A Greater Love
Page 2
When the men who sailed the ferry were nowhere in sight, Miguel plunged into the hold and started to work the crowd. He said nothing, simply stood in front of the seated people until they noticed him, his thin hand held out in a silent plea. Most people averted their eyes and pretended not to see but several gave him small coins, and to them he nodded his thanks. The many ladies who had pulled out their knitting seemed particularly loath to stop to find him a coin.
After completing his rounds on the main deck, he made his way up the stairs to the open part of the ferry. Two women sat near the edge, talking and gazing out over the water, their faces red with cold. One had long blonde hair, white skin, and blue eyes; the other was brown-skinned and black-haired, with brown eyes as dark as the chestnuts Senhor Alferes had given him. Both strangers were young and pretty. They reminded him of milk and chocolate, each as appealing as they were different. He walked up to the women and, holding out a cupped hand, stared soulfully into their faces.
“Oh,” the blonde woman said, startled. Her warm blue eyes showed pity and confusion. The unusual yellow color of her hair was rare in Portugal, and Miguel stifled an urge to touch the locks. Her hair looked so clean and his hand was so dirty.
Glancing at the Bibles each held in their lap, he almost couldn’t conceal a grin. The young women were church workers or nuns of some sort, though they were dressed in regular skirts and blouses. These types always made good targets. Last year one from France, a Sister Perrault, had taught a group of children living in the shacks, among them Miguel and Sara. There were others who had come and gone since then, but Sister Perrault remained his favorite. Not only had she taught him about Jesus, but also about what kind of foods he and Sara should eat to stay healthy. Often, she had slipped him money. Octávia had let him listen to her when he told her about that.
“Do you have any change?” the dark woman asked her friend.
“No, nothing,” the blonde said, in slightly accented Portuguese. “You?”
“No.”
Miguel heard the sincerity in their words and started to lower his hand, not hiding his disappointment. There were two flaws he had found with most religious people like these—either they didn’t have money to spare, or they would try to convert him to Jesus. Sometimes he went along with it, especially at Christmas time, in order to eat a good meal or two. But it never lasted. They always wanted him to go to church or school, which interfered with Octávia’s need for him to earn money.
“Oh, wait!” The blonde woman’s eyes lit up, and Miguel watched warily as she plunged her hand into the large leather handbag leaning against her leg. She pulled out a tube-like package of cookies wrapped in plastic. “Here.”
He took them carefully, almost afraid they weren’t meant for him. Then he stepped back out of her reach, in case she changed her mind. Ducking his head to them, he uttered a sincere thanks, not bothering to hide his excitement. His stomach, only partially satiated by the chestnuts, growled.
The ladies smiled as he left. Miguel forgot them as he rounded the corner near the stairs. He sank to the floor, ripping the package open greedily. Never did he refuse or throw away food except for the rare occasions when he was given more than he could hoard, but cookies were a special treat. There were ten all together, as round as his palm and thick and sugary. He shoved one into his mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly. Then he forced himself to eat more slowly, savoring the taste. When four of the ten cookies had disappeared, he refolded the cellophane around the remaining six and stored them carefully in the sleeve of his sweater to share later with Sara. Already his stomach felt more comfortable.
After working the ferry for another three runs, he found an isolated spot in the commerce square on the stairs under the huge statue of the horse and its kingly rider where he could count his money. Nine hundred and twenty escudos in all, plus ten thousand from a wallet he had managed to steal from a well-dressed man who had ignored him completely. Nearly eleven contos! Octávia would be pleased.
Miguel fingered the rich black leather of the wallet. When he had caught a glimpse of the man’s sorrowful black eyes, like deep pits, he had surprised himself by feeling a little remorseful about stealing the wallet but quickly buried the qualms. The man would never miss the money, but to Miguel it was life.
“That’s the child!” A woman’s shout burst through his reverie.
He looked up and saw a woman tugging on the arm of a policeman. Her finger pointed directly at Miguel.
“He was begging on the ferry. You have to do something about it.” She clicked her tongue. “Such a disgrace.”
The policeman approached, but Miguel jumped to his feet and tossed a mocking grin at the pair before disappearing into the crowd. The streets were his element; no one could catch him now.
Chapter Two
“I’ll have to get another identity card,” Daniel Andrade complained to his wife. “There was a boy begging on the ferry this morning. He must have taken it.”
“You could have lost it,” Cristina said mildly. The breeze from the water had died but her cheeks and nose were red from the cold. She retreated from the edge of their small passenger boat and walked into the cabin, rubbing her gloved hands together. Daniel finished tying down the sail and followed her. Winter wasn’t the best time for boating, but they had to come down to the dock at least once a month to make sure No Name was all right. Besides, a brisk sail always raised his spirits. Cristina seemed to enjoy it too.
“Why must you always take their side?” Daniel picked up their conversation with a snort. “I tell you, children like that are born to steal. They’ll do anything to take what we’ve earned by our hard work. It’s in their genes.” In the rough cabin, the cold was less biting, and once they lit the old stove it would grow almost warm.
“Maybe they’re just hungry.”
“I won’t dispute that. Their parents refuse to work and yet they keep producing children who are nothing more than a burden to the country.”
“It’s good someone is having children,” Cristina said, settling on the sturdy wooden bench opposite the stove. She pulled her knees to her chest and circled her arms around them. “Portugal’s becoming an old country with everyone having only one or two children.” She paused before adding more quietly, “Or none at all.”
“The children who are born here have to go to other countries to work,” Daniel said angrily. “Where is the justice in that? And why? Because we’re so busy supporting the lazy poor and their children that there’s no room for growth for those who work for it.”
“But some people are different. Take us for instance. We have money for food and shelter, college, music lessons, and anything else a child might need. If we decided to have children, we would prepare them to be productive, even here in Portugal.”
”I see the pain in the world, Cristina, and I won’t inflict it upon any of our children. Or them upon the world, if they go berserk and become drug addicts or killers or lazy, good-for-nothing trash. No, the responsible thing to do is to not have children. It was okay back in the old days but not now.”
Cristina flushed as she always did when she was even the tiniest bit upset, and her lips clamped together tightly as if she struggled to hold something inside.
“Take that poor child on the ferry, for instance,” he said more gently. “What kind of a world is this for him? Appalling is the word that comes to my mind. A world where children have to beg for a living, instead of learning in school and being cared for by responsible parents. I curse those thoughtless people! I see the way these throw-away children live. Do you know how many of these cases come to my desk each week?”
Daniel was the top assistant to the president of the city of Cova da Piedade, and had more power than anyone in the community except the president himself. By his command, businesses failed or succeeded, changes were made or initiated. He had a promising political career, yet he was the first to admit that his very prominence had added to his disillusionment with life. He ha
d seen the ugliness behind the scenes. Wars, famines, abuse—there was an unending surge of evil in the world. In Portugal, flanked by richer countries, the uneven scale particularly cried out for justice.
“I hear you, Daniel,” Cristina said finally. “Maybe you’re right.” He recognized the defeat in her voice and moved to sit on the bench beside her. She let her feet drop to the deck and tilted her head onto his shoulder, spilling gentle curls over his chest. He pressed his cheek against her head, enjoying the soft touch of the brown locks on his face.
“I love you,” he ventured.
“Oh, yeah?” Her voice became teasing. “You sure have a funny way of showing it—taking a woman out sailing on a freezing day like this!” She gave an exaggerated shiver.
He grinned. “This is the best time. In fact, Manuel and I used to say that this was the only season to sail. An open sea with only us and the most hardy fishermen.”
Nostalgia fell over him like a clear blue wave. His friend Manuel Silva had helped him build No Name that last summer on the days they had off from the fishing boat. Not that there were many days off. Still, they made good use of all the long hours together, on and off the fishing boat. Manuel had an agile mind and continually amazed Daniel with how fast he could learn what Daniel taught him from his years in college. Often on the calm nights on the fishing boat, they would read old classics far into the night. Manuel stopped using the uneducated Portuguese that most of the fishing hands spoke and copied Daniel’s speech. Several times Daniel had suggested that his friend go to college himself, but Manuel wouldn’t hear of leaving the sea—except to spend time with his family. Life had been good in those days, full of laughter and discovery.
That was before Daniel learned the promises of the future were mostly lies.
“You haven’t talked about him for a long time,” Cristina said. “When we were first married, I loved to listen to your stories. Remember how we’d sleep out on deck at night and talk? I especially like the story about how you and Manuel could catch more fish together than any other mates on board your ship. I used to wonder why you didn’t go into the fishing industry. With your brains and Manuel’s knowledge of the sea, I bet you could have made it a success.”
He sighed. “Politics is safer, if not cleaner. But those were good days. I miss them.”
“It’s too bad he died. I’d like to hear his side of all the stories. Did you really invent a new kind of net?”
“Yes,” Daniel replied shortly. It always surprised him that the memory brought back so much pain. “Just before Manuel was killed. Why he had to die instead of that ungrateful fool he saved from drowning, I’ll never know.”
Cristina put an arm around him. “I’m sorry.”
He let out a long sigh. “So am I. But it’s in the past. It has nothing to do with us now.” He arose and strode to the entrance of the cabin, grabbing the fishing pole from a hook by the door. “What do you say we go catch some fish?”
She laughed. “I thought you’d never ask. But you go on. I’m going start the stove so the coals are ready by the time we catch one. I’m starved.”
“You just want to stay out of the cold.”
A grin lit her face, making her even more beautiful. “Hey, it’s your boat. You do the work.”
Daniel dropped the pole and returned to his wife’s side, taking her into his arms. “The smartest thing I ever did was to marry you,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ll do anything to make you happy.”
“I wonder,” she said. The words held a haunting melancholy that made Daniel feel uneasy. He looked at her closely but her smile was bright; when he hugged her, she didn’t pull away. Daniel gave her a quick kiss and put the incident from his mind. Their lunch was out there swimming in that wide, icy expanse, and he was going to find it.
Chapter Three
On his way home from the wharf, Miguel whistled the tune to Sara’s favorite song, the one Sister Perrault had taught them about Jesus and the lamb lying down with the lion. He remembered vividly sitting on the packed earth outside one of the shacks, practising the phrases with the other children. It amazed him that the lion wouldn’t gobble up the lamb. What stopped him? Could it be Jesus? Miguel hoped he would be around to see it happen.
The tune had little to do with the thoughts of revenge entering his head. Soon he would have to pass the group of boys who lived in the fancy new apartment buildings near his shack community. They were about his age, but seemed to have no other purpose in life except to make him miserable. Almost every day for the past month they’d hidden among the buildings, springing out on him just as he began to hope that this time they would leave him alone. He could outrun them all, so usually the mud and sticks they threw missed him completely, but several times in the last week he’d been carrying fruit and vegetables from Senhor Fitas’s store and they had caught up to him and destroyed the food, laughing as they did. Octávia hadn’t been at all understanding when he had arrived home empty-handed.
“You’re gonna be a man someday,” she’d said brusquely, twitching her hooked nose. “You gotta learn to deal with them boys. Now stop complainin’ and get to bed.” There’d been anger and impatience in her face, and he’d obeyed, going without supper to the pile of worn blankets where he and Sara slept on the floor. He hadn’t cried, not even after Octávia’s drunken snores filled the one-room shack. He knew his aunt was right.
Miguel frowned. He’d still not found a way to resolve his problems with the bullies. They were no doubt waiting for him even now. He could try to sneak past them after dark, but sometimes even that didn’t work. And he would also be carrying groceries tonight—if Senhor Fitas had any for him.
“You’re a little early today, Miguel,” Senhor Fitas told him when he arrived at the back door of the vegetable store. He was thin and taller than most Portuguese men and his hair was nearly all white.
“Guess I am,” Miguel said, having no real idea what time it might be. The sun sank so fast in the sky during the winter months that most of his guesses were off. “Got anythin’ for me today?”
“Your aunt already came by with that sister of yours. Sara’s sure getting to be a cute little thing. How old is she now? Five?”
“Six. She had her birthday when the kids went back to school.”
“What about you, Miguel? Don’t you go to school?”
“Yeah,” he lied smoothly. “Only today I don’t got afternoon classes. Octávia didn’t tell me she was comin’ here.”
“She mentioned something about some boys bothering you.”
“She did?” Miguel couldn’t contain his surprise. Was his aunt actually worried about him? Then he remembered the food he’d lost the past week. “She musta wanted to make sure the food got home okay.”
Senhor Fitas grunted. “I’m sure your aunt was looking out for your best interests.” Miguel must not have appeared convinced because the old man continued, “Do you remember the first time I met you folks a couple years ago?”
Miguel’s eyes flashed to the huge garbage bin in the alley. “Course I do. We was goin’ through your trash for your bruised fruits and stuff. We’d been doin’ it for weeks before ya caught us. I like it better now that ya leave ’em out in a box for us.”
“So do I,” Senhor Fitas said. “I kept worrying you’d break a leg or something. But the point is, it’s not an easy thing to raise two children alone, but she’s kept you fed, one way or another. I know she can be a mean old bat sometimes, but mostly that’s the alcohol talking.” He thumped his chest. “In her heart, she’s doing the best she knows how.”
“I don’t like her much.” Miguel couldn’t believe he dared admit it aloud.
Senhor Fitas didn’t seem to hate him for saying it. “I don’t expect that she likes herself much either. But you’re getting old enough to understand that sometimes liking doesn’t have much to do with love, or the reasons we do things at all. Why don’t you ask Octávia sometime about the gold necklace she wears inside her sweater?”
“Do it,” the old man urged. “When you get the chance. You never know how . . . Well, Octávia wasn’t looking good today. I wish she’d lay off the alcohol. It’s just not . . .”
While Senhor Fitas talked on, Miguel eyed a cardboard box outside the door. It was full of odd pieces of completely rotten fruit and mushy garbage that wasn’t fit for human consumption, not even for poor people.
“What’s that?” Miguel asked a long time later during a lull in Senhor Fitas’ dialogue. He pointed at the mushy fruit.
Senhor Fitas appeared surprised. “That’s nothing you’d be interested in, Miguel. I already picked out what was edible for your aunt.”
“It ain’t for us,” Miguel said. “Me and a friend, we’re gonna raise us a pig and try to get some meat. We got a place out in the woods where we keep him.” Miguel felt proud of the story. It might be the best lie he’d ever come up with.
“A pig, eh?” Senhor Fitas said doubtfully. “Well, I guess you can have it. Pig slop is about what it’s good for, if it has any value at all.”
“Thanks!” Miguel dived for the box before the man could change his mind. “My pig thanks you, too. Maybe I’ll bring him to meet ya one day.”
Senhor Fitas gave him a strange look. “Yeah, sure. That’d be fine. We’ll see you in a couple days, Miguel.”
“See ya later.” Miguel ran down the street for a good block before the weight of the box made him slow. His breath came rapidly, but he continued to hurry as fast as he could. By the sun’s fading light, he knew it had grown late. As usual, Senhor Fitas had talked too long. Would Paulo be waiting as planned?
It was a long way home, and as the darkness stole over the city, Miguel shivered and coughed more often. He hoped Sara was already at the shack and that she’d kept warm in her black wool skirt and sweater. Underneath the wide weave sweater, he always made her wear his outgrown T-shirt and another old sweater, a dull green color.