Chapter Seventeen
Thomas
The hilly streets of Porto are enough to steal my breath and make my heart race.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have consumed so many cups of coffee.
Although, today’s book club meeting was up there with one of the craziest, so maybe that’s the culprit for my elevated heart rate.
Honestly, I’d label Viviane as a conspiracy theorist as bad as old Albert, but she is savvy and observant.
The way she shrewdly eyes me as if she senses my secret, hidden between the pages of a dire historical hardback. Chosen only for its size, and the fact I can fit the other, smaller novel within. I’m not going to be part of their ‘investigations’. It’s laughable.
I trudge home, past a busking fado guitarist; I throw a few coins into his case. The streets are full of smiling faces, people soaking up sunshine and drinking glasses of souz?o. I envy their languid afternoons.
‘Darling,’ I call as I walk through the door.
There’s no response. I go to the balcony with the view of the Douro River where traditional Rabelo boats that once transported barrels of port up and down the waterways now take tourists on a jaunt.
Outside is a hive of activity, as families sit on their balconies sharing meals, laughing or playing cards.
My balcony is empty, bar pot plants, full of herbs that wilt in the heat.
My wife has always been the social butterfly.
Darting here and there with her friends.
Monday movie meet-ups. Shared plates of cozido è Portuguesa with the church choir.
Food market outings with her mother who lives next door.
I’m happiest at home. It’s always worked for us.
Except now it’s different. Our conversations have become one sided of late.
The distance between us has grown so wide it causes me physical pain.
I natter as I check each room. ‘You won’t believe what happened at book club today, darling.’ Dare I tell her? It’s just the type of thing she’d delight over. ‘Zany doesn’t quite cover it.’
I stop to guzzle a glass of water. Wine will come later.
‘They’re a funny bunch. I’m not sure if I’ll go back again.’
Into our bedroom. The faint smell of her floral perfume hangs in the air, a fragrant rose like the promise of summer. The bed is made up, neat as always. Into the living room, the sofa sags like an old man, scatter cushions where I left them.
‘Darling, should I get started on dinner then? I was thinking Bolinhos de Bacalhau. I know it’s too hot for deep frying cod fritters, but I’m ravenous. It’s all that walking, you see.’
My wife is the bookworm out of the pair of us.
Her pretty pastel novels are lined up in alphabetical order, she dusts them once a week.
Our apartment is compact, but there’s not a nook or cranny she hasn’t inserted a shelf into for her ever growing collection.
It’s why I borrow my books from the library, so I don’t take up precious room.
‘OK, I’ll get started.’ She could be anywhere. The bookshop on Rua Sá de Noronha where she reads poetry. Or at the Parque das Virtudes because she loves the panoramic view of the city and the breeze off the river to cool down on hot days. That’s what I tell myself.