3 João

1902

A dirt-and-gravel road led southwest of Horta—past Porto Pim bay, the village of Laginha, and on around the island. When Carlos walked toward his brother’s home on the far side Monte Carneiro, it was after midday. The sun was high in the west. He’d left his valise at the American’s boardinghouse in Horta, but it was still slow going. The seeping wound at the back of his left knee ached, his cane rubbed against a blister on his left hand, and heat and fatigue dulled his vision. He shook his head, his shoulders; yawned; and kept going. Just two miles lay between him and his brother.

To Carlos, Faial appeared unchanged during his absence, except now and then a collapsed dwelling or rock wall. The blue channel ran between Faial and Pico, the volcano on one side, hills on the other, and the empty road stretched ahead, rising, dipping, rising again. There were few travelers—just a family of rock pigeons, two hedgehogs, and a skinny yellow hound. The hound had followed him from the outskirts of Horta, and now edged close to his heels. He turned, and lifted his cane.

“Shoo!”

The hound retreated a few yards, watching with a hopeful look its brown eyes and slowly wagging its tail.

Carlos adjusted his cap to cover the scar on his temple and walked on.

The coast broadened ahead, and a small pasture and house he knew appeared above the channel. A wall of the house had fallen and the roof had caved in. He felt a quick fear for João and Maria, but shook it off. It was no time to borrow trouble. The wind diminished, and the landscape grew quiet. He heard the hound’s shuffling gait behind him. He rounded a bend that opened onto rows of new-planted corn leading up a rise. Midway on the rise two shoulder-high hydrangeas marked a mountain path.

Carlos shrugged off his jacket in the sparse shade of the hydrangeas. Sweat ran down his face and arms. His knee wound itched, his injured eye itched, his entire body itched. He thought that he might be coming down with the grippe. He was as tired as he’d ever been, but perhaps, being so long at sea, he’d yet to acquire land legs. The path up Monte Carneiro was dry, dusty, and barely wide enough for a man or cart to pass. Orange-berry and faya bushes grew thick on the near slope, a grove of cedar farther up. The hound crept close, head so low its ears dragged the ground, and licked Carlos’s boot.

“I’ve nothing to feed you.”

The hound wagged its tail faster.

“And I must leave you here.”

As he spoke, Carlos heard the slow trot of hooves and trundle of wheels on the road. A donkey cart was descending from the top of the rise. As it drew near, he saw it was laden with red earth and driven by an old man. At the hydrangeas the driver slowed and turned onto the path.

He stopped beside Carlos and propped his thickly callused feet on the front board of the cart. He wore a battered reed hat and a homespun shirt.

“Olá, senhor,” the man said.

“Bom dia.”

“For you, perhaps, but not for me. Today my worst enemy is dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I shall miss him.”

The old man looked at the dog. “I suppose you and your dog need a ride up the hill.”

“It’s not my dog.”

“It seems to think otherwise.”

The old man pulled a piece of hard bread from a cloth bag and tossed the bread to the other side of the road. “I hope his teeth are strong. My wife’s bread is hard as rock.”

Carlos laughed. “Obrigado, senhor.”

“If you don’t mind a rough seat, you may ride with me. How far are you going?”

“To the home of João de Mello.”

The old man nodded. “I pass by it.”

Carlos climbed aboard the cart, sitting on the narrow platform. He rested his back against the old man’s back and his feet on the red earth. The man tapped the reins on the donkey’s back, and the cart lumbered up the path. Carlos viewed the downward slope of the island and the broad channel. Deep ruts lined the path and a wake of red dust rose behind the cart. There was no sign of the hound. Soon the driver drew under the shade of cedars and the air grew cool. Carlos felt the worst of his fatigue leave him and sighed out loud.

“The best part of a journey is the return home,” the old man said. “Are you returning home?”

“Not exactly. Tell me, how’s life here these days?”

The old man chuckled, and Carlos felt the reverberation against his back.

“Nothing changes—the King would tax the air if he could, the English and Germans run things, and the Republicans talk.”

The old man paused. “You’re not a Republican, are you?”

“And if I was?”

“I’d gain a new enemy!”

“I’m not a Republican,” Carlos said, laughing. “At least not yet. Tell me, if you can, how are João and his family?”

“Fairly well, now that he’s taken on the land lease left by his wife’s parents. Dolores is even more religious—you know how some women are at a certain age—the younger son grows older, the older son’s in Angola. And João, well, I’ll let João speak for himself.”

Carlos nodded. “A man knows himself best.”

“Some do, and João is one, though you may not think so on first meeting him.”

Carlos and the old man were silent a while, the only sounds sighing wind and tread of donkey hooves. The sun sank lower in the sky, if not blocked by the cedars, would have been full in Carlos’s face.

The old man cleared his throat.

“João speaks of a younger brother who left Faial, who some say drowned at sea. Are you that man?”

Carlos considered the question.

“No,” he said finally. “I’m not that man.”

“If I may speak plainly, you appear tired and ill. If the de Mellos are away, will you stop at my house to rest?”

“You’re very kind. I’ve had a long journey, but I feel much better since riding with you in this cart. Tell me, how are things with you and your family?”

The old man shrugged, his shoulders moving against Carlos’ back. “I don’t complain. I have land, health, and my wife. My oldest daughter and her children remain. Fever took the rest, but that was a long time ago.” He pulled on the reins, stopping the cart at a well-shaded curve in the road. “We are here.”

West of the curve, the land rose to a five-acre plateau—enough land to grow potatoes, tobacco, and corn and to graze a few cows and goats. A one-story house with whitewashed walls, brown shutters, and a red-tiled roof stood at the front of the property. Behind it was a cookhouse from which black smoke poured.

As Carlos climbed from the cart, the old man said, “I wish you good luck.’

Carlos reached out his hand.

“Thank you for the ride and the news and the good wishes.”

“Adeus.”

The old man inclined his head, and headed up the hill.

*

João was heavier, hair gray, muscular shoulders, chest, and belly bolstered by fat. He did not know Carlos.

“I’m sorry for the smoke,” he said, showing Carlos into the front room. “My wife’s baking pão doce for the festa.” He offered Carlos a wooden stool. “Perhaps you’ll have a glass of my spirits?”

He pulled a bottle and two chipped glasses from a carved cabinet next to a small altar. The room was well swept, the furniture polished. A bowl of marigolds sat beside the painted wood statue of the Virgin. Against the wall was a low divan with a blue-and-white embroidered coverlet. He filled the two glasses with amber liquor and hand one to Carlos.

Carlos drank deeply, then coughed and choked while João pounded him on the back.

“The first sip makes way for the second,” João said after Carlos caught his breath.

“Don’t you know me?” Carlos asked.

João’s brown eyes were clear and steady. Then they clouded, and a change came over his face. His brow contracted, and then lifted up. His eyes widened, and the blood drained from his face. His lips grew pale and moist, and he began to tremble. All at once he threw himself to the floor and cried out, “Holy Mother, it’s a ghost from hell!”

“João!”

João covered his face with his hands. “God help me!”

“Does a ghost drink spirits?”

João opened his fingers and peered through them, and then shut them again. “I swear I’ll go to Mass with Dolores every week. Please, Lord, make it go away!”

Carlos laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“For Christ’s sake.”

João grabbed Carlos’s left knee and gripped it so tightly that Carlos cried out.

“It groans like a man,” João said, looking up. “Is it really you?”

“What do you think?”

“Everyone says you’re dead.”

Carlos pulled his knee from his brother’s grip. “I may look and feel as if I were dead, but, fortunately or not, I’m alive.”

João raised his hand as if to strike Carlos, and then, weeping, caught him in a rough embrace. “I can’t believe it!” He released him and grabbed the bottle of angelika. “Another drink, some soup, some bread. Wait until I tell Dolores and Alex you’re here!”

“No, don’t tell them.”

“Why not?”

Carlos spread his hands. “It’s hard to say.”

“How so?”

“There’s much to explain. Today I saw two people I know well—you and, on the ship, Rodrigo, from the old crew—and neither of you recognized me. Please say nothing until I’ve rested.”

“If you stay in this house, they’ll know you.”

“I’m staying at the American’s boardinghouse. I left my valise there.”

“I’ll send Alex to get it.”

“I need time, but I wanted to see you.”

“And Maria? Have you seen her?”

Carlos shook his head.

“Then you don’t know—”

Carlos raised his hand. “Tell me about you, about the family. Your neighbor said Joaquim joined the army.”

“There was time to send him to away, but he’s stubborn, like you. You should ask the priest about Dolores—he sees her more than I do. Alex—” João smiled. “It’s terrible—he always has his head in a book! But he works hard, and no one handles animals the way he does. At least let me tell him you’re home. He remembers so well living with you and Maria when Dolores was ill.”

“I too, but, please, say nothing.”

At the door a light footstep sounded, and a freckled youth of fifteen years entered the room.

“The bull’s bolted through the hedge,” the boy said.

“Go on, I’ll be right there.”

The boy nodded and slipped out the door.

“He’s like Dolores,” Carlos said. “Red hair, blue eyes—”

“He’s a good boy.”

João brought kale soup and maize bread for Carlos and left him to rest.

After eating, Carlos spread his coat on the divan and lay down. Tired as he was, he was awake a long time. Memories crowded through him, images of Hawaii and of the Azores side by side—Oahu’s two long mountain ranges, and Pico Alto’s single blue cone; gray-stone Kawaihao Church in Honolulu, and the whitewashed whaler’s church on Monte de Guia; clear blue skies, and a dense wall of cloud. The scenes of Hawaii grew brighter with more detailed. In his mind’s Carlos eye saw the communal ovens of Portuguese-emigrant neighborhoods, heard the mixed dialect of Hawaiian, Japanese, Chinese, and English spoken in shops and fields, and smelled the burning of sugarcane. Two years before he went to Hawaii, the queen had abdicated to avoid civil war. In her wake powerful and well connected ruled, much as they did in the Azores. And as in the Azores, people argued the right and wrong of things. Still it was money and land that mattered most. Despite all that, Hawaii had promise that was lacking in the Azores. In Hawaii a common man had a chance to build a better life. Before leaving to help Alex with the bull, João had asked, “Why come back now?” Carlos did and did not know the answer. Something inside him knew—whatever it was that had prompted the journey and cast the name Lucas Almeida before him. Don’t think of it now, Carlos told himself. Wait to be shown the way, a way. Surely more than one way existed. Yet, he thought before sleep came, one would be sufficient.

*

“I came to right things,” Carlos said, “and make amends.”

He stood with João at the edge of the path. The sun hung low in the west, and the air smelled of cedar and smoke. The bull had been brought in safely, and Alex and Dolores kept from knowledge of Carlos’s return. Carlos had slept deeply and woken with a headache. He felt disoriented, empty, and hardly knew what to do next. Make his way to the boardinghouse, he supposed. Shadows fell onto the path, and cicadas chirped in the field. Afternoon sunlight gilded his brother’s face.

“Now I am full of doubt,” Carlos said.

João dug a small circle in the dirt with his toe.

“All these years and you sent no word?”

“I’m sorry.”

“We thought you were dead!”

“What would you have me do?”

João shook his head.

Something rustled in the field. João picked a rock from the path and held it in his hand.

“If I can, I’ll do it,” Carlos said.

“Go to Maria.”

Carlos stared at the lowering sun. “Tell me—I need to know—am I a murderer or not?”

“That was an accident—how many times must I tell you? You did everything you could.”

“I don’t know that’s true.”

“I know.”

Carlos stood silent, feeling the weight of the land, the approaching twilight. He wanted to get to Horta before dark.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“I’ve something else to tell you. You and Maria have a son.”

Carlos shook his head. “No, Alex is your and Dolores’s son, and Maria’s and my godson.”

“I’m not speaking of Alex.”

The buzz of cicadas was loud in Carlos’s ears.

“He was born in late winter—seven months after you left, three months after we were told your ship went down. He’s six years old.”

So, Carlos thought, I am a murderer after all.

“Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

A movement on the path caught Carlos’s eye. The yellow hound stole onto the path.

João threw the rock at the hound, and the hound ran into the grove.

“That damn dog’s been hanging around for a month,” João said. “He’s after my chickens.”

Carols looked down the mountain—past the cedars, the brush, the ribbon of road to the sea. It was time to go. He clasped his brother’s arm, released it, and set off down the path.