Page 56 of The Little Porto Book Club

Once everyone is settled in, I steal a glance at Thomas who is still reading a novel secreted within. What is it that makes him smile like that, as if he’s conjuring a precious memory, or reliving a special moment? My whodunnit senses tingle and I just have to know. I have to solve at least one mystery.

I cough and clear my throat, get up as casually as I can, and slink past Thomas on whisper quiet feet. I must’ve inherited my stealth ninja skills from my mum. When I get close, Thomas pulls the book to his chest so I can’t make out the book inside the book. OK, maybe I’m not as stealthy as I first thought. Dammit. Another mystery floats into the ether. There’s nothing to do except to order yet another pastry and go back to my seat and read. Soon enough I slip into the familiar comfort of The Quill Chronicles, although now I’m a lot more dubious with how quickly clues appear, like magic. In the real world, it’s sadly not the case.

My focus drifts and I find myself dreamily staring at Tiago. He’s reading book five of The Quill Chronicles and is totally immersed in it, the corners of his mouth pull up slightly, like he’s enjoying it, and why wouldn’t he? Detective Amber Quill is the queen of witty banter. Zephyr reads her weathered copy of Dostoevsky, a frown marring her pretty face. I make a mental note to offer her some other options … ?

Old Albert closes the cover on To Kill a Mockingbird. ‘What a great novel! Although, there are plenty of rumours that Truman Capote actually wrote it. What are our thoughts?’

I’m tempted to research the psychology of why people are drawn to conspiracy theories when they always seem to be so ridiculous that they’re not remotely believable.

I don’t want to get into a debate with Albert because his eyes are bright with challenge, as though he’ll relish it, but this is Harper Lee’s reputation he’s sullying. Harper Lee. I’m conflicted as more debate will eat into our silent reading time, when we’ve only just managed to contain the friction, but out of respect for the writer, I must voice my disapproval, since she isn’t here to advocate for herself.

‘Excuse me, Albert. Healthy debate has its place in society, but besmirching Harper Lee’s name doesn’t sit well with me.’

‘Yeah,’ Zephyr pipes up. ‘Diminishing her authorship by implying that a man wrote her multimillion copy bestselling book is pure misogyny. And what a shock, coming from you.’

Albert’s expression is one of delight and he turns to me. ‘So, you don’t believe Truman Capote wrote any passages of To Kill a Mockingbird? Not even a sentence or two; one old friend helping another?’

I consider it. I’ve heard the whispers too. Not just about Harper Lee but many of the greats, where stories about them morph and change shape over time, based on conjecture, gossip, or envy maybe, and a lack of proof either way.

‘Early on, Truman Capote was a great friend to Harper and would likely have read her drafts and given feedback, as no doubt she would have done with his writing too. We don’t hear any whispers that Harper Lee helped shape his body of work, do we? And you’d have to ask yourself why that is …’ I say, willing him to join the dots.

Zephyr exhales a heavy sigh as if she’s bone weary. ‘We’ve got a clear case of gender bias; once again men’s contributions to women’s work are overstated. The female writer’s book undermined, nay, in doubt, which is annoying AF to hear over and over again. Would we have the same outcome if the roles were reversed? Spoiler alert, we would not. If the roles were reversed Harper Lee would have been credited for making him tea and biscuits, or something domestic.’

‘How long do you sit in front of your computer hunting for literary conspiracy theories, Albert?’ Tiago asks, genuine curiosity in his eyes.

‘Hours and hours. Don’t get me started on Shakespeare, that was a rabbit hole I did not expect to go down … very interesting indeed.’

There’s a collective groan. ‘Gives an old man something to do, eh?’ He’s positively glowing, like sharing such wild conjecture has made his day.

I train my gaze on old Albert. ‘You like stirring the pot. You enjoy it.’

He grins. ‘Makes life interesting. Although now I’ve got a much more exciting – I mean, ah important – subject to work on. Finding our friend. Although, my wife is questioning why I keep closing the laptop any time she comes in the room. She’ll probably accuse me of having an affair but “what happens at book club stays at book club”, right?’

‘At least some of us got the memo.’ I eyeball Tiago who is entirely at fault for the fake dating fiasco thanks to his loose lips.

Zephyr goes back to her book. I’d love to swap it out for one of my mum’s sweet romantic comedies and bring some laughter into her life. Book choices matter, it’s why there are mood reads. I went through a stage of reading romantasy and had to shelve the genre because I felt a whole-body sadness that dragons weren’t real and I’d never have one to call my own, despite having the requisite skills to ride one. Exceptional muscle tone, from being made to walk the hilly Porto streets for the last interminable year, and the sassiness required to keep the beasts amused when they become curmudgeonly.

Tiago and I exchange a glance, it’s suspiciously flirtatious on his part. Or am I reading the cues wrong, which I’ve been known to do? Perhaps he can’t help how expressive his features are and the way his every mood is so obvious. He’d be a terrible poker player. His warm smile does provoke a tingle down my spine, but I am only human. I quickly shake it away.

When book club ends at the official time, we huddle close and speak in hushed whispers. ‘Let’s meet by the Half Rabbit and make a plan,’ I say, the idea just forming.

‘The half … what?’ old Albert asks, his white bushy eyebrows knitting.

‘I got you, old man, follow me,’ says Zephyr with a laugh. They bamboozle me, these two. They go from bickering about gender issues in one breath, to best buddies in another. I surmise that old Albert and Zephyr offer each other something they’re desperately missing – the friendship like that of grandad and granddaughter, perhaps?

Chapter Thirty-Four

We meet by the Half Rabbit, a fabulous street-art installation by Portuguese artist and activist Bordalo II. The half sculpture, half mural is made from recycled materials, and is bright and vibrant, with an underlying message about overconsumption and the environment. It’s a great meeting spot because it’s by the river and everyone knows where the Half Rabbit is. Everyone except old Albert, that is. Artwork with meaning makes me fall in love with Porto all over again, as if I am becoming part of the fabric of the city, slowly but surely as I rebuild my life. Rebuild who I am without my father.

We find a spot to sit, out of the way of people taking selfies in front of the artwork.

Even Thomas joins us which I’m delighted to see. He sits off to the side, battling hard to hold his Crimean War hardback high. He must have got to some kind of plot twist because he is riveted. As a fellow bibliophile I know that desperate-need-for-answers expression anywhere. Thomas lets out a volley of laughter that catches us all unaware.

We hastily hatch a plan for the next stage of our investigations. Being scribe I duly write them in my notebook of mysteries:

Zephyr and old Arthur: figure out who João Silva is and see if they can find anyone connected to him that might share who he really is.

Viviane and Tiago to do a deep dive and see what the world wide web provides about this man and if we can find any link to Lucinda.