Saga Lusa II

We stayed with Manuel, Gonçalo and their son Guilherme. They gave us their usual bread of tenderness to eat and made us feel at home. Gonçalo told me that their street used to be called Caracol da Penha de França. For those unfortunate enough not to speak portuguese, I agree to translate: the Curl of the Peak of France. It sounds royal, yet it's so simple and straight to the point. The street raises and falls like a mighty curl, and the penha is like a peak indeed, bursting out of the soil, full of buildings like teeth inside a giant's mouth. From now on, that's how I'll refer to Rua Marques da Silva. A curl is a curl, and it can move imaginations, like a spring. Pling!

Carla and Zé came for dinner on Saturday. Carla came with her two children. Zé came with his lovers, in absentia. We talked and laughed. We talked about our kids and our lovers, past, present and future, who knows... Then we laughed about our kids and ourselves, and our lovers, all tenses confounded. Zé said he doesn't want to fall in love. Ever again. It reminded me of that song by the Fine Young Cannibals, "never fallen in love with someone, never fallen in love, in love with someone, never fallen in love, in love with someone who's never fallen in love with. Did you ever fall in love? Did you ever? Did you ever? Did you ever?". And then my heart went on to sing, but so, so very low and softly, that I could barely hear it myself above the fray of his speech and the cars outside in the streets:

"Some day he'll come along, The man I love, And he'll be big and strong, The man I love, And when he comes my way I'll do my best to make him stay! He'll look at me and smile; I'll understand, And in a little while, He'll take my hand; And though it seems absurd, I know we both won't say a word! Maybe I shall meet him Sunday, Maybe Monday, maybe not, Still I'm sure to meet him one day; Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day! We'll build a little home Just meant for two, From which I'll never roam; Who would? Would you? And so, all else above, I'm waiting for the man I love!"

That's by George and Ira Gershwin, and I'm sure you knew. I didn't say a word. I just sang it softly with every breath I took. Can you imagine me not saying anything? I almost can't. Pourtant...