Page 10 of The Little Porto Book Club

‘Really?’ His chattiness is nervousness? Does that apply to lots of people then? The ones who appear so confident and happy are really feeling just the same as me? Surely not.

He nods quickly. ‘Really. I’ve been bumping into these people over the last few months, and while I don’t know a great deal about them, I get the sense they’re a bit like us too. It doesn’t take a genius to see we all chose a quiet café, off the tourist path.’

I hadn’t thought of that, but I don’t let myself get too far ahead. Too many thoughts buzz in my mind as panic looms. Is it panic, or is it hope?

‘Trust me, Viviane. I wouldn’t have asked them if I thought it would end in disaster.’ He maintains soft, steady eye contact that manages to calm me in the moment.

‘Who are they?’ I swallow, unsure if I should take Tiago’s sentiments at face value or if he’s only trying to soothe me.

He motions to a girl with kohl-rimmed eyes and black lipstick. ‘That’s Zephyr, who is enduring a particularly gruelling bout of existential dread.’

I steal a glance at the young woman and feel a pang of sympathy. ‘I’ve been there.’

‘See? You have something in common already.’ When Tiago speaks at regular speed his voice is rather mellifluous, like the kind you find on meditation apps. Quite grounding.

I give him a brief nod. ‘And the others?’

‘There’s old Albert, yes, he insists that’s his name to differentiate from his son, young Albert. He’s the grumpy plaid-shirt-wearing American grandpa who grumbles a lot about the state of the world and us “young folk”. He speaks his mind even if his ideas are woefully out of date. I’m guessing his outspoken nature has him sitting on the sidelines. Just last week he was unceremoniously booted out of the Porto bread baking club.’

I furrow my forehead. ‘What for?’

‘For claiming artisanal bread is the same as regular bread, but with better PR.’ Tiago lifts his palms in a what-can-you-do kind of way.

‘I see.’ Poor old Albert. ‘I’ve been ejected from social clubs too many times to count because facilitators are mostly fascists with God complexes.’

‘True, true.’ A laugh bubbles from his throat and he wears an expression of wry amusement, although I’m not sure why, because that wasn’t hyperbole on my part.

‘Then we have Thomas, the middle-aged guy by the curtain there. He’s always reading the same book, never seen him without it. Not sure what his story is but he seems very taken with his Crimean War hardback. Makes him quite misty-eyed, other times I catch him grinning at the pages. Must be an interesting battle, eh?’

I dart a quick glance to the book club, worried that there will be no middle ground between someone like me and Thomas. ‘My knowledge about the Crimean War is nominal at best.’

‘And that’s OK! We have a love of reading in common, that’s enough, right?’ The look Tiago gives me is so fervent it’s hard to push back. It’s as though he truly believes this book club is going to be a success.

Can I relate to these strangers? Find some commonalities like my interfering mother is always suggesting? Dare I imagine such an outcome?

‘Is it?’

Tiago, while terrifically overstepping his role as a member in the silent book club, has paid attention to the people around him and deduced that these strangers need friends. Does that mean Tiago also recognised that lack in me? I’m not like them though, not really. I choose to be solitary. Enjoying the company of fictional friends is intentional. You can’t ever be truly lonely when you have the company of a book. If all else fails, I’ve got Detective Amber Quill, not a more steadfast friend will you find, fictional or not.

Tiago pulls me back to the present. ‘You already know homebody Lucinda, who loves whodunnits too. With all that in mind, what’re your thoughts on meeting up once a week with them? Making a go of the Little Porto Book Club?’ There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, as if it all comes down to me. I can’t be responsible for extinguishing that hope, can I? But can I do this again? What if they turn on me, like groups have so many times before, when what I say or do is taken the wrong way? The infamous chilli-off battle royale at the community centre springs to mind.

That was a battle I was set to win, having done plenty of research about Scoville heat units to find which chilli topped the charts (the Carolina Reaper, if you’re wondering) and made an epic batch of slow-cooked pork using more reapers than the recipe called for in my efforts to win. Only to find out later that when chilli enthusiasts say they want it so spicy that ‘their eyeballs melt’ that’s only bravado talking. A few ambulances later, all was well. No one died or had long-lasting damage.

Those imported Reapers cost a pretty penny too. Inexplicably I wasn’t awarded the trophy, which I arguably earned for hottest dish of the battle royale. When I’d emailed to gently probe why this was, I was told in no uncertain terms that my membership had been rescinded. I was relieved honestly, but still, I wanted my gold statue.

Is that sort of thing likely to happen again? I calculate the pros and cons. So many cons. My mother’s face, how it falls when I fail. How she worries about me.

‘If they enjoy reading in total silence, I can’t see how it could be a problem.’ It’s a lie but needs must if I want to assimilate. If it goes awry, I will find another bairro. Another café. And I suppose my mother is an exceptional partner in crime when the situation calls for it, the kind you can trust will keep her mouth shut if a touch of comeuppance is required.

Tiago gives me a toothy smile. The guy really has such a range when it comes to facial expressions. Authors should study him. ‘Great. We’ll read for an hour and then spend an hour chatting about our books?’

I gasp. Which part of silent reading is he struggling to comprehend? We could just exist, silently, together. No expectations. No social niceties. No awkward, stilted conversations that go nowhere. Why does he have to ruin it? Does anyone really want the answer to ‘How’s your week been?’? I think not.

I cross my arms tight. ‘Is all the chitchat really necessary?’

‘I – uh – suppose not.’ Tiago’s voice is laced with uncertainty as he sends a glance the group’s way.

How to convince him? ‘Soon we’ll be talking about the weather, or worse, football scores, and it can only go downhill from there.’ I find it hard to feign interest in small talk and don’t understand the point of it. The effort required to follow along for it to have no meaning is bewildering.