A Greater Love (2 page)

He touched his shirt pocket under the sweater, comforted to feel the bulge. Yes, it was still there with his only other treasure—one far more valuable to him.

The arch of Rua Augusta led into the spacious commerce square near the wharf. At the entrance to the square, a man with a vendor cart nodded hello and tossed him a rolled newspaper cup full of roasted chestnuts.

“Thanks, Senhor Alferes!”

“Come back later on your way home. I’ll give you some for little Sara.”

“I will.” Miguel saluted the old seaman awkwardly before continuing past the metal trolley cars, standing out in bright orange-yellow contrast to the black-and-white design of the cobblestones. He broke open the shells and began to eat the hot chestnuts quickly. They warmed him, and he almost didn’t mind the cold breeze coming through the stretched parts of his dingy sweater.

He whistled as he passed the center of the open square, where a majestic metal statue of King Dom José on horseback rose high above the passersby on a massive stone pedestal. Beyond lay the wharf. Near the ferry station, a dark-haired, heavyset lady sold hot Belgian waffles. The smell wafted on the light breeze, calling to him. He tried not to look her way.

Getting aboard the ferry usually wasn’t difficult as Miguel was practiced at finding someone to buy him the necessary ticket. Searching the row of faces waiting at the ticket stand, he targeted a young woman with soft features. Underneath her long, gray winter coat, he glimpsed a brown wool skirt and matching blazer.

He sidled up to her. “Please, Senhora, do ya got some spare change? I need to get across the river.” He tried to look hopeful and embarrassed.

She shook her dark head once and stared away from him, distaste written on her pretty face. Miguel waited a little longer; sometimes conscience attacks occurred after the initial refusal. The cold breeze whipping into the open end of the station brought the woman’s shoulder-length hair forward into her face. She pushed it back impatiently and waved him on.

Miguel shrugged and walked away. It wasn’t the first time he had erred in choosing a mark, and it wouldn’t be the last. This time he targeted an older woman, very stout and dressed in mourning black. Strands of white softened the raven hair, pulled firmly into a tight bun. Some of these women dressed in black could be hard, but this one’s eyes seemed to rest on him sympathetically.

“Can ya spare a ticket?” he asked in his most polite voice. “I lost mine, and I gotta get home. Please?” The lie slipped off his tongue as easily as if he were telling the truth, but the cough and the shiver were real.

She studied him. He hoped his face was dirty enough to work the miracle. In the summer, after playing in the pond at Entre Campos, Miguel would have to rub a little dirt on his face before he went begging. He didn’t understand exactly what magic qualities the dirt held, but it always helped, especially with older ladies.

The amount of dirt must have been just right. “Yes, child,” she said. “Let’s go. I’ll buy you a ticket.”

He ducked his head. “Obrigado, Senhora.” Thank you. The fact that she would buy him a ticket instead of giving him the money to buy one himself didn’t escape his notice. But since what he really needed at this point was a ticket, he didn’t let her prudence bother him.

The ferry arrived, a happy three-level orange boat, decorated with large white-painted wooden rings along the side that resembled life preservers. Farther below, where the ferry hit the dock, huge black tires hung against its sides to soften the impact. A young man on the dock caught the thick anchor rope and expertly flipped it around a metal block, securing the ship. Miguel stared, fascinated as always by the worker’s deftness and ease.

The boat disgorged its occupants in a brief, frenzied wave. The passengers were an odd assortment of white, brown, and black, dressed in everything from elegant business apparel to plain, homey dresses. Many of the women carried large woven shopping baskets or plastic sacks. A few had toddlers tied to their backs and balanced heavy baskets on their heads, reminiscent of days gone by. Miguel toyed with the idea of trying to steal a wallet, but the kind lady’s eyes were on him. Maybe later.

On board, he allowed himself to be gradually separated from the lady. There was a rumbling sound of feet on the painted metal deck as people scrambled for seats. Miguel stood awhile at the edge of the boat, letting the gentle rocking sway through him. Without understanding why, he adored the sensation.

A fleeting memory came. Of his mother. A soft voice, the gentle caress, so much love. Miguel felt happy and sad and empty all at once.
Oh, Mamãe!

Again he fingered his toy boat through his sweater. There was something about sailing, about being free from the hard confines of land, that always brought the memories. If he had a real boat, he could sail away, perhaps to America where everyone was rich.

The wind’s icy fingers were stronger here, and he reluctantly forced himself away from the edge. Most of the passengers had headed for the hold or the main floor, protected from the cold breeze by metal walls and glass windows. Only the hardy headed up the stairs to the open half of the top floor.

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 had 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.