The Lover From An Icy Sea Page 14

  The first restaurant that came into view was a small, quiet, homey-looking affair and, as Kit and Daneka were delightfully downwind from it, suggested its presence and its raison d’être already from far off.

  They entered and waited for a moment just inside the doorway, but no one greeted them. After a short delay, they realized they were supposed to seat themselves—and so, continued into the dining area to find a table. There were plenty—but all of them empty. Kit and Daneka exchanged glances. Then Daneka peeked around a corner and motioned to Kit with an index finger. The restaurant was in fact quite full, although everyone was out in the garden where the mood was quietly celebratory, the view spectacular.

  As Kit and Daneka stepped outside, they were greeted by a hostess.

  “Boa noite.”

  “Muy buenas,” Kit answered. “Somos dos para cenar, por favor.”

  The hostess smiled and nodded, picked up two menus and started to walk off among the tables. As soon as she realized that Kit and Daneka weren’t following, she turned and beckoned to them from a distance. “Por favor.” Smiles and hand gestures had an easy and certain way of leaping over language barriers. In this case, it further helped that the Portuguese and Spanish expressions were identical. Kit and Daneka walked forward and caught up with their hostess. As she was seating them, Kit took the initiative.

  “Una carta de vinos, por favor.” The hostess nodded assent and retuned moments later with the wine menu. “Gracias, Señorita,” Kit offered as she handed him a thick leather book.

  “De nada,” she answered, and Kit wondered which language she was answering in. In any case, it was working. He was quite pleased with his ability to communicate up to this point, and he consequently made no effort to repress a little smile of self-satisfaction.

  Daneka noticed it immediately. “¡Vaya caballero!” she said, echoing Kit’s smile with her own.

  “Well, darling, if you must know—” Kit let his thought trail off before getting himself into something too deep to get out of quickly and easily. Europe was, after all, Daneka’s turf, and he had no intention of challenging her for domain. That said, she seemed to be taking it all quietly in stride, and he was grateful for the indirect compliment.

  “And how do you know that I don’t speak fluent Portuguese?” she asked without changing the contours of her smile.

  “Do you?”

  “Maybe. In any case, my Spanish is passable.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course. How do you think Estrella and I communicate?”

  “In Spanish?”

  “In Spanglish.”

  “I noticed.”

  “You did? When?”

  “No, I mean I noticed that Estrella’s English wasn’t, well—”

  “I’m sure it’s at least as good as your Spanish.” Kit’s smile, hardly smug to begin with, disappeared on the spot. He wondered whether Daneka’s vanity had been piqued, or whether she was simply coming to her housekeeper’s defense.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  Daneka laid a comforting hand on Kit’s arm. “‘Just teasing, darling. Your Spanish is really quite impressive. If I were wearing a blindfold, you could easily have fooled me. I’m sure I would’ve taken you for a native.”

  Kit was eager to restore the peace. “Go ahead! Hit me with your best Danglish.”

  Daneka guffawed. “Oh, I don’t really know that any such thing exists. Danes are much too clever—or perhaps just too self-conscious—for that kind of thing, you know. That’s why I advised you the other day not to be disdaneful. It can backfire, darling.”

  “Really? How?”

  “Well, we may be clever and self-conscious. We can also be vicious and vengeful.”

  Now it was Kit’s turn to reach out and put a comforting hand on Daneka’s arm. “Certainly not you,” he said in a tone that was half-question, half-declaration, but lacking any hint of clear conviction.

  “And worst of all, we can be silent.”

  “Silent?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s a Scandinavian thing, that silence. Like ice. Silence that just freezes you out.”

  “Silence is golden.” Kit sounded like a kid. All hint of a former smile abruptly dropped from Daneka’s face.

  “Not Nordic silence.” Suddenly, it was Kit whose expression turned from gently mocking to deadly serious. “Nordic silence is silver, not golden,” she continued. “It’s like icicles, but without the tinkle. It can last the length of a winter—of a Scandinavian winter. And be just as long and dark. Or worse—.” The conversation was abruptly halted by the arrival of their waiter.

  “Boa noite, Senhores. Querem fazer o vosso pedido?”

  Kit found himself abruptly out of his league, and his face showed it. “¿Entiende Usted el español, Señor?”

  “Naturalmente, Senhor!”

  He was back in the game. “¡Bueno. Pues en este caso, sí, Señor. Estamos listos.” He smiled tentatively at Daneka, hoping he’d not already lost the minor hero status he felt he’d acquired only moments earlier. “Shall I order for you, darling?”

  Daneka was suddenly all toothy smile as she handed him her menu. “Sure, caballero.”

  Kit looked carefully at his dinner menu, first under Aperitivos, and then under Pratos principais. The words describing most of the food items looked reasonably familiar. He could wing this and come out of it feeling like a champ. He promptly ordered two items from the “Appetizers” and two from the “Main Course” selections. Then he turned his attention to the wine menu. Vinho branco was certainly easy enough to figure out and vinho tinto was almost identical to the Spanish.

  “Red or white, darling?”

  “White for me, please.”

  “Una botella de—” and here Kit decided to forego the risk of a disastrous pronunciation, and so simply pointed at the name of the wine he wanted: Paço de Teixeiró. The waiter nodded to him with a solemnity Kit chose to interpret as appreciation of his choice.

  It was done—as easy as that. Not only had he survived the ordeal; he was relatively certain that both he and Daneka would thoroughly enjoy his selections.

  Life was good. Life was abundant. Daneka was smiling—at him, certainly, but also just on principle. The Atlantic opened wide and blue before them. Even the moon was full. No one could’ve scripted a better scene. And no one, he thought to himself, could’ve populated that scene with company more to his liking.

  He had her, of course, and that would’ve been enough under any circumstances. But in addition to her, he noticed the other guests were all quietly talking or laughing among themselves. The ceramic sibilance of plates passing over plates on their way to tables blended well with the sibilance of the Portuguese language. The result was euphony. Waiters and an occasional waitress wove in and out of the tables like busy, efficient bees—never loud or unruly, never banging plates or shouting orders to one another; just a pleasant hum of activity and an equally pleasant hum of conversation. He looked at Daneka and then took both of her hands into his and kissed them lightly. As he did so, she looked back at him.

  “Mi caballero. Mi señor.” she whispered.

  Chapter 25

  Following a dinner over which they discussed Daneka’s work, Kit’s work, the state of the world in general, and the state of their world in particular, Kit decided to order a couple of glasses of port and some sliced pears, Stilton and walnuts. He knew the wine wouldn’t be a problem as the waiter would likely bring out a selection for him to choose from, and the labels would of course be printed in English. He could ask for the cheese by name, so that wouldn’t be a problem either. But pears and walnuts? He hoped that Spanish and Portuguese had similar-sounding words for the same thing. If not, he’d have to resort to pen, paper and a sketch. He motioned to the waiter.

  “Sim, Senhor?”

  “¿Le importaría traernos una selección de Portos, por favor?”

  “Concerteza, Senhor.”

  “¿Y tendrían Ustedes unas peras y unas nueces,
también un pedazo de queso? ¿Tienen por casualidad Stilton?”

  “Pois não, Senhor.”

  Once again, Kit believed he’d successfully negotiated his way out of a ticklish situation. He was thankful for the similarity between the two languages, even if não sounded to his ear suspiciously like a negation.

  When their waiter returned a few moments later pushing a wine cart and carrying a plate of sliced pears, a plate of walnuts, and a third plate of Stilton, Kit was delighted. With a glance, Daneka gave him the equivalent of a pat on the back. Kit selected a sweet white for her, a Lagrima, and a Premium Rachel for himself. Once the waiter had poured for both of them, Kit raised his glass. Daneka, in turn, raised hers to meet it.

  Looking at her wine and remembering its classification, he offered: “Let there never be tears of sorrow between us. Only of joy.”

  She understood perfectly. “Never,” she repeated, though Kit noted the solemnity of her one-word rejoinder.

  He looked hard into Daneka’s eyes to try to ascertain for himself whether she’d grasped the intent of his toast. At the same time, he looked for some indication of the sincerity of her confirmation. She didn’t flinch. Nor, however, did she spend a further word or gesture to reinforce that confirmation.

  Kit had registered a few minutes earlier both the sights and sounds of some activity at the far end of the garden. As he shifted his gaze from Daneka to focus on it, he realized that they were about to be entertained. He counted a trio of musicians as well as a guitar and a couple of other string instruments he couldn’t readily identify, but which resembled mandolins or citterns. Kit decided to risk demonstrating his ignorance, and asked the waiter if they were in fact mandolins. The waiter corrected him without even a hint of condescension, but rather with obvious admiration and gratitude for a non-native who could even be bothered to ask: he was looking not at mandolins, but at authentic Portuguese guitars.

  As the three musicians began to fine-tune their instruments, Kit caught sight of the arrival of an attractive dark-haired woman whom he guessed to be a singer. His guess proved correct. Judging from their dress, Kit surmised that the music would not be some kind of folkloric kitsch, and for that he was thankful. His knowledge of Portuguese music didn’t extend beyond fados, and even there he was on rather shaky ground. He decided to wait and—he was fairly certain—be pleasantly surprised.

  His reward came quickly. Apparently, the woman would sing without a microphone, but no matter given the small area of the garden. She signaled to the instrumentalists in their small troupe; they in turn signaled to each other; then the three commenced.

  The first sounds came from the Portuguese guitar. A few plucked notes in isolation up and then back down the scale, followed by a strum, at which point the woman raised her head and opened her eyes and mouth. What came out was a sound Kit was sure he’d never heard. What he didn’t know was that he’d never hear it again as he was hearing it now. Just as one can never step into the same body of water twice, one can almost never listen to the same piece of music a second time and feel it in precisely the same way.

  Cheia de penas,

  Cheia de penas me deito …

  The din of conversation in the garden dropped like a stone as the guests sat up and fixed their eyes and ears on the singer. She was indeed singing a fado, and the woman was a clear mistress of the form. Kit felt the gooseflesh rise on his arms as the mandolin’s first notes—then the woman’s voice, and finally an unexpected tremolo—entered his ear.

  At the same time, he suddenly felt the weight of Daneka’s arm upon his arm, the warm breath of her mouth upon his ear, and a sweet cluster of familiar consonants upon that breath as she translated for him:

  “Full of sorrow, full of sorrow, I now lie down … ”

  He looked at her for a moment in astonishment. She smiled demurely, then dropped her head at that angle that had once transfixed him like an arrow. She put a finger to his lips to stop him from stating the obvious. As the woman continued to sing, Daneka continued to translate.

  E com mais penas

  E com mais penas me levanto …

  “And with a deeper sorrow still, I rise up again.”

  Kit suddenly became aware of a thread drawn tightly between the singer and Daneka. It seemed to him that the dark-haired woman’s gaze was directed exclusively at Daneka, that she was holding her stare against all possible assault or interruption from the outside, and that she was singing each word as if it applied to Daneka and Daneka alone.

  No meu peito

  Já me ficou no meu peito

  Este jeito

  O jeito de querer tanto …

  “In my heart, already in my heart, this sense of loving too much … ”

  The fado had evoked in him a jumble of raw, visual and aural sensations. Kit was hit by another as he felt something warm and wet drop upon his forearm. Daneka was unwittingly wrenching him back into her own reality and out of the tension this other woman had managed to establish between her voice and his ear. He looked at the spot on his arm and realized that the source of the warm and wet sensation was Daneka’s eyes. A single tear had run down her cheek and dropped onto his forearm. Still, she continued to translate.

  Desespero

  Tenho por meu desespero

  Dentro de mim

  Dentro de mim o castigo

  Eu não te quero

  Eu digo que não te quero

  E de noite

  De noite sonho contigo …

  “Despair. I carry this despair inside of me, as I also carry inside its punishment. I don’t love you. I declare that I don’t love you. But then at night, I dream of you.”

  Se considero

  Que um dia hei-de morrer

  No desepero

  Que tenho de te não ver

  Estendo o meu xaile

  Estendo o meu xaile no chão

  Estendo o meu xaile

  E deixo-me adormecer.

  “When I think that one day I, too, will have to die, I do so without regret, never to see you again. I lay my shawl upon the ground, and fall asleep upon it.”

  Se eu soubesse

  Se eu soubesse que morrendo

  Tu me havias

  Tu me havias de chorrar

  Por uma lágrima

  Por uma lágrima tua

  Que alegría

  Me deixaria matar.

  “If I knew that you would take me in exchange for a single tear, how happily I would give you that tear—and then die.”

  No tears of sorrow between them—ever! was the supplication he’d uttered just minutes earlier—to which she’d responded with an affirmation. “Never,” she’d said. And already, there was a flood of them.

  Whatever the grounds, whatever the justification, however reasonable her reaction to the music and to the singer, Daneka had been moved to tears. Kit, too, was moved, though not to tears. He was simply moved by the beauty of the sounds emanating from instruments and from one woman’s throat.

  However troubled by Daneka’s tears, he preferred not to read more into this reaction than what he, himself, was feeling: a general melancholy.

  He leaned over and softly kissed both of Daneka’s eyes in an attempt to lift some of the burden of her private melancholy. Instead, his effort resulted in the opposite. Between the music and Kit’s gesture, it was as if someone, finally, had given her permission to do what she’d been aching to do all of her adult life—to cry once again like a child. She took Kit’s hands into hers as if they were a well into which she could pour the contents of her eyes and heart, into which those same eyes and heart could scream their open-mouthed, but long-silent anguish. Still soundless, her tears nevertheless started to flow not in isolated droplets, but in rivulets.

  Kit put his arms around her. She moved her head from his hands to his chest so as to muffle the sounds of her weeping. He tightened his embrace so as to quiet her convulsions. He realized these were merely stopgap measures—that the source of her pain was something he coul
dn’t possibly touch this night, the next day, maybe ever. But he’d try. If necessary, he’d dedicate his life to finding that source and to helping her through and out of it. He’d already learned to love her in sex and in fun. Now, he realized, he was learning to love her in pain. And this was to him the most delicious love of all.

  Chapter 26

  The embrace helped—to give her the shoulder she craved at that moment, and also to provide her with a shirt to absorb the flow of tears. When she finally looked up at him with wet eyes and a red nose after several minutes, she managed to squeeze out a smile. He squeezed one of his own back out in return.

  “Daneka, darling, can we talk about this?” he asked. She allowed herself a couple of last sniffles. He put his hand inside his shirt, bunched some of the material together between thumb and index finger, then put fingers and material to her nose and nodded. “Go ahead. Blow.” With nose firmly buried in his shirt, Daneka lifted her eyes and looked up into Kit’s. He nodded again. She blew.