The gloomy cobblestone alley leads me to a rundown café with whitewashed walls and a glazed tiled raised patio covered with a grubby blue and white awning to protect the diners from the rain. There are several of them: weathered locals perched on battered wooden chairs around splintered wooden tables, drinking. The five tasting ports on offer are displayed in a neat row of shot glasses on a concrete plinth in front of the house beside a tattered menu. There is a golden yellow aged sweet white, an unaged white, a ruby, a ruby reserva, and a tawny port. The blackboard menu has a simple choice of either grilled chicken fillets or locally caught fresh sardines served with boiled potatoes, a bowl of tossed green salad, a soft fizzy drink such as coke zero or diet coke with coffee to finish.
There is a barbecue outside manned by a red-faced portly woman grilling meat and fish. An obese, bald red-faced man with a swarth of grey facial hair who I assume to be her husband runs in and out of the café armed with platters of salad for the cook to add grills off the barbecue. My nostrils fill with the smoke’s aromatic aroma. One of the tables is free. Peeling off my waterproof slip, I step on to the patio and out of the rain, spread the umbrella across the floor to dry, and take a seat. The seasoned drinkers sit silently sipping their glasses of port staring at me, appraising my comely figure. I nod my appreciation, flattered by their filthy-minded attentions. Even plainly dressed in a black sweatshirt and baggy jogging bottoms, I still look sexy. I force back a smile at them with my teeth firmly clenched not wishing to lead them on. They all nod politely at me, like furry dogs nodding on the parcel shelf in a car rear window, then they return to their drinks, their cigarettes.
A young man wearing a black string vest and torn jeans appears at my side to present me with the menu: a handwritten scrawl sealed inside a grease-smeared toughened polythene cover. The stud is rugged, well-built, dark-skinned, and extremely handsome. I can just make out the oval nipples on his hairy chest through the spyholes in his vest. Desperate to breed, I want to kiss them, tease them erect with the tip of my tongue.
He must be their adored son. I’ll adore him in bed tonight if he gives me half the chance.
‘Boa noite,’ he greets me, colloquially, distracting me from my latest fantasy about breeding men.
‘Boa noite,’ I reply somewhat eagerly for me, ‘Do you speak English?’
He fixes his eyes on the cobweb hanging off the canopy, ‘Of course I do, how may I help you?’
I study the menu, extending a perfectly manicured forefinger across the text, scoring a crease in its plastic cover with my sharpened fingernail until I reach the cheese dish which is inconveniently hidden out of easy view on the third page.
‘I’ve only just eaten,’ I explain, ‘I feel a bit full. I would like to sample your delicious ports. Can I have a small cheese dish on the side, please?’
‘Of course you can, senhora.’
Senhora, he just called me madam. How quaint!
‘Will there be anything else?’
‘No, that will be all, obrigado.’
He smirks and nods, appreciating the inevitably feeble effort at the language, ‘Ah! Obrigado, Ms.’
Much to my disappointment, the red-faced portly woman appears minutes later with the cheeses: a mixture of sliced golden hard with an orange rind and chunks of chalky goat’s cheese, and the glasses of port. I take my time savouring each sip, nibbling at a smidgen of each cheese after each gulp like an intoxicated mouse wallowing in seventh heaven.
I reflect on our first generation, the first brood of genetically identical twins, who haven’t matured, aged or changed at all since their protracted adolescences ended at the age of nineteen. One is due to go into labour any time. One has already bred successfully, twice: a pair of identical twins and a surviving twin, she’s fertile again, ready to breed. I think of the surviving twin struggling to find a mate in the city, a lonely heart inside a desolate, broken society searching for romance, and sex.
Involuntarily, I dip my hand inside my damp jogging bottoms, and rub the scar on my abdomen.
The bellboy must have seen the weal, gleaming under my chemise, when he ogled my breasts and crotch. Not that I’m bothered about my indiscretion. Joâo can be relied on to keep our little secret.
I celebrate them all, silently toasting the successes of Berenden so far, the future generations of ideal twins yet to be born, with my fourth and favourite glass of port: the distinctive ruby reserva.
Distinctive, like me.
To my surprise, the adored son appears at my side and asks, ‘How do you like our ports, senhora?’
‘All of them taste delicious, but I much prefer the reserva,’ I inform him, ‘Can I pay now, please?’
‘Are you sure I can’t get you a speciality coffee, our delicious handmade chocolates, a liqueur?’
‘Absolutely sure,’ I insist, growing impatient with his smarmy sales patter, ‘I’m in a hurry.’
‘Then that will be ten euros.’
I open my purse, take out a ten euro note and hand it to him, touching his hand. His hand feels soft, warm, pudgy, like a baby’s hand. He reaches under the table to retrieve my umbrella for me, just as I am standing up. I feel his hand lightly stroke my inner calf and thigh. I take it from him, tolerating his indecent assault, then I loudly proceed to tear his stupid café’s reputation to shreds.
‘Why, thanks for that. Next time I might try your freshly caught sardines. Except, they’re not all that fresh, are they? They’re frozen. Sardines are out of season until the end of May, aren’t they?’
‘Smart English bitch,’ he mutters within earshot, knowing damn well, there won’t be a next time.
I shrug on my waterproof and leave. Outside, it has stopped raining. A mild breeze blows off the river settling my mood as I descend the short metal gangway that leads to the busy riverside street on the southerly bank. Passing one of Porto’s many famous port cellars with the lower span of the bridge on my right, I weave my way past crowds of tourists queueing for a place to eat, stall-after-stall of market traders selling everything from cork-lined handbags, leather shoes and jewellery to dense woollen shawls, cotton shifts. Past buskers, ticket touts, a tethered line of ancient boats brimming with port barrels, a flotilla of illuminated night cruise boats, the new World of Sardines showroom.
Until I reach the girl.
The girl is sitting outside the entrance to some kind of nightclub. At least, that’s what I think it is. There are no neon signs, flashing lights or notices to advertise what might take place inside, just the girl seated behind a wooden table on a wooden stool in front of a pair of closed, weathered, olive cellar doors. The table is covered in wet glossy photo leaflets showing an impassioned young woman in a black dress standing on a beach singing, a bearded young man in a black shirt and an older barefoot hippy flaunting a starry black shirt. Both the men are playing guitars: a Portuguese guitar, I believe, and a classic Spanish guitar.
I take a soggy leaflet between my forefinger and thumb, hating its feeling, flip it over, and read:
An intimate concert with the emotion of Portuguese traditional music. A glass of port wine, a beautiful view, Fado with soul and tradition followed by an erotic surprise guest. Adults: 17€. Daily concerts: 17H30 and 19H00.
I check my audible wristwatch: it says 20H16, then I look at the girl, who speaks excellent English.
‘I’m too late, aren’t I?’
‘You are I’m afraid. The last show just ended. Would you like to buy a ticket for tomorrow night?’
‘I’m not sure. Are they any good, the singers?’
‘They are, very good,’ the girl assures me smiling warmly, ‘I promise you won’t be disappointed.’
She looks exhausted. Her soaked combed-back black hair has stuck to her scalp in the rain. Her plain off-the-shoulder dress is drenched, clinging to her ripe, young, tanned breasts. I imagine her standing perfectly still for me in the hotel bedroom as I peel off her soaking dress, bra and panties.
I make my move, ‘And the erotic surprise guest?’
‘She’s a surprise.’
I know that stupid.
‘I know that’ I say out loud, ‘but is she worth the price of the ticket?’
The girl’s drawn poker face brightens, her brown cheeks colour a little, ‘Oh, she’s unforgettable.’
I buy a ticket for the late performance, intrigued by the photograph of the sombre woman in black wading barefoot through the shallow seawater, her accompanists placidly strumming their guitars in the distance, the mystery surrounding the surprise guest, the attitude of the beguiling ticket girl.
Satisfied that she has stirred up all my adrenalin, I make my way back to the hotel, remove my make-up, cream my face, eat a second free custard tart, clean my teeth, brush my hair, put on my cutest little blue baby doll nightie, then I go straight to bed, to dream of tomorrow evening’s fun.
