The Twenty-Seventh Night

 

Nick has a habit of throwing strange questions at me when I least expect them, and tonight was no different.

“Hey, you ever think about how you're gonna get old and, like, die?”

“Like anyone else, I thought I was immortal until I hit forty. Then, suddenly, on November 15th, 1999, at exactly 1:30 in the afternoon, I stopped being immortal. And that changed my life.”

He looked at me with a kind of dumbfounded disbelief that was almost comical.

“Well, all right,” I went on. “Maybe not precisely on that date and time—but I still remember the realization striking me like a bolt from the sky.”

“Yeah, dude, same here. It was a shock. But for me, it hit while I was lying in that hospital bed, a few days after I came outta the coma. I was just lying there, flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling like... there’s an open grave waiting for me.”

“And where exactly did this come from, on such a beautiful warm night?”

“I dunno, man... I guess I just wanted to know if it happened to other people too. You know, I laugh, I try to keep life chill and light—but honestly? That grave, it’s always there in my mind’s eye.”

“No, you're not alone. Everyone goes through this. Some sooner, some later—but it's part of growing up. We even gave it a name: the midlife crisis. And it’s a good thing, actually. That crisis gives us a moment to reevaluate everything. It’s like nature saying: ‘Okay, you were a child, a teen, a young adult—but now it’s downhill toward death. So what really matters to you in this life?’”

Nick’s eyes were quietly fixed on the stars above.

I continued, “But in your case, I think there's a deeper layer—something most people don’t experience.”

“Like what?”

“My first therapist once told me that people change in two situations: either through trauma, or through therapy. And you went through the worst kind of trauma there is—death itself. Okay, you didn’t actually die, but let’s be real: you brushed right past its doorstep.”

“My therapist told me something kinda like that too.”

“And you didn’t believe her?”

“I just... I wish I could stop seeing that grave, you know?”

“Are you seeing it now?”

“I’m not crazy, Doc! I don’t actually see it!”

We both laughed, and I replied, “Of course not. I just mean... maybe that grave is less of a grim threat and more of a promise—of a better future.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, if you live with the reality of your own end always in view, then that’s also an invitation. To live fully. To live with meaning, and order. We’re all gonna meet Death one day. Better to live a life that lets Death show up like a beautiful and loving bride, not some hideous skeleton.”

“I’m not there yet, man. I mean, yeah—I’m clean now, I got a job, I’m not selling myself anymore... but it still doesn’t feel like enough.”

He took a breath and went on, in that easy rhythm of his.

“I’ve been thinking about your life motto, but honestly? (1)  I don’t know if I can live up to it.”

“Well, one thing I can tell you for certain: the meaning of your life doesn’t lie within you. That’s what my motto makes very clear.”

Nick stood up and began to undress.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I need a swim in the ocean. My building doesn’t come with a private beach like yours.”

“You’re crazy,” I said, laughing.

 (1) See The Seventeenth Night.

 

 

The Twenty-Sixth Night

 

After dinner, we played two games of backgammon, and afterward, Nick and I reclined in our deck chairs, gazing out at the tranquil sea beneath the moonlight.

Nick turned to me and said:

“Before I head out… can I ask you something?”

“Of course, I replied.”

“If you didn’t live here on the island, where would you live?”

“Portugal, I answered without hesitation.”

“That certain, huh?”

“That certain.”

“But why?”

“I love Portugal. It’s the only place where I truly feel at home. I love its history, its geography, its culture and cuisine. I love the Portuguese people.”

“Sure, I get that… but then why aren’t you living there?”

“Portugal can’t give me the solitude this island offers. And its government — being so hostile to Christianity — doesn’t make me feel safe. Truth be told, no country in Europe makes me feel either safe or free.”

“Did you ever think about living in the States?”

“I did, once. But it was just that — a thought that came and went. Here, I have solitude, the beauty of the mountains, this crystal-clear sea, and a climate that suits me perfectly. The people around me are kind. I need nothing more to be happy. The years I spent in England gave me an allergy to the cold, you know?”

“Man… I don’t really want to go back to the States, but sometimes I do miss home. I was born in the oldest and prettiest city in Pennsylvania.”

“The “prettiest” part is your own addition, I presume?”

“Totally, he said, with a grin. I only moved to California later on. But I don’t think I’d ever leave this island now — for me, it’s a kind of promise… of a new life. I mean, maybe I’d like to visit Portugal someday, but I’d always come back here.”

You know, I’ve come to cherish Nick’s unpretentious sweetness. After all he’s been through — after so much pain — he still carries this innocent joy for life.

My own bitter share of the world has shaped me into a kind of melancholy cynic. Were it not for the Church, I think I’d have become a bitter monster, like my brother. If there is any good in me at all, the credit is Christ’s — not mine.

As he stepped into his red car, I caught the shimmer in Nick’s eyes. I’ve never been so close to two stars in my life. Ridiculous, I know — but there it was. His eyes sparkled.

The green gate closed behind him as he drove away, and I returned indoors, my thoughts drifting to the narrow streets of Bairro Alto, where I once lived in Lisbon. The people’s buzzing, the distant echoes of fado coming from the restaurants, the delicious, warm smells coming from the pastries shops.

Happy is the soul who knows you, girl of my eyes.

Ah! What I wouldn’t give for a tosta mista and a meia de leite at Nicola’s!

 

 

The Twenty-Fifth Night

 

Over dinner, Nick asked me:

— So, you’re really going to retire?

— Yes.

— I can’t even picture that hotel without you!

— Nonsense. I leave one day, and the very next someone better comes along.

— And what do you plan to do in retirement?

— I’ve been training in many crafts for over ten years. I think I’m finally ready to share my art with the world, rather than just keeping it tucked away in drawers and on shelves.

— You mean your painting?

— That, and ceramics. I might even start working on a musical piece, with the aim of publishing it.

— And how do you plan to pull that off? I mean, here on the island, aside from the hotel, I don’t really see much of a market for art.

— True enough. I’ve started reaching out to a few galleries in the States. Depending on how things unfold, I may need a secretary.

— Oh yeah?

— Yes. Someone fluent in the language, good with people.

— Oh yeah?

— Yes. Someone like you. But, as I said, that’s for the future. Not just yet.

— You wanna hire me?

— If the opportunity arises, and if you feel like taking it...

— Man, I did not see that coming!

— Didn’t you? Silly boy. The only trouble is, you’d end up spending a lot more time with me — and that could be... problematic.

— Why’s that?

— Because I’m an old bear who loves his solitude and far too easily forgets those around him. Quite the opposite of you. Though you're making a vow of solitude yourself, the truth is, you thrive on people. And deep down, if someone offered you flowers... you’d fall in love on the spot! Am I wrong?

— I can’t lie to you! Guilty as charged, Your Honor!

— Oh, don’t be dramatic! — I said, smiling. What worries me is that a longer coexistence might lead us to grow weary of one another. In my country, we say that intimacy is good for making children — and for losing respect.

We laughed together, and Nick said:

— You wanna know what I think? You're putting way too much weight on something that hasn't even happened — and might never happen!

I looked deep into his eyes and nodded:

— You’re absolutely right, Dr. Nick.

— But you know what else? — he went on — I think it’s beautiful. Because it shows how much you care. I think it’s beautiful.

— Heavens! Did I just give you flowers?

And we both laughed, heartily.

 

The Twenty-Fourth Night

 

Because I’d been bedridden the previous week, and there was no way we could set up a game of crapaud on my narrow single bed, I introduced Nick to the wonderful world of backgammon—a swift and elegant game.

He was instantly captivated: the board, the rules, everything about it. And now, although I’ve fully recovered and left my bed behind, we’ve returned to backgammon with renewed enthusiasm.

Nick was rolling his dice for a new move when he said, in his usual laid-back tone,

“My sister replied to my email. Again.”

“That’s great! Will you write her back?”

“I already did. You were sick, and I didn’t wanna bother you.”

“It wouldn’t have been a bother.”

“She seems okay with me, you know?”

“Fantastic.”

“She even asked if I’d thought about going back to America.”

“Did she say ‘America,’ or did she use another word?”

“Yeah, she wrote ‘America.’ I told her no. Either way, she gave me her contact so we could do a video call.”

“Twice as fantastic,” I said, with genuine enthusiasm.

“Does she live in California?”

“Nope. The family’s from Pittsburgh. I moved to California when I left home. I guess by now I’m more Californian than Pittsburghian. Living here on the island makes me feel even closer to Santa Monica.”

“And you don’t think of going back? Maybe for a holiday?”

“Maybe someday. But it’s not something I’m planning.”

“Well, I’m not planning on going back to Brazil either—not even on vacation. Maybe it’s the distance, maybe my being sixty now. I really think it’s too far.”

“Anyone from your family ever come to visit you?”

“Never. I left Brazil in 2007, and no one in my family has ever come.”

“Why not?”

“The Brazilian economy was definitely an obstacle. But also... my relatives aren’t the type to leave the comfort of their homes. They’re very attached—to their houses, their routines. They’re not willing to give that up.”

“But you guys still talk, right?”

“Yes, regularly. We have video calls all the time.”

Nick nodded. “I get that. For the first time in my life, I’m at peace. I’m clean. It’s been many years since I used any drug—but it feels like, if I go back to America, even for just a few days, I’ll come out with mud on my shoes. You feel me?”

“I do. Completely.”

“If I could go back and redo it all, I would. But I can’t. I can’t go back—only start over. I caught a terrible disease that’ll never be cured.”

“But we have the video calls.”

“Yeah, we do!” said Nick, brightening. He paused his move, and his face took on a thoughtful air.

“Isn’t it something? No matter how far we go, how many lives we live, we always end up needing love. Acceptance. In that sense, man, I envy you. You’re happy being alone.”

“I’m human, Nick. Part of me would’ve loved to marry, to have children. Biologically, we’re made for that. But for me, it’s too late to undo that mistake. To use your words, all I can do now is start over. My new beginning, I find in the Catholic Church. Yours, perhaps, lies in rebuilding your relationship with your family—which, today, means just your sister.”

Nick burst out laughing, warm and loud. “I just remembered something you once told me. It was like, ‘Young people, grow old before it’s too late!’ Man, if only the young actually did that... how many problems would that be avoided?”