After the War: A Novella of the Golden City

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  At least he’d left it that way.

  When he opened his door, he found his clothes and bedding strewn about. Gaspar entered first and walked about the small room, peering at each item, perhaps searching for magic. “It’s safe.”

  Alejandro didn't feel safe, though. The three books he owned were torn apart. And thrust into the pillow was his knife, impaling a single piece of paper. “I didn’t leave it this way.”

  “No,” Joaquim said. “I didn’t think you did. You’ve always been tidy.”

  Alejandro tucked away that thought—I’m tidy—and went to where a small painting of the crucifix hung on the wall. He lifted it down, popped the board out of the back of the frame, and withdrew a handful of mil-reis. “Whoever did this wasn’t after my money.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Joaquim said slowly as he removed the knife from the pillow and picked up the piece of paper there. It was a frontispiece from one of his now-ruined books, a decrepit copy of The Mines of Solomon he’d bought used in the market. Scrawled on the page were the words, Don’t talk.

  Alejandro peered at the sheet as he tucked his cash into a pocket. “That’s idiotic. I can’t remember anything to talk about.”

  “Nothing recent?” Joaquim asked.

  “I haven’t been here long enough to make any enemies,” Alejandro said with a shrug.

  “This person was here last night,” Gaspar said. “His contact with the knife has faded enough that I can tell it’s been several hours.”

  Alejandro swallowed. If he hadn’t spent the night in Serafina’s bed, he might have ended up with that knife in him instead of in his pillow. Normally this would be his sign to move on, to find another city and start over again.

  “Has this happened before?” Joaquim asked him.

  His desire to flee was strong, but if he was going to trust anyone, it should be these two. He looked over at Joaquim. “Yes.”

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  Saturday, 18 June 1920, Lisboa

  SERAFINA WAS WAITING in the hotel’s lobby when Alejandro returned, apparently expecting him to have retrieved a great deal of baggage. She glanced past him, arched brows drawn together. “I thought you went to pack.”

  “I did,” he admitted, “but someone ruined what little I had.” The intruder had ripped his clothes and destroyed his books. He and Joaquim had agreed there was no point bringing any of that back to the hotel, so all he retrieved was his money and his knife. “Joaquim says I have plenty of clothing back at his house, so I can just go there tomorrow.”

  Serafina held her hands close in front of her. Her dark eyes were worried. “What do you mean by ruined?”

  Alejandro—he was actually feeling comfortable calling himself that now—gazed at this girl who was his wife. Was she the sort of woman who would handle the news well? Or would she become histrionic? His brief acquaintance with her suggested the latter. He took a deep breath and told her about the damage to his flat anyway.

  She laid one hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and pained.

  Alejandro took her hands in his. “Don’t worry. It was just a threat.”

  “Has this happened before?” she asked.

  She deserves the truth. He told her of the shadowy fear that had pursued him from France to Spain and now to Portugal. It always seemed like he would just get settled when he would feel the need to flee come over him.

  Joaquim claimed that was his seer’s gift, sending him forth ahead of his pursuer, although there was no way to know that for certain. Something had prompted him to go see Serafim Palmeira sing the previous night.

  “So if you hadn’t been with me last night. . . ?”

  “That person would have found me there,” Alejandro told her.

  Her lips trembled, but she didn’t cry, which was a relief to him. “Then it’s a good thing we’re leaving,” she managed, lifting her chin. “I’ve canceled all my performances. We can go home and be safe there.”

  He kept hold of her hands. “Joaquim has said we can stay at his house for now, since it’s larger than your parents’ home.”

  She flushed. “Yes, I suppose that would be better.”

  “Joaquim also told me that . . . we never did have a wedding in the Church before.”

  Her eyes lifted, a line between her brows. “Do you . . . are you . . . going to leave me?”

  He found himself blinking like an idiot. Had she been worried that he would? “Am I the sort of man who would abandon you?”

  Her webbed fingers picked at his lapel. “You wanted to wait,” she whispered, “and I was afraid you were changing your mind. I heard stories of what soldiers got up to in Angola, and . . .”

  And so she’d convinced him somehow to marry her in order to hang on to him. Joaquim hadn’t implied that, not exactly. “But you knew I would marry you eventually. Why not go ahead and do that now?”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, tears glistening in her eyes.

  What an awful question.

  He didn’t remember her. He didn’t recall making any kind of promise to her.

  If he was honest with himself, he was asking because he didn’t want to see himself as the kind of man who wouldn’t do what was right. He felt guilty that Old Alejandro hadn’t married her properly. Was he doing this only because he was expected to do so?

  If he could have any woman in Portugal, though, he wanted Serafina. “I’m sure.”

  Her shoulders relaxed, as if she’d been holding herself tight.

  Alejandro took her hands in his. “Now, we have to get ready for the train, but once we’re underway, we can talk, all right?”

  She gave him a glittering smile that set his heart at ease.

  

  Alejandro kept his arms wrapped tightly about a sleeping Serafina as the train rattled through the mountains. The compartment’s bed wasn’t large, merely the bench pulled out and made up with blankets and sheets, but they would manage. The train shifted as they came around a wide curve, sending him rolling against Serafina’s side.

  They must be near Coimbra now. Even if he didn’t remember Coimbra, he could read a map. Supposedly he’d attended the university there.

  It didn’t matter that everyone thought he was Alejandro Ferreira. He felt like an imposter. Would that ever go away? Or would he have to regain his memory to believe in this identity?

  Serafina clearly believed. As did Joaquim and Inspector Gaspar and Marcos Davila.

  He wanted to trust their judgment.

  Serafina sighed and her arms twined around him. “Why are you awake?”

  “Do you not worry that I’m an imposter?”

  “I know you’re not,” she answered. “I don’t need you to remember me to remember you myself.”

  Yes, this was a different experience for her. “Before,” he asked, “what would we talk about?”

  Her fingers touched his chest. “We only had three days. We didn’t talk a great deal.”

  He had the impression now that they’d spent those three days in bed. “What did we plan to do? Live with my family forever?”

  “We didn’t discuss it.” Her fingers wandered, informing him that she was the one who didn’t like to talk.

  He caught her errant hand. “We will have to talk about it someday.”

  “Can it not be tomorrow, then?” she asked. “I don’t want to worry about little things.”

  Little things? Like where they would live? I am clearly the practical one in this relationship.

  

  Sunday, 20 June 1920, The Golden City

  The train station at São Bento he remembered. Not a real memory, but Alejandro had seen photographs of the intricate azulejos on the station’s walls, tile murals depicting scenes from the country’s history. He would have liked to stay and look at each one, but he could tell Joaquim wanted to get home, so they made their way out of the train station and called one of the cabs that waited there. It wasn’t far to the house, Joaquim explained, but he would rather no
t walk, as the streets were steep. Alejandro suspected his brother had gotten less sleep on the train than he had, although not for the same reason, certainly.

  And their destination was close, just a short drive down the main street before the station that connected the palace on its hilltop to the Douro River. This would be the Street of Flowers. The cab let them down in front of a dark stone house, one that looked like it belonged in the countryside, not the city. Joaquim opened up the wrought iron gate and proceeded through a small garden to the house. Carrying Serafina’s two bags, Alejandro followed.

  Nothing familiar.

  Once they were all inside the long entryway hall and the door closed behind them, Alejandro spotted a petite woman hurrying down the stairs from the second floor to join them. Her hair was brown, and her eyes were dark and large. This was Marina, Joaquim’s wife and the woman who’d raised him. She came running down the hall, threw her arms about her husband, and kissed his cheeks. Her clothes showed the same excellent taste as Joaquim’s, a simple dress in dark blue. Even though she didn’t need to work, she served on the board of the business firm her father ran.

  She released her husband, turned to Alejandro, and held out her hands to take his. “Do you recognize me, Jandro?”

  Her delicate features were pretty, and he suspected she was several years younger than her husband. He should know that sort of thing about his family, not just suspect it. “No, but you must be my mother.”

  She kissed his cheeks. “I am overjoyed that you’re home. Joaquim kept promising me you would return someday, and I prayed he was right.”

  “I’m grateful for your prayers,” he said, settling on what he hoped was a safe comment.

  “And Serafina,” she added, “Joaquim says you’ll be staying with us for now, so why don’t I have the footman take your bags up to your room.”

  A footman with a scar crossing his nose and one cheek came and whisked the bags away. Marina turned back to Alejandro. “Joaquim suggested we not give you too much to deal with at once, so the children are with their grandparents. They should be back in time for dinner, though, and will all want to talk to you then.”

  There were five, if he recalled correctly from his talk with Joaquim. “Could I see a photograph, to practice their names?”

  “There’s one in the sitting room.” Marina slipped out of the hallway into that room and emerged with a silver-framed photograph of the family.

  It had to be at least three years old, because he was in it, proof that he belonged here. He had some resemblance to the girls. The youngest child, the only boy, looked to be in a christening gown—likely the occasion for the photograph.

  “I didn’t know what was best,” Marina added. “I’ll leave the choice to you. Would you like to tour the house to see if it jogs your memory? Or perhaps just start with your room?”

  “I would honestly appreciate the chance to change into clean clothes.” He’d been feeling grubby since he’d walked through the front door. “Joaquim told me I still have clothing here.”

  “Yes, of course you do,” Marina said. “And I know Joaquim would appreciate a nap. He never travels well. Perhaps a quick breakfast?”

  “We had breakfast on the train, darling,” Joaquim said.

  “Oh, I forgot that. Then why don’t you all go up and rest.”

  Alejandro made his way along the fine hallway with Serafina on his arm and headed up the stairs. “Which room is mine?” he whispered.

  Serafina led him to a closed door only two away from the stairwell. It opened onto a large room that had recently been cleaned. It smelled of beeswax and freshly laundered linens. Alejandro stepped inside. A wide bed stood between two tall windows with iron-railed balconies outside. On the left side of the room, two doors led off into side chambers. A leather settee to one side of those doors had a stand next to it, with a coffee tray already waiting for them. This room made the one at the hotel look paltry. The burgundy bedding was finer than anything Alejandro recalled sleeping on before. This was a prosperous man’s bedroom. He’d clearly underestimated the family’s wealth. “Is Joaquim still in the police?”

  “Yes.”

  That had to be a matter of choice, then. Joaquim surely didn’t need to work, not given the grandeur of this house. He chose to.

  Serafina dragged Alejandro toward one of the closed doors. “This is your dressing room.”

  The dressing room smelled a little stale, but Alejandro suspected that all he would have to do was request that the servants clean his garments, and they would. He crossed to an armoire and opened it to discover more jackets and trousers than he thought he would ever need. He wasn’t accustomed to choosing. He took a deep breath. “What should I wear?”

  “I’ll pick it out for you.” Serafina busied herself selecting a shirt and other garb, revealing that she had some familiarity with this room and his possessions.

  “Did you live here while I was gone?” he asked cautiously.

  Her hands stilled. “For a while,” she said softly. “When they told us you were dead, I went back to live with my parents.”

  It was probably an awkward topic, but he risked it anyway. “Why didn’t you stay?”

  “I . . . Joaquim believed you would come back, but I wasn’t sure.”

  He felt his brows drawing together. “But you knew I wasn’t dead.”

  “I didn’t think you were dead,” she whispered. “I just . . . didn’t think you wanted to come back. To me, I mean.”

  Alejandro found himself gaping. Serafina Palmeira—who was beautiful and a talented singer and would be any man’s dream—wasn’t sure her husband had loved her.

  What exactly had happened between them during those three days? Apparently there hadn’t been a great deal of talking, yet somehow she’d come out of that time with the impression that he would run from her.

  He went to her side. “I’m back now.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face against his tatty jacket. “Please let me stay.”

  He wanted to get to the base of whatever was bothering her, but he would need to do it delicately. He laid his cheek against her dark curls and prayed that he would figure out the right words that would keep him in this life. And her in it as well.

  

  Meeting the children had been chaos. The girls wept over him. His nephew—too young to recall him—gave him a strange look, followed by a glance at his father, but then seemed to accept Alejandro’s presence as inevitable. The children, on the whole, didn’t seem to taken aback by the fact that he couldn’t recall their favorite games or who had which room, but he had been absent for some time.

  Serafina helped him, occasionally leaning close at the dinner table and whispering some fact into his ear. No one took his gaffes seriously, which was fortunate. They seemed inclined to be forgiving. Joaquim’s wife seemed to struggle the most.

  “I promised your mother I would never let you forget her,” Marina said at one point. “I will have to tell you about her all over again.”

  Ah, now he understood Marina’s worry. “I would appreciate that.”

  “She was an amazing woman,” Marina said.

  Joaquim had told him his mother had arranged to break all the sereia out of that far-away Spanish prison, and had suffered terribly in that quest. “Perhaps after breakfast tomorrow, we can talk.”

  

  Wednesday, 23 June 1920

  That was the course for the next two days. He sat with Marina while she told him all about his mother and the conspiracy that had set her in a Spanish prison in the first place. He had long talks with Joaquim regarding his past. Inspector Gaspar came to speak with him about the hex laid on him. His cousin Rafael came to talk to Alejandro about being a seer, a talent that Rafael shared, and said that his sons would come to see Alejandro eventually. Alejandro met what seemed like scores of cousins and children, all of Serafina’s sisters, and the Gaspar children. He listened endlessly, learning everything about Old Alejandro a
s if that man were a character in a play.

  Flustered by all the names and relationships, he began making a chart to keep track. He did better once he’d written things down. It didn’t help, though, that Joaquim and Duilio had married sisters, or that Duilio’s widowed mother had married Joaquim’s father—or rather the man who raised him. Nor did it help that they all seemed to have children to remember. Instead of a family tree, it made a family tangle. Fortunately, everyone proved willing to chatter endlessly about his family’s past to help him figure it out.

  The only person who didn’t talk to him was Serafina.

  So after meeting with Gaspar again on the third day, Alejandro went to find his wife. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in their room, or the library, or the front sitting room. He asked the footman in the front of the house—Roberto, the one with the scar across his face—if he’d seen her.

  “No, Lieutenant,” Roberto said. “She said she was going to meet with her sister this morning. At a bookstore.”

  Alejandro felt his brows draw together. “Lieutenant? Did you serve in the war?”

  Most of what Alejandro knew about that time had all come from a history of the Great War published the previous year by a Scotsman named Arthur Conan Doyle. Alejandro read it cover to cover, hoping the words would jog some memory.

  “Yes, sir,” the footman said. “In the Second Division.”

  That explained the scar. The Portuguese Second Division were posted on the front lines for eight months. After enduring a terrible winter, they were overrun when the Germans finally advanced on them. The Portuguese casualties had been high. “Did we ever meet?”

  The footman shook his head. “No, sir. I heard you were in Angola for part of it.”

  “I was.” Again, something he only knew from letters and that scar on his thigh. “Did you go straight to France?”

  Roberto nodded. “Direct from training, sir. Then to Flanders. Wounded at La Lys and taken prisoner.”