Chapter 17
CJ
If Ash seems reluctant to approach CJ as everyone assembles at the meeting point outside of CoLab, CJ must take it on the chin that, indeed, she has been hot and cold with Ash, despite the last time they saw each other being warm, and as such it will, of course, be up to her to give the first hello.
There’s fifteen of them for fado night, an event to be held at one of Bairro Alto’s best restaurants, less than a ten-minute walk away, and as Luis checks everyone off the list and leads the way, CJ weaves her way through the others to fall in step with Ash.
‘Evening,’ CJ says, with a small wave. Interestingly, she’s cautious, low-key fearful that the other night didn’t mean as much to Ash as it did to her, maybe, worried that whilst CJ thinks she’s made a new friend, she could just as easily have misunderstood.
Ash is the sort to make friends everywhere she goes, after all.
How odd, though, to have all these thoughts.
How unlike CJ to let concern wash over her like a wave, stilting her normally unruffled demeanour.
‘Oh, hey,’ Ash replies.
Whoever she was walking with – was it Jenny, the American?
– is busily relaying a complex theory about centric politics and the unintended effect it has on deforestation to two bored-looking Brits, and as such nobody notices Ash peel away.
The pair, CJ and Ash, fall to the back of the group awkwardly, a pair of high schoolers who bonded in detention and now don’t know how to engage out there in the big, wide normal world of regular school.
‘Tonight should be good,’ CJ offers. As conversation starters go, it’s not the worst. It’s also not the best. ‘I’ve not seen traditional fado since I was a kid. You’d think they’d revoke my passport for such offences. Disinterest in my culture, or similar.’
Ash laughs, lightly. She’s pulled her hair back into a loose bun at the back of her neck, a few tendrils tugged free to frame her face.
She’s in horseshoe leg medium-wash jeans and a soft-looking, cream short-sleeved sweater.
With her tan flats and straw bag she looks relaxed, chic.
Monied. CJ has never been interested in pulling ‘outfits’ together, and it has never really occurred to her to notice what other people wear.
Bodies are either covered, or they’re not.
But with Ash, CJ somehow always ends up clocking the cut of her trousers, the fall of her hem, the shape of her neckline.
Perhaps that is what style is – making others pay attention when they otherwise would not.
‘I barely even know what fado is,’ Ash admits. ‘In my guidebook it says people sing traditional songs between courses? I’ve not got much further than that in my research, which isn’t like me. But singing, that sounds … fun?’
‘That’s one word for fado, I guess,’ CJ says. ‘But. It is sometimes called Lisbon’s blues. Mournful and haunting ballads about lost sailors, broken hearts, bittersweet romance …’
‘Ah, where the three points of my Venn diagram overlap,’ jokes Ash. ‘My kind of night.’
‘Fado means fate,’ CJ offers. ‘How fate deals with Portugal’s adventurers …’
Ash shoots her a look. ‘Are you winding me up?’
‘No. Why would that be a wind-up?’
‘It just feels … prophetic, I suppose. Being an adventurer myself and all.’
‘And how’s that going for you?’
Ash bobs her head, side to side, and they climb the last part of the hill before the restaurant.
It’s not late enough for sunset proper, but dusk has fallen around them even in the few minutes since they set off, a lavender haze of dimmed light punctuated by the wrought-iron lamps hanging from each building, now flickering awake.
‘Good, yeah,’ Ash says. ‘We went to Sintra yesterday. Beautiful place. So much history and beauty there, isn’t there?’
‘I’ve never been,’ CJ admits.
‘Really?’ asks Ash. ‘I mean, I suppose that can be typical, can’t it?
Londoners who’ve never been on the Eye, or New Yorkers who’ve skipped the Empire State Building.
When it’s on your doorstep, it’s easy to think, one day.
’ She looks across at CJ and then quickly adds, ‘Not to speak for you, or anything. Maybe you just really hate castles and plants or whatever.’
‘I think hating castles or plants would be a red flag, wouldn’t it?’
‘Probably,’ Ash agrees. ‘Bit like getting mad at air, or the Frozen franchise.’
‘I don’t know much about the Frozen movies either.’
‘Well, fuck, CJ, what do you care about?’ laughs Ash. ‘Because you ain’t faring very well here. I know more about what you aren’t bothered about than what you are – and that does not a personality make.’
‘Bang, bang.’ CJ puts a hand over her chest, although of course she isn’t actually hurt.
Small talk normally repels her (another thing on the list!), but with Ash it doesn’t feel ‘small’ to shoot the breeze this way.
It feels … comfortable. Like snuggling under a fleecy blanket for movie afternoon, snug as a bug in a rug.
CJ has never had that before. She had friends at school, sure, but not best friends, like in the movies, with secret-swapping and sleepovers.
She never wanted anybody to come to her house, bare and impersonal as her father’s decor was, and she never got invited to anybody else’s.
Or, no, perhaps that’s not true. She got invited but didn’t go, because either her dad wouldn’t take her or she was too afraid of disappointment to ask.
And so as she entered adulthood there were no weddings of old friends to attend, no bridal showers or reunions of which to speak.
CJ has lived in forward motion her whole life, and it has served her well.
Except now, all of a sudden, in this exact moment, as the sandy-coloured stone of the restaurant comes into view, a sadness hits her that maybe this means she missed out.
But there’s a flicker of happiness, too.
Because if this is female friendship, now, she’s happy to arrive late to the party than to never have arrived at all.
‘Whoa,’ says Ash as they cross the threshold.
The restaurant is cave-like, with its low ceiling and crammed-in tables lit by hundreds of small candles.
The walls are tiled in traditional printed mosaics, the tablecloths starched white with matching linen napkins, several wine glasses arranged by each place reflecting the amber glow of very dim wall lights. ‘This is … beautiful.’
CJ has to agree. There’s no seating plan, but the CoLab group are told to arrange themselves across three tables of five towards the back.
CJ whispers, ‘Ash, sit by me. You’ll see the singers best from here.’
Ash settles in and hangs her bag over her chair, pulling out her phone to photograph the table. CJ must be feeling amiable – she doesn’t even mind. Instead, she picks up one of the menus printed on thick white card, a wiggly blue border highlighting what’s in store, and scans it to occupy herself.
The Petiscos, it says – the Portuguese version of amuse-bouches, or finger foods as appetisers – are Bolinhos de Risoto.
That’s paella croquettes with shrimp and chorizo.
They’ll be served with a welcome drink of port tonico, literally a mix of dry white port and tonic water, a sweet cocktail that comes from Porto.
Then will come Caldo Verde, the same traditional soup Miguel likes to make, the one Ash sampled at CJ’s home, two nights ago.
A mix of main courses will be served, so folks can sample several dishes: Bacalhau Branco, salted codfish with potatoes and onions.
Frango Piri-Piri, a piri-piri-inspired chicken breast with roasted potatoes.
Porco à Alentejana, braised pork with little-neck clams in garlic broth.
Each course is paired with its own wine, including more port with pudding, which is of course Pastéis de Nata, because nobody can ever get enough of a well-done crisp, flaky, creamy custard tart, not even CJ.
‘Hope you’re hungry,’ CJ says, once Ash is finished with her photos.
Ash leans in to look at the menu in CJ’s hands, close enough that CJ gets a waft of that shampoo of hers, the florals of her perfume, too.
She feels eyes on her and looks up, the guilt of being ‘caught’ noticing flaring in her chest like blood from a gunshot wound, because Luis is staring at her, face quizzical. CJ looks back at him neutrally.
Eventually, Luis looks away, and CJ is pulled back into conversation as Ash says, ‘I feel kind of nervous for some reason.’ She flashes a smile.
‘Is that stupid to say? I feel like, I don’t know, this is all so dark and kind of romantic and also a little bit scary?
Oh god, you’re looking at me like I’m crazy,’ she adds, and she scrunches her eyes shut and screws up her little nose.
‘How do I explain?’ she wonders aloud, and CJ waits, watches Ash’s face run the gamut of several different emotions before her eyes flash open again and she looks at CJ seriously, deeply, in the same way Jorge does when he’s asking for more ice cream after dinner, and she pronounces: ‘Anticipation. That’s what I feel.
The anticipation of something big about to happen, something that will change everything. Do you ever get that? That feeling?’
CJ swallows hard. ‘Urm,’ she says, finding that she doesn’t know how to answer.
Because, what she wants to say is, ‘No, never. Truly, that has never happened to me before.’ But in actual fact, low lighting and company all taken into consideration, she gets what Ash means in a way that is robbing her of her ability to function.
CJ has absently assumed friendships worked in the margins of effortlessness and straightforwardness, and yet sitting next to this girl who talks about her feelings as easily as fish swim in water unpicks at the ways CJ has protected herself all these years, and it’s leaving her feeling like she’s in an aeroplane with a parachute strapped to her back and at some point she’s going to have to trust herself and fucking jump.
‘OK, I take that as no,’ Ash giggles. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I can be absolutely mental sometimes. Extra, I think the kids say. Or used to say. Do they still say it? Am I still talking? I will stop talking, now.’
If CJ was going to try and relate, her efforts are interrupted by the arrival of the restaurant’s owner on the small stage at the side of the dining area, a tall man in his fifties, linen shirt, hella chest hair, hands as big as hams wrapped around a microphone.
‘Good evening,’ he says, English accented, ‘and welcome to our evening of traditional Portuguese fado.’
Everyone starts clapping, and CJ realises that the place is at capacity now.
She hadn’t noticed all the other tables filling up around them, mostly with couples.
Excited, eager faces are lit dramatically by the candles.
There really is something in the air, a collective holding of breath. Nobody seems sure of what to expect.
‘Please, enjoy your porto tonico and Petiscos as we introduce you to the tangled, contradictory beauty of this mysterious legend of song and expression. Love and heartbreak, betrayal, jealousy, revenge, tragedy … no other music so perfectly depicts the qualities of the people who inspired it – the sailors, the bohemians, the young girls – the backbone and lifeblood of this beautiful city. Please, join me in welcoming our guitarist and first act of the night, Vicente Sousa!’
The crowd put down their drinks and clap enthusiastically, before falling silent in tandem as the guitarist sits on a stool before them and begins his song.