Even though by some miracle Alfama still stood, reinforcing brackets now thrust from the painted exteriors of the homes from those archaic days, like stitches on torn skin.
James was able to navigate the complex layout with an expertise she admired. The buildings around them rose three to five stories tall, their pastel faces dotted with shuttered windows, which residents leaned out of to chat with one another, some only an arm’s length away. Aromas of home-cooked dinners filled the streets, sizzling sausages and smoky, grilled seafood.
Ava’s mouth watered at the tempting scents, especially since they had been told to arrive hungry.
As they carefully made their way down a steep set of stairs toward a crumbling building, Ava caught sight of Lamant waiting for them at the bottom with a younger man who wore a genuine smile and a simple button-down shirt and slacks to James’s and Lamant’s tailored suits. Despite his youth, there was an exhaustion swelling the skin beneath his eyes and dulling his appearance somewhat.
Lamant introduced the man as Ethan Williams who worked with the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee.
“JDC,” Ethan abbreviated as he held out his hand.
Ava accepted it with a firm shake that earned her a nod of approval from the man.
“Ethan works closely with the refugees and can help you acquire more of the newspapers I’ve been supplying you with,” Lamant said. “Which is why I found it imperative to introduce you prior to my departure.” He put a hand on Ethan’s shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze, as a father might do to his son. “Ethan has been crucial in gathering a majority of the material I pass your way, as well as finally getting me to America.”
“It was so good of you to assist Lamant.” She smiled at the older Frenchman and pushed down the emotion threatening to overwhelm her. Not only the sorrow at knowing she would soon be absent his company forever, but also the joy at his escape.
Ethan nodded. “Of course. I’m happy to help.”
Lamant beamed at them all. “My favorite people are together here in this place of refuge even as my own countrymen tried to have me deported. I have been far more fortunate than most to enjoy the splendor of Portugal. It is a country of beauty and art and friendship, and I want to relish this final day with those I love.”
His words were true. He was fortunate. Not only for the luxury his wealth had afforded him as he bided his time, but also in how he saw the world, like a wrapped confection with new delights beneath each opaque covering.
“And now we must hurry, or we will miss the next singer.” Lamant ushered them toward the door.
Ava allowed him to guide her inside. “Singer?”
The inside of the building did not match its deteriorating exterior, but instead was filled with heavy wooden tables and chairs, the seats padded with a red, plush fabric. Overhead, the concave ceiling reflected the striated exposed brickwork she had grown so used to seeing over the last few months in Portugal.
“Fado,” Lamant replied with reverence.
While she had not stayed out late enough to enjoy the music, she was aware of what fado was. The woeful lyrics were unique to Lisbon, people who had been subjected to hardships of poverty and loss, especially in the century following the famed earthquake while their city rebuilt, when fado first was noted to have begun.
They were immediately served glasses of green wine, the effervescent pale gold liquid made of grapes from the north of Portugal, consumed before the wine could mature so bubbles chased one another up the sides of the glass. This was followed by several plates of various grilled fish and octopus, as well as something that appeared to be a length of sausage curled in a horseshoe shape.
“Not pork.” Lamant held up his forefinger the way Ava’s philosophy instructor did when she studied at Pratt. “This is alheira.” He lifted his knife and fork and sliced through the sausage. “It is spiced poultry and bread, cleverly disguised as pork. Have you heard of it?”