A Greater Love

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “So that’s why ya kinda smell bad.” Sara’s comment sent them into fits of laughter again. The little girl smiled tentatively at Octávia, then went to retrieve the three remaining cookies she’d left next to the fire. She gave one to Miguel and the other two to Octávia. “Miguel got ’em.”

  Octávia bit into the first. “Hmmm. That’s good. Almost as good as Miguel here doin’ them bratty kids the way he done.” She chortled again, her rounded chest bouncing. Miguel watched it jiggle up and down. He had never understood how she could have such a round chest and stomach when the rest of her was so skinny.

  “Want some eggs?” Sara asked timidly.

  Octávia shook her hand and reached for a bottle of wine. “Not hungry. These cookies are enough.” She made her way over to her mattress where she sat with an exaggerated sigh. She glanced down at the money Miguel had given her. “Keep it up, boy, and we just might get ’lectricity soon. I’ve been wantin’ a TV.”

  “That’d be great!” Miguel grinned at Sara, relieved to see the fear had left her face. This time at least he had averted Octávia’s wrath. He didn’t mind it as much when the old lady hit or yelled at him, figuring he mostly deserved it, but he hated it when she hurt Sara.

  He went to his sister and retuned the cookie she had given him. “I had some earlier. I want you to have it.” Sara took the cookie and turned back to the eggs, a small smile playing on her lips.

  “Here,” Octávia said gruffly from her bed, as if in afterthought. “I brought you two some bread, not that you deserve it with all the trouble ya give me.” While Miguel retrieved the sack holding the bread, she upended the bottle of wine in her hand and gulped for what seemed like forever without taking a breath.

  “Thank you,” Miguel whispered, but Octávia was beyond hearing. He ripped pieces off the bread loaf to toast with the eggs.

  Sara didn’t sing again that night, but she did hum. When Octávia was asleep, she said softly, “We’re lucky we got Octávia. She takes good care of us.”

  Miguel thought about the bread Octávia had brought and about what Senhor Fitas had told him. “Yeah,” he agreed, “she’s all right.”

  Chapter Four

  Several days had passed since Daniel and Cristina had eaten fresh fish in the cabin of his boat, but Daniel couldn’t get Manuel out of his mind. Could he have prevented his best friend’s death? If only he’d possessed the benefit of hindsight on that fateful day!

  “You shouldn’t have tried to save anyone,” he said aloud to Manuel. “It wasn’t worth your life. Why didn’t you know that?”

  Daniel arrived at his apartment on the twelfth floor of a new apartment building and found Cristina already home. From the exquisite aroma of onions and olive oil, he knew she must have left her travel agency early to make this night special. Being both owner and manager had some distinct advantages.

  Except that usually she had a reason for leaving before quitting time. Had he forgotten their anniversary? Her birthday? Maybe his own? He made a pretense of arranging things in his briefcase so he could surreptitiously view his planner. No, there was nothing listed.

  “Honey?” he called. He wished his mood were better. Why did thoughts of Manuel have to plague him now?

  “In the kitchen.”

  All the rooms in the apartment, including the guest room, opened onto the polished wood floor of the entryway like the spokes from the hub of a wagon wheel. He turned left into the kitchen and Cristina met him inside the door. She hugged him, her arms soothing away much of the gloom in his heart. “Mmm, you smell good,” he said. She looked good, too—better than good. Her red dress flattered her figure, and her hair was drawn up with a clip, revealing her graceful neck.

  “That’s the bacalhau.”

  Cod, his favorite fish. He nibbled on her neck. “No, it’s you. What kind of perfume are you wearing, anyway?”

  She laughed and pulled away. “Trade secrets. Now go put your stuff away and come eat.”

  “I hope you made a lot. I’m sure hungry. Never got around to eating lunch.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s plenty.” She opened one of the cupboards and pointed to a large butcher-paper package of dried codfish. “And you can see that I’ve bought enough bacalhau to get us through the new year, even if we have your mother and half the apartment complex over for Christmas dinner. You might even get sick of it.”

  “No way,” he protested with a grin. Baked bacalhau and potatoes were the main things he enjoyed at Christmas time.

  Within minutes, he returned to the kitchen, but Cristina led the way to the sitting room where they also kept the long dining table and the high-backed chairs. Several tall candles stood on small holders on top of the polished wood table, and more flickering candles lined the mantel, composing the only light in the room. The bacalhau sat in a large Pyrex dish where it had been baked with onions, potatoes, and olive oil. Next to it was a basket of fresh dinner rolls and a bottle of expensive wine. The smell was heavenly to Daniel’s empty stomach.

  “This looks great!” He kissed Cristina in appreciation.

  They sat together near one end of the table, and Daniel put his hand over his wife’s. “Thank you,” he said. “I needed a break. Work today was . . .” He let the words fall away.

  “Difficult? What happened?”

  “Oh, the usual. Complaints and more complaints. On top of everything, we’ve got some religious group requesting permission to do something or other in the park. With all the problems I have to deal with, they want to add to it.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ve no doubt I’ll find out soon enough. If only I could quit thinking about Manuel.” Daniel clamped his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to mention Manuel. He didn’t want to remember the truth of that day, much less have Cristina delve into it.

  “Maybe we should sell the boat. I mean, if going there makes you think of him.”

  “No!” he said vehemently.

  “Okay!” She touched his arm lightly. “I only thought selling it might make you feel better.”

  “It’s not that. I love the boat. But I keep wondering what things might have been like if Manuel had lived.”

  “Was he married?”

  “What?” Her question took him by surprise.

  “Did he have a girlfriend? Someone he loved?”

  Daniel smiled as the memories of years earlier flooded him. A girl. Yes, there was girl, a very pretty girl. “I don’t even remember her name, but she was beautiful. She was a dark gypsy girl who lived near the harbor. I’d never seen anyone so vivacious and full of life. She used to wear those funny white blouses and bright striped skirts with little tassels on the end. You know how they used to wear them, right? We—all of us on the fishing boat—teased Manuel that we could see her coming from across the city.”

  “You liked her!” Cristina accused.

  He chuckled. “She was a real beauty,” he admitted, “and we were all a bit in love with her, but she had eyes only for Manuel.”

  “Did they get married?”

  Daniel felt his smile vanish. “Yes. But it was hard on her. She belonged to an old gypsy family who wouldn’t allow her to marry out of their clan. They had someone lined up for her. A distant relative, I believe. When she eloped with Manuel instead, her family cut her off as though she were dead.”

  “So what happened?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, really. Manuel stayed with the boat, but I left the next year. My father had died, and I wanted to be on land in case my mother needed me. And there was college to finish. When I returned a few years later to rebuild that boat, somehow Manuel found out and started helping me.” Daniel leaned forward in his chair. “It was like old times, Cristina! He talked me into going back to work on the boat for that summer and we relived every adventure we’d ever had.” He frowned. “I should have known it would never last. I was too successful on land.”

  “Was that when—”

  “Yes. The acc
ident.” Daniel purposely made his voice short. He’d never told her the full story. He never would.

  “What about his wife? Where was she?”

  “She lived somewhere in the city. He’d go see her every chance he got and sometimes she’d come to meet him at the dock. They had a child by then, a tiny little thing she wouldn’t let out of her arms. When they were together they had eyes only for each other and the baby. Manuel said they went sailing a lot in his free time. Later, after Manuel died and I got out of the hospital, I—”

  “You were in the hospital? You never told me that.”

  Daniel sighed wearily. He didn’t want to talk about this at all. “I was hurt when the boat capsized. We all were. When I got out of the hospital, I went to find her, but she was gone. I assumed she went back to her family. Then I turned to politics.”

  “And met me.”

  “And met you.” He gazed at her earnestly. “Now can we forget this? It was so long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore, especially with Manuel gone.”

  “Don’t you wonder what happened to the woman?”

  “Not really.”

  “Maybe it’d make you feel better if you knew. Maybe if you saw that she and her child, Manuel’s child, were happy, you could be happy too.”

  “What makes you think I’m not happy?”

  “Your eyes,” she said softly. “They’re always so sad. Especially lately.”

  He forced a smile. “That’s the sensitive part of me. Aren’t you feminists always talking about finding a sensitive man? Well, here I am.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Now are you going to tell me why you went to all this trouble tonight? It’s not either of our birthdays or our anniversary.”

  She grinned wickedly. “I had you worried, didn’t I? Well, it’s none of those. It’s because I love you, that’s all.”

  Daniel sensed a holding back within her. There’d been a reason for this elaborate dinner, but whatever it had been, his talk of Manuel and his gypsy wife had spoiled it. He had to admit that he was grateful she wouldn’t be springing any surprises upon him. The dark tunnel he was in already seemed to have no end.

  Dinner went well, and that night they shared the most romantic evening since their honeymoon days. Thoughts of Manuel fled from Daniel’s mind. In his wife’s arms, for those few moments, the darkness in his soul was gone too.

  The next morning, Cristina wasn’t feeling well. For one instant, suspicion clouded Daniel’s mind. “You’re taking your pills, aren’t you?”

  She stared at him a full ten seconds before replying, “Would it be so bad if I didn’t?” Her voice was carefully devoid of emotion.

  “You know how I feel about having a child. Now, did you take them?”

  “Of course. Don’t worry about it.” She stalked from the bedroom and didn’t talk to him until they both left for work.

  At the door to their apartment, she hesitated. “Goodbye.” The word was curt, her face stiff.

  “You know I love you, don’t you?” Daniel asked.

  Her smile returned, though a ghost of its usual brilliance. “More than Manuel’s gypsy girl?”

  He gave a short laugh. How was it she could always make him happy, even at times as tense as these? “Much more than the most beautiful gypsy girl,” he said. “Much, much more.”

  Chapter Five

  Miguel walked through the older section of Lisbon, the part that had not been destroyed by the earthquake long ago. The roads were narrow and the buildings ancient—white painted cement over red brick with terra-cotta rooftops. Finally, he arrived at the small store, his feet aching from another long day.

  He made his way directly to the milk. Rows of small half-liter cartons sat on an unrefrigerated shelf. Milk irradiated and packaged like this could last weeks or more without spoiling.

  The coins in his hands clinked softly. He sensed someone behind him and glanced over his shoulder. A young woman with brown hair and soft eyes stood next to the rows of canned goods. She wore green corduroy under a fur-lined coat, and her feet nestled in warm-looking boots. A small boy stood next to her.

  Miguel couldn’t have planned it better.

  “Oh, I wish I could buy Sara some milk,” he said, loud enough for her to hear. “But I just ain’t got enough money. Granny ain’t gettin’ no better, and maybe she never will.” He put on his saddest expression and fingered a carton longingly with a dirt-caked finger. He peeked at the woman and found her listening. “I wish Mamãe didn’t go to live with them angels.”

  He looked up, appearing to notice the woman for the first time. He ducked his head timidly. “Excuse me, Senhora. Did you want some milk? I’m gettin’ outta your way. Tell me, though. How much do I need to buy milk?” He held out a hand with a coin worth twenty escudos. “Is this enough? You think I’ll get back some change?” He hoped he still looked young enough for the ruse to work. Truth was, he understood money as well as the streets he walked each day, and had since he was younger than Sara.

  “Uh, no.” The woman hesitated, staring briefly at her own son, and Miguel knew he had her. “But I’ll buy you a carton, if you don’t mind. I’m getting some for my own family anyway.”

  Miguel allowed his gaze to drop to the ground. “If you can spare it, Senhora,” he said, careful to keep using the respectful title. “I don’t want to put ya out none. But my little sister . . .” His voice trailed away. The woman scooped up four cartons and put them into the small cart with the rest of her groceries. Next to her eggs, Miguel spied a medium-sized pair of freshly gutted trout wrapped in plastic. He smiled and nodded at the woman; she smiled back.

  “Your mother’s a saint,” he told the little boy. The child was younger than Sara, maybe four. The boy gave Miguel a shy grin, and his mother glowed with unconcealed pleasure.

  Miguel made a great show of helping the lady with her groceries. The clerk behind the register eyed him strangely, but, except for the store nearest his house, Miguel had made sure he didn’t frequent any one place often enough for recognition. Once outside, the woman handed him a carton of milk.

  “Thank you very much, Senhora,” he said. “May the angels smile down from heaven where my mamãe is, and take care of ya. I’m gonna be sure and tell my little lame sister ’bout the kind saint I met today.” Was he laying it on too thick? Maybe.

  The lady hesitated, then picked up another carton of milk and handed it to him.

  Miguel pronounced more blessings upon her, but she seemed satisfied with her bounty and turned up the street, lugging a stuffed bag of groceries in one hand and holding onto her son’s chubby fist with the other. The little boy turned and gave a short wave. Miguel waved back before walking into the alleyway out of their sight. Only then did he yield to the large grin that nearly cut his face in two. From underneath his sweater, he pulled the package of trout. He laughed.

  A bout of coughing shook him, cutting short his moment of glee. Darting a sharp look around, he retrieved the plastic bag he kept in his pocket and put the fish and milk inside. He couldn’t believe what a wonderful day this had been. Tonight he would make a fire and cook both of the fish. His mouth watered at the thought.

  A flash of red down the alley caught Miguel’s eyes. A long, thick scarf hung from a clothesline that crossed the street, heavy with various items even in the cold of winter. The sight was common enough, but the red reminded Miguel of Sara. Red was her favorite color.

  A few children darted into the narrow street and began playing ball. They wore heavy coats and Miguel shivered, reminding himself that it was time to get home. He started through the alleyway, passing the children. Overhead, he spied again the flash of red. Impulsively, he jumped, grabbing for the scarf, and landed with his feet pumping against the cobbled stairs. He heard a shout behind him, but he didn’t stop running. Now he had a present for Sara.

  He was nearly home when two boys his age stepped out in front of him. A cold lump of fear grew in his gut as he recognized the nameless leader of the rich boys who’d been haras
sing him. It was the first time in the few days since the rotten fruit trick that he had seen any of them.

  “Better be careful,” Miguel warned. He lifted the plastic sack in his hands. “I got another surprise in here for ya.”

  The boys stepped back nervously, and only fear stopped Miguel from grinning. There was no way they could know he had nothing but fish and milk in the bag, along with the scarf he’d just stolen.

  The leader raised his chin. “We want you to know that we haven’t given up. You’re going to pay for what you did. And pay big!”

  Miguel raised his bag overhead as if he were going to throw it. The boys retreated further. Miguel lunged toward them and they bolted. “We’re going to get you!” the leader called over his shoulder. “We’re going to sweep our streets clean of trash like you. Wait and see.”

  “Just try it!” Miguel yelled. When the boys disappeared, he lowered the sack, ignoring the worry in his gut, and started to hum.

  As usual, he stopped at the community spigot for a drink of water before heading to his shack. One of his neighbors was there, a Senhora Claudia Monteiro. A grubby toddler at her feet tried to touch the water. “No, no,” the woman said. “It’s much too cold. You’ll get your coat wet.” She dragged the child away and focused on Miguel.

  “Hello, boy. How ya been? Ain’t seen you around since them lady missionaries left.”

  It was at Senhora Monteiro’s that Miguel and Sara had listened to the lady church workers, especially the one from France who’d been the first and Miguel’s favorite. All of the Monteiros except the dad had been baptised into the church, but Miguel hadn’t heard of them attending the church since the missionaries left. It didn’t make any sense to him to join a place and not show up like you promised.

  Miguel gave a grunt. “Been busy.”

  “That aunt of yours don’t look so good,” Senhora Monteiro continued. “You two might be better off in a home. She drinks worse than my husband.”

  “She’s family,” he said shortly.