Garden of Stars (15 page)

I walked on from the Factory House and further towards the Douro. In the far distance I could see the iron bridge that spans the river, suspended like a giant spider's web between the two banks. A passenger train was crossing on the highest level, a plume of smoke trailing behind it. It felt like a day when it was good to be alive, and I decided to go all the way down to the river, to the Cais da Ribeira, where what I sometimes feel is the real life of Porto is played out in all its raucous turmoil.

John doesn't much like me going there – marriage sometimes seems to have so many constraints when I had imagined only freedoms! I cannot deny that the area is a little rough but I love the chaos and the noise, the small children darting around my legs, cheekily tugging my skirt and demanding escudos. Today, sea-faring vessels of all types were moored three or four deep along the river bank, planks between them allowing passage to the shore, over which flowed a continuous stream of men and women employed to unload their cargo. Everything, from furniture to building materials, from sacks to baskets and boxes, is carried on their heads and all seem indifferent to the huge weight and unwieldiness of many of the items. On occasion, I have even seen countrywomen carry their babies this way, if they need their hands free for other things. Waiting patiently just beyond the quayside, ready to transport the goods onwards, were the bullock carts. These beasts of burden have such sheer strength that they never falter in pulling the heaviest of loads up the steep hills of Porto.

As I wandered through the throng, the air resounded with the cries of the street hawkers; the woman selling oranges, the knife-grinder, the vegetable vendors whose donkeys poke their noses through shop doorways and wait patiently while the deal is done. Loudest of all were the fishwives, the
varinhas
, laden baskets on their heads, calling out their offer of ‘
carapaus frescos
'. When the weather is bad they go barefoot, carrying their shoes on top of their fish rather than spoil them in the mud. A practical solution, I always feel.

Eventually, I turned away from the river and started to weave my way through the medieval streets and alleyways, past some of the city's many churches; Sâo Francisco, Misericórdia and dos Grilos, until I reached the church and tower dos Clérigos. I decided to go in, to escape from the sun for a moment but also to sit and rest after so much walking. It was quiet and dark inside. I knelt, made the sign of the cross and began to pray, before I had even thought about what I was doing.

Once my prayer was said, I sat for a while with my eyes shut, breathing in the still, heavy air that smelt of incense and beeswax. When I got up, it was to wander up and down the aisles, peering into the side chapels and up at the stained-glass windows. A statue of a small, chubby infant, cradled by the Madonna, caught my attention; it had a face so sweet and enchanting that I was unable to stop myself from reaching out to touch it. But the baby Jesus's body was not soft and yielding as its appearance promised, but cold and hard, made of stone that although chiselled with love did not possess the gift of living.

I ran my fingertips slowly over the tubby belly and podgy thighs, feeling the slight abrasion of the statue's granulated surface, the chill that emanated from it despite the heat of the day. I studied it carefully, the curly hair that begged to be ruffled, the plump cheeks that demanded a gentle pinch, the tiny hands that needed to be held…but all were just an imitation, a lifelike but lifeless replica of a real baby.

I withdrew my hand and turned to the huge wooden doors, my head bowed, overcome by a sudden and profound sadness. Just one little baby is all I want. Forget the many I once dreamed of. Just one will do.

Porto, 2010

When Scott texted to say he was on his way down to meet her, Sarah had tears pouring down her cheeks, smudging the make-up she had so carefully applied. The mystery of Inês's childlessness was becoming ever more puzzling when it was obvious how much she had longed for a baby. Maybe the words that Inês had been unable to utter had been about that yearning, unfulfilled, unsatisfied. But why would she want to expose this wound now, after so many years? And what of the rather singular English tutor, Edmund Bond? There were telltale signs that Inês was fond of him – perhaps rather fonder than one should be of one's grammar teacher. If their feelings for each other transcended mere friendship, what on earth would become of it?

And then, in the midst of all these thoughts, Scott was beside her, asking her if she were all right, if something had happened, if the girls were OK.

“We don't have to go out if you'd rather not,” he said, sitting down beside her and anxiously regarding her. “Do you need to stay here, phone home? Is there anything I can help with?”

Sarah smiled wanly, and then tried again, with more enthusiasm. She reassured him that all was well in London, she'd explain in a minute, and went to the bathroom to repair her mascara. Once convinced that she really did want to go out to dinner, Scott led her out of the hotel. As they walked, Sarah updated him on her latest readings of the journal, although it was hard to articulate why it had affected her so greatly. So absorbed was she in relaying the story that they had reached the banks of the river Douro before she paused to take in her surroundings. Realising immediately that this must be the Ribeira district that Inês so loved, Sarah gasped and tears welled up once more. The tall, thin houses jostled for position along the waterfront, just as Inês had described, wooden balconies and coloured façades melded together to form a perfect tableau. The difference was that the grocer's shops and ships chandlers were now restaurants and cafés, the fishwives and knife-grinders had been replaced by street artists and souvenir sellers, and the erstwhile haunt of sailors and prostitutes was now populated by a mix of tourists and locals enjoying an evening out.

Scott had booked a table at his favourite restaurant and as they ate, Sarah could not help but voice her continued puzzlement over the reason Inês had given her the journal.

“I don't know what it's all about,” ventured Scott, cautiously. “It seems that she is leading you somewhere but perhaps the mistake you are making is thinking that it is the destination, rather than the journey, that is important.”

Such perspicacity took Sarah completely aback. She would never get an insight like that from Hugo; he would just insist on asking Inês straightaway for an answer, would have no understanding of the subtlety that was demanded. And then she chastised herself for making such a meaningless, and mean, comparison. Hugo had his way and Scott had his and it was pointless and unproductive to play them off against each other.

As they were finishing the meal, Scott announced his surprise. He had managed to get hold of tickets to see Lucia Delgada, one of Portugal's most famous
fado
singers, knowing that Sarah shared his love of this traditional music that sang of
saudade
, of nostalgia, loss and longing. He hoped she was up for coming along. Sarah eagerly accepted and as the city lights came on and illuminated both banks of the river, they headed for the bar where Lucia was to appear. It turned out to be hard to find, and as they retreated from yet another dead end, a cluster of dark shadows detached from an unlit corner, illuminated by a flash of light from a discarded cigarette. Sarah felt a frisson of fear as her eyes made out the silhouettes of three men; there was something menacing about them, their ghostly forms in the blackness. One of the men uttered something, his heavily accented Portuguese unintelligible to Sarah. His companions laughed, unkindly. Sarah's step faltered, not sure whether to proceed or retreat.

Instinctively, Scott reached out for her hand, steering her away from the men whilst blocking them from her with his body. They fell silent once Scott's height and bearing was revealed by the light from an open window. Sarah glanced up at him. His face had an amicable, non-confrontational look about it, but the set of his jaw was steely. The men melted back into the gloom.

Reluctantly, several minutes later, Sarah withdrew her hand from Scott's grasp.

By the time they located the bar, tucked away down a tiny back alley, it was packed, noisy with the hum of incessant chatter and thick with the smell of beer and red wine. Sarah stared around at the throngs of people. All ages were present; flocks of students, the boys neat in roll-neck tops or shirts and jeans, the girls dressed up in high heels and pretty dresses, along with elderly couples and groups of middle-aged men and women having a night off from the children. Waiting for Scott to bring the drinks, Sarah twisted her wedding ring round and round on her finger. She looked down at it, where it had been for ten years, and was surprised to find it looking the same as ever, familiar and normal, when for the last twenty-four hours she had almost ceased to recognise herself, had begun to forget who she, Sarah Lacey, really was.

Scott returned with a carafe and glasses, and they wedged themselves into a corner where two seats were still available. He handed her a glass. “I didn't splash out, seeing how you reminded me that you have no palate,” he joked.

Sarah took a swig of the dark, treacly liquid and smacked her lips. It was rich and spicy; delicious, despite how Scott had denigrated it. “Too right! I'm the last person you should waste an expensive bottle of wine on.”

All around them, excitement was mounting in anticipation of the arrival of the fado star.

“This place reminds me of those clubs we used to hang out in.” Sarah spread out her arm to indicate their surroundings. “All spit and sawdust, sweat and sleaze.” She hesitated. “Do you remember the one where we met?” Her stomach turned a somersault at the memory.

Scott nodded, slowly, but took his time to speak. “Yup. I guess it was the sort of place that I'd find my kids in these days.” He sipped his wine thoughtfully, placing the glass deliberately back onto the table. “That's a sobering thought, isn't it?”

A hundred replies flitted through Sarah's mind and were dismissed; too trite, too boring, too long-winded. The silence seemed painfully long.

“Do you still love to dance?”

The question flew towards her as if shot by an arrow. It felt so personal, intimate, intense. If she said no, it would reveal how diminished her life had become, how eroded she had let herself be. She drank a slug of wine to cover her confusion before replying.

“Do you know what, Scott? I'm not sure.” She ran her fingers slowly up and down the stem of her wine glass. “I think I still do,” she said, thoughtfully. “In fact, yes, I do, for certain. It's just that – well, family, kids, work, being a grown-up…and Hugo's not a dancer, it's not his thing at all. So all in all – I hardly ever get the chance to, now.”

But maybe that could change, she added, silently, to herself. Maybe it already has.

A buzz of anticipation ran round the room. All eyes turned to the stage, where, with a dramatic sweeping back of the curtain, Lucia Delgada finally appeared. She stepped out in front of the microphone, wild dark hair piled up on top of her head, dressed all in black, prisms of light sparkling from her brightly bejewelled fingers. A crescendo of applause broke out. She surveyed her audience, smiled, took a bow and started to sing. Her voice filled the room, bouncing off the walls and the ceiling, flooding the entire place with sound and vibration, haunting and melodic. Sarah let herself become lost in the music and it seemed no time at all before Lucia was singing her last song, and then bowing to the rapturous applause of the audience who clamoured for more.

Instead, recorded music began to pound from the speakers and couples moved onto the dance floor. Scott and Sarah looked at each other. The rhythm of the music was beneath their feet, vibrating upwards through them from the battered wooden floor.

“Will you do me the honour?” Scott was already standing, arms held out to her.

Sarah took his outstretched hand and joined him, and they forced their way through the throngs and into the middle of the dance floor. Scott had never been someone to linger at the edges. They spun around, swept along on a tide of euphoria and alcohol. Sarah looked into Scott's brown eyes and smiled, letting her body relax despite Scott's erratic movements. He was a terrible dancer, all feet and clumsy arms and legs whose motion never matched each other, his partner or the music. He seemed to be totally unaware that he resembled an inebriated arachnid, never missing an opportunity to take to the floor. Scott's lack of coordination notwithstanding, it dawned on Sarah that she definitely did still love to dance.

The music stopped.

Sarah sprang instantaneously away from him, as if the rhythm had been some kind of sorcery and with its cessation, the magic was broken. The other dancers wove back and forth around them, with mutters of apology, desculpe, and request, faz favor, and thanks, obrigado, whilst Scott and Sarah wordlessly faced each other. And then the crossing and re-crossing of the crowd moving back to their seats prompted them into action and they too retreated.

Lucia re-emerged from behind the curtain at the back of the stage, resplendent in her impenetrable black. A technician was fiddling with her microphone, and an ear-splitting, bone-rattling slither of feedback rent the atmosphere. And then she was singing again, this time slow laments that carried the audience along in their mournful wake.

Sarah couldn't follow all of the lyrics, couldn't pick up the meanings or understand everything that she heard. Lucia announced her last song, a reworking of an old classic, first paying credit to its composer, and then letting rip, the cadences of her voice ascending, wheeling and floating like the gulls that glided above the river outside. Sarah begged Scott to translate.

“It's called ‘Rain',” he told her.

“OK, I got that bit, Chuva.”

“She's saying memories are what make us hurt,” Scott continued. “Some people stay in our life story forever and others we let go.”