crimson velvet. It’s clear the men know of the steep inclines on the route to the basilica.
A plump woman raises her stringy daughter above her head and onto her shoulders. This is her chance to see the Holy Mother, the gift that Portugal sent with its fishermen to commemorate a relationship that has lasted more than four hundred years.
“She’s so small.” Manuel hears the little girl say this amid the approaching hum of a band.
So young to be disappointed
, he thinks.
Nossa Senhora
stands on her crushed-velvet base looking sadly down at the three shepherd children that kneel at her feet. They too are part of the statue, but only their necks poke through the mound of flowers as the crowd continues to pelt her with daisies and carnations as the men turn the corner and make their way up Cathedral Street. Many cross themselves as the statue passes; some even kneel and bow their heads. The pantomime adds to the reverence of the morning. Amalia’s fado—the songs thought to have been born from gypsy prostitutes—is respectfully silenced by Mateus as she passes. Mateus makes the sign of the cross. Manuel can’t cross himself. Behind the statue is the white top of the baldachin, sheltering the honored guests and priests from the sun. Four young altar boys struggle to hold its poles. They look concerned, afraid the wind will tear the canopy from their grip. Their faces betray their fear of failing. Manuel was an altar boy once and understands. He catches a glimpse of the men shadedunderneath, and in an instant that same fear that he felt as a child courses through him once again.
“Who is that, Mateus?”
Mateus, still leaning out the window with his arms crossed on the sill, forces Manuel back into the room. “Stay inside, Manuel. Get away from the window.” But Manuel resists and pushes his chest hard against Mateus’s hand. “That’s Commander Alberto Sousa of the
Gil Eannes.
” Mateus whispers through clenched teeth as if someone is listening. Manuel has never seen the commander. The commander’s eyes trace Manuel’s round face, take note of his blue eyes, and recognize the blond hair of the one they had called
Boneco
, the doll. Manuel Antonio Rebelo—found. It is then that Manuel thinks of the photographs and documentation that must have been splayed across the commander’s desk only a few months earlier. It would have been his responsibility to explain the loss of one of his men, and it certainly would have been his troublesome duty to travel to Manuel’s small town of Lomba da Maia and place a standard pewter cross in the hands of his mother. Manuel notes the commander’s excitement, glimpses his eyes darting about, looking for a gracious way out of the procession. But he is cordoned off by the thick rope of people that line the road, carried away and redirected by the wave of men.
“You’re not safe here any longer, Manuel. The commander could report you, have you deported.”
“Not him, Mateus.” With open palms Manuel presses Mateus’s cheeks hard and directs his view again. “The priest, for Christ’s sake. What is his name?” Manuel knows Mateus does not understand the desperation in hisvoice. He lets go of his friend’s smoothly shaved cheeks; the white imprint of his trembling hands remains.
“Padre Carlos, Manuel. He’s the parish priest at the basilica. If you would only come … Why?”
It isn’t the priest’s oversized horn-rimmed glasses that force Manuel’s memory, but the way his body favors his left side.
Padre Carlos would ask him to stay later than the other altar boys. When everything had been stored in the rectory and turned quiet, he would lock the door and demand that Manuel kneel at the upholstered prayer bench; kneel down and pray to Our Lady who looked at them both atop her wooden shelf.
“Pray with conviction! Close your eyes,” he’d whisper before reaching over Manuel’s shoulder and placing his glasses at the base of
Nossa Senhora
’s bare feet,
A plump woman raises her stringy daughter above her head and onto her shoulders. This is her chance to see the Holy Mother, the gift that Portugal sent with its fishermen to commemorate a relationship that has lasted more than four hundred years.
“She’s so small.” Manuel hears the little girl say this amid the approaching hum of a band.
So young to be disappointed
, he thinks.
Nossa Senhora
stands on her crushed-velvet base looking sadly down at the three shepherd children that kneel at her feet. They too are part of the statue, but only their necks poke through the mound of flowers as the crowd continues to pelt her with daisies and carnations as the men turn the corner and make their way up Cathedral Street. Many cross themselves as the statue passes; some even kneel and bow their heads. The pantomime adds to the reverence of the morning. Amalia’s fado—the songs thought to have been born from gypsy prostitutes—is respectfully silenced by Mateus as she passes. Mateus makes the sign of the cross. Manuel can’t cross himself. Behind the statue is the white top of the baldachin, sheltering the honored guests and priests from the sun. Four young altar boys struggle to hold its poles. They look concerned, afraid the wind will tear the canopy from their grip. Their faces betray their fear of failing. Manuel was an altar boy once and understands. He catches a glimpse of the men shadedunderneath, and in an instant that same fear that he felt as a child courses through him once again.
“Who is that, Mateus?”
Mateus, still leaning out the window with his arms crossed on the sill, forces Manuel back into the room. “Stay inside, Manuel. Get away from the window.” But Manuel resists and pushes his chest hard against Mateus’s hand. “That’s Commander Alberto Sousa of the
Gil Eannes.
” Mateus whispers through clenched teeth as if someone is listening. Manuel has never seen the commander. The commander’s eyes trace Manuel’s round face, take note of his blue eyes, and recognize the blond hair of the one they had called
Boneco
, the doll. Manuel Antonio Rebelo—found. It is then that Manuel thinks of the photographs and documentation that must have been splayed across the commander’s desk only a few months earlier. It would have been his responsibility to explain the loss of one of his men, and it certainly would have been his troublesome duty to travel to Manuel’s small town of Lomba da Maia and place a standard pewter cross in the hands of his mother. Manuel notes the commander’s excitement, glimpses his eyes darting about, looking for a gracious way out of the procession. But he is cordoned off by the thick rope of people that line the road, carried away and redirected by the wave of men.
“You’re not safe here any longer, Manuel. The commander could report you, have you deported.”
“Not him, Mateus.” With open palms Manuel presses Mateus’s cheeks hard and directs his view again. “The priest, for Christ’s sake. What is his name?” Manuel knows Mateus does not understand the desperation in hisvoice. He lets go of his friend’s smoothly shaved cheeks; the white imprint of his trembling hands remains.
“Padre Carlos, Manuel. He’s the parish priest at the basilica. If you would only come … Why?”
It isn’t the priest’s oversized horn-rimmed glasses that force Manuel’s memory, but the way his body favors his left side.
Padre Carlos would ask him to stay later than the other altar boys. When everything had been stored in the rectory and turned quiet, he would lock the door and demand that Manuel kneel at the upholstered prayer bench; kneel down and pray to Our Lady who looked at them both atop her wooden shelf.
“Pray with conviction! Close your eyes,” he’d whisper before reaching over Manuel’s shoulder and placing his glasses at the base of
Nossa Senhora
’s bare feet,
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