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!
