to be his wife. It was seductive not to question his good fortune, or the sheer coincidence of running into her in a café on a night when she happened to be singing there.

  “Alejandro?” Serafim’s soft voice called.

  He quickly washed his hands and returned to the bedroom. Serafim held up the sheets for him to rejoin her, and he went, willingly. She came into his arms, her warm body pressing against his chilled skin. Her long hair tangled about him as if it had a life of its own. She kissed him, and whispered, “Say my name, Alejandro.”

  “Serafim,” he said softly, willing to please her.

  She shook her head, pulling away. “No, my real name.”

  “Serafina,” he answered.

  Her arms came about him again. “I knew you remembered.”

  No, he hadn’t remembered. It had been logic, a good guess, no more. She called him by the Spanish version of his name, so he simply chose the Spanish version of hers. Why should they not both have Spanish names? But she had long since moved past talking, her hands on him again, her lips on his throat, chasing all else from his mind.

  

  Saturday, 19 June 1920, Lisboa

  He was going to be Alejandro Ferreira until he had a better understanding of the situation.

  He didn’t want to hurt Serafina. She would make a charming, if sometimes vexing, wife. Demanding, likely exhausting, but from all appearances utterly devoted to him.

  So Alejandro bathed and dressed in his worn garb, ruefully reflecting that he would be the worst dressed man in the hotel’s restaurant that morning. He walked down the stairs with a smiling Serafina on his arm, and was greeted like a long-lost son by Marcos Davila, even though the man couldn’t know whether he’d spent the night talking with his daughter . . . or bedding her.

  The restaurant was a place of white-draped tables. Wealthy people already sat at some, easily discernable by their lack of concern about their possessions. Foolish. A few businessmen were there, one table apparently railroad men. One man was a former soldier. An officer, Alejandro guessed, judging by his demeanor and the narrow scar over one temple. His stiff carriage hinted at a back injury as well. No threats, Alejandro decided as he followed his newfound family into the dining room.

  “Will you please tell me, sir,” Alejandro began after they’d settled at a white-draped table. “How comes it that my name is Spanish?”

  “You were born in Spain,” Davila said, “as was Serafina. I am Spanish, as well.”

  Alejandro licked his lips. The Spanish didn’t have much use for sereia, the result of a horrible scandal nearly two decades ago. They had long memories. How would a sereia like Serafina and a half-sereia like himself fare in Spain? “Are you. . . ?”

  His question was cut short when Davila’s eyes lifted. The man gazed past Alejandro and a wide smile of relief lightened his features. Alejandro turned to look over his shoulder. An older man walking with an ebony cane approached their table, his eyes both cautious and hopeful. Without thinking, Alejandro rose to his feet, breath held tight.

  The older man—perhaps fifty or so—had his face.

  It was the same face Alejandro saw in the mirror: square jaw, wide forehead, straight brown hair, and darker skin than many Portuguese. Straight nose, although it had clearly been broken at least once. The man had some gray hair at his brow and a limp that spoke of an old injury. His suit was well made without being flashy. Something about him said police officer to Alejandro. The man removed his hat as he approached the table and stepped forward to embrace Alejandro, then kissed his cheeks.

  “Sir?” Alejandro said. “I . . .” He didn’t know what to say. As the older man stepped back, he finally managed, “Are you my father?”

  The man glanced aside, and Alejandro noted for the first time that he hadn’t come alone. A second man was with him, a mestiço with skin of medium brown and smoky green eyes, both men near the same age.

  “This is Alejandro,” the mestiço man pronounced.

  “I had no doubt,” the first man replied, and turned back to Alejandro. “I’m your brother, Joaquim Tavares. Marcos told me you’ve lost your memory.”

  Ah, there must have been a telephone call placed to the Golden City, summoning this man.

  “Why don’t we sit down and eat?” the mestiço man suggested.

  Waiters came and rearranged their chairs for them, then whisked off to retrieve water and coffee for the newcomers. Alejandro used that time to marshal his thoughts, and Serafina reached under the tablecloth to grasp his hand.

  That man is my brother. Joaquim Tavares looked too much like him to be anything else, despite the differing surnames and the gap in age. Joaquim even had similar hand motions, and cocked his head in the same way.

  “That was done magically,” the mestiço man pronounced as soon as the waiters were gone. “The memory cap, I mean. A hex—a combination of curse and witchcraft. Not an injury. That has to be why you couldn’t find him, Joaquim. The memory loss effectively changes who he is, even to the perception of your gift. It’s also suppressing his gift. I can’t see it right now, but I’m sure it’s still there.”

  Alejandro kept his mouth shut, his general response when uncertain. Safer to say nothing. The fact that his missing memory was the result of a hex rather than an injury had to be a hopeful sign, though.

  Serafina squeezed Alejandro’s hand. “Can you fix it, Uncle?”

  She’d asked that of the mestiço man. He turned a sardonic expression on her. “And how would I be able to do that, girl?”

  “Surely you know someone who can fix it,” she insisted. “One of those Freemasons, right?”

  They were discussing witchcraft like it was a normal table topic. Alejandro pressed his lips together.

  “I can ask around,” the man said, “but you know very well that witchcraft is illegal.”

  Serafina pouted dramatically, and the man seemed to accept that as normal as well.

  “Can we all pause for a moment?” Joaquim asked. “Alejandro, this is Inspector Gaspar of the Special Police. He’s known you since you were a child, and taught you to play football.”

  Alejandro peered at Gaspar for a moment, wondering if anything about him would stir a memory, but it didn’t. He turned back to Joaquim. “Sir, I don’t understand. What gift is he talking about?”

  “You’re a seer, Alejandro,” Joaquim said. “A rather profound one, I should add, but it appears that didn’t stop you from being hexed at some point.”

  “Well, we have to fix it,” Serafina insisted again.

  “I, for one, am simply happy he’s still alive,” Joaquim told her with fatherly sternness. “Marina will be overjoyed just to have him home.”

  Serafina pouted again, clearly unhappy with being told to be satisfied with what she had. Her father didn’t protest Joaquim’s commentary on his daughter, which suggested that Davila agreed. Alejandro
let his eyes drift to the table.

  Joaquim doesn’t think they can fix me. It was a chilling realization.

  He hadn’t expected anyone to fix him . . . not until Serafina said something. Her simple request had raised hopes he’d thought long since dead. Alejandro took a breath and licked his lips.

  “Um, Marina?” he asked, hoping he didn’t have a girlfriend as well as a wife.

  “My wife,” Joaquim said, “who raised you after your mother departed.”

  Departed. That made it sound like his mother had left this earth via train. “I see.”

  Joaquim chuckled. “I suspect we’re overwhelming you with new information, Alejandro. It might be easier if you and I spoke alone. I can tell you whatever you want about your past, save for the last few years, of course.”

  That was reassuring. Someone was finally going to tell him who Alejandro Ferreira was. He hoped that would tell him how to act around these people and what they expected of him. “Thank you, sir.”

  

  Alejandro spent a few hours closeted with Joaquim, learning his own history and that of his rather convoluted family. He had two living older brothers, and each of them had different mothers. Only Duilio, the eldest, was legitimate, and his mother was a selkie. Joaquim was the product of a liaison with a young woman in Barcelona, just as Alejandro himself was, although his own mother had been a sereia woman. That left Alejandro with a rather low opinion of the fidelity of the man who’d sired the three of them.

  It was clear, though, that Joaquim had stepped in to raise him. If nothing else, Alejandro wished his memory back so that he could better know this man—and his wife Marina, who’d become Alejandro’s second mother.

  Joaquim went on to tell him that his birth mother had been a prisoner in Spain, as had Serafina’s. The two sereia women were among a couple dozen sold into virtual slavery by their own government. They’d been rescued and given their freedom when Alejandro was only seven, and Serafina just a toddler.

  Apparently, he’d known Serafina since her birth. “And now she is my wife.”

  Joaquim shifted in his chair, setting his cane aside. “More or less.”

  Alejandro’s stomach sank. “What does that mean?”

  “Just that . . . things slipped during the Great War,” Joaquim answered. “You came back from Angola, but had only three days before you shipped out to France. Marina and I barely saw you in that time. Afterward, Serafina said that the two of you had married, but we never saw any evidence of that. There’s no license or records of a church marriage.”

  God help me. Alejandro covered his face with his hand. “Am I the sort of man who would treat a woman that way?”

  Joaquim held his hands wide. “No. And the fact that you just asked should prove that to you. I should have been clearer, though. Because you both also have sereia citizenship, legally all that’s needed there is a verbal agreement between you.”

  “So our marriage is legal on the sereia islands,” he guessed, “but not here?”

  “I think that’s the best interpretation. You’re married, but not in the eyes of the State or the Church. When Marina asked Serafina about it, she became very defensive. It’s a delicate topic, and we didn’t want to press her.”

  Alejandro puffed out his cheeks. “She doesn’t have a wedding ring.”

  “She can’t wear one,” Joaquim pointed out, “so you wouldn’t have purchased one for her anyway.”

  Ah, yes, the webbing. She hadn’t worn any rings because she couldn’t. “She wouldn’t have received any benefits from the army if something happened to me, would she?”

  “No,” Joaquim said, “but you knew we would never let anything happen to her. Her family and ours have always been close.”

  His mother and Serafina’s had been prisoners together, and her father and Joaquim had shared a prison cell at one point. That must have forged a bond. Still, Alejandro hated the idea that he’d taken a wife—legally or not—and hadn’t provided for her. “We don’t have any children, do we?”

  “No.” A smile crept across Joaquim’s serious features. “Isn’t that something you should have asked her?”

  Alejandro dragged a hand across his forehead. “Every time we start to talk, we end up . . . not talking.”

  Joaquim chuckled. “I suppose I can understand, since she’s not seen you in so long. Remember, Serafina isn’t missing any memories, so this is a completely different situation for her than it is for you. I suspect you’ll need to be patient.”

  “Because she won’t be?” He’d been in her company for less than a day, and he knew that much.

  “No, Serafina’s never been a patient girl,” Joaquim told him.

  “But I did intend to marry her,” Alejandro asked cautiously. “Didn’t I?”

  “Yes. You’d known for years that you would. That’s one reason there wasn’t more of a fuss when her parents realized there was no proof of your wedding. They trusted that you would make good on any promise. You’ve always been the responsible one.”

  Good to know I’m viewed as responsible, at least. He would hate to find a family only to learn they despised him for some moral weakness. He certainly didn’t intend to back out of any relationship he had with Serafina. “I should start working on a church wedding, then.”

  “Her parents would appreciate that,” Joaquim said with another smile. “It’s like you to try to take care of Serafina first and only then worry about yourself. We do need to find out what happened to you.”

  Alejandro regarded him frankly. “You don’t think this can be fixed, though, do you?”

  Joaquim rubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly tired. “I’ve worked with the Special Police for a very long time, Alejandro. My experience says that anything done by witchcraft can only be undone by witchcraft. That’s an option not open to us.”

  Because the Church forbade witchcraft, as did the State. It was different from witchery, the use of talents that occurred naturally, like being a seer or a finder or whatever it was that Gaspar did. They were witches, but so long as they didn’t attempt to augment their talents illicitly, the Church allowed them to live in peace. Witchcraft, on the other hand, required spells and usually sacrifice of some kind; that was what the Church forbade. The fine line between the two could be debated, but apparently his particular problem was clearly on the wrong side of that line.

  “So I’m stuck with this. With starting all over again.”

  “Yes,” Joaquim said. “Unless we find something that tells us differently. Unfortunately, since Gaspar says it’s a hex, the only witch who can remove it is the same witch who laid it on you. I will be here, though, any time you need to talk. Anything I can do, I will.”

  Alejandro gazed at him for a moment. Unlike anyone he’d met in the last two and a half years, Alejandro trusted the man. Not because he recognized him. He still had no spark of memory regarding Joaquim. But Joaquim looked so much like what Alejandro saw in the mirror that there was no room for doubt. “I do appreciate that, brother. Do. . . ?”

  Joaquim’s head tilted. “What else?”

  “Do I have any profession? I’ve been a laborer since the hospital, but . . . all I seem to recognize is . . . how to steal.” He felt himself flush even mentioning that.

  Joaquim patted his shoulder. “You were raised in a prison, Alejandro, and learned young to pick pockets. To my knowledge, you haven’t done so since, save as a parlor trick. It’s always been a point of pride for you that you no longer steal. As for profession, you’d begun your studies at Coimbra. You had some intention of becoming a writer, but then the war broke out.”

  “A poet?” he asked, hoping the answer was no. “Or a newspaper writer?”

  Joaquim chuckled at his obvious discomfort. “No, you always wrote stories of adventure. Like the works of Haggard and Wells and Verne. As soon as you learned to write, you and your cousin Miguel began writing the most fantastical stories together.”

  Well, he supposed living without hi
s memories was simply a different adventure. “I see.”

  “You will, in time,” Joaquim said. “Now, let’s get you packed up.”

  The plan was for him to retrieve his meager belongings from his rented room in the Barrio Alto and return with the others to the Golden City on the night train. As the Barrio Alto was a steep climb from this hotel, they needed to catch a cab for Joaquim’s sake. Alejandro retrieved his shabby jacket from the back of his chair as Joaquim rose, and together they headed for the lobby to meet with Gaspar, who would accompany them.

  Serafina waited there, though, too, as if she’d feared Alejandro would slip away.

  “You don’t need to come with us,” Alejandro told her. “Why don’t you get some rest?”

  Her chin rose. “Do you think I’m one of those women who is constantly swooning? I don’t need to rest. I want to help.”

  He nearly pointed out that she’d swooned the night before, but decided that wouldn’t be wise. “I’d rather you not see where I’ve been living.”

  She looked stricken, as if for the first time realizing his life away from her might have been difficult. He had the impression his family was wealthy. He wasn’t sure about Serafina’s family, but neither she nor her father dressed like menial laborers.

  “Please, let us handle this,” he asked gently, taking her hands.

  Tears glistened in her eyes. She glanced at Joaquim, as if asking reassurance that he wouldn’t let Alejandro escape. “I’ll go pack my own things.”

  Joaquim’s hand settled on Alejandro’s shoulder as he watched Serafina walk away, her slender shoulders slumped. “The last time you left her,” Joaquim said, “they told her you died. I knew they were wrong, but even so, she was terrified and heartbroken.”

  And it must be hard for her to let him go.

  Alejandro reminded himself to be patient.

  

  On the fourth floor of the building, up a narrow old stairwell that twisted around, the flat wasn’t much. There was a narrow bed with old, musty blankets that had once been blue, a small table with a single wooden chair, and little space to walk around those. There wasn’t a toilet on this floor, so Alejandro had to make do with a chamber pot under the bed. He owned only two sets of work clothing, but kept those neatly folded on the end of his bed.