The Little Porto Book Club

Chapter One

As a whodunnit enthusiast, I find the world one big puzzle to solve.

With my keen observational skills, I see mystery on every corner.

There’s the old woman on the historic Rua das Flores who cries as she hangs washing on the balcony of her second-storey apartment.

Is it the monotony of domestic tasks that makes her sad?

Perhaps her hands are chapped from the water, the harsh chemicals.

It could be her tears are not related to laundry at all.

I don’t stop to ask, not wanting to intrude.

I continue down the pretty street, known for its colourful architecture; rows of buildings painted in pastels of yellow, pink, orange, some facades featuring flamboyant street art. Here you’ll find Perspéntico, a giant portrait of a blue cat with piercing saffron eyes, painted by artist Liqen.

It’s a hive of activity, filled with goggle-eyed pedestrians stopping to take pictures.

Street musicians play for tips while the café crowd linger over tiny cups of cimabalino.

Porto is a vibrant, noisy city but if you’re like me and prefer the quiet, you can find that too in the many shady gardens dotted around the place like Jardim da Cordoaria, where I go now.

I’m endlessly intrigued by a man who’s always drinking port and warbling old Portuguese love songs as he lines up chess pieces while he waits for an opponent.

His drunken singing, the way he chatters to the birds amuses me.

His voice takes on a yearning quality when he croons these love songs as if he’s picturing someone, but who?

I should join him for a game. I’m exceptionally tactical and brilliant at chess.

From the care he takes with his board I get the feeling he is too.

But of course, I don’t, it’s not in my nature to chat to strangers no matter how many questions I have and how much I enjoy a game of chess.

I make do with giving him a nod and continue my route home.

After I exit the park, I zig-zag up and down the mazelike cobblestoned streets.

I pass the rambunctious little one-eyed dog zooming among the racks of clothes in a fashion boutique as if the furry creature thinks he’s in a garden.

Does his exuberance not put customers off as he playfully nips at their ankles and darts behind dresses as if he’s playing hide and seek?

I’m not sure I could ever shop there, knowing he is lying in wait to bite at my heels, but customers milling about seem to find it delightful as they bend to pat him.

How did he lose his eye? Does he hate wearing a patch like a pirate?

These are but a few of the curiosities I find around Porto, a harbourside, hilly city that I explore on foot because my interfering mother insists I get some fresh air, as if stepping outside will cure all that ails me.

News flash: it won’t. But as far as mums go, she’s arguably one of the best, so I do what I must to keep her happy.

Today, I pass Livraria Lello, an opulent bookshop full of charm, and famous for its red staircase, or so I’ve heard.

It’s far too busy for the likes of me. I hightail it past chattery bookworms waiting in an orderly queue and walk towards our humble abode on Travessa de Cedofeita.

Inside, I throw my keys in the bowl and aim to sneak past Mum to avoid the usual inquisition.

If you know anything about Portuguese mothers then you know it’s an impossibility, but still I try.

‘Querida, how was it?’ She’s got the stealth skills of a ninja as she pops up behind me. Hope shines in her eyes, as she strangles a tea towel. I’m not sure what she expects will happen on these imposed walks. She insists I get fresh air, so fresh air I get.

‘It was the same as yesterday. And the day before that.’

The hope in her eyes dims. I’m disappointing her. Again.

‘Chess Man, though? Did you stop to play?’

‘No. I achieved the objective you—’

‘Achieved the objective – no, querida, the idea was that you’d stop for a while, chat to Chess Man, find you have some things in common like game strategy, reading, or I don’t know … a love of pastel de nata.’

‘You hoped we’d both love egg custard tart?

’ At times, Mum makes no sense. She threatens I’ll lose my Portuguese citizenship if I keep announcing I don’t enjoy pastel de nata.

No matter how much she protests otherwise, I can taste the eggs.

They’re too eggy – I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels this way.

Mum sighs. ‘It’s not about the tarts, it’s about finding common interests. You said yourself the man looks like he has an interesting story, the way he sips port and sings soulful love songs. Sound familiar?’

‘Not in the slightest. I do neither of those things. What Chess Man needs is an equally skilled opponent.’

‘Exactly!’ Her face brightens. ‘And you fit the bill! We’ve been back in Porto almost a year now. I hoped you’d have made some inroads.’

‘Inroads?’ I frown.

‘Inroads into socialising, into participating in life outside the pages of a book. I won’t be around forever and – and …’

My chest tightens with dread. Now Mum’s sudden desire to get me out of the house makes sense. This whodunnit aficionado can read between the lines, even if the sentiment I won’t be around forever wasn’t obvious enough.

I panic at the thought of suffering yet another loss, but I steel my posture and blank my features to be stoic for my mother who clearly needs my strength at this juncture. It’s best to get straight to the point in case we end up in a crying heap.

‘Your diagnosis, is it terminal?’

She blanches. ‘My what?’

‘I assume you’ve been diagnosed with a terminal disease. Why else would you issue a challenge as hideous as participating in life outside the pages of a book?’

Mum emits a high-pitched cackle. It’s not the laugh of a mother imparting a death sentence. At least, I don’t think it is.

‘No, no, Viviane, I’m not sick. There’s nothing to worry about, but I am getting on in age and would like you to make some friends who aren’t fictional.’

Secure in the knowledge that my mother’s not about to leave this mortal coil, I’m happy to voice my displeasure at the ridiculous notion; being forced to make non-fictional friends.

I don’t see the point. Whodunnits provide all the necessary stimulus I need.

The stakes are high, the detectives analytical, logical, using their great powers of deduction to land at a satisfying coda.

‘I don’t have time to make friends right now. I’m in the middle of a ten-book series and I’ve made a firm commitment to that each evening.’ I’ve read The Quill Chronicles multiple times. They’re my comfort reads, as bolstering as a weighted blanket.

I’m rewarded with a disapproving click of the tongue. ‘Not Detective Amber Quill again! Yes, she might be loveably offbeat and fiercely intelligent, but she isn’t real, Viviane.’

‘How dare you.’

She waves my upset away. ‘If you won’t meet up with your many aunts, uncles, cousins, then I want you to slip out for an hour or two, join a book club or a chess group.’

It’s mind boggling when Mum has these ideas, ideas that I personally find abhorrent.

I must handle this carefully, or else she will march me to a club of some sort herself, loudly introduce us as if we’re as important as visiting royalty, and demand everyone’s names, job description, which bairro they reside in and, incongruously, whether they’re a cat or dog person.

For reasons I cannot fathom the woman enjoys the minutiae of idle chitchat.

As for my Porto relatives, let’s just say decibels are all I hear when we have yet another prolonged catch-up.

They’re loud. Obnoxiously so. Sure, I love them, but in small doses.

How to convince her that joining a club will be an exercise in futility? Ah, dredge up a recent trauma. Those witches from our tiny village of Marple Bridge in Greater Manchester, whose many microaggressions towards me did not go unnoticed.

‘Remember the last time you insisted I join a community club? Scrapbook Sundays, where those women of questionable crafting talent huddled together to stage whisper that I was a modern-day Boo Radley. I mean, it made no sense. Those imbeciles didn’t even realise that Boo Radley was the hero of the story! ’

Not to mention I found scrapbooking intolerable, but once again mother insisted.

Mum shakes her head at the recollection.

‘Ah, yes, I remember it well. I still find it so strange the Scrapbook Sundays members used Loctite instead of crafting glue and somehow stuck all of their fingers together like they had mittens for hands!’ She guffaws.

‘Well, every member except you, that is.’

‘Yes, very strange. You’d think they’d have noticed the difference in texture. It goes to show how many people walk this earth and pay absolutely no attention to detail.’

‘Then there was that glitter mishap as I arrived …’ She shakes her head at the memory.

‘Arabella really did resemble a disco ball. Incredible that those types of accidents could happen in one tiny community group.’ Mum had arrived to find me, headphones on, ignoring the chaos unfolding as the witches tried to pry their sticky fingers apart.

Not long after, the Scrapbook Committee announced they were going to investigate the Curious Case of the Glue Switcheroo and launch a probe into who planted a glitter bomb that managed to explode above Arabella, the self-proclaimed Crafting Queen Bee.

Accidents happen, I wasn’t curious in the slightest. And shortly thereafter this coincided with Mum deciding we’d return home to Porto.

While my mother is an interfering meddler, she’s also very protective and takes offence when people highlight my perceived shortcomings.

That fateful day, when, predictably, the Crafting Queen Bee blamed me, Mum provided a concise and mostly coherent lecture about their cliquey behaviour and what makes a kind human, before ending the outburst with a string of Portuguese insults – very out of character for my sweet mother.

Just the memory makes me smile. But not enough that I want to be a joiner again. Absolutely not.

‘Then we’re in agreeance that more community clubs are not the way to go?’

With a sigh, she slips the wrinkled tea towel over her shoulder and folds her arms. A sure sign she’s sticking to her objective. ‘No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. You, my extraordinarily clever, bright and brilliant girl, just haven’t found the right club.’

I roll my eyes, another battle lost. I have no tools left in my arsenal in which to fight this, because once Mum’s made her mind up about some new wearying challenge she won’t be swayed.

Meanwhile, Detective Amber Quill waits patiently upstairs on my nightstand, ready to get on with her investigations. ‘Clubs are the work of the devil.’

‘OK, OK, I agree, some clubs are a bit too cliquey, their friendships already cemented.’

I let out a relieved breath. ‘Definitely.’

‘You’ll find a café or pastelaria and you’ll go there every Wednesday at precisely 4 p.m.’

‘Why every Wednesday?’

‘Because today is Tuesday. You wrap up your workday at 3 p.m. each day, giving you plenty of time to prepare. You’re a creature of habit, and here I am making it easy for you.’

The dastardly woman has calculated my every excuse, premeditated to the nth degree. A fine illustration of what I face in this daily battle of wills, where my mother is always one step ahead.

‘Fine, so all I have to do is go to a café every Wednesday at 4 p.m.?’ I can’t help but be suspicious. Going to a café isn’t such a hardship, as long as it’s not a hotspot of queues and crowds.

‘Go with the intention of making friends.’ And there it is. ‘You’re good with patterns. Soon enough you’ll work out who the regulars are – they’ll be the people you should strike up conversation with.’

I have zero intention of doing that. A café might be nice, though. I’ll enjoy some uninterrupted reading time with Detective Amber Quill. And as a bonus, there will be pastries, which I’m partial to. All I have to do is find a café tucked in a quiet corner of Porto.

‘Querida, I know the move has been … difficult. But I want you to know, we can talk about him, you know? It hurts but—’

‘I’d rather not rehash all that again if you don’t mind.

’ There are so many mysteries afoot, but this one: The Peculiar Death of the Man with Two Families I have no desire to solve.

And OK, his death wasn’t all that peculiar, but the aftermath certainly was.

Who knew my beloved father was such an untrustworthy soul?