“It’s not time yet,” the old man replied to the unasked question. “We’re going to stay here.”

The cripple got up, showing neither objection nor agreement. The old man always knew what he was doing.

“In that case I’m going to take a bath,” he informed them. “This dust is sticking to me.”

“Go on, go on,” JC encouraged him with a certain bonhomie. Old age appeared to be having a softening effect on him, not in his combative spirit, but only in these small domestic activities he formerly would have ignored.

The cripple left the room that was now converted into an operational center for the three of them and left JC to take charge of strategy, which wouldn’t change much, since he wasn’t a man who liked to act on an empty stomach, unless necessary, which was not the case.

“Raul?” a female voice asked.

JC turned toward this melodious sound and found Elizabeth there. Now in the early light of morning he saw her natural complexion without makeup, and he noticed the hatred emanating from her. A perfectly natural reaction given the circumstances.

“Your husband’s in the kitchen making breakfast,” he informed her, emphasizing the relationship that united them to show he’d perceived the strain in the relationship.

Elizabeth made no reply. Instead she began to walk around the room without taking her eyes off him. She finally sat down next to him and looked away.

“You’re truly your daughter’s mother,” JC said in praise, although it could be understood differently.

“Is there news about my child?” Her anguish was clear.

“There will be,” was all he said.

A tear slipped down Elizabeth’s face, carrying all a mother’s sorrow. A parent should never have to bury a child; there was no sorrow like that. JC wiped away the tear without a trace of shame.

“My father used to say that tears should be saved for the dead.” He showed no condescension or sorrow for her. “You might not think so, but I also had a father at one time in my life.”

Elizabeth looked at him disoriented.

“No one has died here,” he said in a clear, firm voice.

“But someone could die.” His certainty, for some reason, convinced her.

“We all can, my dear.” That was a great truth, undeniable, unchanging.

“I can’t decide if the fault for all this is her father’s, if she-”

“No one is guilty,” he replied decisively, as if it were a subject he’d pondered on his own in search of answers. “Is someone guilty for being born poor or with an illness or parents who neglect and exploit him? Or being born in a poor country or bad neighborhood? These are the cards we’re dealt, and we have to accept them and go on playing according to our luck. No one is guilty, or we’re all guilty, and fifty, one hundred years from now someone will blame us for the evil in his life.” He paused so Elizabeth could take in what he was saying. “We can be thankful for being born in Europe, the most civilized part of the world, but even here there are bad things. We’ve inherited some of that evil. We have to shake it off, expel it, but it’s hard. Only our persistence will defeat and bury it. Still, more evil will appear; we have to confront it, sooner or later.”

Elizabeth listened to him closely. He spoke of certainties, not theories or idle speculation. They were intelligent thoughts about the reality of our lives.

“When will we hear from her?” Her hope increased the confidence she had in the old man’s replies.

JC was silent for a few seconds without blinking or expressing any sign of doubt.

“Soon,” he assured her.

“I think I’ll go to my mother-in-law’s house in Oporto.” It was a cry for help, a motion to be approved or denied, in this case by the man in front of her.

“Don’t leave us, my dear.” His voice was friendlier. “Besides, we can’t let you go. It would weaken our position. You’re better off with us, safer, and soon you’ll be able to talk to your daughter.”

Raul came into the room with a tray in his hands. On top, a steaming teakettle, Alentejano bread, butter, local cheese, milk, and hot coffee.

“Wonderful. Your husband is trying to kill me with an overdose of cholesterol,” he joked. “And I confess it’s the best of deaths.” A sign he’d eaten and drunk well in his life.

Raul said nothing. He hadn’t expected his wife there, much less in quiet conversation with the old man. But JC had a gift for making others admire him. Looking like a frail old man helped.

“Are you all right?” She was the one who asked. It seemed the old man also had a gift for resolving conflicts between husband and wife.

“I’m better now,” Raul confessed, passing his hand tenderly over her shoulder.

The phone finally rang, startling Raul and Elizabeth. Raul ran to it before the caller could disconnect.

“Raul,” he identified himself with a hysterical cry. He listened without saying anything and closed his eyes. “Thanks,” was the first thing he said when the speaker stopped talking. “Thank you very much,” the second. “I have complete confidence in you. I know it’s not going to be easy. You have half the world after you, so be very cautious. Call tonight so we can work out a plan. And thanks again.”

The conversation ended with a press of the button of Raul’s phone.

“What? Who was it?” Elizabeth asked impatiently.

“Rafael. She’s with him.” A smile from ear to ear. “She’s fine. She couldn’t talk because she was sleeping. But she’s okay. That’s what’s important.”

Elizabeth looked at JC, remembering his prophetic foresight minutes ago.

“This is just a pause, my dear. Nothing’s resolved,” the old man warned her.

“Yes, but it’s something,” Raul said.

“Where are they?” the mother asked, visibly relieved of the weight that was crushing her heart.

“In a safe place,” Raul replied with a smile. “A very safe place.”

41

She remembered parking in the garage of a house, but it seemed like ages ago. There was a car in the same garage, also déjà vu. He’d asked them all to get into the vehicle. Of course, that was the difference, they were not alone this time, two or three more people were with them. She didn’t bother to count. They left the garage again in this other car, a new car being used for the first time; it had that new car smell. She’d gone into the backseat with one or two others, perhaps only one, thrown her head back and rested. Rocked by the motion of the car being put to the test by the city streets, the passing lights creating a dark, yellow glow, she’d fallen deeply asleep, leaning against a window, and ceased hearing the noise of the engine, the tires on the asphalt, breathing, life going on around her.

She couldn’t tell how long they’d been in the car, minutes or hours, but remembered a light caress in her hair at some part of the trip that made her feel as if she were floating suspended above the ground. She’d opened her eyes a moment and saw herself levitating over some familiar, dark wooden stairs inside a house that made a shiver run down her spine. She felt a body against hers, strong arms around her, and, finally, a soft pillow and sheets shutting out the cold. Voices whispering in the distance she couldn’t make out but one, both close and far away, she managed to understand, Not now, she’s sleeping, before she gave in to the absolute rest of body and mind. Sleep, body, because the fight has only begun. It renewed her energy, relaxed her nerves, cured her wounds, and forced her fear to retreat. After a very few hours, Sarah Monteiro opened her eyes and awoke.

It was already day. Sunshine entered the room between the red curtains. She looked around trying to recognize the place, a large bedroom, antique decor. An enormous dark wooden closet, familiar, took up one whole wall. She sat on the edge of the bed and put her feet on the soft green carpet that covered the wood floor. She risked getting up and brought her hand to her mouth, incredulously. A tear in her eye showed her emotion. This was her room in the old house on Belgrave Road. There wasn’t the slightest doubt. It had been almost a year since she last stayed here. Her uncertain steps made the wood creak from her weight, not that she weighed much, not at all, but it’s natural that such old wood would react to the slightest touch.