Barnacle Love by Anthony de Sa Read Free Book Online Page B

builds to a crescendo of clapping, grunting, and laughter. Mateus smiles and raises his hands in thanks. He pours the men another glass of
vinho.
The sailors are from the
Gil Eannes
, which came through the Narrows and entered the harbor of St. John’s that morning. Over the next two days, while the fishermen and all of St. John’s prepare for the city’s festivities, Mateus’s boarding house will be home to some of them.
    “Manuel, come here,” he motions with his arm.
    Manuel leaves the few remaining dishes to soak in the sink. “Yes, Senhor Mateus.” Apart from cleanliness, it is the only other condition Mateus insists on; there is to be nothing other than English spoken between them in his house. Mateus insists it is the only way to be a success in this country.
    “Are the rooms ready for these men?”
    “I make them ready this morning.”
    “I prepared them this morning. P-r-e-p-a-r-e-d.” He looks at Manuel and is quite pleased to hear his pupil softly utter the word and phrase a couple of times to himself.
    “Good. Now I’ll play my
guitarra
—you sing.”
    “I no sing fado.”
    “Are you Portuguese?” Duarte holds Manuel with his rodent-like eyes. “
Açoreano?
”
    Mateus picks up his instrument again. It is Manuel’s cue to leave—he notices the twitch of Mateus’s L-shaped sideburns that thin to a pencil point before meeting his perfectly trimmed mustache—and he moves down the corridor. Mateus knows the story, how Manuel was left for drowned and that he was saved by a fisherman and his daughter. He also knows of the betrayal by the girl called Pepsi. He smiled when Manuel told him. It had angered Manuel to have his notion of love met with laughter. Until Mateus came home the next day with a coffee-colored liquid inside a bottle;
Pepsi-Cola
, the label read. Manuel tasted it and didn’t like it very much, too sweet. They had both smiled. Mateus knows of the struggle, how Manuel worked his way down the tinyoutports dotting Conception Bay until, somewhat exhausted and disillusioned, he settled in St. John’s and into Mateus’s home on the corner of Duckworth and Cathedral streets.
    Manuel does not have the security of official papers and it is best that no one else knows he is here. The commander of the
Gil Eannes
—Portugal’s official representative in the North Atlantic—is in St. John’s. He is powerful, respected, and feared. Unlike some, he does not derive pleasure from the challenge of making the crooked straight. That is work. What he reveres is maintenance and control. The idea that Manuel drowned, his bloated body never skimmed from the sea’s frothy surface, is a blemish on his record. Even though he was not the
Argus
’s captain, he was responsible for all of the men signed to the White Fleet.
    After five months Manuel’s room remains uncluttered, empty of anything that is his. There are a dozen or so letters addressed to his mother that may never be mailed. Manuel is uncertain of what it is he wants to say to her, whether he wants to remain. The letters were written at a time when the world lay sprawled in front of him, so full of hope and promise. He still wears his father’s gold crucifix and his old fisherman’s sweater. There is a single bed with a patchwork quilt, a simple night table (the drawer doesn’t open), an infuriating small lamp with a yellowing shade that he tilts to stop the bulb from flickering, a chipped stand-up ashtray, and a strong wooden chair—the last two things he drags every night to his window for a cigarette. Manuel doesn’t want to own anything—to feel the burden of having to care forthings. He’s young. He wants to be able to pick up and leave, go anytime.
    Manuel can hear the tinkling of Mateus’s
guitarra;
his trembling vocals spill over from the kitchen window. Mateus never knew his father. At least Manuel has an image of his father firmly imprinted in his head that occasionally flings itself to the forefront of his thoughts.