Spring in Cascais breathed life into every corner, with jacarandás and bougainvillea painting the town in hues of purple and red. Amidst this vibrant bloom, my enigmatic photographer neighbor seemed everywhere, her smile lingering wherever geraniums blossomed or new leaves stirred from their winter slumber. Her polite nod was my first welcome to our villa a month ago, a gesture that now felt familiar and distant.
One grey afternoon, she found me convulsing on the kitchen floor, a pot of foxglove tea spilled beside me. Her eyes brimmed with concern. “Epilepsy,” I muttered as she helped me up, though the truth was darker—I had hoped to disappear into nothingness that day.
She took my trembling hand and said, “Let’s get you some air.” She guided me to a quaint café overlooking the bay, where the gentle sea breeze starkly contrasted my swirling thoughts.
“What brings you here, my quiet, reclusive American?” Her voice was soft yet probing, her eyes searching my face as if trying to unearth the secrets I held tightly.
I managed a faint smile, attempting to mask the turmoil within. “You invited me for uma bica and dois dedos de conversa,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light despite the heaviness in my chest.
She raised an eyebrow, a sardonic half-smile playing on her lips.
“My university sent me here to work on my translations, to research,” I began, my voice wavering. “I’m a literature student. They thought a change of scenery might inspire me. Supposedly, I have Portuguese roots, so why not return to where it all began?” I took a deep breath, the weight of the true reason pressing down. “But honestly, I saw it as an escape from the chaos of my old life. I needed to get away, to start anew.”
“Escape,” she murmured.
“There’s more…” I continued, drawn in by her disarming smile. As I looked at her, I felt dizzy, my heart pounding. The dull ache behind my eyes threatened to crest and crash.
“It sounds so maudlin, vocalizing it. I was in something with someone. It may have been love. For me, it was love, and then it was no more. I was and am devastated.”
I wanted to pour my soul out to her, to say that he ended it so abruptly, leaving me shattered and without closure. He was my advisor, older and wiser, and he captivated me in ways I never thought possible. What we had was so beautiful. And then – like a thunderclap on a clear summer day – after almost a year of bliss, he told me he couldn’t throw away his marriage for me. He said that the weight of our secrets and the forbidden nature of our relationship had become too much for him. Yet, when we started, he confided that his marriage was a sham and I was his everything. He gave me a bouquet of wildflowers and my heart melted. After that, we danced around the edges of something more, always meeting in secret, planning to keep our affair hidden until the divorce. When he said he couldn’t do this anymore, I told him I couldn’t carry on without him. He dismissed my words, saying we were having fun. I reminded him of his promise of leaving his wife. He stonewalled me and said it would be best for me to go and get my head together. I broke down that day in his office and just sobbed. Maybe I was too needy, crying over a casual fling like he said. A couple of days later, he said I needed to apologize because I confused a few indiscretions for something more. He suggested I go to Lisbon and do some in-person manuscript research; he had it all arranged. Just as I convinced myself he was right, I saw him with a first-year student; it seemed so familiar – that warmth in his eyes, the glow to her skin as she stepped out of his office. I felt so cold. Perhaps I was too vulnerable, or was not pretty or smart enough. My world fell wholly and utterly apart. Instead, I said, “He is gone.”
“A love lost. I’ve never known love.”
I frowned, feeling the weight of her words. “My advisor saw me struggling and suggested I come here.”
“And here you are. And if I may, where you almost ended it because a married man played you for a fool. They never leave their wives. It would be best if you didn’t blame yourself,” she said, her words cutting through my confusion.
I felt a prick at the base of my skull. I never said either. I gave her a quizzical glance, my mind racing.
“I don’t… didn’t follow,” I stammered, struggling to piece together her insights.
“You have the sacred disease… the tea helps, I know. But, friend… that tea. I saw the foxgloves… too many and you’re on the boat across the River Styx. And your advisor manipulated you, plain and simple. He is grooming another,” she explained, her voice gentle but firm.
Her words came as a jolt, piercing through the numbness that enveloped me. My heart ached as she shook her head.
“I know. My loneliness in this place is crushing, suffocating,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “I thought coming here would help, that I could start over, but instead, I exiled myself to a place I knew nothing about. I hoped the change would heal me, but it hasn’t. Instead, I’ve felt like a ghost, drifting through each day. The solitude here only amplified my grief, my sense of being lost. Every corner of this beautiful place seems to mock me. I didn’t want to fight the emptiness growing within me anymore. Foxglove tea, my familiar balm, seemed the easiest way for me to check out.”
Perhaps I imagined her telling me about my advisor, but she said, “The hurt he put you through is unforgivable. From you he got what he craved: intimacy and attention, no? He was not honest with his intentions, and he has been doing this for so long that you are but one link in a very long chain. Your naivete deserved respect, something which he recognized and took advantage.”
My stomach lurched. “But, how? How did you know?”
She paused and shook her head, her eyes softening with sympathy and determination. “I’m glad I saw you,” she said quietly, squeezing my hand. “I can’t imagine the pain you’ve been through. You’ve been so brave to come here and try to heal.”
I looked away, feeling a lump forming in my throat. “I don’t feel brave.”
She tilted her head, catching my gaze. “You are. And you’re not alone. Let’s go out tonight,” she suggested gently. “I’ll show you the fun you can have in Lisbon. Sometimes, a little company can help more than you think.”
I hesitated. “I can’t. I’m no fun.”
She smiled warmly, her eyes full of understanding. “You might have fun in spite of yourself. And I have a friend you must meet. Say yes?”
Meeting her earnest gaze, I felt a flicker of hope ignite within me, fragile yet undeniable. “Okay,” I whispered, a tentative smile forming. “Yes.”
“But first, I have a little something for you,” she said. “Hang this behind your door.”
She handed me a small bouquet, and said as in prayer while she touched each flower, “Espiga, pão. Malmequer, fortuna. Papoila, amor. Oliveira, paz. Alecrim, saúde. Videira, alegria. Happy Quinta-feira da espiga, day of the Cereal Ear. Ascension Thursday.”
I nodded thank you.
She paused and smiled, “I almost forgot – camarinha jelly. Perfect for a broken heart.”
❦
