Barnacle Love (7 page)

Manuel curls back in bed, brings his knees up to his chest. He can taste the ache. He thinks of his own island, sees the excited women gathered outside their homes during the town’s
festa
honoring
Nossa Senhora do Rosário
, decorating the street outside their stretch of windows in
the same way. He wants to hear his mother’s voice, yelling at his sisters to raise the wooden frame carefully so as not to disturb the flowers and to ensure perfection—“God sees everything,” she’d say. And behind the front door, in the dark and cool recesses of their sundrenched houses, he and his brothers, along with the men in the village, would pray by raising their shot glasses of
agua ardente
, before toppling them into their gullets with squints, a flush of red, a horsey snort, and a grin.

I came to harvest

the greatness of the sea
,

and stormy winds did blow.

The heavens above closed, roared their anger

in dismal gloom.

Mother, weep for your cherished son.

Your wails carry across

blasting waves, trumpeting gales.

We must endure.

The old ways remain;

new hopes are crushed by jagged rocks

of the mind …

“Manuel. Wake up. Manuel.” Mateus’s thin mustache hovers over Manuel’s face. “We’re going to miss the parade.” He smiles, exposing the large gap between his teeth. He motions for Manuel to take a seat with him by the window.

Mateus has taken the liberty of setting up the space for a celebration. The nightstand has been dragged next
to the window. A boxed record player sits atop it. A black-and-white album cover of Amalia Rodrigues looking up to the sky leans against the crank. A few bottles of wine, two cups, and an ashtray sit on the sill. Manuel can hear the buzz of crowds gathered under the window.

“Come, Manuel.”

“I … I must have fallen asleep, Mateus.”

“It’s okay. Your head is filled with too many thoughts.”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“Manuel, I know … I can see.”

Mateus had stowed away in the hull of one of the White Fleet’s ships almost forty years ago. He had made a place for himself here. At first it had been difficult, a boy lost in an unknown, faraway place, not certain of what to do next. Repairing fishing nets had shredded his hands but fed his body. He had grown up on the docks, moved up in a world where there was promise of reward in hard work and perseverance. This was the dream of this land. Manuel wanted it to become his.

“You’re young, Manuel. At twenty-one you have everything ahead of you.”

“Then why do I feel I have nothing?” Manuel wants Mateus to turn and look his way, to answer the question. Instead, he turns the crank and places the album on the turntable. The record wobbles slightly. Amalia’s voice erupts as Mateus’s eyes urge Manuel to look out the window.

The thousands of men are moving up the street in step with Amalia’s painful cries. The long floral carpet winds through the city streets. Thousands more have lined the roads to see the pageantry and to catch a glimpse
of “the gift.” Manuel is certain they have scrubbed themselves with cold seawater and large bars of glycerin soap. All of them—even those with curly and kinked hair—have their hair parted, greased flat, so that in the afternoon sun their heads look like glistening watermelon seeds. Manuel cannot help but grin.

“It’s nice to see you smile, Manuel … a man who truly has nothing doesn’t smile.

“Manuel. Listen to me …” It is his erect posture, straight like a mast, that tells Manuel he must listen. Mateus doesn’t want Manuel to look at him; they will have the conversation, side by side, looking out the window.

“Don’t let the
idea
,” his strained neck stresses this word, “of a dream conquer you, Manuel. If you are going to stay … if you are going to
fazer uma América
, as many of these men say,” he makes a tight ball with his fist. “Let this country shape
you.
”

“Can you mail some letters for me, Mateus?”

Mateus does not answer. He gets up, fills their glasses of wine to the brim, reaches to his side to crank the record player again and then leans out the window. His crisp white shirt billows in the spring breeze.

“Here she comes,” he smiles.

The wave of men are outside their window now, somberly walking in uniform step. Some of them look up to catch the bittersweet longing in Amalia’s voice. Some smile, others casually salute Mateus. Many have stayed with him before—their home away from home. In the near distance floats the four-foot-high statue of
Nossa Senhora do Fátima
, her floor-length veils topped with
a silver crown. The twelve chosen carry her proudly on their shoulders. They move her slowly up the road, their steps soft. The statue is held tightly in place by wooden brackets covered with crimson velvet. It’s clear the men know of the steep inclines on the route to the basilica.

A plump woman raises her stringy daughter above her head and onto her shoulders. This is her chance to see the Holy Mother, the gift that Portugal sent with its fishermen to commemorate a relationship that has lasted more than four hundred years.

“She’s so small.” Manuel hears the little girl say this amid the approaching hum of a band.
So young to be disappointed
, he thinks.
Nossa Senhora
stands on her crushed-velvet base looking sadly down at the three shepherd children that kneel at her feet. They too are part of the statue, but only their necks poke through the mound of flowers as the crowd continues to pelt her with daisies and carnations as the men turn the corner and make their way up Cathedral Street. Many cross themselves as the statue passes; some even kneel and bow their heads. The pantomime adds to the reverence of the morning. Amalia’s fado—the songs thought to have been born from gypsy prostitutes—is respectfully silenced by Mateus as she passes. Mateus makes the sign of the cross. Manuel can’t cross himself. Behind the statue is the white top of the baldachin, sheltering the honored guests and priests from the sun. Four young altar boys struggle to hold its poles. They look concerned, afraid the wind will tear the canopy from their grip. Their faces betray their fear of failing. Manuel was an altar boy once and understands. He catches a glimpse of the men shaded
underneath, and in an instant that same fear that he felt as a child courses through him once again.

“Who is that, Mateus?”

Mateus, still leaning out the window with his arms crossed on the sill, forces Manuel back into the room. “Stay inside, Manuel. Get away from the window.” But Manuel resists and pushes his chest hard against Mateus’s hand. “That’s Commander Alberto Sousa of the
Gil Eannes.
” Mateus whispers through clenched teeth as if someone is listening. Manuel has never seen the commander. The commander’s eyes trace Manuel’s round face, take note of his blue eyes, and recognize the blond hair of the one they had called
Boneco
, the doll. Manuel Antonio Rebelo—found. It is then that Manuel thinks of the photographs and documentation that must have been splayed across the commander’s desk only a few months earlier. It would have been his responsibility to explain the loss of one of his men, and it certainly would have been his troublesome duty to travel to Manuel’s small town of Lomba da Maia and place a standard pewter cross in the hands of his mother. Manuel notes the commander’s excitement, glimpses his eyes darting about, looking for a gracious way out of the procession. But he is cordoned off by the thick rope of people that line the road, carried away and redirected by the wave of men.

“You’re not safe here any longer, Manuel. The commander could report you, have you deported.”

“Not him, Mateus.” With open palms Manuel presses Mateus’s cheeks hard and directs his view again. “The priest, for Christ’s sake. What is his name?” Manuel knows Mateus does not understand the desperation in his
voice. He lets go of his friend’s smoothly shaved cheeks; the white imprint of his trembling hands remains.

“Padre Carlos, Manuel. He’s the parish priest at the basilica. If you would only come … Why?”

It isn’t the priest’s oversized horn-rimmed glasses that force Manuel’s memory, but the way his body favors his left side.

Padre Carlos would ask him to stay later than the other altar boys. When everything had been stored in the rectory and turned quiet, he would lock the door and demand that Manuel kneel at the upholstered prayer bench; kneel down and pray to Our Lady who looked at them both atop her wooden shelf.

“Pray with conviction! Close your eyes,” he’d whisper before reaching over Manuel’s shoulder and placing his glasses at the base of
Nossa Senhora
’s bare feet, her chipped toes magnified through them. But Manuel couldn’t. He wanted her to move her eyes. He wanted her to see. He wanted to reach up, take hold of the priest’s glasses, and perch them on her thin nose. Then he wanted her to weep, flood the rectory until they were both submerged in a lake of salted tears. Manuel thought he could hold his breath, grasp his trusted grouper Big Lips’ dorsal fin, and surge through the waves and out the church door. Padre Carlos would be caught in the swirl and drown. She never wept. The room remained dry. Padre Carlos was still there, standing behind him, close enough that Manuel could feel the heat of him. Manuel kept his sweaty palms close together, elbows placed on the soft pad. He wouldn’t look back when Padre Carlos’s breathing became deep and rhythmic, when he moaned;
he just squished his hands and fingers together even harder until his nails surged to a paler shade of white. Manuel would gaze up at
Nossa Senhora
and imagine Big Lips swimming in the air, circling her head before disappearing. The moaning would fade just before the obligatory five “Our Father”s. Padre Carlos would reach over Manuel’s shoulder and offer his trembling hand and garnet ring to kiss. “Those who serve me, serve God.”

Manuel would run home, struggle to catch his breath along the uneven road. “It’s all right—he’s not hurting me,” he’d repeat to himself. Once home he would move to his room with an inconspicuous gait and lock the door. Big Lips would pop out of his head. The gentle giant would open and close his balloon-like mouth, fanning him with his transparent fins. It lasted three years and Manuel’s mother never knew.

… Listen to me well

you Promised Land
,

if you love me

I will be your most faithful slave.

I will turn from my past

to jump in your fire.

I bear the map of the dreams

I lost …

They revel in the noise against the evening sky. The moon lights the sails of the moored White Fleet, proud soldiers in the still harbor. Mateus says it isn’t safe in St. John’s. He tells Manuel the commander and his men are probing. Manuel had been the first man the commander lost
at sea. Mateus says the commander never believed he had drowned; thinks it was all a ruse to escape Portugal and his military obligation. He will not allow any subterfuge to take seed, germinate in the hearts and minds of those he has been charged with. Mateus assures Manuel that if found, the commander will most certainly force his return.

Head down, Manuel follows the remains of the once glorious carpet of petals. It is now nothing more than a crushed layer of confetti. The lines of the path are blurred to the many who dance and drink. Others curl up in doorways to sleep, while in one archway he steps near the steady hum that emanates from a straddling pair. It is a carnival. The
fadistas
weave in and out of homes, balconies, and bars, singing their sorry attempts in falsetto. Some try to duel in fado before erupting in laughter. But it is the faithful ones with the candles, holding their small flames of hope as they crawl up the street on their bloodied knees, who guide Manuel, under the gates and up to the large oak doors that guard those within.

It is midnight and the thick walls of the Basilica of St. John the Baptist dull the noise outside. It is gloomy inside. He chooses to sit underneath a painting of Salome offering King Herod John the Baptist’s head on a platter. Small pools of light are cast from the ascending rows of prayer votives that have been pushed against the wall. There are people here, kneeling and praying, breathing in the smell of melting wax, lemon wood polish, and stale mums. Unlike Manuel, they are not waiting for the priest.

When Manuel was eight, he was summoned by Padre Carlos one last time. The priest stood in front of the
altar as Manuel walked up to him. He reached into the money basket set on the altar. He offered a coin. When Manuel didn’t take it, he reached for Manuel’s balled fist and tried to peel his fingers open. He held Manuel’s hand tight. He slipped the coin into Manuel’s pocket. He was about to say something but Manuel wouldn’t let him. Manuel turned before the priest uttered any words and walked back up the aisle. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the lint-covered coin, dropped it into the holy water at the church entrance, and wiped his hand across his pants. Manuel remembers hearing the sound of the coin hitting the crystal bottom before he punched open the heavy wooden doors, pushed his way out onto the worn steps of the church, into the warm air.

An hour has passed. Manuel’s eyes move from the ornate relief that glorifies the ceiling to
Nossa Senhora de Fátima’
s blank expression in the dim light. The candles lit at her feet cast shadows that slash her features, elongate her nose, and bring one brow to a point.

“
Nossa Senhora
, please show me what is right.” He is surprised by his own whisper.

He waits, but nothing. The church is warm. He turns to leave. Mateus said he would mail his letters. The boat leaves at one in the morning and then onto a train that will take him to a place many of
them
go, Montreal or Toronto. Mateus has written it all down. Manuel is about to cross himself, bends his knee slightly to genuflect, but then turns to walk down the aisle.

“Bless you, my son.” His cassock flicks Manuel’s shin as the black shape whirs by him.