bread
which I will moisten with wine …
Mateus’s voice is tiring. They will all be in bed soon. Manuel’s eyes land upon the men near the docks wearing mining lights strapped to their foreheads, casting their intersecting beams. That morning he looked down to the sea, to the piers in the harbor and the schooners of theWhite Fleet. He had scanned the Battery to the west of him, the gray flat flakes cutting horizontal lines against the rusty cliffsides. He saw them on the docks beginning to lay the large square frame made of mashed ferns and bound with twine. They will work through the night decorating the posts along the streets of St. John’s with garlands of pine and cedar. It would certainly be a relief from the smell of fish and oil that wafted over the course of the day. The roads will be paved with colorful petals that mark the processional route. It is at this moment, with Mateus’s fado as a backdrop, that Manuel’s heart longs for home.
… But I will come to you.
The early promise
awakened by the sea
is now hidden in a mist
of fear of being alone …
It is a beautiful May morning. The crowds are beginning to trickle in, appearing around the corners and clumping along the roads that move from the wharves to the gates of St. John the Baptist Church set high on the ridge. Mateus has tried unsuccessfully to convince Manuel to attend mass with him on Sundays. He never pushes. There are too many scars …
those who serve me, serve God … it’s between us and God, understand?
The priest’s voice still haunts him.
The city is alive with a flurry of activity. Men scurry up poles like mice to connect loudspeakers. Earlier, the people of St. John’s, to be drawn into the celebration, had been asked by an ad in
The Telegram
to decorate theirhomes and other buildings along the route. Wanting everyone to join in the festivities, parishioners knocked on the doors that lined the processional route, handing out colorful scrolls of silk to unfurl from their windows. The statue of
Nossa Senhora de Fátima
, Portugal’s gift of friendship, will be carried up to the church to receive a solemn benediction, then set up for temporary display before being placed in the carefully prepared alcove for idol worship.
Many of the Portuguese fishermen are working in hurried preparation. A small cluster of four is standing on the corner, directly underneath Manuel’s window. Their torsos disappear into burlap sacks and then reappear with greedy arms full of petals. Pink and blue hydrangea, scarlet dahlias, pale peonies, and golden sunflowers are slightly faded from the journey. The four men fill the geometric shapes within the frame with swatches of color, water the petals to weigh them down and prevent them from being blown away, then lift the large eight-by-eight template, careful not to disturb the stained glass–like mural that remains on the ground. Again, they tumble the frame over, dive into their burlap sacks, arms and fists full of petals to complete the next eight feet of fragile tapestry. They are working up the steep slope of Cathedral Street and will reach the church by noon, in time for the start of the procession.
Manuel curls back in bed, brings his knees up to his chest. He can taste the ache. He thinks of his own island, sees the excited women gathered outside their homes during the town’s
festa
honoring
Nossa Senhora do Rosário
, decorating the street outside their stretch of windows inthe same way. He wants to hear his mother’s voice, yelling at his sisters to raise the wooden frame carefully so as not to disturb the flowers and to ensure perfection—“God sees everything,” she’d say. And behind the front door, in the dark and cool recesses of their sundrenched houses, he and his brothers, along with the men in the village, would pray by raising their shot glasses of
agua ardente
, before toppling them into their gullets with squints, a flush of red, a horsey snort, and a grin.
I came to
which I will moisten with wine …
Mateus’s voice is tiring. They will all be in bed soon. Manuel’s eyes land upon the men near the docks wearing mining lights strapped to their foreheads, casting their intersecting beams. That morning he looked down to the sea, to the piers in the harbor and the schooners of theWhite Fleet. He had scanned the Battery to the west of him, the gray flat flakes cutting horizontal lines against the rusty cliffsides. He saw them on the docks beginning to lay the large square frame made of mashed ferns and bound with twine. They will work through the night decorating the posts along the streets of St. John’s with garlands of pine and cedar. It would certainly be a relief from the smell of fish and oil that wafted over the course of the day. The roads will be paved with colorful petals that mark the processional route. It is at this moment, with Mateus’s fado as a backdrop, that Manuel’s heart longs for home.
… But I will come to you.
The early promise
awakened by the sea
is now hidden in a mist
of fear of being alone …
It is a beautiful May morning. The crowds are beginning to trickle in, appearing around the corners and clumping along the roads that move from the wharves to the gates of St. John the Baptist Church set high on the ridge. Mateus has tried unsuccessfully to convince Manuel to attend mass with him on Sundays. He never pushes. There are too many scars …
those who serve me, serve God … it’s between us and God, understand?
The priest’s voice still haunts him.
The city is alive with a flurry of activity. Men scurry up poles like mice to connect loudspeakers. Earlier, the people of St. John’s, to be drawn into the celebration, had been asked by an ad in
The Telegram
to decorate theirhomes and other buildings along the route. Wanting everyone to join in the festivities, parishioners knocked on the doors that lined the processional route, handing out colorful scrolls of silk to unfurl from their windows. The statue of
Nossa Senhora de Fátima
, Portugal’s gift of friendship, will be carried up to the church to receive a solemn benediction, then set up for temporary display before being placed in the carefully prepared alcove for idol worship.
Many of the Portuguese fishermen are working in hurried preparation. A small cluster of four is standing on the corner, directly underneath Manuel’s window. Their torsos disappear into burlap sacks and then reappear with greedy arms full of petals. Pink and blue hydrangea, scarlet dahlias, pale peonies, and golden sunflowers are slightly faded from the journey. The four men fill the geometric shapes within the frame with swatches of color, water the petals to weigh them down and prevent them from being blown away, then lift the large eight-by-eight template, careful not to disturb the stained glass–like mural that remains on the ground. Again, they tumble the frame over, dive into their burlap sacks, arms and fists full of petals to complete the next eight feet of fragile tapestry. They are working up the steep slope of Cathedral Street and will reach the church by noon, in time for the start of the procession.
Manuel curls back in bed, brings his knees up to his chest. He can taste the ache. He thinks of his own island, sees the excited women gathered outside their homes during the town’s
festa
honoring
Nossa Senhora do Rosário
, decorating the street outside their stretch of windows inthe same way. He wants to hear his mother’s voice, yelling at his sisters to raise the wooden frame carefully so as not to disturb the flowers and to ensure perfection—“God sees everything,” she’d say. And behind the front door, in the dark and cool recesses of their sundrenched houses, he and his brothers, along with the men in the village, would pray by raising their shot glasses of
agua ardente
, before toppling them into their gullets with squints, a flush of red, a horsey snort, and a grin.
I came to
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