Eliza steps into the kitchen and looks to see what I have going on the stove. Cláudia and Pedro stand looking down at the dinner table with inquisitive glances. I have every plate in the sideboard out.
– What’s the occasion for the feast? – Eliza asks.
– Finding the Centro Comercial da Mouraria. Have you been?
– Every Thursday and Sunday, for the nearby strip clubs. You know me – she laughs.
– Anyway, I discovered a Chinese market there and found all this stuff. See these here? Those are tofu and Tree-ear dumplings. While you were at the university or wherever you go slipping banknotes in G-strings, I made them.
– They do look amazing.
– In a second, I’ll sauté up this bok-choy with these slivers of ginger here and that sesame-glazed chicken there.
– What is a boy toy?
– Boy Toy! – Cláudia laughs – Eu sabia! O lapso é a prova que tú tens um namorado para cada dia da semana!
– Boy Toy! I knew it! Your slip of the tongue proves you have a boyfriend for every day of the week!
– You!
– It is a cross between a cabbage and chard; it is very delicate, depending.
– I’ll confess I’ve never had “Oriental” food except for what is in Chinese restaurants.
– Asian food. Oriental is for rugs or carpets. Anyway. You’re in for a treat – I say as I throw everything into the skillet.
– This smells so good – Eliza says, waving her hand over the skillet.
– Tell me, how did you learn to cook like this? – asks Cláudia.
– My ex-wife taught me when she was working days and came home at night – I say, stirring the bok-choy. – Cláudia, could you stir this for me? Please make sure the garlic doesn’t overcook.
– Easy enough, – she says, taking my wooden spoon.
– Cool. This will be perfect with either these sausages here or bamboo shoots in chili sauce; what do you think?
– Sausage? – says Cláudia. – I’ve never had bamboo.
– I also learned some things watching friends cook in Macau. Like congee – rice porridge – I’ll make it in the morning with the leftover rice; it was my first breakfast in Macau.
I slice several deep red Chinese sausages and pan-fry them in a slick of olive oil:
– I didn’t know before I’d love to cook. – I say as I swish the sausages back and forth.
– Portuguese men don’t cook. – Cláudia says.
– You don’t cook. – Eliza laughs.
– I’m too busy!
– I don’t know. I see her omelets; they look pretty good to me. – I smile at Cláudia.
– Those aren’t proper omelets, – Eliza says – she drops in cubes of cheese and fries it all together.
Eliza takes over cooking the chicken with a smile as I watch over her shoulder. “Perfect,” I say. Pedro and Cláudia have set the table in no time, and everything is steaming in plates and bowls. Then, just as we’re about to eat, the telephone rings. Cláudia saunters from the table and calls from the hallway:
– It’s for you.
* * *
She opens with, “I still care for you.” I say, “I do too.” “That’s why I am telling you it would be better for you to quit all this Portugal shit and come back. You were never cut out for grad school anyway. You haven’t the talent, and you’re obviously an embarrassment to your Department. This is the reason they exiled you after only a year in the program. Have I ever steered you wrong?” She asks, “What is more important: a Ph.D. or being decent and paying off your debts?” I ask, “What debts?”
She says, “You owe me rent for the entire time we were together. Paying me back is the least you can do for the last four years of lies.” “Yes, that would be fair,” I say. “I’ll pay it all off once my grants go through.” She says, “I’m going to be blunt since this is the only way you’ll understand: you have to man up and take responsibility for your debts. I need the money. Now.” “Wait,” “I say. “I did pay my fair share, and I also footed your health insurance. I bought groceries. I cooked, I fed you. Him. No.”
As usual, it is her terms: all or nothing. “You lied by omission,” she reminds me, hinting that she’ll tell my Department how our marriage was all a sham. I can’t deal with the questions. They trusted me, and I’ve lived a lie. I can’t. “And, that is fraud. They helped you, thinking you have a wife.”
“You have everything,” I say. “There’s nothing more I can give.”
“I’m broke, and our – my – savings are getting low since you left me out in the rain.” “Look, I only have enough money to get by with the stipend,” I say. I hear her breathe on the end of the line. “I’ve got to go back to dinner.” “Wait,” she says.
Here it comes. She says, “I never wanted to go to Providence and definitely not Portugal.” She must be angry since I did not say what she wanted to hear; her words are clipped when she poses the rhetorical question: “What kind of fantasy world are you living in? Why did you make arrangements for me to go to Portugal?” I say, “This isn’t an exile, but an honor, an interesting adventure.” “You never considered me,” she says. “I never wanted this!” she yells. “I told you I wanted to go to grad school before we were married; Portuguese Studies means Portugal. Besides, you couldn’t waitress forever,” I say. “Things were different then. You said grad school in Hawai’i, not Providence.” “There was no money in Hawai’i.” “Portugal? You want to punish me.”
There was no him in Providence – this I do not say.
“I thought If you come out, you’ll really like it here. It would be like a long vacation,” I say. “You could write and get material for that MFA application. You could paint and write poetry. No waitressing. I’ll be researching, like old times. We’ll be together, as friends. Providence or Portugal, what’s the difference?”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? I don’t want your ‘old times.’ I don’t want you. I can’t live with a gay! I’m tired of cleaning up after you. Grow a pair for once! Jesus. Figure it out.”
I hear bees buzzing, I know she’s speaking, but I can’t make out the words.
“You ruined my life by taking away my dreams,” she says. “What dreams?” I say. I never heard of any; was it a never applied for MFA? I would have supported her just as she supported me. She told me she wanted to see the world, wan’t coming to Europe part of that? She seemed excited when I told her. But then, when she realized she’d be far away from her lover with me, interest fizzled. “You’re such a self-centered shit,” she quips.
As I breathe in and out, the panic recedes.
“Just a minute,” she says.
Her hand taps and covers the mouthpiece. The resonance is uncannily reminiscent of the sound my mother’s wedding ring made as it clicked against our phone when she was talking to my grandmama. She never wore rings before; she only put them on when we were out together.
“Sssh. It’s okay Love. I’ll just be a moment. Not now. He’s on the phone. I know, I know.”
I lean back on the couch next to the phone. Breathe. A man’s voice laughs and is followed by the unmistakable sound of a kiss. I’ve heard this so many times before; I’ve always known what was happening, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. Why does it hurt so much now? And she knows my truth; she’s the only person for whom I have felt love in this world. Julia said if I pretend hard enough, I can feel that love and trust.
I’m dizzy with pinpricks behind my eyes. The room tilts, and I find my hand on my forehead. She’s chanting off numbers and saying half is fair. She repeats I need to settle my debt immediately.
She’s silent, and a white rage bubbles inside me. This is impossible. I have to keep the façade. Stay calm. She’s with another man. The Department can’t know that her coming was wishful thinking on my part. I’ll lose face, all the get-togethers, all the talks of happiness, telling my colleagues of support, all of it. And then I’ll need to explain. But we couldn’t carry on our charade in front of everyone anymore.
She stopped feeling anything for me when I told her I couldn’t sleep with her. My marriage ended that day; it did. Who am I kidding? There never was one. Ours started as a marriage of convenience, and the lines that bind are cut. If we kept on playing, we could have made it through this together, yes? Breathe.
“Why should I pay now? This wasn’t a joint decision. This isn’t what we agreed to last month,” I stammer.
“Situations change.”
“Mine have changed, too.”
“What?” she asks, “You finally figured out you like girls? You don’t get it.”
“Give it a rest,” I say. “Just stop. You want money. The account is drained; I get it. Sell my car. That should tide you over. Send me the paperwork, and it is yours.”
“That’s perfect,” she says.
Her tone softens, and she says it would be better to move on and let bygones be bygones. She’ll put my stuff in storage.
I hear my voice say:
“You’re marrying him, aren’t you? How did this happen?”
“Something you wouldn’t know about. A real man and a woman get together…”
Breathe.
“Stop it,” I snap.
I feel tears stream down my face. She’s saying that it is better this way.
Him. It has always been him.
“Or do I have to remind you of what you did? Of what you allowed to happen?”
“That didn’t make me gay. I was a child.”
“You knew, and you liked it. You said so, yourself.”
I should’ve remained silent or told her everything at the beginning.
“No. I said I wanted to do it right so he would stop.”
“You’re fucked up. You run away. You tell someone – your mama! Gay or whatever you are, I don’t know what I saw in you: moody, emotionless, and scared of your own fucking shadow. And I was there, building you up. Go ahead, deny away.
I told her the truth about why I was crying on our wedding night; the truth always, she asked of me. I kept a secret to myself forever behind my eyes. To not tell, would that be a lie? I should have said, “I’m crying at my wedding from joy.” No, it was that memory that reaches and pulls my hair and demands I look into the mirror as he looks at me. And I would smile, and say yes sir. Tipsy on Bombay Sapphire Gin, she said she’d fix me. Sex was her answer to everything: a celebration, a sadness, a cold. And she laid next to me. She moved her bicep around my neck, and she became him. And I was little again, wanting to please her, to make her stop. She demanded I look into her eyes, but I focused on the ceiling. I heard my Vavó’s voice call me: “Mother had such a pretty voice, but she never sang at Mass. Sing with me child:”
Sim Vavó. Um, dois, três, uma colher de cada vez…
… quatro, cinco, seis
… era uma histôria de reis e uma colher de papa
… sete, oito, nove, ainda nada se resolve
… dez.
Yes Grandma, One, two, three, one spoon at a time…
… four, five, six
… was the story of kings and a spoonful of porridge
… seven, eight, nine, still nothing’s resolved
… ten.
She said she didn’t want to stop; she wanted to go all the way. She slapped my face and everything went dark. Deeper, faster. And she became my nightmare: a huge hulking shadow that bruises my face and breathes down my neck, reeking of gin. I pulled myself away and left my body, letting the shadow take control. I felt broken the next morning. I sat on the edge of the bed and told her of how she felt like grinding against slivers of glass, of how my body recoiled that night, and she delivered me to a dark place.
Weeks and months, it was the same: she became the shadow, and every time I cried. And then accusations. She couldn’t live with half a man, one who had no eyes for her, for anyone. She did not want to live like brother and sister, or in my case, a sister. But, she stayed, stayed because it was easier to stay than go. Months, then a year, two.
I want to wake up. But this is no dream, and I am awake, more so now than ever before. It has always been this way. We talk around and above each other – it is like “old times.”
I breathe, and calm descends:
“Look, I know what you’re doing. I want to finish my work here. I need to complete my Ph.D. I’m sorry I can’t help you with more money, I only have just enough. I do owe you, though. And it is an apology for not being who you needed me to be. For that, I am sorry.”
I’m not rolling over. No. She’s saying I don’t have what it takes. That I’ll never go anywhere in Portuguese; that I could make more money working for the Government – her brother could even get me a job. Go ahead, put a wedge in all my insecurities and keep tapping away. See if I’ll crack.
This is something I want to do more than anything, I tell her. I’ll tell the Department. They’ll understand that we’ve split. I’ll re-apply for the grants if that’s what it comes down to. I’ll do it. I have to do it.
I hear her sigh:
“About the divorce, I’m sending the papers next week. You’ll not contest sodomy, okay? Sign, and I’ll take care of everything. Just like ‘old times.’ Forget the money.”
“Adeus.”
I loved you once. I really did. A part of me still does despite the impossibility of it all.
“I’ve got to go,” she says and hangs up.
She’s with him. She doesn’t need me; she never did. Close the door. Close it tight. Weld it shut.
I sink into the couch. I flip open the phone log to pencil in the number of pulses. The meter reads zero. The number is zero. It was all a nightmare, and I’m dreaming. No. I’m not charged for incoming calls. I pull myself up and return to the kitchen table in a daze.
I dab my eyes with the end of my sleeve and head to the dining room. Everyone stops talking. I must look a sight.
* * *
– She’s getting re-married. – I say, pushing my dumpling from one end of my plate to the other – The ink’s not even dry. I shouldn’t feel hurt, but I do.
– It doesn’t sound like there’s much you can do – Eliza says. – Forget her. You’re here.
– Tem força, pá – Pedro squeezes my shoulder.
– Hang in there.
– Thanks, man.
Cláudia comes up to me and does the same:
– Hey. Tonight, we’re going to As Docas. Do you want to come out with us? Forget everything.
– The Docks? That sounds like oodles of fun – I say.
I attempt to smile:
– I’ll bring my longshoreman hook.
Pedro and Cláudia look at me with blank expressions.
– You know, the docks? Where longshoremen and stevedores work…
Eliza gets the joke:
– You’re so funny.
– A dancing. How do you say? A place to dance – Says Cláudia. – Near the bridge, in Alcântara.
– Dance is the best way to forget – says Eliza.
– I know a better way to forget – Pedro raises his eyebrow at Eliza and smirks.
– You! – Eliza pushes him with the tips of her fingers and gives me a wink.
* * *
We’re on a streetcar, Linha No 18, bound for Alcântara. Hanging on leather straps suspended from the ceiling, we’re crated bottles of milk on a rural delivery route rattling against each other. My flatmates hoot as the streetcar takes a sharp turn out of downtown and shoots toward Belém. A streak of yellow and white, it hurls down empty streets. The moon is full, and the street lamps cast a soft light on the rails.
It is easy to forget this evening’s conversation surrounded by such amiable and attractive company. I like looking at everyone and listening to them talk in rasps and trills, with their vowels melting in smiles. Gone are the daytime plaids and boat shoes; they’ve been traded in for Lycra and Spandex, leather, and boots. Heavily perfumed with pupils polished jet underlined lids, the girls are club angels. They’re poured into fitted black shirts, unbuttoned to reveal spaghetti-strap tank tops, and wavy hair, usually coiffed up, falls on their shoulders. The boys have become Guidos in tight shirts, showing smooth chests, tailored at the waist. And pants, all: displaying ample muscular curves. Everyone’s complexion is incandescent glowing gray in the light of the moon. The night seems perfect for a bit of frivolity, as Eliza puts it.
A jolt causes Cláudia to press up against Pedro. He looks up and down and then cranes his neck out, pretending nothing happened. Eliza’s smiling at Rui, who’s made a rare appearance for the evening. I feel like a strange voyeur: invited but not quite wanted, only asked out of pity. Eliza shakes my arm:
– Wake up! We’re here.
Music is pumping out of a section of a line of massive converted boatsheds dubbed Kings and Queens. “They used to store boats here,” Pedro tells me. “Those were some pretty big boats.” “Oh yeah,” Eliza laughs. We stand at the end of a queue of beautiful and pomaded youth; they twitter and vibrate as they wait for the bouncer’s nod. Girls adjust their tops, and boys straighten their necklace chains. Through the door, strobe lights flash, filling the voids between the beat of deep bass and the rat-a-tat of drums.
I feel a sensation of vertigo and dizzying faint grow in my chest. Pinpricks start to crawl from my shoulder blades to the base of my skull. Lips numb:
– I’m going back, – I say – I’m feeling worn out.
– Are you sure? – Eliza asks. – It will be fun, I promise.
I shrug and shake my head no:
– I have to get to the Library early. Copy down notes, you know.
Eliza shrugs and gives me a beijinho on both cheeks. Pedro slips his arm around her waist, and she pushes him away, saying, “mal-educado.”[i]
Walking away from the Santo Amaro Docks and wandering past moonlit Alcântara-Mar train station, I feel as though I have seen these walls, these streets, and that house before. The cobbles are fallen walls that entrap.
Eliza said something the other day on the phone and began to sob – she stopped wearing her promise ring after that:
Sou agora uma sombra sem corpo, uma saudade sem nome, um amor vazio: uma casa assombrada.
I am now a shadow without a body, a longing without a name, an empty love: a haunted house.
That’s being Portuguese, is it not? Yet, being luso-descendente in my family was eating sweet bread on Sunday and having sallow skin. Grilled Portuguese Sausage and malassadas from Leonard’s in a park in the shade of the banyans. No old-country songs, no stories, no recipes. Nothing linked us to Portugal except diluted memory. We were just doldrums-bound bodies, eking out a living. We lost everything, even our names, in haste to be like the haole white planters. And then, the want to leave the Islands for the anonymous freedom of the Mainland; for new lives, new names, and a new language in a country with unbending faith in the what-will-be, not in the what-once-was.
Why do you want to know the Portagees? My grandmama would ask in her Pidgin accent, shaking her head in disdain. She who never cooked dinner and wore Sunday clothes to go shopping or have brunch at Anna Miller’s where the men would stare at the pert lithe figures of my cousins’ thrust in tight café-girl uniforms. Because I want to know where we came from. She never had anything to say; she married a sailor and left as soon as possible. She was a Pukiki, a Luso-Hawaiian; on the Mainland, a sailor’s dark wife with a strange accent. No matter how hard she tried, the old Pidgin always came back peppered with swear words and broken grammar. But being Portuguese? It’s an embarrassment, something to forget. You can’t escape your blood no matter how hard you try. Here in Lisbon, I’m not Portuguese. I’m American. Luso-American, maybe. I never heard that term until college, where everyone was quick to hyphenate their cultural identity. Culture withers without language and mine died a century ago; roots torn out of the earth and threshed on the red clay of Punchbowl Crater and discarded in the Kaiulani cemetery. I can’t blame my family for shucking our heritage; they were too concerned with a “betta life, no mo’.” The upwardly mobile affix themselves to those in power. There was no use in being Portuguese. Enough of Luso this, hyphen that, Pukiki, Haole. I’m no one.
The tram is down the block, its wheels screeching in the cool night, coming to vomit out another group of clubbers.
* * *
I’m roused from sleep by laughter in the hallway. They’re back from dancing. God, it’s four. The bedroom door opens and glides shut. The still air is infused with nicotine, cologne, and perfumed sweat. All at once, gritty, musky, and wood hues fill the room. Feet stick to the floor, and bedsprings creak.
Rushed, alcohol-tinged voices murmur low. Pedro and who? Cláudia, Eliza, another? The word chiu.[ii] A kiss. I hear two pairs of zippers, two pairs of feet, shuffling. A suppressed laugh. A whispered camiseta[iii] and then a telltale latex snap.
They’re carefully quiet, humping with urgency. I drift back to sleep, lulled by their faint, sharp whimpers. I’m reminded of college and all those nights of her with him.
I missed my chance to forget.
[i] Rude. Lit. “poorly educated.”
[ii] “Shush” or the sound “ssh.”
[iii] Condom. Lit. “undershirt.”