Page 1 of The Little Porto Book Club

Chapter One

As a whodunnit enthusiast, I find the world one big puzzle to solve. With my keen observational skills, I see mystery on every corner. There’s the old woman on the historic Rua das Flores who cries as she hangs washing on the balcony of her second-storey apartment. Is it the monotony of domestic tasks that makes her sad? Perhaps her hands are chapped from the water, the harsh chemicals. It could be her tears are not related to laundry at all. I don’t stop to ask, not wanting to intrude.

I continue down the pretty street, known for its colourful architecture; rows of buildings painted in pastels of yellow, pink, orange, some façades featuring flamboyant street art. Here you’ll find Perspéntico, a giant portrait of a blue cat with piercing saffron eyes, painted by artist Liqen.

It’s a hive of activity, filled with goggle-eyed pedestrians stopping to take pictures. Street musicians play for tips while the café crowd linger over tiny cups of cimabalino. Porto is a vibrant, noisy city but if you’re like me and prefer the quiet, you can find that too in the many shady gardens dotted around the place like Jardim da Cordoaria, where I go now.

I’m endlessly intrigued by a man who’s always drinking port and warbling old Portuguese love songs as he lines up chess pieces while he waits for an opponent. His drunken singing, the way he chatters to the birds amuses me. His voice takes on a yearning quality when he croons these love songs as if he’s picturing someone, but who?

I should join him for a game. I’m exceptionally tactical and brilliant at chess. From the care he takes with his board I get the feeling he is too. But of course, I don’t, it’s not in my nature to chat to strangers no matter how many questions I have and how much I enjoy a game of chess. I make do with giving him a nod and continue my route home.

After I exit the park, I zig-zag up and down the mazelike cobblestoned streets. I pass the rambunctious little one-eyed dog zooming among the racks of clothes in a fashion boutique as if the furry creature thinks he’s in a garden. Does his exuberance not put customers off as he playfully nips at their ankles and darts behind dresses as if he’s playing hide and seek? I’m not sure I could ever shop there, knowing he is lying in wait to bite at my heels, but customers milling about seem to find it delightful as they bend to pat him. How did he lose his eye? Does he hate wearing a patch like a pirate?

These are but a few of the curiosities I find around Porto, a harbourside, hilly city that I explore on foot because my interfering mother insists I get some fresh air, as if stepping outside will cure all that ails me. News flash: it won’t. But as far as mums go, she’s arguably one of the best, so I do what I must to keep her happy.

Today, I pass Livraria Lello, an opulent bookshop full of charm, and famous for its red staircase, or so I’ve heard. It’s far too busy for the likes of me. I hightail it past chattery bookworms waiting in an orderly queue and walk towards our humble abode on Travessa de Cedofeita. Inside, I throw my keys in the bowl and aim to sneak past Mum to avoid the usual inquisition. If you know anything about Portuguese mothers then you know it’s an impossibility, but still I try.

‘Querida, how was it?’ She’s got the stealth skills of a ninja as she pops up behind me. Hope shines in her eyes, as she strangles a tea towel. I’m not sure what she expects will happen on these imposed walks. She insists I get fresh air, so fresh air I get.

‘It was the same as yesterday. And the day before that.’

The hope in her eyes dims. I’m disappointing her. Again.

‘Chess Man, though? Did you stop to play?’

‘No. I achieved the objective you—’

‘Achieved the objective – no, querida, the idea was that you’d stop for a while, chat to Chess Man, find you have some things in common like game strategy, reading, or I don’t know … a love of pastel de nata.’

‘You hoped we’d both love egg custard tart?’ At times, Mum makes no sense. She threatens I’ll lose my Portuguese citizenship if I keep announcing I don’t enjoy pastel de nata. No matter how much she protests otherwise, I can taste the eggs. They’re too eggy – I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels this way.

Mum sighs. ‘It’s not about the tarts, it’s about finding common interests. You said yourself the man looks like he has an interesting story, the way he sips port and sings soulful love songs. Sound familiar?’

‘Not in the slightest. I do neither of those things. What Chess Man needs is an equally skilled opponent.’

‘Exactly!’ Her face brightens. ‘And you fit the bill! We’ve been back in Porto almost a year now. I hoped you’d have made some inroads.’

‘Inroads?’ I frown.

‘Inroads into socialising, into participating in life outside the pages of a book. I won’t be around forever and – and …’

My chest tightens with dread. Now Mum’s sudden desire to get me out of the house makes sense. This whodunnit aficionado can read between the lines, even if the sentiment I won’t be around forever wasn’t obvious enough.

I panic at the thought of suffering yet another loss, but I steel my posture and blank my features to be stoic for my mother who clearly needs my strength at this juncture. It’s best to get straight to the point in case we end up in a crying heap.

‘Your diagnosis, is it terminal?’

She blanches. ‘My what?’

‘I assume you’ve been diagnosed with a terminal disease. Why else would you issue a challenge as hideous as participating in life outside the pages of a book?’

Mum emits a high-pitched cackle. It’s not the laugh of a mother imparting a death sentence. At least, I don’t think it is.

‘No, no, Viviane, I’m not sick. There’s nothing to worry about, but I am getting on in age and would like you to make some friends who aren’t fictional.’

Secure in the knowledge that my mother’s not about to leave this mortal coil, I’m happy to voice my displeasure at the ridiculous notion; being forced to make non-fictional friends. I don’t see the point. Whodunnits provide all the necessary stimulus I need. The stakes are high, the detectives analytical, logical, using their great powers of deduction to land at a satisfying coda.

‘I don’t have time to make friends right now. I’m in the middle of a ten-book series and I’ve made a firm commitment to that each evening.’ I’ve read The Quill Chronicles multiple times. They’re my comfort reads, as bolstering as a weighted blanket.