The Twenty-Ninth Night

 

"I don't like figs, but I’ve never tasted anything like these!" said Nick, his voice full of delight, eyes still fixed on the bowl.

"Would you like some more?"

"No, no way, thanks! I’m totally stuffed! Where’d you get this recipe?"

"It’s traditional from the central-eastern part of Brazil. And, like most beloved popular recipes, it comes in countless versions. They call it Figos Ramy."

"How do you make something this good?"

"As I said, there are a thousand ways to make it. My version is rather laborious and takes three days to prepare — though there are versions done in twenty minutes, using a pressure cooker."

"Three days just to make a dessert??"

"The process is simple, just slow. It all begins, of course, with the figs — they must be ripe yet firm. If too soft, they’ll fall apart during cooking. If unripe, the flavor will be dull.

"Next, I wash them thoroughly and dry them well. Then, with a small knife, I score a shallow cross on their broader end. Not too deep — I don't want them splitting during cooking — just enough for the syrup to seep in a little.

"Now comes the pan — which must be tall enough to hold the figs upright, snugly side by side.

"You can make two layers, though the ones underneath tend to get a little squashed.

"Once the figs are arranged, I cover them with sugar. For the twelve figs I used, I added about 300 grams, but really, it all depends on the cook’s taste.

"And now, the fun part begins. I place the pot over a very low flame for about ten or fifteen minutes, until the contents begin to simmer and a pinkish syrup appears. Then off the heat it goes, covered and left to rest for twenty-four hours at room temperature.

"On the second day, we face one of the great debates surrounding the recipe: to add water or not? Some do — I don’t. Coffee? Not in my version. Grain alcohol? Lemon juice? None of that! For me, just a small cup of rum. But there are those who add absolutely nothing but sugar over the figs.

"As you can see, the range of variation is vast.

"As I told you, I pour only a small cup of rum over the fruit, without stirring a thing. Then, covered once more, it goes back over a low flame for another fifteen minutes. Once it starts to simmer again, off the heat it comes — still covered — to await the third day, still outside the fridge.

"The third day is the decisive one! Uncovered, the pot returns to the stove — this time over high heat — for about twenty minutes, until the syrup thickens, forms large bubbles, and falls heavily from the spoon.

"By this point, the figs should be glossy on the outside and fully cooked within.

"Is the dessert ready now? Not quite!

"Take it off the heat and let it cool slightly. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to a moderate-low temperature. Once the figs are warm, I line a baking tray with parchment and arrange them there, drizzling a little syrup over them.

"Into the oven they go for about twenty minutes, just long enough to dry out nicely.

"Then out of the oven and into my lovely, decorated compote dish they go. Since I like a bit of syrup, I pour the rest over the figs once they’re in the dish.

"In Brazil, people serve this with fresh cheeses. Others prefer a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a dollop of cream. Since we don’t have Catupiry or similar cheeses here, I made this one myself last night.

"What do you think?"

Nick looked up at me and, without a word, held out his bowl — his face the very picture of a begging puppy.

 

 

The Twenty-Eighth Night

 

"Hey, who's that guy with you in that picture?" he asked during our evening backgammon game.

"An old friend."

"Like... old old?"

"I’m not sure what you mean. I was actually older than him. That photo was taken the year we marked forty years of friendship."

"Whoa. Forty years?"

"Are you guys still friends?"

"He passed away a few years ago."

"Man... I'm sorry."

"It’s alright. After he died, I decided to come live here on the island."

"Were you two…" Nick said with a hint of curiosity.

"No. Never. But when you sustain a friendship that lasts over forty years — and share that much of your life — the bond becomes very deep. In any case, he had a partner."

"Where's he living now?"

"In Brazil. He usually comes here once a year."

Nick made a brilliant move with his pieces, gaining a significant lead.

"I think I’m about to win this one." he said.

"Not if I can help it, silly boy!"

"You guys were really close, huh?"

"Very. If you must know, he was the only person I ever loved. Thank God he didn’t return my feelings — then I learned to be his friend."

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up anything. I had no right to pry. Forgive me."

"There’s nothing to forgive, Nick, truly. That wound was once very deep, yes — but it was many years ago. Since then, I’ve made peace with it, by embracing my friendship with him. But believe me when I say: we would’ve been terribly unhappy had we ended up together. We were vastly different. Fundamentally incompatible."

"And because of that experience, you stayed alone..."

"I’d put it another way. I’d say God used that experience to train me in the chastity He asked of me."

"God trained you...?" Nick said raising an eybrown.

"God never abandons us. In fact, every misfortune I’ve faced in life proved to have purpose later on."

"I don’t have that kind of faith."

"I know. No one’s perfect." I said with a half smile.

"Well, this imperfect soul just beat you again! Got any more of that amazing dessert in the fridge?" he said and fter a moment in silent he continued: “If I were still living my old life, you wouldn’t be my friend, would you?"

"If you were still living that old life, you’d be dead by now — and we never would’ve met."

Nick went silent for a few moments, lost in thought. Then he said: "You think maybe God was getting me ready... to meet you?"

"An intriguing thought, isn’t it? What do you think?"

I glanced over at the photo taken so many years ago, that had sparked our conversation. I smiled, then walked to the fridge to fetch us some more dessert. 

 

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!