Chapter Thirty-Three
We’re having another emergency book club meeting, not because there’s been any development but mostly because it’s nice to catch up and read with like-minded souls. Who knew I, Viviane álverez, would honestly be enthusiastic about attending a social event like this? The change in me is incredible.
I’m hoping there’ll be a break in the case with the missing man, but from what I can see online there’s nothing so far.
And secretly, I’m keen to catch up with Tiago, not because I have some strange crush on him that I’m desperately trying to push back on, but because …
OK, fine, I have a crush. But more pressing is the fact his mother is on the hunt for mine and I can only remain ‘out of office’ for so long.
Ideally, I’d like to bump that problem back to him.
Old Albert arrives, complaining about the relentless heat. The promise of autumn was more of the broken type, and the heat is back. Zephyr arrives next, breathless from the walk up the cobblestoned street. ‘Hello, hello!’
‘They still haven’t found the missing man?’ old Albert asks, shuffling to his chair, and flopping into it with a grunt.
‘No, I looked it up this morning, nothing,’ Tiago says, joining us, lifting a cake fork to his mouth before he’s even sat down.
I narrow my eyes. ‘Tiago! No! That’s pastel de Tentúgal again!’ I snatch the plate from him. Is the waitress trying to kill my hapless sidekick? She doesn’t appear to be watching for a reaction, she’s making coffee for a customer but that could very well be her ploy.
He laughs. ‘It’s OK, I checked. They made it without almond meal this time.’
I double blink. ‘And you’re just going to believe that?’
He takes the plate from me, but I don’t willingly let it go.
We commit to a tug-of-war which he finds endlessly fun judging by the laughter in his eyes, while I feel frustration bloom that he’s not more careful about consuming almonds.
Eventually he reluctantly relinquishes his hold. ‘Fine, I’ll choose something else.’
‘Good.’
‘Polícia haven’t said boo. They’re too busy taking siestas.
’ Old Albert slides a hand through his thinning white hair as he grumbles about the dire state of policing around the world.
‘Snowflakes, the lot of them, who stay inside under the air conditioning – forget about walking the beat! Might get a blister. No, instead they rely on technology to solve cases, technology!’
Zephyr fixes him with a flat, unblinking stare, as if daring him to continue just so she can retaliate. ‘Legit, technology solves like ninety-nine per cent of crimes.’
Old Albert exhales a long-suffering sigh as if he’s had enough of their back and forth, and honestly, that makes three of us. ‘Pray tell, where are you pulling those figures from, young lady?’
It’s obvious we’re feeling the pinch of our investigations that are going precisely nowhere. We are so inept, now we’re turning against each other.
Zephyr lifts an exaggerated brow. ‘Young lady? Have we time travelled again? Must you infantilise me? We had this very conversation where I explained you didn’t have to speak to me like I’m a ten-year-old.’
Old Albert’s mouth opens and closes like a puffer fish before he eventually lands on, ‘You spoke at me, not to me!’
‘Isn’t it hot?’ I say, cringing at the fact that I, absolute despiser of small talk, am now forced to bow to societal norms to stop them bickering. ‘Humid. Could be the reason nerves are shredding so—’
‘Blame climate change,’ Zephyr says, huffily, folding her arms as she glowers at old Albert.
I’ve opened up another can of worms! I brace for old Albert’s retort.
‘Climate change is a hoax so we invest in renewable energy and the like! Back in my day the weather was just as hot, and you know what we called it? Summer, that’s what.’
The chair squeaks as Zephyr gets up on her feet and points a finger into old Albert’s face. ‘Coming from the generation who invented plastic and got us into this mess, thanks, I guess.’
My gaze lands on Tiago’s and I find comfort there. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod as if to say leave this with me. I’m grateful for the reprieve because referee I am not and I don’t know quite what to say when our Gen Z–Boomer pals are rivalling.
‘Why wouldn’t the Porto News release a photo of the man?’ Tiago asks, getting our crack team back on target. ‘How can anyone help locate him if it’s all kept quiet?’
‘It’s absolutely ludicrous.’ Old Albert’s voice takes on a belligerent tone. ‘We’ve got the privacy act, this act, that act. Society would rather a man die than share his details without permission! Don’t get me started on data protection laws. The world has gone mad, mad, I tell you.’
Zephyr’s phone lights up the same instant mine buzzes inside my handbag. It’s enough of a circuit breaker for old Albert as he roots around his satchel for his book, his mutterings about privacy laws falling away. ‘What is it?’ Tiago asks, as Zephyr hastily reads.
‘Google Alert,’ she says. I take my phone from my bag.
I have the same alert. ‘Porto News have released the name of the missing man, Jo?o Silva. They say family are still unable to locate him, there’s concern for his welfare.
He’s recently started a new job that his family say he was very excited about. ’
I skim the article on my phone. There’s not much else, no other details. ‘Well, that doesn’t help,’ Tiago groans. ‘Silva is the most common surname you’ll find in Portugal.’
‘Is it?’ Zephyr queries. ‘It sounds unique.’
‘Nope, it’s the equivalent of John Smith.’
‘Damn!’
‘Tiago, work your tech magic,’ I demand. ‘Find out who this guy is and what the new job might be.’
Tiago presses his lips together, amusement sparkles in his eyes. Maybe he’s going to relish the challenge? ‘I’ll check if he’s got social media, I guess. But with a common name like that, it’s going to be difficult to track him down.’
I frown. ‘What? Do your back door, dark web, highly questionable deep dives, Tiago.’ Really, he should know this by now.
‘My – my what? I don’t work for the FBI.’
‘Well, I hate to say it but that is blatantly obvious. Just hack into … the part of the web that holds the answers we need and report back.’ I’m so much more of an analogue person, not wanting to shrink my brain with excessive tech exposure.
I’m exposed to so much blue light on a daily basis, I keep my tech usage to a minimum to protect my precious grey matter.
‘He’s old, right? They said sixty-two, so I’ll check Facebook for his profile,’ says Zephyr.
‘Positively ancient, is he?’ old Albert harrumphs. ‘Why Facebook?’
‘Because it’s for old people. Duh.’
I smother a grin.
Old Albert rolls his eyes. ‘Is that because there’s not enough pictures for your generation? Too many words, perhaps?’
She ignores the jibe as she swipes away on her phone. ‘There are hundreds of profiles with that same name. Mostly locked down too.’
‘Folks, why don’t we read, eh?’ old Albert booms before lowering his voice.
‘We seem to be drawing unwanted attention …’ He covertly motions towards the counter where the waitress is sizing us up.
Is it because she overshared with my book club friends about Lucinda owning the pastelaria? Or something more sinister?
‘Good spot,’ I whisper. ‘We’ll confer later but everyone knows their role, right?’
‘Right.’
Thomas arrives and shakes his book with both hands. ‘Can’t wait to dive into this today!’ His eyes are brighter than usual.
Tiago gives me a wide smile and my hand a gentle pat. Unsure why, so I throw him a questioning glance which he promptly ducks away from.
Once everyone is settled in, I steal a glance at Thomas who is still reading a novel secreted within.
What is it that makes him smile like that, as if he’s conjuring a precious memory, or reliving a special moment?
My whodunnit senses tingle and I just have to know. I have to solve at least one mystery.
I cough and clear my throat, get up as casually as I can, and slink past Thomas on whisper quiet feet.
I must’ve inherited my stealth ninja skills from my mum.
When I get close, Thomas pulls the book to his chest so I can’t make out the book inside the book.
OK, maybe I’m not as stealthy as I first thought.
Dammit. Another mystery floats into the ether.
There’s nothing to do except to order yet another pastry and go back to my seat and read.
Soon enough I slip into the familiar comfort of The Quill Chronicles, although now I’m a lot more dubious with how quickly clues appear, like magic.
In the real world, it’s sadly not the case.
My focus drifts and I find myself dreamily staring at Tiago.
He’s reading book five of The Quill Chronicles and is totally immersed in it, the corners of his mouth pull up slightly, like he’s enjoying it, and why wouldn’t he?
Detective Amber Quill is the queen of witty banter.
Zephyr reads her weathered copy of Dostoevsky, a frown marring her pretty face.
I make a mental note to offer her some other options … ?
Old Albert closes the cover on To Kill a Mockingbird. ‘What a great novel! Although, there are plenty of rumours that Truman Capote actually wrote it. What are our thoughts?’
I’m tempted to research the psychology of why people are drawn to conspiracy theories when they always seem to be so ridiculous that they’re not remotely believable.
I don’t want to get into a debate with Albert because his eyes are bright with challenge, as though he’ll relish it, but this is Harper Lee’s reputation he’s sullying.
Harper Lee. I’m conflicted as more debate will eat into our silent reading time, when we’ve only just managed to contain the friction, but out of respect for the writer, I must voice my disapproval, since she isn’t here to advocate for herself.
‘Excuse me, Albert. Healthy debate has its place in society, but besmirching Harper Lee’s name doesn’t sit well with me.’
‘Yeah,’ Zephyr pipes up. ‘Diminishing her authorship by implying that a man wrote her multimillion copy bestselling book is pure misogyny. And what a shock, coming from you.’
Albert’s expression is one of delight and he turns to me. ‘So, you don’t believe Truman Capote wrote any passages of To Kill a Mockingbird? Not even a sentence or two; one old friend helping another?’
I consider it. I’ve heard the whispers too. Not just about Harper Lee but many of the greats, where stories about them morph and change shape over time, based on conjecture, gossip, or envy maybe, and a lack of proof either way.
‘Early on, Truman Capote was a great friend to Harper and would likely have read her drafts and given feedback, as no doubt she would have done with his writing too. We don’t hear any whispers that Harper Lee helped shape his body of work, do we?
And you’d have to ask yourself why that is … ’ I say, willing him to join the dots.
Zephyr exhales a heavy sigh as if she’s bone weary.
‘We’ve got a clear case of gender bias; once again men’s contributions to women’s work are overstated.
The female writer’s book undermined, nay, in doubt, which is annoying AF to hear over and over again.
Would we have the same outcome if the roles were reversed?
Spoiler alert, we would not. If the roles were reversed Harper Lee would have been credited for making him tea and biscuits, or something domestic. ’
‘How long do you sit in front of your computer hunting for literary conspiracy theories, Albert?’ Tiago asks, genuine curiosity in his eyes.
‘Hours and hours. Don’t get me started on Shakespeare, that was a rabbit hole I did not expect to go down … very interesting indeed.’
There’s a collective groan. ‘Gives an old man something to do, eh?’ He’s positively glowing, like sharing such wild conjecture has made his day.
I train my gaze on old Albert. ‘You like stirring the pot. You enjoy it.’
He grins. ‘Makes life interesting. Although now I’ve got a much more exciting – I mean, ah important – subject to work on.
Finding our friend. Although, my wife is questioning why I keep closing the laptop any time she comes in the room.
She’ll probably accuse me of having an affair but “what happens at book club stays at book club”, right? ’
‘At least some of us got the memo.’ I eyeball Tiago who is entirely at fault for the fake dating fiasco thanks to his loose lips.
Zephyr goes back to her book. I’d love to swap it out for one of my mum’s sweet romantic comedies and bring some laughter into her life.
Book choices matter, it’s why there are mood reads.
I went through a stage of reading romantasy and had to shelve the genre because I felt a whole-body sadness that dragons weren’t real and I’d never have one to call my own, despite having the requisite skills to ride one.
Exceptional muscle tone, from being made to walk the hilly Porto streets for the last interminable year, and the sassiness required to keep the beasts amused when they become curmudgeonly.
Tiago and I exchange a glance, it’s suspiciously flirtatious on his part.
Or am I reading the cues wrong, which I’ve been known to do?
Perhaps he can’t help how expressive his features are and the way his every mood is so obvious.
He’d be a terrible poker player. His warm smile does provoke a tingle down my spine, but I am only human. I quickly shake it away.
When book club ends at the official time, we huddle close and speak in hushed whispers. ‘Let’s meet by the Half Rabbit and make a plan,’ I say, the idea just forming.
‘The half … what?’ old Albert asks, his white bushy eyebrows knitting.
‘I got you, old man, follow me,’ says Zephyr with a laugh.
They bamboozle me, these two. They go from bickering about gender issues in one breath, to best buddies in another.
I surmise that old Albert and Zephyr offer each other something they’re desperately missing – the friendship like that of grandad and granddaughter, perhaps?