Page 52 of The Little Porto Book Club

She reddens. ‘I might have had a few glasses at lunch. It’s my day off.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘I had a few drinks on the rooftop.’ The rooftop garden is a communal area with a few dusty tables and chairs where tenants hang out and admire the view of Porto. It’s unusual for Mum though, she prefers to go to little wine bars with her siblings or with my many cousins. Perhaps she’s doing her best to find friends too. ‘Be careful if you go up there again.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Careful of what? You’re not going to lecture me about drinking too much and falling off the roof again, are you?’

Actually, that’s exactly what I’d planned on doing. ‘My concern is your inability to walk on such scandalously high heels.’ When we first moved in, we’d been invited for welcome drinks, which were as horrendous as they sound. Mum insisted though. And I honestly worried with all her exuberance she was going to tumble right off the roof and pancake herself to the pavement below.

Mum’s got a hang up about her diminutive size and insists on wearing heels she simply cannot walk in. ‘And be careful wandering along the hallways around here. I’ve seen that naked man on the landing three times now. Last time I chased him to the stairwell and hit him square on the butt with my drink bottle. Bet it left a mark.’

Her voice is a whisper. ‘You assaulted him?’

‘I sure did and I’d do it again.’

‘What did he say when you hit him?’

‘Ouch.’ What an odd question.

‘Querida, it’s just I thought you knew after we had that talk that day—’

‘I’m not in the mood for a lecture about whether it’s morally right to whack someone’s butt. If the man chooses to spend his days running around the landing in a flimsy towel, like he gets some kind of thrill being an exhibitionist, then that’s on him. Don’t wear heels if you drink on the roof. I’ll be back later.’

She calls out to me as I’m closing the door, ‘You look beautiful, Viviane. Radiant.’

Radiant? That’s not a word I’d usually associate with myself. Brilliant, yes. Analytical, of course. Intelligent, a given. But radiant is new. Beautiful too. Dare I consider that life in Porto is having a positive effect not only on my mental wellbeing but my physical health? And that’s all because of my new friends at book club, specifically Tiago, who needs me more than I need him, if only to stay alive. Or that’s how I explain it away anyway …

I walk along Rua das Floras, with its pretty pastel façades in every hue, fragrant flowers spilling over balconies, blue and white azulejos catching in the sunlight.

Midway down the street, I stop again under the shade of a magnolia tree, paper thin petals falling, seesawing in the breeze. The old woman sits on her balcony, washing flutters like it’s waving. Her eyes are dry of tears as she stands and turns, slowly unpegs each garment and folds it before taking down the next. Today she has the radio playing, she’s singing along. My heart lifts. When her task is complete, she reaches for a coffee mug, there’s a faint smile on her face as someone calls out to her from the balcony next door. The neighbour is just out of my line of sight, but it sounds like a younger man. Has she made a friend? Did he hear her crying and offer support? She leans her back against the railing as she chatters away. I can’t help but tear up, hoping that she’s found blessed relief, that comes, slowly, just when it feels like your heart can’t take it anymore. Sadness is like the seasons, it shifts with time, and patience.

I’m thankful, in a way. I’d been considering approaching her, worried that her tears would never dry up. A neighbour being there for her is better than me, a stranger, asking if she needs a ‘listening ear’. If our roles were reversed and a stranger knocked at my front door offering ears or any other body part I’d beat them away with our cordless vacuum. It simply isn’t done.

I continue along the street, feeling a little lighter. Happy in the knowledge that every dark patch is eventually replaced by light. I’ll never know what caused her tears. All that matters is they have stopped. For now, at least.

At Jardim da Cordoaria, Chess Man sings lustily as he polishes chess pieces. He takes a break in the song to drink from his bottle of port.

I give him a tentative wave. Bolstered by the success of surviving (with a view to thriving) at book club, part of me is tempted to stop and play. Plus, he did attempt to save me from a bag snatcher, how was he to know it was Tiago?

Mother’s voice rings loud and clear in my mind about Chess Man needing a skilled opponent. What a talent the woman has, to be able to meddle, even when she’s not around.

What have I got to lose, except the game itself, and my skills are rather exceptional in that department. I approach him. ‘Boa tarde. I’m Viviane. I’m a formidable opponent if you’d like to chance your hand?’

Chess Man stops warbling and motions to the seat opposite. ‘I’m Nuno. Nice to meet you. Sit, please. I’m formidable too.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ With the amount of port he sips, I’m doubtful his mind will be working at full capacity, but I don’t mention that in case he takes it the wrong way.

We get the game underway.

There’s no time for small talk (hallelujah), and Chess Man did not lie, he’s a brilliant player, phenomenal even. I break a sweat I’m concentrating so intently. I’m at risk of losing, which sends a thrill through me. I never lose at chess. Never.

‘Checkmate,’ he says, giving me a quick, shy smile.

There is no way to save my king and I’m forced to concede the game.

A frustrated screech escapes. I’m not a sore loser, although I’ve had little to no experience with being defeated like this. I take a moment to sift through the feeling to find it’s electrifying. I’ll have to hone my skills for future games with Chess Man. I hold out a hand to shake. ‘Congratulations, Nuno. You are indeed a formidable opponent.’

‘Likewise. Thanks for not beating me up.’