Cavalinho Na Chuva

 Joe Azzopardi stretched and padded the few feet from his narrow hotel bed to the pint-sized, bruised-purple bathroom. He splashed water on his face and ran his wet hands through his sparse hair, where salt was overtaking the pepper. He looked in the mirror at the perpetual bags under his droopy brown eyes and said, "You are not a pretty girl, Miss Azzopardi." Then he saw the merry twinkle in the corners which he hoped was part of his charm. He smoothed his unruffled sliver of a mustache and composed his sleep-blurred face into the alert and amiable one he liked to present to the world. Joe blew a kiss to his mirror image, which, like him, was 56, about 5’7 and, according to his doctor, about 20 pounds overweight.

He was in Lisbon at the Hotel Figueira. Figueira, meant fig tree and fig motifs were on every wall, plate, glass and cocktail napkin. How he got here was a miracle to him, one lucky break after another, the cards falling in the right direction for a change. Joe sat on the bed and wondered what to do next. It was 5:13pm and Lisbon’s sun poured its gold through the window, lightening the figs and fig leaves one shade each.

He was glad not to be in his spotless garden apartment in Moonachie, New Jersey, a sleepy little rectangle of a town with 2000 people, just off Route 17 in the shadow of MetLife Stadium. Refreshed from his 2-hour nap, he decided to wander around the neighborhood and play it by ear since he hadn’t done any research or bought a guidebook. Joe picked up the business card on the nightstand: “Pedro Pimentel, LusoCafe” with his phone and email address. Was it too soon to call Pedro?

The overnight TAP flight from Newark was filled with Portuguese people. When it arrived at dawn, a handsome, bearded driver from the hotel met him at the airport, greeted him enthusiastically and led him to a white Mercedes van. His name was Pedro and he was tall with curly brown hair and merry eyes. He looked to be in his thirties.

“You are from New York!” Pedro said, once they were in the roomy van. “I love New York!” Joe didn’t have the heart to tell him that he flew in from Newark and he only went into New York City occasionally.

“Have you ever been there?’ Joe asked.

“No, but I feel like I know it from watching Home Alone 2: Lost in New York when I was a boy. I saw it so many times that I know it by heart. Is it anything like that?” His English was good with a slight British accent.

“Pretty much,” Joe lied. He’d never seen the movie.

“Are you here for business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure, I guess.” Joe said, looking at Pedro’s cheerful green eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Let us make sure you have some,” Pedro said. He winked.

Lisbon whizzed by outside the tinted windows. Joe was so intent on the back of Pedro’s curly head and his twinkling mirror eyes that the city was a picturesque blur.

Like the good salesman he was, Joe asked a lot of questions, because he learned over the years, people like to talk about themselves. Joe didn’t. He thought himself the most boring man in the United States, or at least New Jersey.

Pedro was 33, married, with a ten-year-old daughter, Pia, his pride and joy. He didn’t talk about his wife. He lived in Lisbon in Lumiar, a neighborhood near the edge of town. Driving the van was his part time job, his main gig was in the marketing department of LusoCafe, a big coffee company.

When they arrived at The Figueira, Pedro jumped out and carried Joe’s bags to the front desk. Joe took two twenty euro notes out of his wallet to give to Pedro, though the airport ride was offered by the hotel and included in the Booking.com rate.

“Thank you very much,” Joe said. “I enjoyed the ride and your company.”

“As did I! As did I!” Pedro chirped.

Joe held out his hand to shake Pedro’s and slip him the bills, but Pedro surprised him with a big, tight hug, his soft beard grazing Joe’s face. Was there a peck on the cheek in there too?

The hug made smoothly slipping him the twenties impossible so once they separated, Joe shook Pedro’s hand and slipped them into his palm.

Pedro pocketed the cash without looking at it and gave Joe another hug. This time he felt Pedro’s soft lips on his cheek.

“If you would like to see Lisboa, call me. If I am free, I would love to show you our beautiful city.” With that, Pedro was out on the street and back in the van. Joe’s face tingled from its brush with Pedro’s beard and he realized that the hug had left him breathless. His body quivered in an agreeable and unfamiliar way. One hug from a handsome man, the graze of his beard, the brush of his soft lips and he was undone? Was he really that lonely, really that hungry? Yes and yes.

As a sales rep for Continental Restaurant Supply, The Ironbound section of Newark with its popular Portuguese restaurants, was part of his territory and Joe was there twice a week. He knew all about glassware, dinnerware, and flatware but restaurant equipment was his specialty, the stakes were higher and so were the commissions. His clients trusted him and his twenty years in the business, his informed soft sell and reliability made him one of the best restaurant supply salesmen in New Jersey.

Arctic Air had a promotion on its new HC55 Merchandiser, the kind of thing you reach into at a deli for a Snapple, or a waiter would reach into for a carrot cake. Sell five of them and win a trip to Europe. He didn’t expect to win, he never won anything, but he liked the challenge of it.

Thanks to his fact-filled, low key sales pitch, a heat wave and a power outage, Joe wound up selling five HC 55s, three in Newark alone, in a record three weeks. Arctic Air gave him a week in Lisbon, airfare, hotel and $1000 play money. He flew TAP, the Portuguese airline, to keep the vibe Portuguese and because of his clients he knew something of the complicated, intriguing language. He enjoyed it in the banter of the robust kitchen crews at their aromatic, communal late afternoon meals; like music with a gentle, aggrieved undercurrent running through it.

This trip came at just the right time. Joe was stuck. The job was tolerable, he made a decent living, but there were no surprises. He got up at 7am, was on the road by 8:30, first stopping by the office/showroom in Hackensack for sales meetings and paperwork. Then he hit the road, seeing ten to fifteen clients a day, and usually got home by 6:30 or 7pm.

 His clients and the people at the office constituted his only social life these days. He used to stop at one or another of his clients’ restaurants for dinner but after being told he had to lose weight, he just popped Hot Pockets in the microwave and ate them in front of the TV. Then he watched porn and scrolled the apps, hoping against hope he could meet someone nice or at least have an adventure. Instead he felt trapped in a bad video game he couldn’t win, so he typed and swiped until he was exhausted. Two glasses of ice cold Stoli right from the freezer and then it was bedtime.

But not tonight, Lisbon was waiting for him.

He took a shower and dressed, a baby blue Tasso Elba short sleeve, shirt, cotton pants and a Tasso Elba tan linen blazer. As he was packing, he’d googled, “what to wear in Lisbon” and got “smart, casual, understated. And wear nice shoes.” Perfect. That was his summer salesman uniform. Joe took the fig leaf filled elevator three floors down to the ripe fig lobby, then he was on the street, in the middle of a crowd waiting for one of the quaint yellow street cars. He looked to the left and to the right. To the right, the lines for the streetcars clogged the pavement with tourists and there was a hill with an imposing castle on top of it. A castle!

There was more light and air to the left and the balmy air carried a promising maritime tang. He walked toward the light, passing bakeries with creamy pastries front and center and those deceptively simple, addictive pasteis de nata, Portuguese custard tarts that he bought in Newark and used to eat by the dozen. He passed spotless, upscale pharmacies staffed by what looked like models in dazzling white lab coats. He heard the insistent but benevolent sound of rushing water. Was there a waterfall in the middle of the city?

One more block and the street opened up to a massive, brightly lit square, Rossio. Its size and unexpected beauty took his breath away.

Coming from the clogged roads and tight spaces of New Jersey, he wasn’t used to such expanse. The waterfall turned out to be two massive, ornate fountains at each end of the square, green with age and algae, occupied by bronze mermaids, cherubs, gods and goddesses either spouting the water or basking in its spray.

The pavement of Rossio Square, black and white tile in a zig zag pattern, looked like a disorienting optical illusion, a yellow brick road on a black and white TV. Entranced, Joe walked around the perimeter of the fountain, admiring its striking green inhabitants.

In the center of the square sat an imposing white marble monument, topped by a dashing soldier who gazed sternly over his domain, a book in one hand. He was King Pedro the IV, the plaque said. So, Pedro, his new friend, was named after a king. They both had curly hair and beards; that was something to talk about when next they met.

“It’s lovely,” an elderly British woman in a straw hat said to her elderly male companion. “But you did not want to be here in the 1500’s. This is where they burned heretics at the stake!”

“Heavens!” the old gentleman exclaimed and fanned himself with his straw hat.

The woman continued, “Auto da Fe is a Portuguese word, you know.”

“The savages!” he replied. “Now I should like one of those scrummy custard tarts.”

Joe had a vague notion of the Inquisition. Wasn’t Joan of Arc caught up in it? He stood in the middle of Rossio Square, drank in its historic splendor and wondered what to do next. He turned to the right and there was a wide street, Rua Augusta. It was a promenade, closed off to traffic, with a black and cream tiled sidewalk in a soothing geometric pattern and it was crowded on this Saturday evening. At its entrance stood was a life-sized green statue of woman in a full-skirted dress on a small pedestal that turned ever so slowly. Who was she supposed to be, the Joan of Arc of Portugal? On her turning platform, she was a foot taller than him and Joe stared up at her passive, mysterious face. Suddenly she moved her arms into another static position. Oh! She was a puppet. She opened her eyes and winked at him. Oh! He jumped. He’d never seen anything like her before. She had a green hat near the pedestal and Joe instinctively dug in his pockets but remembered he had no change, just three twenty euro notes and he’d have to catch her on the way back to the hotel.

After that, Joe encountered living statues every few feet: ballerinas, monks, knights, and he loved them--what dedication and technique! You would never see them at the Willowbrook Mall back home. Musicians held court every fifty feet or so: three young men in black capes playing guitars, a tall tan man pounding on a conga drum while his short, dark female partner played the marimba and sang a sprightly, hypnotic tune in a language he didn’t recognize and the most energetic, a wiry African man with bongos and a boom box who had strollers clapping along and dancing with him. A block away, an over-miked-and-amped rock band with flowing blond hair looked like they stepped off a 1987 album cover.

Four story pastel buildings with mini balconies on their second floors lined Rua Augusta. Every kind of shop took up the first floors, jewelry stores, aromatic bakeries, stylish pharmacies, a Zara, an H&M. There were several cafes smack in the middle of the promenade with dapper waiters who beckoned you to have a seat. A fragrant gravitational pull lured strollers westward where the last rays of light beamed over an enormous, glistening white arch.

The pedestrian traffic thickened as he approached the majestic white archway, the end of Rua Augusta, with the promise of something grand and gleaming on the other side.

He waited for a light to change behind a beautiful Scandinavian family: a tall, lean good-looking father with sandy hair, a tall, lean pretty mother with golden hair, a ten year old boy who looked just like his father and a seven year old girl who looked just like her mother. He gazed at the father’s beautifully shaped little ears and wanted to nuzzle them. With a resigned sigh, he took in the rest of the crowd at the curb. They were all families and couples, in glowing spirits and holding hands. On this beautiful street on this golden evening all these happy people were coupled up and only he was alone. The thought zinged into his heart like a poison arrow. How had he wound up so alone for so long?

He grew up in Clifton, New Jersey, an only child in a small ranch house. His terse, unpleasant father wasn’t around much and walked out one day after a shouting match on his wife’s 46th birthday. A teenager, Joe was left with his mother, Connie, a squat, tart-tongued hypochondriac. To protest her husband’s departure, she refused to drive anymore so Joe became her chauffeur: once a week to Stop and Shop, once a week to CVS for her meds, twice a week to various doctors for a variety of ailments. Her singsong lament of a voice leaked out of her like carbon monoxide; after a few hours you were nearly unconscious. Joe developed immunity over time, humming Johnny Nash’s I Can See Clearly Now to himself while Connie’s fumes seeped into his ears.

“I hope that stupid doctor takes me right away. That waiting room is so dingy.”

I can see clearly now the rain is gone.

“Are you listening to me?”

I can see all obstacles in my way.

“Yes, Ma.” Twenty, thirty times a day or more.

Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind…

“Pay attention when I talk to you!”

She liked to grab his wrist and twist it for emphasis with her surprisingly powerful claws.

Connie and Joe were always side by side at home on the couch, at the kitchen table, in the car or a doctor’s waiting room, sharing twice-chewed information about television shows, their neighbors, the family and Connie’s health in their high, plaintive voices. Connie had given up cooking too, so Joe learned how from an old Fanny Farmer and newer Nella Cucina.

They needed money so while still in high school, Joe got a job as a busboy at Il Marinello, a big barn of an Italian restaurant on Route 46. He enjoyed the hectic pace and friendly racket of the restaurant, refreshingly different from life with Connie. When a coked-up waiter had a meltdown in the kitchen one night, Joe was pushed onto the floor to take over his tables. He did a good job and graduated to waiter.

The manager pulled him aside one busy evening and said, “You sound like a pussy. You need to work on your voice and you’ll make more money,” Joe was mortified and went to the library where he found a book: How to Improve Your Speaking Voice. He listened carefully to news anchors and Jeopardy’s Alex Trebek and cobbled together his own Azzopardi Process: slow down, breathe, talk from your diaphragm and warm up with a mooing rumble that sounded like a buffalo stuck in the mud. He found a phrase that he liked and used it as mantra and a diction warmup I’m sending you a bottle of wonderful fundamentals. His tips doubled and when that manager quit, Joe took over.

His salesman from Continental Supply was a short sexy Cuban, Julio, who breezed in and out once a week to take Joe’s order. Joe envied Julio’s freedom. As a restaurant manager he had to contend with a drug-addled kitchen staff, flaky servers, sticky-fingered bartenders, lengthy, unconvincing excuses, and long hours. Julio pointed out that as a salesman he could leave all that behind and show up in a nice suit, write stuff down and be home for dinner every night. He already knew the gritty, grunt end of the business, why not try the glamour side?

Joe couldn’t afford to take chances; Connie needed him and this schedule worked for them. Pulled into Connie’s sour undertow, Joe’s days stumbled into years and his youth evaporated. He came home from the restaurant one afternoon between shifts and found Connie on the couch, staring bug-eyed at Oprah! She was dead and Joe, at age 39, was free.

Continental hired him and, after a slow start, he became a good salesman, using all the skills he learned on the restaurant floor: reading people and giving them what they want. His Azzopardi Process voice didn’t hurt either.

While Connie was alive there was the tacit understanding that if he had any social life whatsoever it would kill her. She never asked him what he was up to or how he felt so his sexual orientation was lost in the mist of her narcissism. He found a few outlets for quickies: adult bookstores, rest stops, some cruisy sections of parks but now with Connie gone, he could finally go to a gay bar and stay out all night if he wanted. He had heard about Feathers, a famous gay club from prehistoric times so he chugged some Stolichnaya courage straight from the bottle and went one Tuesday night. The crowd was a mix of very young guys and guys older than him.

The blasting music made his heart pound and he found a seat at the bar and took in the exotic sights. Joe liked the look of the thin, attractive young guy next to him. He had red hair and freckles, and when he spoke, he sounded just like a woman. Joe didn’t care, he imagined the boy’s pug- nosed profile on the pillow next to him. Joe’s elbow accidently touched his and the boy glanced at him, then glanced through him, scooped up his money from the bar and walked away. Wounded, Joe looked across the bar and saw his own unhappy face in a mirror there.

But--it wasn’t a mirror. A man on the other side of the bar had the same round face, the same little mustache, and a halo of brown hair. His shirt was red, and Joe had to make sure that his shirt was blue and he wasn’t seeing his own troubled reflection. His doppelganger held up a glass and toasted Joe, then he waved for Joe to come over and occupy the empty stool next to him. He introduced himself, Angelo Fiore, and bought Joe a drink. He was about thirty-five with big brown eyes and a blunt nose and looked a bit like a bulldog terrier. There was a perpetual frown around his mouth and his voice was sharp and scolding even in banter. When Joe got ready to leave Angelo put his hand on Joe’s knee and squeezed it. Then he squeezed his cock. They went back to Joe’s house. Angelo had a nice big ass. He moved in the next day.

Joe slogged through ten rocky years with Angelo. He was a hairdresser and a good one, but he kept losing jobs because of his terrible temper. Over time his voice grew more scolding and he lost the terrier and just looked like a bulldog. After the first couple of years, they didn’t have that much to say to each other, but Joe felt better being part of a couple, even an unhappy one. So what if Angelo lied about everything? So what if he thought everybody was stupid? So what if he didn’t pay his share of the expenses and snuck money from Joe’s sock drawer and wallet? Even though Angelo cheated on him regularly and blatantly, Joe vowed to stick it out.

One night Angelo picked a fight about a misplaced remote, stormed out and took off for Jersey City to live with his sidepiece, a chubby Venezuelan masseur. Joe was relieved. To get away from the lingering exhaust of both Connie and Angelo, he sold the house and bought the condo in Moonachie, three miles away. That was twelve years ago. There were a few dates after Angelo’s departure, then a bunch of hookups and then a lot of nothing for a long, long time. Instead, he fell instantly in love with every attractive man he saw and imagined romantic adventures with them that evaporated in a moment or two.

A horn honked, there was movement around him at the curb and Joe dropped back into his body and the present. The light had changed, and he followed the delicate ears of the good-looking young Scandinavian father toward the magnificent white archway. It was a balmy evening in beautiful Lisbon, and he was alone, yes, but he was free to explore. There was a plaque on the arch: Arco da Rua Augusta. The clock at the top said it was 7:20.

He walked through the arch onto an enormous, glorious square, Praca Comercio. In its center stood another huge bronze statue of a man on a steed while churning white bodies on the marble base below tried to reach him. Beyond the statue, there was even more square that ended with a body of rugged blue water.

But before that azure horizon, the massive plaza was generously sprinkled with booths sprouting rainbow flags. Some of the booths represented civic organizations but most repped gay bars from across the city and they offered beer, wine, cocktails, sausages and grilled sardines.

Joe had stumbled onto Lisbon’s Gay Pride celebration and the square was filling up with an army of vibrant gay people of every color and shape. Beautiful boys sashayed by him in wife beaters and short shorts, glamorous lesbians clustered in rings, butch dykes strolled hand in hand beside burly drag queens and slender trans teens. Every few feet Joe saw nondescript middle-aged men, just like himself. No, like his former pre-Lisbon self. And, so far, he was the best conventionally dressed man on the square. Joe took a deep breath and remembered his mission, to have fun and leave his boring old self behind.

There was a small stage up by the waterfront and a DJ in a skintight purple bodysuit spun mostly American dance tunes. Joe stopped at a booth from the bar Shelter and a beefy, bearded boy with glasses served him a gin and tonic in a plastic cup. He smiled a gap-toothed smile as he handed it over. The smile from the beefy boy, the good music, the crowd’s high spirits, and the first few sips of gin put Joe in a happy daze. Finally, for the first time in his life, this was exactly the right place to be and he stood, happily, right in its joyous center. Yes, time for another drink; he wanted to see that smile again and he got it.

Five people got up on the stage behind the DJ: a young woman dressed as a nurse, a young man done up as a sailor, a young woman as a nun, another boy as a priest and a slightly older man, dark haired with a beard dressed as cop. He seemed to be the leader and he looked like Al Pacino in Serpico. They were like a Portuguese Village People. The quintet started a sweet, synchronized dance routine to Pump Up the Volume by M/A/R/R/S. The Serpico guy looked to be about thirty-five and his dancing was looser and more confident than the others. Joe got another drink and another smile from the beefy boy.

People were dancing in front of the bandstand and in the center was a knot of pretty trans people with heavy mascara and spiky rainbow hair wearing identical pink tee shirts. The square filled, nudging Joe closer to the bandstand. He wanted to get a better look at the short and wiry Serpico who danced ecstatically: was he in ecstasy or on ecstasy? The sun set in an orange sky, bathing the crowd in its glow and Joe decided that Serpico would be his next boyfriend. He waved at the stage as his body rocked from side to side to the hot dance music. Serpico led the onstage ensemble down a few steps and they snaked themselves into a space right in front of the bandstand, ten or so feet from him.

Joe stopped dancing years ago after Angelo told him he looked like a gimpy elephant on the dance floor. But, right now in this lovely, joyful crowd bathed in sunset and high spirits, this, whatever he was doing, felt good. The music had infiltrated his body, and maybe he did look like an elephant, but he felt like a gazelle. He edged closer to Serpico, who was just within reach. Joe just wanted to be face-to-face with him and he hoped, like the rest of this enchanted night, in this enchanted city something good would happen. One more step.

His left foot landed on a piece of pineapple from a spilled Pina Colada and he skidded into the hairy back of a burly leather bear, who spun around, glared, then smiled at him, his teeth gleaming through his black beard. Joe realized he was drunk and that he was hungry too. Serpico had disappeared into the crowd.

Praca Comercio was mobbed now and he wanted air so he squeezed his way back toward the arch where there were some food stands. He got a delightfully greasy sausage sandwich and washed it down with a refreshing bottle of Sumol. There was a comparatively quiet spot with an empty table and Joe sat there watching more excited people entering the Praca. So he didn’t wind up with Serpico but he was finally surrounded by his own tribe and in its vibrant midst his belly and heart were full.

He woke up with a hangover and he wanted coffee, lots of it, so he headed to Rua Augusta where he found a congenial, uncrowded spot under an umbrella and took a seat. A dapper, older waiter was immediately at his side with an ornate menu. The waiter spoke English and suggested a Galao and Torradas. Why not?

The waiter returned with the Galao, a blend of espresso and steamed milk in a glass container and two large pieces of buttery golden toast, the Torradas, on a china plate. Perfect. A word popped into his head, civilized. Everything here was so civilized.

He called Pedro. Uh oh. His voicemail message was in Portuguese. Wait. Then it switched to English. Joe left a message and got a text in response.

Good to hear from you, my friend. I will call you later.

My friend!

Joe strolled down Rua Augusta, back to the splendid Praca Comercio where a cleanup crew was efficiently dealing with the aftermath of last night’s celebration. He walked to the water’s edge and googled his location, ah, the Tagus River, Rio Tejo with the Atlantic and a magnificent bridge tantalizingly within view.

“It is traditional for poets to refer to the entwining Tagus as Lisbon’s lover,” the google entry read. “The 25th of April Bridge was named after the date of the Carnation Revolution in 1974.” As he gazed at the ocean, Joe felt the tug Portuguese explorers like Vasco da Gama must have felt, that you were at the edge of the world and a powerful magnet, like horizontal gravity, summoned you eastward toward adventure--whether you could swim or not. He couldn’t.

Pedro called. Today he was with his family but he could give Joe a tour on Monday, and maybe Tuesday, if that suited him. They settled on 200 Euros a day. While Pedro spoke Joe could hear a young girl’s voice in the background, piping for her daddy’s attention.

Joe went back toward the hotel and saw hop on/off tour buses leaving from Figueira Square. He got on one with a pretty female driver who was, alas, not in a good mood. The bus trundled up a particularly wide, stately boulevard, Avenida de Libertad and then wove all over town, to the majestic Belem Tower and back again. The driver brusquely announced locations in Portuguese but didn’t explain them and her mike cut out after every other word. Joe had not been on a bus in years and felt nauseous so he couldn’t wait to disembark when it got back to Figueira Square. Between the bus and the hotel was a lively market with fragrant food stalls. Feeling better, he got a bowl of delicious shrimp and garlic, and washed it down with a couple of bottles of good Portuguese beer. Then he shuffled back to the hotel and took a long nap.

The gay pride celebration the night before whetted his appetite for more of gay Lisbon. He tried to remember the name on the booth where the boy smiled at him... Shutter? Sh…something. Shelter!

He googled it, “Cozy and friendly bear bar in a relaxed atmosphere.” He took a shower, got dressed and stepped outside where he hailed a cab and gave the gaunt driver the address. It seemed a long and twisty uphill route through narrow streets before they pulled into a tiny square surrounded by ancient buildings and there, tucked in the corner, was Shelter.

It was comfy and intimate inside on this late Sunday afternoon, four patrons at the bar, all looked to be bearish and in their forties. They sat separately and looked at their phones while they nursed the beers in front of them. There was no bartender to be seen so Joe stood awkwardly at the bar, instantly invisible to the quartet who glanced at and away from him when he entered. He heard clumping from a back room, someone coming up stairs. It was his young dreamboat from the day before wearing a lime green tank top from which his furry pecs and big arms bulged. He smiled, as if he might recognize Joe and said, “Ola.”

“Um. Gin?” Joe cleared his throat and asked. He saw a bottle of Hendrick’s behind the bar. “Hendrick’s. And can I have some cucumber with that?”

The bartender nodded. Under his scruff and muscles, he looked like an altar boy, with big brown eyes beneath his rimless specs. He disappeared into the back and Joe took a seat at the bar, a couple of stools away from the nearest patron. There was a stack of gay pocket guides on the bar and Joe flipped through one: bars, baths, masseurs, escorts, and parties. Was Lisbon the center of the gay universe?

The boy returned with his Hendrick’s and tonic. It was so full of thinly sliced cucumbers that it looked like an appetizer. How thoughtful! Now he loved the boy even more.

“This is gorgeous,” Joe said. He held out his hand. “My name is Joe.” The boy gripped his hand with a big, warm paw.

“I am Duarte.”

Joe tried to think of something to say but was stumped.

“I hope you enjoy,” Duarte said, and went to the opposite end of the bar.

 Joe smiled amiably into the empty space where Duarte had been just in case he returned momentarily. He sipped his drink and munched on the thin, crisp cucumber slices. He looked at the TV with its mismatched sound and video and looked down the bar at the other patrons who didn’t look up. How could he judge them? He wanted to hide in his phone too but this trip, this enchanted city was an opportunity for him to change. But without Duarte in front of him giving him a context and something to look at, he was just a chubby and lonely 56-year-old man.

No, none of that sad sack stuff tonight. The smooth gin seeped into and soothed his nervous system and the crunch of the cucumbers kept him alert. There were so many! His drink was now a glass full of invigorating cucumber slices and he happily crunched on them. When he got home he would patent and promote these gin-soaked cucumbers slices as an alternative to potato chips, refreshing and good for you.

Duarte set another gin and cucumber appetizer in front of him. Joe sipped happily, his chin comfortably in his hand in his new home away from home and he spaced out for a spell. Another drink magically appeared.

“Oh boy!” Joe blurted, startling the guy next to him who looked up and then right back down again.

“Buenos dias!” Joe said to him. He was drunk. What time was it anyway? He looked at his watch. There was no watch. Did he lose it or forget to wear it? What is time anyway? And who cares about it?

Duarte’s face swam before him. He looked so serious! How adorable. Duarte tapped his shoulder.

“My friend. You are very tired. Let me get you a taxi.”

Joe nodded. Duarte took his hand and led him out the door where a taxi was waiting.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“Moonachie,” Joe said.

Duarte eased him into the cab, shielding the top of Joe’s head against a bump.

Joe woke up at eight the next morning. He didn’t have a hangover, which he attributed to all those nutritious cucumbers.

Pedro called at nine and said he would be at the hotel by 10. Perfect! He knocked on the door at exactly 10 and his frame filled the doorway. Joe hadn’t realized that Pedro was over six feet tall. He had on a white polo shirt and jeans and a fresh, citrusy scent which Joe smelled in the crook of his neck when Pedro hugged him.

“What would you like to do today?”

“You take charge,” Joe said.

“Have you had breakfast yet?”

Joe shook his head.

The van was parked in front of the hotel and they hopped in and drove a short distance uphill past posh stores, shops and cafes that gleamed in the misty sunlight. Pedro parked on the street and it was a short walk to their destination, a Café, A Brasileira, with bright white tables and chairs, shaded by yellow umbrellas outside. In front of its ornate Art Deco exterior sat one of those living statues, a serious bronze gentleman in a hat, his leg crossed, one arm resting on a small table, a vacant chair nearby. If the hat was on his head, Joe wondered, where did he expect people to put donations? This city loved its statues, living and otherwise.

“That is Fernando Pessoa, Portugal’s greatest poet,” Pedro declared.

Poor guy, Joe thought. A great poet and he still has to perform on the street for money. Joe had some change but wasn’t sure where to put it.

Pedro rested his hand on the poet’s head and he didn’t flinch. This Pessoa guy was the best living statue he’d seen yet.

Pedro cleared his throat and recited:

“Nao seu nada Nunca serei nada

Nao posso querer ser nada

Aparte isso, tenho em mim todos os sonos do mundo.”

Pedro knocked on the poet’s head and there was a soft metal clank. Oh, it was a real bronze statue.

“What did you just say?” Joe asked.

“Oh, that is one of my favorite Pessoa poems. It translates,

I am nothing

I shall never be anything

I cannot even wish to be anything

Apart from this, I have within me all the dreams of the world.” Pedro said.

“I don’t read much,” Joe said, “but that is interesting.”

“A Brasileira began in 1905 and Pessoa came here sometimes, as did other artists,” Pedro said. “Pessoa had a quiet and sad little life and his writing is simple and strong.”

A quiet and sad little life, like me, Joe thought. I am nothing. Stop that!

Pedro squeezed Joe’s bicep. Did he read his mind? Was that for reassurance?

“Let’s go inside,” Pedro said. “It is like stepping into history.”

The striking interior was like an expensive jewel box, the floor composed of black and white tiles, with a long bar on one side and wooden tables against mirrored walls and rich ochre wooden panels. Imposing brass lamps hung from the ceiling, which, like most of the room was ablaze in red and gold with mahogany accents.

A waiter rushed up to Pedro, hugged him and kissed both his cheeks and they were led to a table in the back.

“I am glad this worked out for us today,” Pedro said. “I enjoyed our ride from the airport.”

“Me too!” Joe said.

“Are you very hungry?” Pedro asked, glancing at the rococo menu.

“I know what I want,” Joe said. “A Galao and Torradas. I had them yesterday.”

“Esplendido!” Pedro exclaimed. “Now you are one of us!” Pedro ordered the same thing.

“I would like to know more about you,” Pedro said. “Your surname is Azzopardi, right? I remember from the pickup sheet. And you are Joseph?”

“Everybody…people call me Joe.”

“Azzopardi? That is Italian, right? Does it mean anything?” “Don’t think so.”

“In Portuguese Joseph would be Jose. We pronounce it Ju-ze. May I call you that?

“Sure.”

“My surname is Pimentel. It comes from pimenta, the word for pepper, so my people must have been spice traders.”

“Pedro Pimentel. I like it,” Joe said.

“Tell me about yourself, Jose.”

No one ever asked him that before and Joe was flummoxed. He haltingly talked about his job and the contest that got him here. The words squeezed out slowly and Joe was embarrassed by his small life in front of this lovely man. I am nothing, I shall never be anything. He was quiet.

“What happened?” Pedro asked.

I am the most boring man in the world, Joe thought and then the words slipped out of his mouth.

“Oh, I thought that was my father-in-law,” Pedro responded, unfazed, his eyes twinkling. “But if you won a contest, you must be a very good salesman so you cannot be that boring.”

“Yes. I guess so.” Joe blushed. “This is a beautiful place. This is a beautiful city.”

“I like what you are wearing. You look sophisticated and comfortable,” Pedro said. “Not like the usual tourist.”

“Thanks!” Joe said. Sophisticated! No one had ever said that to him before. “It’s all Tasso Elba. They have a good range, stuff in my size and it holds up. They’re Macy’s private label.”

“Macy’s!’ Pedro exclaimed and he was instantly a little boy watching Home Alone 2 again. “I would love to visit Manhattan and stay at the Plaza Hotel! I would wander in Central Park, walk on Fifth Avenue, and go to Duncan’s Toy Chest. It must be very exciting.” His face glowed and Joe had never seen that kind of happiness in a real person, only on TV commercials.

“Yes,” Joe said. He saw the Plaza once when he and Angelo went to see the tree at Rockefeller Center. He wasn’t sure about Duncan’s Toy Chest though. Was that a real place?

“I’m gay,” Joe blurted.

“Wonderful. Do you have someone?” Pedro asked as their eyes met momentarily.

Joe shook his head.

“I’m surprised. You seem like a very warm and domestic person.”

Pedro’s phone rang. His ringtone was the theme from Star Wars.

“I am a nerd,” he said with a shrug. He glanced at his phone and frowned.

“You can take that,” Joe said.

“No.” Pedro said. “It will only…”

Pedro changed gears abruptly. “I would like to take you to Sintra today, a nice drive a few miles out of the city on the Portuguese Riviera. It is filled with palaces and castles. It is over the top, as you guys say.”

“Okay.”

The phone rang again and Pedro glared at it, his Home Alone 2 joy evaporated. He didn’t take the call and signaled for the check.

Pedro was quiet as they walked the colorful, crowded street to get to the van. Once they were inside it, Pedro looked at his phone and spluttered some Portuguese profanity.

“Are you okay?” Joe asked.

Pedro was quiet and stared out onto the street. “I am very sorry,” he said.

“No worries.”

“Sometimes being alone, as you are, is better than being with the wrong person, I think,” Pedro said. “My marriage is very…desafiador…”

“Huh?”

“It is very, um, shallenging.”

“Oh.” Joe didn’t know what to say. His conversations were all business-related small talk and nobody had ever said such a thing to him. They were on the road now, quiet as they drove along the coastline with the sparkling Atlantic Ocean on their left.

“It’s like it’s alive,” Joe said, nodding his head toward the roiling blue expanse.

“Yes!” Pedro said. “You are a poet at heart.”

“Me? You mean like that statue guy? Nah.”

“Yes. Pessoa has a poem about the sea. Um, something, something… There are no more reasons for loving, hating, doing one’s duty There are only the Abstract Departure and the water’s movement The movement of pulling away, the sound Of the waves lulling the prow And a large, skittish peace that softly enters the soul.

We could all use that large, skittish peace, yes?”

Joe could only nod. He’d only been in Portugal two days and he felt like he was on another planet, in another dimension. This gorgeous view, this charming, civilized country, this adorable, poetry-spouting man with his shallenging marriage, compared with Joe’s mingy life back home.

Suddenly his eyes burned. He never cried. He felt Pedro’s big, warm hand on his.

“Are you okay over there, my friend?” he asked.

Joe nodded out the window.

“This is your holiday. I do not want you to be sad.”

Joe nodded again and rubbed his burning eyes. This lovely man was holding his hand and comforting him in his soothing voice. It was too much. He wanted to run back to his safe apartment, plant himself on the couch, watch TV, eat a hot pocket and zone out into his cozy, benumbed Moonachie stupor.

No. Not today.

Joe composed himself. “I am okay. I’m sorry you are having a hard time.”

“Let us forget it. I am sorry it came up,” Pedro said with a shrug. “Cada pe dolorito, ha um chinelo rasgado.”

“Huh?”

“For every sore foot there is a torn slipper. Something my grandmother used to say.”

They drove in silence, still holding hands, until the landscape got rockier and twistier, requiring both Pedro’s hands on the wheel. Joe drifted into a cozy nap as they navigated rugged, dun-colored hills. Pedro pulled into a parking area and not far away a large white cross jutted out onto the mountainside while fierce waves crashed way down below. They walked a winding path filled with a busload of exuberant Polish tourists, the wind whipping them while the ocean frothed to their right. In the distance the sea and sky melted together into a slate blue horizon that suggested infinity and that there just might be a God and a heaven.

“Where are we?” Joe asked.

“Cabo da Roca. It is the westernmost point in all of Europe.” Pedro spread both arms as if he needed to supplement its grandeur. “Centuries ago, people thought that this was the edge of the Earth.”

Joe shivered a bit and wished he had a windbreaker.

“Oh, you are cold.” Pedro put his warm, furry arm across Joe’s shoulders and pulled him close. Its weight and temperature felt just right, and Pedro seemed his merry self again.

“I am sorry about earlier,” Pedro said. “I want you to have a good time. No more saudades.”

“No more…what?” Joe asked.

“Saudades. It is, um, a feeling of sadness, of, let’s see, missing something. It is very common in Portugal. We invented it!”

Pedro pulled out his phone and entered some text and then read: “Saudade or Saudades is a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one cares for and/or loves. Blah, blah, blaah…ah, here we go…one English translation of the word could be missingness.”

“Oh, ok,” Joe said, beginning to understand. IF he didn’t keep himself busy. IF he didn’t numb his feelings with TV and porn, there was an overwhelming ache at his core that he dare not explore.

“Yearning,” Pedro said, “I think that is a good word for it. Everyone has it but we Portuguese have perfected it. There is the story of the old lady who complains, I am so thirsty, so thirsty. Oh, how thirsty I am. A stranger gives her water and she gulps it down. She does not thank him, instead she says I was so thirsty, so thirsty. Oh, how thirsty I was! That is being Portuguese!”

“I get it,” Joe said and meant.

“Just listen to our music. Have you ever heard Fado? It is never good news,” Pedro said as they stopped walking. “Come my friend, we should go. You are cold and we need to get away from the end of the earth and into its warm center.”

They drove on to Sintra and visited the Pena Palace while Pedro acted the tour guide and recited valuable information that Joe had a hard time absorbing. Pedro knew the staff at the palaces and was greeted warmly with double-cheeked kisses by men and women.

Who were the Moors exactly and why were they so important? Joe wished he read more. Whatever he was saying, Pedro looked and sounded good saying it and Joe was touched that he was trying to give him his money’s worth. He had something that Joe had never experienced before. What was it?

Charm! It was his first time seeing charm in action up close and the effect it had on people, on him. There had been a drought of it most of his life and now its effects were disorienting and overwhelming--but most welcome. After just a few hours with him, Joe felt closer to this lovely man than he’d felt to anyone. They had even held hands which Joe had never done with anyone except maybe Connie when he was small and they crossed a street.

They entered an airy room with walls covered in gleaming white and blue tile that pictured elaborate stories from history. Joe thought the tile, without all the stories, would work in his bathroom back home. Then he imagined shaving at the sink while he listened to Pedro singing in his shower as he rinsed Joe’s favorite shower gel, Cremo All Season No.4, off his lean, furry body.

“What do you think?” he heard Pedro ask over the sound of imaginary running water.

Joe was startled. “Um. Nice,” he said. “I’ve seen this blue tile all around Lisbon.”

“Azulejos,” Pedro said. “Another thing we got from the Moors.” They found themselves alone in an opulent master bedroom, its gold-flecked walls absorbed and then reflected the sun pouring in through a large window draped in silk curtains. In its center stood a massive burgundy four poster, the kind of bed fit for a king, with matching, ponderous festoons dripping off its ebony bedposts. With the bed so close Joe felt very, very tired and imagined lying down on it with Pedro, the two of them in a tender embrace as they drifted into sleep. 

They drove back along the coast to Lisbon in relaxed, intimate silence and parked on Rua Nova da Almada. They walked down the narrow street and passed an old bookstore that looked like it belonged on a movie set.

“We are back in Chiado, not far from the Café Brasileira,” Pedro said. “This bookstore, Livraria Ferin, began in 1840. Do you read very much?”

“No. Just trade magazines,” Joe said.

“Oh. I love this place. I had a reading here last year.”

“Nice,” Joe said. What was a reading?

Pedro looked disappointed, then recovered. “Let’s have a drink.”

They strolled a block or so south of the bookstore to Nova, a sleek wine bar. The door was open, but the place was empty. The interior was woodsy, cool industrial chic with long blond plank tables and dark walnut shelves filled with hundreds of wine bottles. A short, sexy blond man with a goatee and a bodybuilder’s frame came out of the back and hugged Pedro, kissed his cheeks. Jeez, this guy knew everybody.

Pedro introduced him as Jose to the owner and chef whose name was Pedro as well. He ordered a bottle of alvarinho and some tapas. The two Pedros chatted intimately in Portuguese like old friends and the chef giggled like a schoolgirl several times until he headed back to the kitchen to prep for the dinner crowd.

“So, my friend, I hope you are feeling better,” Pedro said.

“Oh yes. Thank you.”

“You know, you are very relaxing to be with. You are very simpatico,” Pedro said.

“I think I know what simpatico means and it’s good, right? I feel the same.”

“You are in sales, yes? Like me. Remind me, what exactly do you sell?”

“Restaurant supplies, refrigerators, ovens, plates, glasses, well, everything in this place.”

“I suspect that you are good.”

“I am the best restaurant supply salesman in New Jersey,” Joe said, echoing what the Arctic Air sales manager said when he handed him the prize check. It felt good to say it out loud.

“Tell me about your work. What do you do at LusoCafe?”

“Sales and distribution to wholesalers. It is very boring, but it pays well enough.” Pedro sighed.

“Do you like it?”

“Do you like your job?”

“Yes. I do. I really do,” Joe was happy to say.

“I don’t feel the same way. I was, what is the word? Yes. Conscripted into service by my father-in-law.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. His daughter was pregnant, and they wanted to make sure the princess would not go hungry, so we were married and I went to work.” A cloud crossed Pedro’s face.

“Oh.”

“I love my daughter, Pia. She is ten years old and the apple in my eye. The rest is not so good.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Joe said, not sure if he was but he sensed Pedro’s distress.

“I am a writer but now I am too busy to write. Her family thinks I am crazy, Que tenho macaquinhos na cabeca.” He made the international finger twirl sign for crazy. “They think that I have monkeys in my head.”

“What do you write?”

“I write plays. Some of them have been produced. I like to write historical dramas. I would like to be on the West End and on Broadway. Do you go to Broadway?”

“Yes.” He and Angelo went to Phantom of the Opera years ago.

“My play A Death in Coimbra is about the murder of Ines, the mistress of Pedro the First.”

Joe lit up. “Oh, Pedro, the statue in the square.” He finally knew something!

“No. That is Pedro the Fourth. The first Pedro fell in love with his wife’s lady in waiting, Ines de Castro, and even after his wife died, he was not allowed to marry her. His father had her killed. The legend is that Pedro had her body placed on the throne. It is one of the great Portuguese love stories.” Pedro was his merry self again. His eyes really did sparkle.

“That sounds great,” Joe said.

“I can only imagine and write about such a grand passion, but I have never felt it. Have you?”

“No.”

“I feel it for life, for art, for people in general, for my daughter but not in that grand, romantic way for someone. I have had many romances but no great love.” Pedro took a sip of his wine and sighed. “My job is very tedious but sou preso, I am, um, trapped. Pia is in private school and it is expensive. I want to be independent, so I work with the hotel and do tours.”

“I understand.”

“That way I get to meet interesting people. Like you!”

“Thank you,” Joe said and blushed.

“The value of things is not the time they last, but the intensity with which they occur. That is why there are unforgettable moments and unique people! That is from Pessoa too.”

“I like it,” Joe said.

“My wife and her father want me to quit writing. They say tira o cavalinho da chuva. But no, I am just taking a break for the moment.”

“What was that thing you just said?”

“Oh, sorry. Tira o cavalinho da chuva means take my little horse out of the rain. To stop dreaming.” He took a swig of wine and brought his palm down hard on the table. “But I will not!”

Joe instinctively reached for Pedro’s hand, then withdrew it.

“Sorry, I am talking much too much.”

“I like listening to you,” Joe said.

Pedro smiled, “You are sweet.” He looked at his watch. “I will take you to another of my favorite places and then I must go home.”

They got in the van and drove through narrow, twisty streets up steep hills and parked near a small park where a walkway led to a spectacular view of Lisbon.

“Miradouro de Sao Pedro de Alcantara,” Pedro said waving his arm over the view. Lisbon sparkled below.

Pedro draped his arm over Joe’s shoulder.

“You see why I love my Lisboa so much?” Pedro said. “You probably feel the same way about New York, yes?”

“Almost,” Joe said. All this beauty, he thought, just because I did my job and sold a few refrigerators. Without the HC55 Merchandiser, he would not have met this sweet man and felt the warmth of his lean body, the sensation of his furry arm across his shoulder and the pain that tinged his charm and good spirits. Joe gasped as he realized that he never felt this way before. This was love, and this is what it felt like. Finally! His spirits soared and plummeted in a dizzying and terrifying freefall.

They got in the van and drove through a few more twisty streets and wound up in a quaint, tiny square that looked familiar.

“One of my favorite places,” Pedro said. It was Shelter.

“I know this place,” Joe said.

“Yes?” Pedro placed his hand on the small of Joe’s back. It felt like it belonged there, and going through life without it from now on was unthinkable. Once they parted, once he got back to Moonachie, he would go back to being that cavalinho, the sad little horse in the rain. How terrible love is!

Shelter was busier tonight, the music louder, and there were two bartenders, a sexy bear with gray hair and a goatee in a red tank top and there was Duarte, the sweet boy of all those cucumbers. Both bartenders lit up at the sight of Pedro and he hugged each of them and kissed them on the lips.

Joe was startled. Back in the states he would have been shocked that this married man kissed men at a gay bar--but this was a new world, a better world and he was immersed in it, for now.

“Would you like the Hendrick’s and cucumber again?” Duarte asked.

“You remember?”

“That is my job!” Duarte said with a smile.

“I will have the same,” Pedro said. They sat at the bar.

“Thank you for today,” Pedro said. “You are very relaxing to be with. You do not say much but I feel your good heart. Your voice is very soothing.”

“Thank you,” Joe sputtered. Yes, The Azzopardi Process!

“You are like vitamin B to me, good for the nerve endings. You can be sad, but your eyes have a cintalacao…a twinkle.”

Joe’s ears rang. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Have you made plans for tomorrow?” Pedro asked.

“No.”

“I can be available if you would like.”

“Yes! I would like that very much!”

“Formidavel!” Pedro said. “There is so much more to show you. And tomorrow there will be no tears. No saudades.”

Joe had polished off his gin and munched on the cucumbers left behind. Duarte set another drink in front of him. Pedro downed his and got another too. Shelter was cozy and inviting tonight, a pleasant mix of younger and older men involved in intimate conversations. Joe sipped his drink and smiled at it all, Duarte, the rest of the patrons, all of glorious Lisbon and its surprises. He was agreeably tired and agreeably buzzed.

“There is a free table by the window,” Pedro said. He took Joe’s arm and, with his hand on the small of Joe’s back, guided him to it. They sat and smiled at each other goofily.

“We have had a busy day,” Pedro said. “I hope you are happy.”

“Very,” Joe said. “Very, very. Oh, before I forget,” he took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Pedro. It was the two hundred euros, plus an extra hundred.

“Obrigadinho!” Pedro said and stuffed it, unopened, in his pants.

Joe looked at the placemat on the table, a picture of a man with a big black hat, Henry the Navigator, whoever he was. That made him happy too.

“I must leave soon. I want to get home in time to kiss Pia good night,” Pedro said. “I will take you to the hotel if you like.”

“Great!” Joe said. He tried to remember who Pia was. The murmur of Portuguese men’s voices blended perfectly with the old timey disco tunes from the sound system. Pedro shifted in his chair and put his hands on the table.

“Well, my friend,” he said.

Joe leaned forward.

“I know this is crazy…but… but I love you and I want you to come back to the US and live with me.” He took a breath and kept going. “Being with you makes me happy and I think I can make you happy. You said that thing about Vitamin B.”

Pedro’s eyes widened and he took a deep breath.

“But you know I am married and that I have a daughter, yes?”

“Yes, I do.”

Pedro set his drink on the table and looked down at the Henry the Navigator placement as if his answer was going to come from it.

Joe knew that this was the end of them that he had gone too far for the first time in his life. His body vibrated with anticipation and dread.

Pedro looked up and gazed into Joe’s face. He clasped both of Joe’s hands in his. He spoke slowly.

“You are a wonderful man and I am flattered by your offer. I am sorry to say I cannot honor it. You understand.” He leaned forward.

“Yes.”

Pedro released Joe’s hands and stood up. Joe braced himself for something, a scolding, a slap, or just the sight of Pedro walking out of the bar and out of his life. That’s okay, he thought. I did it. I said what I wanted to say and it’s not for him. All of my bad feelings have disappeared.

Pedro came to Joe and motioned for him to stand up.

He did.

He took Joe’s face in his hands and kissed him on the lips, a warm wet, gin and cucumber-flavored kiss. Their mustaches were perfectly aligned, and their combined bristles felt like they made sparks.

Pedro ran a big hand through Joe’s thin hair.

“Now, sit back down, my friend. Let us have one more quick drink before I go home. I hope we are still on for tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes.” Joe sat back on the rickety chair. He looked at Pedro and smiled. He was very, very happy.

                                                                        #