Chapter Two
After much deliberating, I find an unassuming pastelaria in the Ribeira district, close to the Dom Luis Bridge, that meets the requirements for my weekly reading sessions.
Pastelaria História has a certain nostalgic charm with its concertinaed awnings like the half-lidded eyes of someone in love.
Inside there are retro Seventies-style Formica tables and peeling vinyl chairs.
I feel most at ease in a humbler space where they’re not so much moving with the times but cemented firmly in the past. It’s wholesome, the type of place you can rely on. I hope, anyway.
The fridge has a range of mouthwatering delicacies on display from bola de berlim, fat, fluffy doughnuts filled with creamy custard, to Estaladinho, sweet buns dusted with cinnamon, coconut and sugar.
There’s folhado de chocolate, a flaky puff pastry with thick, gooey chocolate filling and, as always the ubiquitous pastel de nata, the blistered custard tart famous all over Portugal.
Better yet, this forgotten little pastelaria on a hilly cobblestoned side street is just the right amount of quiet for this introvert.
I place my order for a cimbalino coffee and Jésuita, a flaky pastry filled with frangipane cream, and take a table by the front window.
Filmy soft sunlight streams in, bathing the café in a sepia glow.
The air is heavy with the sugary perfume of baking that conjures memories of childhood, making Portuguese biscoitos with Mum when we lived in England and she dreamed of home.
It brings me dangerously close to other memories of my dad, which remind me that he was a truth avoidant, fictitious character playing at being my loving father, so I switch them off by opening my book.
Last night, I left Detective Amber Quill facing quite the conundrum, and even though I’ve memorised the plot it’s still thrilling to see her piece the puzzle together.
I relax into my book and ignore the inner dialogue that reminds me my mum is expecting miracles, namely that I make friends.
Even though I do not invite anyone to chat or to socialise, I’ve put myself in an environment where there are a few people and those people are interacting with each other.
They make it look so effortless, the way they spontaneously laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners.
How they talk over the top of each other and manage to keep up with the threads of conversation.
A chic sixty-something woman sitting alone catches my eye because of her heavy sighs and rather aggressive frowns, as she stares into the middle distance as if a problem is weighing on her.
What could produce a litany of sounds such as this?
Sadly, society is broken, and you can’t just ask a stranger these things.
Trust me, I’ve learned this the hard way.
I’m minding my own business when a velvety rich voice says, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but would you like my pastel de Tentúgal?
I’m sure it’s delicious, but I can’t eat it.
’ A floppy-haired guy stands before me. Even though I’m certain the comment is directed at me, as I’m the only person by the window, I steal a quick glance over my shoulder to be sure.
Confirmed. He’s speaking directly to me.
I sift through possible replies. My gaze locks on his shimmering brown eyes, the endless depths of which I find myself quite lost. This stranger feels safe, somehow, and how can such a thing be translated simply through eye contact?
Eye contact that I usually studiously avoid?
I shake the fog from my sluggish mind. Despite my strict scheduling, I stayed up late reading, and that has clearly had next-day, real-world implications.
‘Please. I’d hate for it to go to waste.
’ He has a British accent with just the hint of Portuguese inflection.
Is he like me, having lived abroad for his formative years and found his way home?
How does he know I also speak English? Has being away from home so long indelibly changed my outward appearance?
I force myself to break eye contact and drop my gaze to the proffered pastry.
‘Thank you, but no. I have my own sweet treat coming that hasn’t been …’ How do I put this politely when strangers are often so easily offended? ‘Excavated.’
He’s quick to smile. ‘Sorry, yes, God, it doesn’t look good, does it? Lucky I did, ah, excavate and realised, or I might have met my maker. Allergic, you see. To almonds, specifically.’
I’ve heard of peanut allergies, but almonds, well, that’s unique. Almonds are a staple in many Portuguese desserts. How the guy has made it this far in life without dying is a mystery. ‘Isn’t it made with almond meal?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Then how could you possibly see it, if it’s a flour-like substance?’ Inexplicably this feels much like the beginnings of a whodunnit. The Inconvenient Death of the Cute Guy in the Pastelaria. OK, the title needs some finessing.
‘Good question! Well. As I was about to take a bite, I remembered that sometimes pastel de Tentúgal is made with almond meal. And I confirmed it with the waitress, after my excavating attempts. I wasn’t paying attention when I ordered. Mind elsewhere. You know how it is …’
I grimace at how lax he is about the business of living.
If this were a whodunnit, this innocuous almond-laced cake mix-up would be clear foreshadowing to the reader that he will die of said allergy in the coming chapters.
I don’t share this with him, as he might panic and take it as a cue to keep talking.
As charming as he is, in that jittery, self-effacing way that British people often are, he’s interrupted me at a pivotal interrogation scene with Detective Amber Quill.
Despite his cuteness, I’m contemplating various ways I can move him on while he continues chatting merrily away about various near misses he’s had in the past.
‘I’m Tiago, just moved back from London, well, not exactly moved, I mean – that’s so final, so … certain. I suppose this is some sort of gap year, for a thirty-three-year-old. I’m not sure what comes next for me but maybe—’ He bites his lip before continuing.
As Tiago rambles, his words pick up pace.
I’m going to have to nip this in the bud before it blooms into a brain ache.
A side effect of overdosing on chitchat.
However, I should warn this guy to be more careful about his allergy.
Tiago appears to be quite the affable type who probably wouldn’t see danger lurking unless it hit him square in the face.
The least I can do is educate him about the fact his life is in jeopardy.
‘Tiago, I read a lot of whodunnits and this seemingly harmless pastry is the first clue that you’re going to be served almonds, probably nefariously, definitely surreptitiously, and you will die. That’s not an if, but a when.’
There, I’ve done my civic duty, he can take from that what he will.
Life isn’t a whodunnit, of course I know that, but the law of averages states that Tiago’s days are numbered if he’s going to order Portuguese sweet treats willy-nilly.
From his open-mouthed silent scream, I deduce he’s momentarily taken aback. I get that a lot.
How to soften the blow? ‘Be careful what you slide into your mouth, OK?’
He blinks and blinks, like he’s sending me some kind of code. Eventually he comes back with, ‘Ah – yes. I’ll be more careful what I, erm, eat. I have a terrible sweet tooth and wasn’t really thinking.’
‘You’re dancing on a tripwire, Tiago. Keep your wits about you.’
He laughs and it lights up his face. Really, he’s endearing with his wind-tousled hair and fidgety demeanour, if you’re into the golden retriever type. Which I’m not. Men are far too complicated. And Tiago doesn’t seem to take a breath as he talks.
‘It’s OK, I’ve got my EpiPen!’ He pats his pockets. ‘Well, I did. It’s got to be around here somewhere. Oh, actually, maybe it’s in my other …’
At this point, I’m convinced his death is inevitable. Days away. Hours maybe. ‘It’s on your table.’ My keen observational skills so often come in handy, and here we are, case in point.
Mum will be ecstatic when I tell her I had a conversation with a stranger who also happens to be of the male persuasion.
I won’t mention his mesmerising dark eyes, and how for a moment they took me someplace else.
However, I might mention he is easily flustered like a bumbling detective sidekick who is there for some comic relief. She’ll be most impressed.
‘This has been enlightening,’ I say and let a farewell smile settle across my face. It doesn’t have the desired effect, instead he rubs the back of his neck and lifts his brows as if I should be the one to fill the silence. I don’t.
‘The Vanishing at Whispering Willows, eh?’ he says, pointing to the cover. ‘Absolutely love that book.’
‘You’ve read The Quill Chronicles?’ Now this changes things.
The author has a cultlike following not only because her writing is deeply immersive, twist laden and full of misdirection, but also because there’s a conspiracy around her identity that only grows as her fan base does.
No one knows who she is. It’s intriguing, of course, but as a fellow member of Literati-Land I must respect the author’s wish to remain anonymous, so I don’t do any investigations of my own despite being sorely tempted.
Instead, I respect the author for her brilliance, a genius ahead of her time.
‘Ah yes, all three.’
‘Only three?’ I say and frown. ‘You really must find a copy of book four. You can buy it direct from the author’s website.
She’s just started selling signed copies.
I’m wildly jealous, because I already have the entire collection and it doesn’t make financial sense to buy them again.
Did you know the author is Portuguese?’ I ask.
‘Writes under a pseudonym.’ It’s terrifically out of my wheelhouse to chat merrily away like this, but when Detective Amber Quill is the topic, I find myself strangely verbose.
‘Oh? I didn’t know either of those things. Incredible, I’ll look up the author’s website when I get home. Mind if I join you? Actually, I’ll order another pastry first; don’t worry, I’ll ask for one sans almonds.’ He lets out a cackle. ‘Be right back.’
‘Oh no, thank you, I’d prefer …’
Too late. He’s at the counter, pointing and gesticulating, making the elderly woman wearing a flour-dusted apron laugh.
The waitress brings my coffee and pastry, glances Tiago’s way and then gives me a wink.
A wink? What’s that about? If she is implying there’s something between me and Tiago, I’d like to assure her there is not, but she’s already flounced away.
I can see the appeal with the warmth of his gaze, the small dimples that appear when he smiles.
He looks like the kind of guy who wouldn’t break your heart, not intentionally anyway, but that matters not. I’m only here for cake.
Tiago returns with pastel de nata and a cup of coffee, and puts his feet under the table, as if we’re old friends. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Viviane.’
‘It suits you.’
I frown. ‘How so?’
‘You look like a Viviane with your perfect black bobbed hair and warm smile.’
Warm smile? That’s a first. I’m not sure what to make of this guy and his strange compliments so I waggle my book. ‘Unfortunately, this won’t read itself.’
His grin widens. ‘It’s great to meet another rato de biblioteca! I’m a library rat too. And you’re a huge fan of whodunnits, as am I. I can’t help but be delighted we’ve crossed paths.’
I brighten at the mention of whodunnits, even if he is a touch whimsical.
‘Who is your favourite detective of all time?’ This is a key question as not all detectives are built the same and if he chooses the cliché toxic masculinity type, well, this budding bookship is over before it has truly begun.
‘That one, right there!’ He points to my book.
I laugh, and it catches me unawares. I can’t remember the last time I properly laughed, not faux laughed because the situation called for it.
Faux laughs always seem to get the wrong kind of attention because my acting skills are severely lacking.
Mother says it’s because I’m contorting my mouth in such an unnatural way, resulting in my lips getting stuck on my gums, and that it can come across rather sinister.
I can never take her seriously though because she acts it out to show me and it’s so comical we both end up in hysterics.
‘Actually,’ Tiago says, taking a forkful of pastry into his mouth without checking it for almonds. I’d better keep a close eye on his airways. ‘Why don’t we meet here again? We can bond over the detective’s exploits?’
Detective Amber Quill is my kryptonite and makes the offer to meet again a tempting prospect.
Mum did insist on me finding friends in Porto.
Could this be the answer to that problem?
Tiago is not offensive in any way. Yes, sure, he’s a little excitable and talks far too much, but that’s probably fixable with some gentle boundary setting, even though the thought of having to do that makes my nerves flutter and self-doubt set in.
Do I really want the hassle of endless chitchat even if Amber Quill is the topic?
He must sense my hesitation, because he says, ‘We could read and eat our body weight in cake.’ It’s not the worst proposition in the world.
Mum will be delighted. She may even stop throwing those worried glances my way. Stop strangling tea towels.
‘Although, I won’t be ordering pastel de nata again,’ he says wrinkling his nose, making his constellation of freckles dance. ‘I always forget I find it too … eggy, or something.’
He does? Still, I hesitate.
Cue the puppy-dog eyes. Honestly, I could get lost in the reflection of the great pools of warmth, framed by his thick dark lashes.
It’s oddly mesmerising. I usually avoid eye contact and here I am trying not to stare.
He gives me a dazzling smile, the whites of his teeth on display.
It’s the kind of smile that takes him from affable to heart stopping.
I remind myself to tread carefully because men are off the menu.
‘We can read in utter silence.’
It’s this offer that convinces me. That, and knowing it’ll get Mum off my back. ‘Fine. I’ll meet you here next Wednesday at precisely 4 p.m., as long as you promise we’ll read in total peace.’
‘You have my word. So, what do you do for fun?’
‘I read in total silence.’ And with that, I pick up my book and settle back in my chair.