You have been a teacher and a healer.” The ancient-looking woman said, looking into my palm. “You have saved some lives, but not all who came to you ... survived.” Her brown hand contrasted with my skin dramatically. It seemed so small, almost child-like, yet wrinkled, and sinewy. She held my wrist gently, but I felt firmly ensnared. I didn’t want this reading and I certainly didn’t ask for it, but I couldn’t escape her grip without making a scene.
It had rained 48 of the previous fifty days in Coimbra, or at least that is what my weather app says. Not all day and not every day, but pretty damn close. There were a few gray interludes, and a couple of times the sun shone for two or three continuous hours. Although most of the rain has been fairly light, it seems many of the storm drains were full. Water ran down the street like an intermittent stream, too wide to jump across, too deep for anything less than real rubber boots. I’m not complaining, just explaining why I hadn’t been to the Café by the Mondego for a week.
It was during one of those interludes of gray when the air was sodden with the promise of more rain soon. I was feeling cabin fever, or whatever the equivalent is if you live in a second-floor, 60 sq/mt apartment. I chanced a street crossing at low tide and sought the comfort of coffee and human company at the Café.
I had just settled in to re-read Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet with a cappuccino when the old woman crept up the steps and hesitated in the doorway. The only other table was full and I felt some guilt at occupying only one of four chairs at mine. I smiled and gestured at the seat across from me, but she just stood there, frowning slightly. I stood, trying to show some deference to her age and gender. I’m stuck with the manners my mother taught me, never fully adapting to the feminist enlightenment, let alone the current state of gender-bending ( or is it blending?). Regardless, she didn’t budge. I noticed her threadbare fabric coat was damp in spots and thought I detected a slight shiver.
I apologized in my broken Portuguese for my lack of language skills. I tried to entice her, pulling out a chair opposite me: “Deculpe, só falo um pouco de português, A Senhora … isto é para si.”
Her frown melted into a little smile and she nodded, coming to the table and letting me pull out the chair for her. She sat down hard with fatigue and settled into the chair. Her blue eyes sparkled with surprising energy and she caught me off balance with her perfect English: “I can speak your language,” she said. “You are American.” There was no hint of a question in her voice and I wondered what it was, my clothes or my accent (poorly spoken portuguse with an American twang) that gave me away. “Thank you for sharing your table.”
I was humbled by her seeing through me so easily and thought I detected a bit of a British accent. The waiter approached, a puzzle written on his face, perhaps of the odd pairing at our table, and asked what she would like. She slowly opened a small purse and squinted inside for several long seconds.
“We’re having some soup,“ I spoke up, awkwardly feeling some need to comfort her and unsure of her finances. She looked up at me, head tilted questioningly at first, then she smiled again and nodded. “And some bread and cheese also,” I added. The waiter looked at me and back to my companion before shrugging his shoulders and disappearing to the kitchen. He was back almost immediately with a small basket of still-warm bread and a plate of sliced cheese with olives.
She ate slowly and delicately. The soup soon appeared and I tried not to slurp audibly while she ate with measured concentration. I fell quiet, unsure quite what to say, so we ate in silence until she finished and pushed her bowl away..
Previously -
I started noticing the change after our second month in Portugal. My wife and I had started português language classes and I couldn’t seem to retain much. I quickly fell behind and quit formal classes. I tried YouTube videos, reading textbooks, and online tutoring, and nothing helped. The harder I tried, the more my frustration grew until I sank into depression. The multitude of other stresses involved with cultural adaptations overwhelmed me and something had to give. I put language acquisition on the back burner, but that was the first clue.
Recreationally, I explored neighboring villages on my motorcycle, I found myself struggling with GPS, road signs, and village names and frequently got lost. But the connecting river valleys made it easy to find a way back, eventually. I thought my orientation would improve with time. It did not. Highway numbers and place names just wouldn’t stick either. Another clue, ignored.
My wife and I were getting acquainted with some new friends one evening and sharing life stories, the way people often do when it finally dawned on me. My wife had told several stories from our recent travels over the past year and I struggled to recall much of the details of these trips … and it finally hit me like a punch in the gut.
I realized I was losing my mind. Not outright insanity with delusions, paranoia, or hallucinations, but my memory banks were going bankrupt. Dementia had moved into the neighborhood, but at least I still could recognize the truth when it reared its ugly head.
Back in the Café -
“You are looking for answers.” She nodded toward Gibran’s book.
That threw me a little; I didn’t think I was looking for any. “More like looking for comfort in answers I already have,” I said.
“Or think you have? Prophets speak of the future, not the past, my friend. And there are always more questions.”
I smiled, engaged by her challenge about my reading material. “What questions might those be?”
She smiled back enigmatically pulled a dark wool shawl from her coat and wrapped her head and shoulder in it. Now her face was partly in shadow, but those blue eyes seemed to sparkle even more. “He was a beautiful spirit, an artist and some say …a mystic.”
“You say that like you knew him, but he died almost a hundred years ago?” A funny feeling started somewhere in my lower spine, a queer kind of tingle. Her tone had changed …
She looked away from me and toward the waiter who was standing at the bar with his back to us.“Perhaps … your generosity would extend to a cup of tea.”
“Certainly,” I replied wondering where this conversation was going. Before I could even turn toward the waiter, she simply nodded in his direction and when I looked around he was already heading our way. He was carrying a tray with a small pot and a tea cup on his way to the table. I did a double take - how the heck…?
“Kahlil’s burial was as magical as he wished. In Beirut, the casket was opened, and the minister of education pinned a medal on Gibran’s chest. Then on the eighty-mile trek to Bsharri, his birthplace, there was an honor guard of three hundred. The road was lined with townspeople. Young men in native dress brandished swords and dancing women scattered perfume and flowers before the hearse.” Her voice was a haunting whisper; I was mesmerized.
My tablemate stirred two sugars into her cup and took a long slow savor of the tea. Reaching back into her coat, she brought out a small scroll tied with a black ribbon. She rolled it open on the table, gesturing to me to hold one edge. The haunting image she unveiled aroused that tingle in my spine and it started creeping upward.
I am not an art connoisseur, far from it. My art exposure and knowledge wouldn’t even fill the teacup on the table, but this piece I couldn’t help but recognize. One of Gibran’s most famous drawings, it was on the back cover of my copy of The Prophet lying on the table between us.
I was bewildered. How could she just by chance have that particular reproduction tucked away in her coat? And that’s when she captured my wrist and began to read my palm. Her words stunned me; how could she possibly know of my medical practice and events far back in my past? Visions from a war zone fifty years away started to float through my mind.
Suddenly, she stood up, releasing my hand. She reached into her other pocket, brought out a small card, and placed it on the table before me.
“I have more answers for you, answers for questions you fear to ask. If you are truly a seeker of truth … come there tomorrow at nine o’clock”
I looked at the card. A simple hand-written address of a street I thought I knew in upper Santa Clara. I looked up at her, but she was already making her way out the door. I rushed to the counter to pay our bill quickly so that I might catch up to her, but there is no such thing as being in a hurry in any Portuguese restaurant. When I reached the street, she was not in sight and then it started to gently rain again.
The next morning I had coffee and a brioche at home as I checked Google Maps for the address written on the card. It looked like it was going to be quite a hike. My wife was sleeping in after having a rough night with her intermittent insomnia. I still hadn’t told her about the woman in the Café and I wasn’t sure why. We usually share everything, yet …
Upper Santa Clara is a maze perched on top of a ridge overlooking the Mondego River. I had to stop twice to rest and catch my breath but pushed on. I turned left and then right up another steep street and approached the address: Rua Do Vincino, lote 172. I stared, disbelieving the old ruin before me. These decrepit homes in various states of collapse are not uncommon in both cities and towns in Portugal due to an array of factors. This one didn’t look like anyone had lived there in decades.
As I stood there staring and wondering what to do next, I heard a door open and close from a house behind me. An old man ambled toward me using a cane.
“Someone told me a man would come this morning at nine o’clock, are you the one looking for answers?” His halting English was heavily accented with português rhythm. His wooden cane was ancient gnarled wood that looked even older than he did.
“I guess I am,” I replied, looking him over. He was much shorter than I am with thinning white hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and matching beard. “Who are you? I asked.
“Chamo-me, Diago. I live across the street,” pointing to a neatly painted modest house. “ Francesca’s granddaughter came last evening.” He shook his head with a puzzled frown. “I had not seen her in many years, but she knocked on my door. She gave me this package to give to the man who comes at nine o’clock. A man who is looking for answers.”
“Well, maybe you can answer this,” I said. “ Who is Francesca, does … or did she live in that old house?” I pointed to the ruin at the address on the card I had followed.
The old man let out a sigh and shook his head. “Yes … but not anymore. When I was a little boy she was already quite old, but always so sweet and kind. She always had some fruit to give us when she saw us playing in the street. She loved to tell us great stories about far-off places she had lived: London, Paris, San Paulo, Madrid … and Goa. That is where she was from. She spoke so many languages… “ His voice trailed off and he shrugged. He handed me a small package wrapped in plain brown paper just as it started to rain again. He looked up at the clouds flowing by, turned with a little wave, and headed back towards his house.
I tucked the package under my coat, put up my umbrella, and headed back home. The rain intensified and the steep stairs, all 97 steps, had to be navigated carefully. By the time I reached the bottom, they resembled a miniature waterfall, and my shoes were soaked.
I left my soaked shoes just outside the door of my apartment, stripped off my wet socks, and padded back to the bathroom. I felt chilled to the bone and took a quick hot shower. Fresh dry clothes and a warm sweater felt great as I made my way back to the kitchen. My wife was about to scramble some eggs and added another when I asked.
While she finished making breakfast, I sat on my stuffed chair and unwrapped the brown paper package. It was a drawing in a simple wooden frame.
In one corner, a piece of torn drawing paper contained beautifully handwritten script:
Imagination is the collision of the past, the present, and the future exploding into the realms of fantasy and possibilities. It is the fertile ground where dreams are born. Yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream.
What was she telling me… and from where? I struggled to wrap my head around the message, the drawing, the whole damn thing. What was all this about? I looked at the strange drawing again, lay back in my recliner, and closed my eyes. I tried to remember her face, some detail, some clue. But I couldn’t. Her features were now a blur, she was like so many older women I had seen on the streets every day except those piercing blue eyes, so alive … and yet? But I couldn’t remember any other details.
And then it hit me … memory! This is about my memory. Maybe she was telling me to let go of the past, to be free and not worry about what was, to appreciate the present and value my imagination.
My wife came in with two plates of breakfast even though it was almost noon. She flipped on the TV, a bad habit we’ve developed, often watching old TV shows and movies while eating our meals. I sat upright, took my plate, and started in on the eggs. I was hungry from my uphill trek and the eggs were fluffy and warm. I detected a little hint of oregano aroma and savored each bite. I ignored her choice of TV channel, but then an old familiar voice floated across the room. From The Twilight Zone, Rod Serling’s unique intonation stirred that chill in my spine again:
“There is … a dimension beyond that which is known to man ... a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination.”
The comment “It had rained 48 of the previous fifty days in Coimbra, or at least that is what my weather app says. Not all day and not every day, but pretty damn close.” Made me LOL. Too damn close to the truth. ☔️🌧️💦 it’s been a WET October.
Your detail is so real, the story must be real. Or is it 'real"? I really enjoy these stories and how you write.