The Twentieth Night

 

We'd been through a week of intense heat, and I decided to prepare one of the most refreshing dishes I know.

I was first introduced to it at a restaurant in London, where it went by the name "Neapolitan salad." I very much doubt the name is accurate, but since I’ve never been to Naples, I can’t say for certain.

The recipe, however, is marvelous — and absurdly simple. I sliced two beef tomatoes, one for each of us. About half a centimeter thick, more or less — thick enough to really bite into. You don’t want them too thin.

I arranged the slices as artfully as I could, like flower petals, and in the center, I placed a ball of buffalo mozzarella — fresh as morning dew.

A sprinkle of salt, pepper, and oregano over the tomatoes and cheese, then a generous drizzle of olive oil to finish it off.

Voilà. Ready to serve — the perfect starter.

I know there are a thousand ways to prepare tomatoes and cheese; others add herbs and rich dressings. I skip over all those rococo variations to honor the simplest form — and I must say, it has never failed me.

Nor did it fail last night.

Afterwards, we had a light seafood pasta, suitable for a warm evening, and grapes for dessert.

Nick was unusually at ease — relaxed, genuinely happy. He reminded me of a butterfly I once saw in the Serra Gaúcha: large, with vibrant metallic-blue wings... and free. The way that brilliant blue stood out against the dark forest green was unforgettable.

I think I’ll remember Nick, that night, for many years to come.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked.

“A butterfly... and how precious it is to live each moment well.”

“Wait — you weren’t even listening to what I was saying?”

“Of course I was. And more than just what you said — I was taken in by how you said it. I was... intoxicated by that youthful joy of yours. It's so rare, and it makes you incredibly attractive.”

“Man, I think your place has become my second magic chair.”

“Magic chair?” I said with a smile.

 “You know... when I sit in my therapist’s chair, it's like all my defenses just melt away. I relax, stuff comes to mind — even painful things — but somehow, it all feels healing.
It’s like after a tough workout at the gym — the body hurts, but it feels good. That’s what that chair does for me. And I think... I think I’m feeling the same thing here, right now.”

There was a pause. Though I felt a touch embarrassed for stirring so much emotion in him, I smiled — patient, letting him live his moment.

 “Last week, you did a lot — I mean, a lot — helping me with that letter to my sister.I kept thinking about the two of us, like... partners in crime, you know? Like we’d gotten through some kind of level together. I don’t know how she’ll respond, but damn — you helped me see so much, while we were writing those lines together.”

There was another pause. Then he went on:

“You probably think I’m ridiculous. I guess... all this is just my way of saying thank you, for what you did for me.”

“All love letters are ridiculous,” I replied.

“Yeah! He said with laughable enthusiasm. You said that the other day! Who was it again...?”

“Fernando Pessoa.”

“That’s the one. I’m gonna have to learn Portuguese to read this guy...”

“An excellent reason to get to know an excellent language.”

 

 

The Nineteenth Night.

 

We were halfway through our second game of crapaud when Nick said to me—in that completely casual way he likes to bring up topics that matter deeply to him, as though pretending not to care at all:

"You know we talked about you in my therapy session?"

"I’ll have to tell her it’s all lies and misunderstandings."

"Idiot," he said, laughing. "But seriously, we hardly ever talk about sex. She was the one who brought it up. I mean... everyone has sex and..."

"Would you like to have sex with me?"

He stopped, taken aback, and blushed.

"I... I don’t know."

I replied, "If I were to have sex with you, we’d be setting ourselves on a short and straight road to Hell—and I’d bear the heavier sentence. That being said, freedom obliges me to reject that option."

"You mean even if you wanted to... you wouldn’t?"

"Yes."

"You Catholics are all crazy."

"We always have been," I said, smiling. "In a broad sense, we Catholics always decide with two things in mind: first, the consequences of our actions; and second, our death—which is the gateway to eternal life. It’s like a compass. Does this action bring about a good that leads to Heaven, or an evil that drags me to Hell?"

He paused his game to mull over my words, and I paused too, to give him time.

"I’m thinking of my dad. He... he..."

"He only wanted to satisfy himself to feel happy."

"Yeah."

"Assuming there is a God, and that He loves you—and given the consequences of your father’s actions on your life—it’s only just that your father should receive some form of punishment from God. To love someone means to hate whatever harms them."

"I used to think all dads were like him."

"And I think we need to try that tea liqueur I made last week," I said, standing up to fetch the small glasses and the green bottle.

"Sorry for ruining your night," said Nick, wiping a tear from his cheek.

"You didn’t ruin anything. On the contrary—you’re making it richer. A friendship made only of fine wine and good laughs will never be solid. Cheers! To us!"

"Cheers!"

After a sip, Nick said:

"Whoa. This is good! Tea liqueur? I didn’t even know that was a thing."

"Anything is possible."

"You must think I’m an idiot."

"Never. You know, my godmother used to say: if you work with roses, your hands will smell like them. Could anyone go through what you’ve been through without bearing scars? That’s exactly why I respect you so much."

"If my dad had thought like you, I wouldn’t have been corrupted the way I was. Did I ever tell you my dad was Catholic?"

"So was Judas Iscariot. Worse—he was a bishop!"

"If I talk to my therapist about this conversation, I’m gonna drive her crazy!"

"Might be worth a try," I said—and we both laughed.

 

The Eighteenth Night

 

It was raining heavily that night. Nick stood by the window, quietly taking in the view while I was finishing up the dishes after dinner.

Then he turned to me and said,

“My sister wrote back to my email.”

“Really?” I stopped what I was doing. “And? How did it go?”

“Well… she wrote back. She was… polite.”

I left the last few plates behind and turned fully to him, drying my hands with a towel.

“She said something like, ‘Hope you’re well, take care, talk later’?”

“No. She actually wrote quite a bit.”

“Women do talk quite a bit. An email is a written piece, though; unlike listening, reading strips away emotion. Writing a lot isn’t the same as writing with clarity—especially emotional clarity. That said… does she still strike you as polite?”

“I dunno… I told her it’d been years since we last spoke and I thought maybe that should change. I mean, we’re the only ones left in the family, and I didn’t see why we couldn’t try to rebuild something. After that, I talked about me—what’s happened since I left, how I’ve been, stuff like that. She told me how she felt getting my message, about the damage I’d done to the family and… yeah, it was painful, y’know?”

“So, is she saying—or hinting—that it’s nice to hear from you, but no need to write again? Or the opposite: yes, please, write back, I want to see you?”

“Neither one. Not really.”

“Well, that’s good. I’ll lend you my laptop—write her back now.”

“I’m not sure I can...”

I smiled candidly to him and said: “Of course you're not. I don’t think she’s sure either. You left home, got into drugs, became a prostitute, lived a wild life that nearly killed you. Do you think she didn’t suffer? Do you think your mother didn’t suffer? All those years go by and suddenly—bam!—you show up in her inbox from the other side of the world. Of course she’s afraid to reconnect. Probably just as afraid as you are. Don’t waste time. Write her. Ask her if she wants to know the truth about why you left, that you were just a kid—immature, terrified, deeply wounded.”

“You think she can forgive me?”

I paused for a moment, considering the weight of my words: “I think you ought to ask for forgiveness. For years you’ve avoided this moment, and now you’ve moved a piece on the board. She responded to that move, and now it’s your turn again. That’s how the game goes. You’re not kids anymore. You’re grown people—over fifty. It’s time to move forward.”

“I don’t know if it’s worth digging all that up...”

“You already have. The only choice now is whether you’ll follow through—or walk away again. And you know why I think this is shaking you so deeply? Because she matters. Talking to me about your past was hard, sure, but imagine if I had turned you away—for this or that reason. You’d just have walked out the door and that’d be that. But she’s been walking beside you all these years, all this years she had been in your heart, sometimes visible, sometimes hiden in the shadows. Do you get what I mean?”

“You mean, if she didn’t matter, I wouldn’t be trying to bring her back into my life."

"Yes, I said. Friends are the family we choose—but she’s the family I have. You could stop being my friend, but she’ll never stop being your sister. Not even after death."

"Alright… let’s go to your laptop. If you’re up for it… I’d love your help writing back to her.”

“You want me to hold your hand?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course! I mean… am I Mary Poppins or am I not?”

 

 

The Seventeenth Night.

 

We were having dessert on the veranda, a glorious moon shining over the sea. In a casual tone, without lifting his eyes as he scraped his dish with a spoon, Nick asked me:

“Dude, I had no idea you used to work in prisons.”

Immediately, I remembered that last Thursday he had overheard me speaking with a colleague about that chapter of my life.

“I usually don’t talk about it,” I replied. “The other day I mentioned it to Marie because something she said needed clarification.”

“Was it rough? I mean… working there?”

“I can’t think of a worse place to be than a prison. People often say they suffer all their lives, but believe me — there's no place more soul-crushing than a prison. That said, God, in His grace, gave me some of the most meaningful experiences of my life there — professionally and personally.”

“Did you, like… see a lot of terrible stuff?”

“Thank God, no. I heard countless stories of abuse, both against inmates and staff, but I was never a direct witness to such things.”

“So why was it a good experience for you, then?”

“For one, I met extraordinary people — on both sides of the bars. Now, I don’t mean to say I formed deep friendships with inmates. Sadly, I never met one I could truly trust. Psychopaths, serial killers, pickpockets... you name the crime, I met its practitioner. But within the boundaries of a professional relationship, it was enriching. That brings me to the second reason — because it was possible to build honest interactions with prisoners. When I first stepped into that world, I quickly understood the dynamic: simply being imprisoned, enduring the dehumanizing conditions, wasn't deemed punishment enough. The system demanded more — that they suffer, live in misery. And the inmates responded with hatred, which only intensified the cruelty of the staff, feeding an endless cycle of violence.

“At the time, I was at the beginning of my conversion, and I knew I couldn’t be a part of that. So I made a decision — I chose to love. I had already adopted the so-called Prayer of Saint Francis — though not truly his — as my personal motto, and I tried to live out its words in practice. It wasn’t easy. Several colleagues began to resent me. But simply by treating inmates with respect and gentleness, I managed to reach some of them.

“That prison held only men, and men are often foolish when it comes to emotions. Later, when I was transferred to a women’s facility, I kept the same attitude, but the response from the women was even more receptive.”

Nick leaned back, wide-eyed.

“Whoa, man. That’s… a lot. You’ve really been through some stuff.”

“Ten years of it, yes. But at least it gives me the pleasure of saying, ‘Back when I was in jail…’”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“You’re nuts! But like… you kinda sound like Mary Poppins.”

“If Mary Poppins brings joy, I won't reject the comparison. But it isn’t me — it’s Christ. He’s the source of all joy. I’m merely trying to live out His way.”

“Never been inside a prison myself.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to.”

“Are all prisons the same?”

“Essentially, yes. Brazil struggles terribly with overcrowding. The first prison I worked in was built in 1966 to house 650 men. When I started there in 1995, it held over 1,600. By the time I left, five years later, there were about 2,100. England didn’t face the same overcrowding, but the internal dynamics were nearly identical.”

Nick gave me a thoughtful look, then stood up, pulling off his shirt with a grin.

“Alright, man. That was deep. But now? Let’s hit the water.”

The moon shone serenely over the sea.