A Fado for the River

A FADO FOR THE RIVER.

A novel by

Geoffrey Wells.

PUBLISHED BY

Geoffrey Wells.

A Fado for the River.

Copyright 2011 Geoffrey Wells

ebook ISBN: 9781452433875

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Fourth Edition ~ January 2013.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Some characters, places and incidents refer to historical fact, and although carefully researched, the author makes no claim to historical accuracy.

License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

Acknowledgements:

My thanks goes to my wife Cynthia, not only for her enduring support, but especially because, had she not repeatedly encouraged me to write that story; my account of the Limpopo River tour that I took in Mozambique ten months before the Carnation Revolution, this book would simply not exist. She was my companion every step of the way, including illustrating the cover. This book is dedicated to Cynthia.

Thanks goes as well to my sister Jennifer who encouraged me, and to my parents Howard and Marjorie who provided valuable reminders and insights about Southern Africa.

Notes and on line information:

I am publishing this fourth edition of the novel because I have substantially rewritten chapters eleven through fourteen. I hope that the result gives the reader a better idea of Raf’s mental anguish. Also, all chapters are now named, and those that are set in Mozambique now have chapter headings indicating that country and date. In addition, I have made many random edits since the last edition. For readers who have read earlier editions, rest assured, the plot has not changed

In addition to Wikipedia, Portugal’s history is documented on the site of the Contemporary Portuguese Political History Research Centre (http://www.cphrc.org/) which provides a store of documentary material related to the history of the Portuguese Republic and its colonial past.

To keep informed about my work, sign up to my blog:

http://www.geoffreywellsfiction.com

Table of Contents:

Chapter 1 ~ Faded images.

Chapter 2 ~ The freighter. MOZAMBIQUE: APRIL 20TH, 1974.

Chapter 3 ~ The detective.

Chapter 4 ~ Sin Street.

Chapter 5 ~ A Fado.

Chapter 6 ~ Getting away. MOZAMBIQUE: APRIL 21ST, 1974.

Chapter 7 ~ The Journalist.

Chapter 8 ~ The left turn.

Chapter 9 ~ Taken. MOZAMBIQUE: APRIL 22ND, 1974.

Chapter 10 ~ The accident.

Chapter 11 ~ The commander.

Chapter 12 ~ Dinner with the enemy.

Chapter 13 ~ The assignment.

Chapter 14 ~ Excuses. MOZAMBIQUE: APRIL 23RD, 1974.

Chapter 15 ~ Leaving.

Chapter 16 ~ The attempt.

Chapter 17 ~ A First friend.

Chapter 18 ~ Port in Lisbon.

Chapter 19 ~ The cold case.

Chapter 20 ~ The river. MOZAMBIQUE: APRIL 24TH, 1974.

Chapter 21 ~ A wide swath.

Chapter 22 ~ Not so fast.

Chapter 23 ~ Faking it.

Chapter 24 ~ Number Twelve. MOZAMBIQUE: APRIL 25TH, 1974.

Chapter 25 ~ The documentary.

Chapter 26 ~ The last time.

Chapter 27 ~ It’s personal.

Chapter 28 ~ Cutting lose.

Chapter 29 ~ The monk.

Chapter 30 ~ A thali lunch.

Chapter 31 ~ A drink with the manager.

Chapter 32 ~ The vortex.

Chapter 33 ~ Breakfast.

Chapter 34 ~ The wreck.

Chapter 35 ~ Cashew wisdom.

Chapter 36 ~ The Ocean.

Chapter 37 ~ All exists.

About the author:

Blog:

~~~

In the Fado the gods return, hallowed and remote.

- Fernando Pessoa, 1929.

~~~

Chapter 1 ~ Faded images.

Those six days began badly. I am looking across the red tiled roofs of Lisbon, to the wharf on the Tagus River below. From the balcony of my hotel, I watch dockworkers unload cargo from an old freighter, reminding me of a similar vessel in nineteen seventy four. Had I not witnessed the unloading of those crates, I would never have heard Gida’s voice five days later, begging me from the street below to walk away from the blood that pumped out over the floorboards of that apartment above the bar.

Faded images churn up from the mud of the past four decades. The Saida exit signs that I noticed on my way out of Lisbon airport this afternoon, reminded me how she urged me to follow that green lighted sign down the stairs. The frenzied streets were thick with revelers; homesick troops drunk with hope of an exodus on the next ship out of Mozambique. They were destined for Portugal, their motherland; freed that night on the twenty fifth of April from the Estado Novo; the New State—of oppression.

Behind me the bedside phone rings.

Mitchell.

So, you made it.

The cell phone picks up the clattering of dinnerware over animated voices.

"Senhor Mitchell, it’s Elaina—from the festival committee. We are here at a restaurant. You can meet us?"

You know, I just got in, but sure, Elaina.

As I scribble the phonetic version of the restaurant name on the back of the envelope—the one the hotel receptionist handed me with my key card, I realize I cannot tell Elaina that I need to file a police report.

I’ll be there in about an hour.

My blood boils as I re-read the typewriter note inside the envelope: ‘You killed Gida. Pay me 500,000 dollar to keep quiet. I know what happen, Raffaello. You will get instruction.’

Sitting around waiting for instructions is not my style. I will report the damned note to the police. Finally, after all these years, here’s a lame attempt to blackmail me—in Portugal; appropriate, really justifying my avoidance of this a country over the years.

The mention of Gida leaves me questioning who else knew about those murders. I walked away with her, through those streets, past people who looked into our eyes, but saw only revolution. As irritating and tedious as this will be I must report it; I don’t need complications that will screw up my itinerary in this trip away from the office.

Earlier this week I made quick arrangements to fly out of Los Angeles, and took the all-nighter to Frankfurt. Through the haze of airport delays, security lines, planes lined up to take off and touch down, taxi and be towed, I kept reprimanding myself that I had not come to Lisbon to find Gida, but instead to find something—an idea, a concept, an angle I can develop into a program at the network. My role as juror of documentaries at the film festival will give me the chance to reflect; find the hook that I am looking for.

As I wait for a taxi, the sweet smell of flowering creeper on the façade of the hotel and the coolness and quiet of the street cautions me not to assume the charming hotel manager can be trusted with this information. The police will deal with it.

A taxi pulls up and within minutes the driver points to the blue Policia light over a doorway. I will not accept what is written on that note. I protected Gida. She is not dead. The explosion was effective in faking her death—or so I thought until today.

Chapter 2 ~ The freighter. MOZAMBIQUE: APRIL 20TH, 1974.

As I hand my passport to the guard at the Lorenzo Marques harbor security gate, I notice the fresh rubber stamped date from earlier today; Portugal. D.G.S.—Del. Em Moçambique, Posto De Ressand Garcia, 20 April 1974. ENTRADA.

The freighter Pastorius floats motionless in the black water of the harbor, its hull, rising up over us, walling out the night. Floodlights outline the cranes as we make our way up the scaffolding stairs, then across a gangway where the ship’s captain is waiting alone on the deck, his fingers locked behind his back.

My friend Steve and I are here with Paulo do Vincense, the general manager of East African Shipping, who shakes the hand of the captain.

Let's take a look at what we've got, he says.

Paulo, as he insists we call him, is easily six feet five tall. His starched white shirt sleeves, rolled off hairy wrists, flap in the harbor breeze. He is to be our host while here on our vacation, courtesy of Steve’s father, vice president of the bank that finances the shipping company. As he walks with the captain, his sea legs steady, we tag along, ducking and pushing through a labyrinth of bulkheads, galley ways and doors. We come out into a cavernous cargo bay, filled with wooden crates of all sizes. The center of activity is a forklift moving cargo onto a thick rope net attached to a massive hook. High above the hook and cable I see the arm of the crane, and above it the starry night sky. Vincense and the captain approach the men, leaving us where we stand. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they appear to be issuing instructions. The forklift driver lowers a large crate and pries off the top with a crowbar. He lifts something heavy out of the crate. I recognize a large moldboard plow with five blades attached—the kind that can only be pulled by a powerful tractor. As a young teenager on our farm, I learned to plow with the single blade version. The captain jots down numbers stamped into the steel.

Vincense explains the operation to us as he walks with us back to where we started on the wharf. It’s dark—the crane floodlights are off, and most of the trucks have left. A driver stands waiting next to a large cargo truck loaded with similar crates.

This man will give you a ride back to the penthouse, he shouts, as the driver starts the engine. I have some business to attend to here with the captain.

We climb into the front cab as he calls up to the driver, taps the door twice with his knuckles, and steps away. At the security gate the driver fidgets with the paperwork. The guard, a large man with a mean jaw barks at the driver, irritated that he has had to wait for this last truck. He orders the driver to get out and untie the tarp covering the crates. I keep silent as Steve watches in the rear-view mirror, and I listen to the voices clashing in their incomprehensible language.

He’s pointing at us, Steve says.

I lean toward him and try to get a look in the mirror. The guard comes around to our side of the cab. The moment he sees us, he seems to recognize us, though I have no idea why. Cracking a smile, he shouts to the driver to move the truck through the gate.

Steve looks at me and says, under his breath, That was easy.

I wonder what our presence has justified. Sergio, our driver, makes his way through crowded streets in the direction of the East African Shipping building. He is now jovial but knows very little English—which is a lot more than Steve or I know Portuguese. He shoves in an eight-track tape of Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Lady Land album. I nod approvingly and he grins from ear to ear, cranking the volume.

Crossing over several lanes, he swerves the truck to a stop half on the curb, opens the door and drops out of the cab. Shouting something at us, he heads for a bar. I see that we’re not far from the infamous Sin Street—which means we’re close to our building.

Hey, Steve shouts. Hey, Sergio, where are you going?

Sergio, never missing a step, acts out a charade of drinking from a bottle, his thumb pointing to his open mouth, and disappears into the bar.

What, we’re supposed to just sit here and wait? says Steve.

No, we don’t have to—he’s supposed to drop us at the building, but look, right there, we could walk, I say, pointing.

This is stupid. Let’s go.

I happily jump down from the cab and Steve sets off at a stiff pace in the direction of Sin Street.

Remember when the captain went into his cabin? I ask, running to keep up.

Sure. To get his cap?

Right. I saw the parcel that Paulo brought to the restaurant earlier—on a shelf above the captain’s bunk.

I saw it too. The same parcel; I’m pretty sure. So you’re wondering why Vincense didn’t just bring it with him, right?

Yes. Weird.

We fall silent in our own thoughts. I’m deliriously tired. The drive from Johannesburg earlier today, followed by dinner and then the tour of the Pastorius all seems too much, but here we are, venturing toward the crowded and infamous Sin Street. As we approach the water, the city blocks constrict and cars line the narrow streets.

We knew someone on the campus who told us about the street’s red light booths, cheap strip joints, and seedy discos—generally a fun place to be for twenty two year olds with energy to burn; and a good place to get a serious case of clap. But I’m primed after a night of being so carefully chaperoned, and I’m dangerously curious.

* * * * *

We met Paulo do Vincense earlier this afternoon, when we arrived. His black oiled hair, and a white, square, clean-shaven face, flashed a killer smile that measured up to everything Steve had said about him; his success building the business year after year for twelve years, and then along the way, marrying the daughter of the chief of police. Paulo was living the sweet life.

Welcome, he repeated shaking our hands with a hard grip. You drive okay? He peered at Steve with mock gruffness. Your Dad said you'd be here sooner. He slapped Steve on the shoulders. But he should not worry. Right? He winked at me, laughing. The penthouse is this way.

I never liked winkers, but he took our duffle bags—mine, a relic from field hockey days at high school, and Steve’s, a new bag from his gym where he works out three times a week. We carried our own backpacks and followed him past glassed-in offices; dark and spectral in the half-light from the evening sky outside. Halfway along the hallway he opened double frosted glass doors into a comfortable living room.

These are your quarters, he said, as he crossed the room to the windows, flicking open the curtains. We followed without comment, flanking him, and looked out across the sparkling lights of the bay. Threads of copper and silver light weaved through the city traffic below. Vincense left us to our separate bedrooms with bathrooms en-suite, departing with an invitation to dinner.

I’ll be right down the hall in my office, he said leaving us to settle into this new, sumptuous world.

I was ravenous. Energetic, I said, once I was sure he’d gone.

Oh yes—my Dad warned me about this gent, said Steve, smiling.

We're definitely set up to have some serious fun here.

I stood in the stinging, glorious down-flow of a hot shower for ten minutes, then threw on the most formal outfit I had—jeans, T-shirt and a jacket. Steve was still splashing around in his bath. I sat down on the couch, and quickly dozed off.

The rattle of the frosted glass doors woke me. A chic women in her mid-twenties entered treading softly and carrying a wicker basket. She had been working in the office next to Vincense’s, and now made her way to the living room bar, not seeing me on the sofa. It was late for her to still be on the job. At the refrigerator she kneeled, restocking it from her basket. She was graceful and not at all awkward as she crouched in her business suit. Her thick braided black ponytail shone in the dim light. I watched her concentration, then turned over noisily to make my presence known.

Hello, who are you? I said, as if I’d just noticed she was in the room.

She recovered quickly from the surprise and stood, smoothing her skirt.

Good evening. I’m Gida, she said taking a step toward me, but decided not to shake my hand. Mr. Vincense asked that I make sure you have everything. I was just checking the refrigerator. She smiled and her voice complimented her exotic Portuguese accent.

I'm Raf Mitchell. Thank you—you know, for making us so comfortable.

She smiled slightly. I know who you are—we were expecting you. You are our guests here at East African Shipping. We make sure our captains who stay here always enjoy their time in Lorenzo Marques.

I can see why, I said, looking around. But we're students, not captains . . .

I can see. Her response had an edge, then she adjusted with a hint of a smile, and looked down at her shoes.

. . . so we're easy to please. You don’t have to treat us like captains.

Students today, but the shipping magnates of tomorrow. So yes, I will accommodate you as we do our captains.

I laughed. Well, okay. Thank you.

She headed for the doors, and turned. Please excuse me. I must get back to work. I am the company accountant, next door to Mr. Vincense. Let me know if I can be of assistance. It’s nice to meet you Mr. Mitchell.

I was staring, watching her move.

Wait. I got to my feet. Listen, you’re obviously busy, we can look after ourselves, really. If it’s okay with you, we’ll keep the refrigerator stocked. Just tell us how to get to the morning market.

She listened to my little speech, designed to delay her. With a slight smile, or was it a frown, she said, You are on holiday. I will take care of it. She turned and left, sliding the doors closed.

I watched her figure blur on the other side of the frosted glass as she moved down the hall. I thought I heard her voice and office workers leaving for the day. The ping of the elevator. I thought about her poise and composure, but mostly I thought about what fun it would be to get to know her.

Steve appeared. Shall we? Who was that?

The accountant.

We headed up the hall to the corner office, where Vincense awaited us. He was holding a small package wrapped with bright paper and tied with ribbon.

You boys hungry? he asked. Also, our freighter just came into port this afternoon from Genoa. It's Greek-owned. I thought you’d like to take a look after dinner.

He herded us toward the elevator, taking long strides. A car and driver were waiting at the curb. I remember the small crowd waiting for tables outside the restaurant. He moved ahead of us through the crowd, and we scurried to keep up. The crowd parted for him, and the doorman held the door open and nodded at us as we entered.

Inside, it was crowded and airless and the aroma of garlic, sweat and cooking filled my head. There must have been thirty tables, spaced tightly, with people packed five or six to a table. Everyone was having a fine time and the noise level was high in the sweltering heat—adding an energy I am not used to in Johannesburg where, unlike here, all the faces in restaurants like this, are white.

A table was cleared and as we sat a waiter passed with a large tray of prawns or crayfish—lagostim here, their six inch tails standing straight up, bright red. Vincense explained that this was from the Angolan peri-peri pepper sauce with which they are doused. The waiter shouted ola to our host. Vincense responded with a stream of words, none of which we understood.

He bent in, pointing. I have ordered the same for us, he said.

After Steve and Vincense exchanged niceties about family and the weather, Vincense handed Steve a key that would give us access to the penthouse elevator from the lobby. I listened to the banter, knowing that Steve understood that he was being played for the favors of his father. But Steve artfully moved the conversation around from shipping to the civil engineering issues he was studying for his Master’s thesis. He tried to draw me into the chit-chat; asking whether the shipping supply was meeting the freight demand—an economics question tapping my major at the university. I noticed how he avoided references to my other major, political science.

Vincense excused himself, and walked without hesitation into the kitchen to deliver the package wrapped like a birthday gift. The busy waiter plunked down a breadbasket and a bottle of white wine onto our table.

Ah, vinho verde, Steve shouted happily above the din, holding up the bottle to introduce it to me.

"What about it?

It’s the sparkling wine of Portugal.

When Vincense returned from delivering the parcel, Steve and I were consuming the extremely fresh six-inch prawn tails. Taking hold of one by the tail, I bit into the succulent meat. As the peri-peri chili set my mouth on fire, I tasted the olive oil, lemon juice and garlic that filled not only my mouth, but it seemed, the entire restaurant. I broke a chunk off the fresh round broa loaf, sinking my teeth through a thick crisp crust into a soft center, rich with the flavors of corn and yeast. I took deep sips of wine that bubbled with tangy effervescence in my blazing mouth, and bit again into the broa, its dense taste soothing, as I went back for another punishingly succulent prawn, repeating the cycle of mouth-on-fire-prawn, douse-with-vinho, soothe-with-broa. My head swam as I became lost in the joyous ritual. Vincense was on a roll.

Look around you. These are the people that make this country great, he blurted out, looking around the room at the mixed crowd; the hip couple chatting, a family diving into their dishes, tourists getting drunk, like us, businessmen dabbing their lips with napkins as they spoke, women friends laughing. Everyone feels good. He too was enjoying himself, perhaps, partly due to the gift he’d given to someone in the kitchen.

To Mister Lorenzo Marques, he said raising his glass.

Who was he? Steve asked.

A Portuguese trader who first explored the East coast in the 1500’s. He looked from my face to Steve’s. History lesson, he said, raising a pointed finger to the pressed tin ceiling, ignorance is a dangerous thing. This great city was founded in 1887 in the tradition of the Europeans. He wiped the sweat from his neck and face with the linen napkin. But my friends, make no mistake, this can easily go away, understand? There are forces now, he continued, answering our question before we asked, —terrorists will take all this away. As we sit here, they are plotting to take us down.

I did not expect this rhetoric here in Mozambique where race relations were supposedly more relaxed. I assumed, relative to conditions for non-Europeans in South Africa, this was paradise. Here we go, I thought—the familiar paranoia of the Black Threat, or in South Africa’s Africaans language, die swart gevaar. I caught myself from saying something, and changed the subject.

The women here are beautiful.

Oh yes, he said with a look of whimsy in his eye. It's like Europe. You boys interested in women?

He tore at a prawn. We shrugged. Of course we were. He reached for the bottle and poured all around.

You should stay away from Sin Street. You'll pick something up you won't like. Talk to me if you want girls. I'll set you up at a good house. He chuckled as he made his way through the prawn, wine and broa. Clean girls from Europe, he said holding up a juicy pawn to his oiled lips, then pointed to the empty bottle and called to the waiter for another.

I didn’t miss his meaning about picking something up, and I was also not reassured that European girls at one of these houses would be squeaky-clean—though my heart rate quickened at the thought. We both nodded seriously at him, which I am sure he took as thoughtful consideration of his offer; and maybe it was. I was trying to read him. Is he Mr. Vincense, Steve’s dad’s manager, or is he Paulo, our buddy?

You let me know, okay? he said.

Okay, we nodded. At some point we finished our meal and left the restaurant. I was moving in a haze when we entered the car and headed for the harbor to embark into the tour of the Pastorius.

* * * * *

Think about it, I say to Steve, as we enter the main thoroughfare of Sin Street. "Tonight he gives us a tour of the Pastorius. What’s the rush? We’ve just arrived! He needed to make contact with Antonopolis, the captain. This Vincense guy seems really eager."

He’s trying to impress us, says Steve.