Chapter 3
Celia still hadn’t figured out who owned the little black pig. Pigs tended to roam the streets on Fogo Island, but each one had an owner. No one down here in the city of São Filipe recognized this pig, though, and Celia suspected its owner may have evacuated to another island. To quiet its squealing, she’d fed it some of her breakfast. Now, she couldn’t get it to leave her side, a very bad thing on her first day repairing roads.
She had never repaired roads before, only watched her mother and the other women as they labored, but it was her heritage. Her great-great-grandfather, the Duke of Montrond, had built the first cobblestone roads on the island. He had stopped at the Cape Verde Islands on his way to Brazil in 1872. How many times had her mother told her about the duke exploring all twelve islands, only to make his home on Fogo Island? Over one hundred years later, his gifts to the island still existed—the excellent roads, the vineyards, and the beautiful, colonial buildings.
But the gift he had left Celia, the gift for which her mother was most grateful, was a perfect blend of French, Portuguese, and African beauty. Celia may have done well enough in school. She may have had a way with animals and been a favorite with the neighborhood children. According to Mama, though, her beauty was her greatest asset. Celia groaned.
Mama had always said road work wasn’t right for an unmarried woman. It was too rough on the hands, and Celia needed to keep her hands young and smooth for when Manny returned from the university. It would have killed Mama to see Celia here shoveling dirt, a pig at her side.
Perhaps Mama had a point. Most men probably did prefer beautiful women, but Manny had already chosen her. He wouldn’t mind if her hands were a little worn out, especially if it meant she could make enough money to call him on the phone or send him a letter.
She patted the pocket of her skirt, where she’d carefully placed the strip of paper that held Manny’s phone number and address.
As she pried the smooth, black cobblestones out of the dirt at the edges of the road, she thought of what she would tell him. It had been a month since they lost their home, and she had finally found a place to stay, sharing a back room of the Catholic church with her mother and a few other women. She slept on the floor at night, but during the day, she rolled her blankets and her spare dress into a bundle and tucked them away so the youngsters could learn their catechism.
Her mother had run off to spend the day with her new boyfriend, Toon, a friendly man who hobbled about with a hunched back and one leg shorter than the other. He repaired shoes during the day and did not seem to mind having a woman around to water non-existent plants at the front of his square, bland-colored house in the city. So much for moving to a farm on Brava Island like the doctor had ordered.
The doctor had also warned her that Mama might never return to her normal self. She might never again look Celia in the eye and tell her she loved her. Celia might always have to play the part of mother, caretaker, provider, and guardian. Strange how so much responsibility made her feel more like a child—a lost child with no hope of ever returning home.
Thus, she labored for hours, splitting her fingernails and blistering her skin as she pulled up rock after rock. The other women chattered on, naming people and places that held no meaning for her while the little black pig slept in the shade of a nearby house. Feeling empty and lost, Celia recalled the legends of shipwrecked sailors, tossed by the sea onto foreign lands, their lives forever changed by one storm. They had probably felt much like she did, unprepared for these new experiences.
Once she and the other workers had cleared a large rectangular section of the road, she imitated them as they tromped down the earth, making it as level as they could and then used large, flat rocks to pound the cobblestones back into place. All the while, she wondered how soon they might be paid so that she could make her phone call.
Across the street and down an alley, she spied a bright green café with a wide-open yellow door. People streamed in and out. Surely, a place so popular would have a phone she could use.
It took several hours to pound down the cobblestones and then another hour to spread dirt over the top of the stones while the women chattered on about everything from what the fishermen had caught that morning to the advantages of asphalt roads. By the time the government man came to pay them, the sun was beginning to set in the west and young women were emerging from their homes carrying buckets to fetch water. The smell of grilled fish wafted through the air, making her mouth water.
With two coins in her palm, Celia ran to the café and scooted past the tables full of customers to the counter, where a young man called out to her. “No pigs in the café.”
She turned to see the little pig at her heels, looking up at her with shiny eyes. “Shoo,” she cried, leading it back between the tables and out the door. “I’ll feed you later. Just wait.”
She turned back into the café, this time making sure the pig stayed outside.
The young man grinned. “You must be one of the evacuees from the caldera.”
She hesitated. He seemed familiar, with his closely cropped hair and yellow soccer jersey, but she couldn’t place him.
“How did you know I’m from the caldera?”
“I haven’t seen you around here before. I’d remember such a pretty face.” His smile revealed straight white teeth, and the memory came back to her. He was André Vaz, the soccer player all the girls swooned over at the games. With the way he flirted and his prominent muscles, it was no wonder they liked him so much.
She took the paper with Manny’s number from her pocket and flattened it on the counter, avoiding eye contact. “I’d like to buy some bread and make a phone call.”
He sliced a piece of bread, placed it on a plate, and slid it across the counter to her. Then he leaned in, fingering the edge of the paper. “You’re going to call your boyfriend?”
“Exactly.”
She pushed the coins across the counter toward him, but he ignored them, leaning in so close that she could smell a heavy coconut scent, probably from the cream he used in his hair. “Let me guess. He’s on Santiago, or maybe Lisbon.”
She took a bite of the bread, chewed, and swallowed before answering. “Santiago.” She kept her mouth straight. He had no business asking so many questions. “He’s at the university. Now can I use the phone?”
Smiling, he came out from behind the counter. “Tell you what. I’ll let you use my personal cell for free.”
“Really?” This guy seemed much too flirtatious, but she could use the money, especially since the work had made her so hungry.
“Sure thing. I’ll even show you where to get the best phone reception.” He motioned for her to follow him and clapped his hand on the shoulder of a man sitting down at one of the tables. “Watch the place for me while I’m gone, Betinho.”
She hesitated, wondering whether it would do any harm to borrow his phone, but he continued out the door. Seeing he wasn’t going to wait, she picked up her piece of bread, snatched her paper off the counter, and rushed after him, running to catch up as he strode out into the alley.
The pig hustled along behind them and she tossed it a scrap of her bread.
André slowed his pace. “No need to rush. We might as well enjoy ourselves.” He stretched his arms out, gazing out across the horizon to the sky glowing gold and bronze in the west. For the first time in weeks, the air smelled clean, and as they turned down the avenue toward the older part of the city, they could see clear to the island of Brava.
As much as she wanted to enjoy the gorgeous scenery, it didn’t seem right to enjoy it with André. This was her time to call Manny. She patted the paper strip in her pocket.
They meandered through the historic part of the city, following narrow cobblestone roads in between the Portuguese-style homes with wrought iron balconies. Coming to a square in the middle of the streets, André tossed a coin to a street vendor grilling pork strips over a fire and held up two fingers. The woman filled a cup with the savory meat, handing it to André, who offered the cup to Celia. “This is the least I can do for you. You deserve more, of course, since you’ve lost your home, but I’m afraid you won’t accept anything more from me. I can tell you’re too independent.”
“Thank you.” She took the cup, the pig staring up at her, while the vendor filled another for André. “But I thought we were going somewhere to make a phone call.” She shook her head at the pig. “I’m sure you don’t want this.” She tossed it the rest of her bread.
André tipped the cup into his mouth, biting down on a couple of meat strips and chewing them slowly while he nodded. He didn’t answer until after he swallowed. “Relax. We’ll get there soon enough.”
She sighed, nibbling on a spicy strip of pork while they sat down on a green park bench. The meat was tender and delicious, much better than the beans and rice she’d been eating for the past few weeks, and she couldn’t help gobbling down the rest of what was in her cup.
André rested his arm across the back of the bench, as if they were already old friends. “That’s more like it.” She slid away from him, but he scooted closer, brushing his hand against the side of her skirt.
In front of them, in the middle of the square, a little garden of trees and bushes grew, their leaves stirring gently in the breeze. Children played nearby, kicking a soccer ball back and forth. Others stood in circles to play hand-clapping games, and Celia recognized their songs as some of the same ones she had sung as a child. Perhaps things wouldn’t be so different here.
When she finished, she patted her stomach and allowed herself to smile at André. “Thank you. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” He was the first person who had showed so much kindness to her since they’d lost their home.
He took the paper cup from her, wadded it in his fist, then walked to the vendor’s fire and dropped it into the flames. “Now to find the best place for your phone call.” He set off down the hill again, and she followed behind, both of them walking more slowly after their meal.
They stopped where the road met the edge of the black cliffs, overlooking the ocean. André pointed out the old prison to their left, a ramshackle building once painted yellow with its windows looking down upon the black strip of sand hundreds of meters below. The waves crashed into the shore below them as André handed her his phone. “This is where you’ll get the best reception.”
The pig grunted.
She reached in her pocket, feeling for the paper. It wasn’t there. She checked her other pocket, turning it inside out. Nothing. She checked both pockets again. “You don’t happen to have that piece of paper, do you?”
He opened his mouth, drawing his brows together. “No. Did you leave it at my café?”
How could she have lost something so important? She turned to retrace her steps. “No. I’m sure I brought it.” She scanned the cobblestones below their feet, searching for a stray piece of paper. It was her only tie to Manny. Zigzagging back and forth, she ran back the way they’d come. She asked anyone she found—children playing and old men sitting beside their houses—if they’d seen a scrap of paper. Over and over, they shook their heads and offered apologies. By now, it could have blown away in the breeze. It could be anywhere.
“We’ll find it,” André said, taking her by the hand. “Don’t worry.”
Manny wouldn’t be able to contact her, not when he had no idea where she had moved. She had to find that paper.
They retraced their steps to the square, where Celia gasped.
“What?” André asked.
“I hope we didn’t burn it in the vendor’s fire. I might have been holding it when you took the cup from me.” That would be the worst thing that could happen, worse even than losing her home. That piece of paper contained all she had left—her friendship with Manny and all her hopes for their future together. Her chest pressed down heavy, making it hard to breathe, and pain throbbed in her temples. She desperately tried to remember whether she took it out of her pocket while she was eating.
André shook his head. “I’m sure you didn’t burn your paper.”
“What if we did, though?” she asked, her voice trembling with disappointment. She had so wanted to talk to Manny today. She had needed to hear his voice, needed to hear him reassure her of his love. Without that hope, she felt more alone than ever.
“Don’t worry. He’s at the university. It won’t be hard to find him.”
The pressure on her chest lifted. André was right. If they couldn’t find the paper, she could still call the university. The people there would know how to find Manny.
They walked back the way they came, scanning the roads from side to side but finding nothing. By the time they reached the café, it was too dark to see a scrap of paper. “May I use your phone to call the university?” she asked André. It might take them a while to find him, so it would be best to start as soon as possible.
“You can,” André said, pressing her hand in sympathy, “but they won’t be open this late. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Come back tomorrow? Celia felt as if she might collapse from exhaustion, but she swallowed back her sadness. “Thank you,” she said, kissing his cheek as was the custom. “I will see you tomorrow.”
She longed to go home and fall into her mother’s arms, but the volcano had taken away that loving part of her mother, the part that showered her with soothing words. Manny was all she had now, and she would have to wait at least one more day to talk to him.