The Fifty-First Night.

 

“Your website turned out really beautiful,” Nick said when I showed it to him. “Clean, simple, lovely. I honestly like it.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m pleased with it too.”

“Bilingual. Very elegant.”

“We speak French here. I felt I owed that to the country that welcomed me so generously.”

“That welcomed us.”

“Well then? I also considered the island’s native language, for the same reason as French, but that would have made the project far too expensive—and it’s a language no one speaks beyond these shores. Portuguese is my own tongue, and I’d love the site to have it, but again, financially and logistically, French and English are convenient and sufficient.”

“I noticed the other day that your library has a lot of books in Portuguese.”

“My language is my homeland, Nick. Through it, I am a brother to Europeans, Asians, Africans, and Americans who speak it as well.”

“Is Portuguese really spoken that widely?”

“The Portuguese were the first masters of the world. The only place they didn’t colonize was Oceania.”

“I’ve never felt that kind of bond with the English just because of the language, and I don’t see it as my homeland. You surprise me—again. So, what’s your next move?”

“In seven days my website goes live. After that, I’d like to get in touch with art galleries in your country.”

“And that’s where you want me to step in?”

“I think you’re the right person for it.”

He looked at me with a half-smile—part eager, part uncertain—and then went on:

“I don’t know the first damn thing about art.”

“‘Art’ covers a lot of ground. I only need you to sell a product. You just have to know that. Ceramics, terracotta, things like that.”

I went to a drawer, took out a small booklet I had prepared, handed it to Nick, and said, “Here—you’ve got everything you need to know.”

“You really thought of everything.”

“No one ever thinks of everything. Life is far too big for that. But yes, I’m a good manager. I’ll cover your travel expenses, and you’ll get a generous percentage of what you sell. In the end, you’ll make more money than I will—an artist just starting out at sixty. Your sales can cover the studio, not a life.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. I laid it all out in that little booklet. It’s not a contract—just a first idea. Take it with you. Read it.”

“Suddenly, I felt a weight on my shoulders,” Nick said.

“Nonsense. It’s just a small challenge and a slight change of life. Nothing that should frighten a seasoned man full of spirit, descendant of freedom-seekers, of warriors like Washington!”

He burst out laughing and said, “You’re being ridiculous!”

I laughed with him and said, “Ridiculous, maybe—but never false.”

 

Archibald MacNeal Willard - The Spirit of '76.

 

The Fiftieth Night

 

Last Saturday, when Nick arrived for his weekly visit, I showed him my latest ceramic creations.

He was enchanted by the variety of shapes and colors—vases, figurines, plates.

“None of this is meant to be functional,” I told him. “Just beautiful.”

“They look like museum pieces, you know?” he said. “As if they were asking for a palace to house them.”

“Oh, don’t exaggerate. My inspiration does come from the classics, it’s true—from the Greeks to the French and Germans of the nineteenth century. I borrow an idea from one, another from elsewhere, learning from what they got right.”

“I think only rich people are going to buy these.”

“I still think you’re exaggerating. But yes, I do believe these pieces won’t appeal to the ultra-modern crowd; and artists who place themselves at the center of their own art will probably be scandalized.”

“You once told me you don’t want to express yourself in your art…”

“Every artist expresses himself in his art; what I refuse is to make that expression the very purpose of art. ‘I make ceramics to express myself!’—not me. I make ceramics to express truth, beauty.”

“I guess that’s getting into subtleties I can’t quite reach.”

“Perhaps I don’t know how to express myself properly. The idea is clear in my mind, but putting it into words—maybe that’s not so easy.”

“Well, I think your work has something hypnotic about it. It’s really beautiful, and the more I look, the more I… see…”

“The more you discover?”

“That’s it.”

“Bravo! Then I achieved what I set out to do.”

“So that’s what you want to market in America?”

“Yes. As an American, do you think I stand a chance?”

“I think so,” he said. “Especially with wealthy conservatives.”

“Two lovely little words.”

Nick looked at me, surprised, and said:

“You’re being cynical.”

“A little. I think I can afford to be.”

I paused, then went on:

“The website showcasing my work will be ready next week.”

“I can’t wait to see it!”

“It’ll be beautiful, you can trust me. And the hotel—has it survived without me?”

He laughed and said:

“Looks like it has. No one’s really replaced you yet, but it’s getting by. New guests all the time.”

I smiled, thinking of my vases—meant for a home, not for passage.

 

The Forty-Ninth Night

 

When Nick arrived for our weekly meeting at my place, I said to him:

— You know Georges missed you when you didn’t come last week?

— What? That green critter missed me?

Georges was watching us with his sharp little eyes as he heard his name.

— Am I lying, Georges?

— That parrot can’t stand me!

— He’s grown used to your presence.

Nick stepped closer to Georges’s perch and asked him:

— So, you finally figured out my charm is irresistible, huh, Georges?

In reply, the bird spread his wings and ruffled his feathers, as if ready to strike.

— I’m telling you, my friend, that bird hates me.

— Well, last week, during dinner, he kept flying from the window to your place at the table, tapping his beak against the spot where you usually sit. Maybe he knows better than to get too friendly.

— What do you mean, not get too friendly? I’m totally trustworthy, you little bird from hell!

And we laughed hard, looking at Georges, who seemed to laugh back at us with a few cheerful squawks.

Nick then turned to me, more serious now, and said:

— So this really is your last week at the hotel?

— Yes. As promised.

— And you’re sticking to your plan of selling your work to galleries in the States?

— Yes. I’ve already started producing pieces so I’ll have something to offer. But I’m giving myself another couple of months to build it all up.

— You gonna do a lot?

— Not much in terms of volume. Oil paintings and ceramics take time, you know.

— And then you’ll need an agent?

— Maybe I already do.

— Last time we talked about this… you were thinking about me, right?

— I still am. I’ve been researching a few galleries, and I’ve also been thinking about a website. Who knows? I’m putting together a portfolio with some of my earlier work, but I want to round it out with these new pieces coming out. In a few weeks, I’ll really need you.

Nick’s eyes were shining with excitement, and I think mine were too.

Showing my work to the public feels like stripping naked in the middle of the street — but 2026 is right around the corner, and there’s the scent of change in the air.

 

The Forty-Eighth Night

 

On the last night of the year, Nick spent the evening at my place. I had organized a Brazilian-style New Year’s Eve supper. I had provided a bottle of wine (one of the four I buy over the course of a year), but Nick showed up carrying a box with twelve bottles of beer.

“Beer—lots of beer. That’s the American tradition!”

Well, before midnight, Nick was already snoring on the living-room couch, and the bottle of wine remained unopened.

It was only last Saturday that he seemed to pay any real attention to the supper I had prepared.

“So,” he said, “we eat pork because it brings good luck, right?”

“Progress is the better word,” I replied. “Pigs always move forward. Walking backward is a symbol of regression. That’s why chicken or turkey is avoided—they scratch backward. Crabs, too, since they walk sideways or back. But pork and fish are eaten because they always move ahead.”

“So what other traditions do you guys have in Brazil?” he asked.

“Eating twelve pomegranate seeds and keeping them in your wallet is said to attract money. The same goes for grapes, and for eating lentils at midnight.”

“Oh! So that’s why you served lentils with the pork!”

“Exactly. Tradition demands that one choose very carefully what to eat on New Year’s Eve. But there are also things to do in the first minutes of the new year: some people climb twelve steps of a staircase, starting on the first step, always leading with the right foot—the left one brings bad luck. And those who live near the coast usually bathe in the sea, because it’s said that salt cleanses us of bad energies. Jumping over three waves is also very common, as a symbol of overcoming the challenges of the year to come. And that’s not all! There are rules about what to eat, what to do, and even what to wear.”

“What do you mean?” Nick asked.

I laughed and explained:

“The colors you wear are supposed to attract certain things. White for peace and happiness; red for passion; pink for love; yellow for money; green for health. Of course, this is easier for women—they just put on a long dress and they’re wrapped in a single color. For us men, it’s more complicated: pants and shirt have to match. If dressing entirely in one color isn’t possible, a man should at least wear underwear in the desired color.”

“Underwear?” Nick said, laughing.

“Yes!” I replied, laughing heartily myself. “Some people say that the way you end the year is the way you’ll continue it in the new one. So it’s important to have a clean house, clean clothes, and so on. And we mustn’t forget to turn on all the lights in the house, to welcome the new year!”

“Wow. That’s a lot of stuff.”

“Yes,” I said, still laughing. “All of that, just so that in the end we can do one simple thing: change the calendar.”

“And do you actually follow all that?”

“No. There’s an important distinction to be made. One thing is that I love folklore. I enjoy noting down traditions from different places and studying them. Another thing is that these practices are superstitions—popular beliefs with elements of magic. Thinking that I can control events by doing this or that is incompatible with my faith. I served you a traditional Brazilian New Year’s supper as a way of reconnecting with my homeland, and also simply because I love fruit, lentils, and pork. The traditions of my land merely give me an extra excuse to delight in these things.”

“And I basically just drank beer and passed out on your couch.”

“…and you snore terribly!”

“Oh, come on—shut up!”

 

The Forty-Seventh Night

 

“You know, I think that Nativity scene of yours is really beautiful,” Nick said, after he had arrived at my place.

“Which one?”

“The bigger one. It’s gorgeous.”

“Thank you. I bought it at the Vatican some years ago.”

“Wow. At the Vatican?”

“The shop is very close to Saint Peter’s Basilica, though technically outside Vatican City. They have all sorts of wonders there.”

“No cheap little things, I’m guessing?”

“None at all.”

“Yeah, you can tell that one didn’t come cheap. I’ve never seen anyone love Christmas the way you do,” Nick said, turning toward me.

“I don’t do anything others don’t,” I replied, chopping an onion.

“Everybody decorates the house and cooks Christmas meals, but with you there’s something more. You live Christmas with every breath you take… I don’t quite know how to put it…”

“I have all this Christmas décor, I send cards, I invited you for lunch on the twenty-fifth—but I don’t need any of that to celebrate Christmas. If I understood you right, it seems you’ve noticed that, for me, Christmas is Christ. It’s His birthday, that midnight in Bethlehem, bitterly cold—but it’s also Jesus being born within me. And it’s from that ‘Jesus being born in me’ that the joy I feel comes. It’s so intense that it overflows and expresses itself in decorations, gifts, special meals, and everything else. If I were naked in the middle of the desert, I’d still be able to have a very happy Christmas.”

“Has it never crossed your mind that maybe there isn’t any Jesus being born in you at all, and that what you feel is just some kind of hysterical illusion?”

“That was… a heavy way to put it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. The truth is, I ask myself that question all the time. How often have I found myself publicly defending chastity while, at the same time, sleeping with someone close to me—simply because I know sex is pleasurable, and I’m giving it up for the sake of something as ethereal as ‘Heaven’?”

“But you remain faithful—to ‘Heaven.’”

“I do. I look back on my past; I recall the signs that Jesus is not an idea, but God, always present in our lives.”

I paused for a moment and went on, weighing my words with care:

“I remember my life, and I can see the presence of Jesus’ hand—intangible, invisible, scentless, silent, yet strong—guiding it. I remember, and I come to realize that my own will is my greatest enemy. God is not a fiction, and His joy is not hysteria. Still, of course, I have no way of proving any of this.”

“I have faith in you,” Nick said, softly.

“Well, I wouldn’t,” I answered. “God knows I’m not trustworthy.”

“Not completely, maybe—who is? But you’re trustworthy enough.”

“I can live with that,” I said, smiling.