bodies.
I had never in my life prayed for someone’s death, but I did so now. I prayed that Jorge and the woman and the young man would be suffocated by the smoke before the flames touched them. Was it blasphemy to pray that heretics should be spared pain? I never knew if my prayers were answered, for by then the flames at the front were too high, the smoke too dense for me to see when they died. If they could have screamed through the leather gags, no one would have heard them for the cheering and insane bellows of laughter from the crowd.
I pretended it was smoke that made the tears run down my face, but I don’t think Dona Ofelia believed me.
Belém, Portugal Ricardo
Lure – a piece of padded wood, to which meat and feathers have been bound, which is swung on a line to attract the hawk to the falconer.
‘Senhor Ricardo da Moniz, at your service,’ I announced.
I swept off my green feathered cap and bowed low, kissing Dona Lúcia’s plump jewelled hand. Pio, my diminutive pet monkey, standing on my shoulder, doffed his miniature cap and bowed in imitation of me. Dona Lúcia simpered at us both.
Sweet Jesu, that ruby in her ring was the size of a pigeon’s egg! I could hardly bear to tear my lips away from it. All right, so maybe it was not quite that large, but where’s the harm in embellishing a little? The point is that it was as plain as a nipple on a whore that Dona Lúcia was elderly, wealthy and best of all a widow, with no one to lavish her money on except herself and her overstuffed lapdog.
‘Won’t you sit with me, Senhor Ricardo?’ she cooed, patting the silk cushion next to her on her seat under the arbour.
Ricardo – it has a debonair ring to it, don’t you think? I’m quite proud of that one. The name came to me on the spur of the moment in the fish market when I first encountered Dona Lúcia’s adorable little maid, with breasts like a couple of soft ripe peaches and such a fetching little dimple in her right cheek. Senhor Ricardo , she repeated when I told her, and the syllables purred delightfully in her slim white throat.
Anyway, it’s a damn sight better than Cruz , which my benighted parents thrust upon me. What on earth possessed them to name their youngest son after the Holy Cross? If they hoped that it would turn me into a priest, they were sadly mistaken. Now, if they had christened me with an elegant saint’s name like Teodósio or Valerio , who knows, I might have tried to live up to that, but not Cruz. It’s the kind of name that’s bound to bring out the Devil in you from the very first time your mother sets you on your infant feet and says, ‘Now, be a good boy, Cruz.’ I ask you – wouldn’t that make you determined to rebel?
At Dona Lúcia’s invitation I settled myself on the long bench beside her under the canopy of ancient twisted vines in the small courtyard. It was the most delightful spot; enclosed by the high walls of her house, the floor of the courtyard was tiled with an intricate Moorish design of twisted blue and yellow flowers. The scents of jasmine, orange and lemon hung in the air, and from a small fountain in the centre jets of water tinkled into a marble pool, making the air feel cool and refreshingly moist after the scorching heat and dust of the narrow streets beyond.
Dona Lúcia’s black slave boy brought us glasses of hot mint tea. I produced a tiny cup for Pio, my little monkey. He crouched between us on the bench, sipping like a gentleman and graciously accepting fragments of almond cake from Dona Lúcia’s own fingers, much to the insane jealousy of her own yapping lapdog. Pio ignored it. Even a monkey could see the dog was so plump it could do little except sit there panting. It so much resembled a frying sausage I had an urge to prick its rump, sure that if I did so, it would burst wide open.
There is nothing like an animal to attract the ladies of any age. I used to have a little lapdog myself, but I realized women only
I had never in my life prayed for someone’s death, but I did so now. I prayed that Jorge and the woman and the young man would be suffocated by the smoke before the flames touched them. Was it blasphemy to pray that heretics should be spared pain? I never knew if my prayers were answered, for by then the flames at the front were too high, the smoke too dense for me to see when they died. If they could have screamed through the leather gags, no one would have heard them for the cheering and insane bellows of laughter from the crowd.
I pretended it was smoke that made the tears run down my face, but I don’t think Dona Ofelia believed me.
Belém, Portugal Ricardo
Lure – a piece of padded wood, to which meat and feathers have been bound, which is swung on a line to attract the hawk to the falconer.
‘Senhor Ricardo da Moniz, at your service,’ I announced.
I swept off my green feathered cap and bowed low, kissing Dona Lúcia’s plump jewelled hand. Pio, my diminutive pet monkey, standing on my shoulder, doffed his miniature cap and bowed in imitation of me. Dona Lúcia simpered at us both.
Sweet Jesu, that ruby in her ring was the size of a pigeon’s egg! I could hardly bear to tear my lips away from it. All right, so maybe it was not quite that large, but where’s the harm in embellishing a little? The point is that it was as plain as a nipple on a whore that Dona Lúcia was elderly, wealthy and best of all a widow, with no one to lavish her money on except herself and her overstuffed lapdog.
‘Won’t you sit with me, Senhor Ricardo?’ she cooed, patting the silk cushion next to her on her seat under the arbour.
Ricardo – it has a debonair ring to it, don’t you think? I’m quite proud of that one. The name came to me on the spur of the moment in the fish market when I first encountered Dona Lúcia’s adorable little maid, with breasts like a couple of soft ripe peaches and such a fetching little dimple in her right cheek. Senhor Ricardo , she repeated when I told her, and the syllables purred delightfully in her slim white throat.
Anyway, it’s a damn sight better than Cruz , which my benighted parents thrust upon me. What on earth possessed them to name their youngest son after the Holy Cross? If they hoped that it would turn me into a priest, they were sadly mistaken. Now, if they had christened me with an elegant saint’s name like Teodósio or Valerio , who knows, I might have tried to live up to that, but not Cruz. It’s the kind of name that’s bound to bring out the Devil in you from the very first time your mother sets you on your infant feet and says, ‘Now, be a good boy, Cruz.’ I ask you – wouldn’t that make you determined to rebel?
At Dona Lúcia’s invitation I settled myself on the long bench beside her under the canopy of ancient twisted vines in the small courtyard. It was the most delightful spot; enclosed by the high walls of her house, the floor of the courtyard was tiled with an intricate Moorish design of twisted blue and yellow flowers. The scents of jasmine, orange and lemon hung in the air, and from a small fountain in the centre jets of water tinkled into a marble pool, making the air feel cool and refreshingly moist after the scorching heat and dust of the narrow streets beyond.
Dona Lúcia’s black slave boy brought us glasses of hot mint tea. I produced a tiny cup for Pio, my little monkey. He crouched between us on the bench, sipping like a gentleman and graciously accepting fragments of almond cake from Dona Lúcia’s own fingers, much to the insane jealousy of her own yapping lapdog. Pio ignored it. Even a monkey could see the dog was so plump it could do little except sit there panting. It so much resembled a frying sausage I had an urge to prick its rump, sure that if I did so, it would burst wide open.
There is nothing like an animal to attract the ladies of any age. I used to have a little lapdog myself, but I realized women only
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