The Write Stuff

August is the month of celebrating summer sunsets, shooting stars, swimming at the beach or pool, sharing good food, and picnics with friends. And ... reading a good page-turning novel ...

The first chapter of my debut novel, A Lie Never Dies, set in historic Coimbra Portugal.

COLD SWEAT

Oh what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practice to deceive. - Sir Walter Scott

August was breaking temperature records in Coimbra, an ancient city in the interior of Portugal, where even the time-worn granite sweats. Usually, I enjoyed strolling through the historic downtown, the Baixa, but today I just wanted a cold beer. Damp marks formed on the underarms of my shirt; an occasional warm rivulet ran down my neck. The oven-like afternoon sun melted my enthusiasm as the old stone buildings around the University radiated the sun’s accumulated energy. Heading west, I was almost blinded by the late afternoon sun. Almost.

She was coming up the street toward me when I first saw her, and she stuck out like a cello player in a Heavy Metal rock band, drawing more than a few stares. Her light-auburn hair bounced off her shoulders, glistening in the afternoon light. Wearing jade-colored, peep-toe stiletto heels, totally inappropriate for the cobblestone minefield she was navigating, she moved with the grace of an Olympic skater dancing on ice. Her matching silky jade top draped off one shoulder, and a cream-colored pencil skirt with a mid-thigh slit accented long tanned legs or at least one of them. She could have been a runway model as heads rose like a wave crest moving across a shallow reef.

As she passed, I couldn’t help but notice the smudged mascara and reddened eyes, telling of recent tears. I resisted the urge to turn and watch her, trying to focus on finding an oasis from the mid-day heat.

Scanning for a shady retreat among the little cafés scattered along the main pedestrian boulevard, I realized all the sheltered tables were occupied by clusters of strangely dressed tourists. Men, mostly wearing shorts; women, a cacophony of colorful clothing. Local men never wore shorts unless they were racing bicycles or playing futebol. Portuguese women favored black and white ensembles, rarely choosing bright colors. The throngs seemed a little thicker this Friday, so I detoured off the main tourist trace.

Diverting into a narrow lane that would be called an alley back in the U.S., I had to immediately dodge a Vespa scooter bumping up over calçadas, the Portuguese-style pavers. At least there was cool shade in the narrow space between buildings. Overhead, bed sheets and assorted laundry hung patiently, awaiting an errant breeze to stir the colorful random tapestry of a never-ending art form. The path steepened as the lane curved southwest; I could judge my direction as the sun found me again.

A waft of music drifted up from an opening into a dark entranceway, and I recognized the tune. It was My Favorite Things, but not the Coltrane version; maybe Chet Baker? It drew me in like a dog to a bone. Stepping down into a narrow doorway, my eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness.

A tiny linear place greeted me with only six stools along a wooden bar polished by time and spilled beer. There was a slim gap behind the stools along a wall covered with old posters of venues played long ago, Billy Holliday at the Apollo, Brubeck in Paris, Miles Davis ... a weathered wooden sign above the door read Copo Cheio, a full glass.

"Boa Tarde, cerveja?" came a deep voice behind the bar.”

“Sim, Sim, Obrigado," I replied. 

A tired, dark wrinkled face that likely had seen almost everything studied me, his head tilted slightly. His dark eyes seemed to twinkle in this cool, dim oasis. An impressive mustache probably hid a smile, although it could have been a smirk.

"British?” he inquired.

"Não, Estados Unidos," I replied, trying to distance myself from Brits, who aren’t always well thought of here.

His gaze traveled to my Colorado Rockies baseball cap, and he nodded slightly. Reaching under the counter, he pulled a bottle of Superbock out of a cooler and placed it on the bar. Making a slight bow, he withdrew to a corner, returning to an open ledger and whatever I had interrupted. A futebol game played silently on a small screen over the bar where he occasionally glanced at tiny figures racing across the field.

I sat on the third stool, the only other customer perched all the way in the back against the wall. He wore work trousers common to utility workers with a wide luminescent stripe just below the knee. Never looking up, he stared into a half-empty glass of something dark and red.

I closed my eyes and took a long slow swallow, soothing my parched throat with familiar comfort. My body relaxed, drinking in the coolness of the vibe and shedding some of the accumulated heat. I was glad this was the last day of the summer session; I only had one more night to focus on saving my marriage.

My wife Susan had been gone all summer. Just as the weather turned nice, she suddenly announced she wanted to see her mother and left for the States. I had made the best of it, focused on developing materials to keep my Portuguese 6th and 7th graders interested in learning English and getting myself back into shape with long bike rides to nearby mountain villages. It was lonely, but exploring the new country and culture was intriguing, and physically, it was my best summer in years. Or it was until Susan’s emailed surprise: ‘We need to talk about you coming back to the U.S. … or us getting a divorce.’

The previous weekend had been a series of long phone conversations morphed into arguments, all made more difficult by the seven-hour time difference. We agreed to think about what we both wanted our lives to be and talk again in a week. Tomorrow, Saturday, was the deadline to resume the discussion. I still didn’t know what to say and needed to figure something out tonight.

I was midway through my second swallow when a movement in the doorway caught my eye. Slowly, I turned, and it was her again. Silhouetted in the entranceway, she was like a provocative painting with reverse gallery lighting. The backlighting projected the slimness of her hips and shapely legs but hid the features of her face in shadow.

Carefully stepping down to the edge of the bar as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she stopped to survey her options. Just then, the man at the other end of the bar grunted something in Portuguese, guzzled down the remainder in his glass, and slapped it on the bar.

He tossed down some euro coins and quickly squeezed past me, but stopped at the end of the bar, hesitating to navigate past this woman who now blocked his way. Realizing he wanted to exit, she pressed herself up against the bar with her back to him. He slowly looked her over as if trying to decide if she was real, then pushed roughly past, knocking her off balance.

"Desculpe!’ He called an apology over his shoulder as he hurried out the door without looking back.

Her heels offered no lateral stability as she tried to catch herself. Falling towards me, she reached out blindly with her hands, one sliding along the bar, the other finding my shoulder. Awkwardly, I tried to catch her and somehow kept her from falling, but she dropped her small leather purse. The clasp sprung open as it hit the floor, allowing a chrome-plated snub nose revolver to slide along the white-tiled floor. It sat there between her stylishly clad feet and my tennis shoes like an unwanted pregnancy while we stared at it for a few seconds.

Gracefully, she scooped it up into the leather purse, which, of course, matched her skirt. "Desculpe." She muttered softly as she looked up hesitantly to see my reaction.

Cleverly, I imitated a deer caught in headlights. She had repaired her mascara, and her eyes no longer appeared reddened. They were ocean green and seemed as deep as the sea itself. I could have floated there a long time, but she looked away.

"Obrigada," she murmured, maybe in thanks for catching her.

Guns are not common in Portugal. They are highly regulated, and carrying one in your purse was probably illegal. After scooping it up, she sat warily on the stool next to me, and we both sat there frozen in time while our minds raced wildly. At least mine did.

The barman lacked the viewpoint to see the pistol slide across the floor but seemed concerned about the young woman, who he apparently knew.

“Está ferido, Sofia?” he asked, looking disturbed.

“Não, está bem, está bem,” she replied. She gave me a sideways glance, tilting her chin up slightly. Was that the body language of defiance or anticipation of some challenge from me?

I was clueless; I mean, what do you say: ‘Wow! That’s a nice looking pistol, is it hard to keep clean?’

The barman cocked his head toward the customer’s exit and said: “Com um pouco de absinto, ele poderia começar uma luta com um monge budista!” (With a little absinthe, he could start a fight with a Buddhist monk)

The young woman laughed, and I was, again, mystified until she replied: "Absinto a fada verde."

“ La fée verte " (the green fairy), my high school French and love of Hemingway"s writing, sparked an odd association that I spouted out loud as I tried to follow the conversation.

She stole a glance at me for a few seconds as though she might speak, but the barman interrupted.

“Como vai,” Sofia? he said.

“Tudo bem, o meu amigo. E contigo?”

The bartender shrugged. “Não mal. O que gostaria ?”

“Vinho Verde, por favor”, she said with a smile in her voice.

He opened a fresh cold bottle with fluid proficiency and poured a glass, placing it in front of her. He glanced at my still half-full bottle and turned back to his ledger.

I got most of that exchange as I was beginning to pick up some conversations from this challenging language. I thought she must be familiar to him, although obviously overdressed for the caliber of the enterprise. My budding Portuguese cultural knowledge made me think her wine choice was that of a local, despite her vivacious attire.

Despite my curiosity, something felt wrong. I decided to finish my beer and leave this mysterious encounter behind. But before I could take another swallow, a significant figure loomed in the doorway, darkening the interior and, strangely, the mood almost instantly.

He was in his mid-fifties with a full head of coifed silver hair, a tailored dark suit, and expensive-looking leather shoes. Thick in body, he filled the doorway as he let his eyes accommodate to the dimness. Despite the heat, he looked as cool and crisp as a new 100 euro note. Squinting slightly, he looked surprised but then started to smile at the woman. However, when he noticed me, his face fell into a frown. He looked to the bartender for some explanation but was ignored. Taking a deep, slow breath, he entered, sitting on the stool beside her without speaking. Now being an official customer, the bartender approached.

"Um cappuccino, por favor," Silver-hair ordered.

The bartender nodded and turned to the espresso machine on the back counter. How locals drank hot coffee in the middle of summer heat puzzled me to no end.

Silver-hair murmured something in a terse tone I couldn’t pick up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her opening the clasp of her purse.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and for the first time all day, all summer, I felt a cold chill. Again, he said something unintelligible as she reached into her purse and slowly pulled out the small silver pistol. She started to turn toward him, bringing the gun across her body, and I knew this was my only chance to avoid being a first-hand, close-up witness to a shooting, possibly a murder.

I lunged to grab her hand but wound up grasping the business end of the gun. I tried to wrench it out of her hand, but she had a death grip on it, pulling back with all her strength. We lost our balance on the bar stools in the struggle for control, both toppling over against the wall.

Seeing the pistol, the silver-haired man slid off his stool, backing away toward the door. The bartender, busy frothing hot milk, now turned to investigate the commotion behind him.

Tangled together in the narrow space between the back wall and the bar, we both somehow kept hold of the gun as we struggled to our feet. She made one last desperate yank to gain control. But the pistol slipped out of her hand and into mine; unfortunately, her finger was still inside the trigger guard… and the gun went off.

In the small space of the café, the sound reverberated off the stone walls like a small explosion, instantly deafening me. Time seemed to slow down, and without her opposing force, I fell forward toward the bar. I caught myself with one hand grabbing the edge of the counter while still holding the gun in the other. I wound up facing the bartender, our faces a few feet apart.

His expression was frozen in surprise, puzzlement, and pain. But those eyes who had seen so many things would never understand the final scene playing out in his cafe. A small dark hole in the middle of his forehead began to ooze red as he fell backward into the counter behind him. Bottles and glassware crashed to the floor as he slumped down to meet them. Insanely, the metal cup of hot milk fell from his hand, hit the wooden countertop, and splashed liquid in my face. I screamed obscenities and frantically grabbed at my eyes. Everything was a painful blur as I pulled my shirt up to wipe my eyes….

I heard the rapid clatter of her heels running toward the door as I struggled to see. Cleaning my eyes as best I could, I shook my head hard, trying to reset reality. Incredibly, my eyes opened to reveal a now empty doorway, the deadly chaos on the floor behind the bar, and the gun in my hand.