After the War: A Novella of the Golden City (4 page)

Joaquim patted his shoulder. “You were raised in a prison, Alejandro, and learned young to pick pockets. To my knowledge, you haven’t done so since, save as a parlor trick. It’s always been a point of pride for you that you no longer steal. As for profession, you’d begun your studies at Coimbra. You had some intention of becoming a writer, but then the war broke out.”

“A poet?” he asked, hoping the answer was
no
. “Or a newspaper writer?”

Joaquim chuckled at his obvious discomfort. “No, you always wrote stories of adventure. Like the works of Haggard and Wells and Verne. As soon as you learned to write, you and your cousin Miguel began writing the most fantastical stories together.”

Well, he supposed living without his memories was simply a different adventure. “I see.”

“You will, in time,” Joaquim said. “Now, let’s get you packed up.”

The plan was for him to retrieve his meager belongings from his rented room in the Barrio Alto and return with the others to the Golden City on the night train. As the Barrio Alto was a steep climb from this hotel, they needed to catch a cab for Joaquim’s sake. Alejandro retrieved his shabby jacket from the back of his chair as Joaquim rose, and together they headed for the lobby to meet with Gaspar, who would accompany them.

Serafina waited there, though, too, as if she’d feared Alejandro would slip away.

“You don’t need to come with us,” Alejandro told her. “Why don’t you get some rest?”

Her chin rose. “Do you think I’m one of those women who is constantly swooning? I don’t need to rest. I want to help.”

He nearly pointed out that she’d swooned the night before, but decided that wouldn’t be wise. “I’d rather you not see where I’ve been living.”

She looked stricken, as if for the first time realizing his life away from her might have been difficult. He had the impression his family was wealthy. He wasn’t sure about Serafina’s family, but neither she nor her father dressed like menial laborers.

“Please, let us handle this,” he asked gently, taking her hands.

Tears glistened in her eyes. She glanced at Joaquim, as if asking reassurance that he wouldn’t let Alejandro escape. “I’ll go pack my own things.”

Joaquim’s hand settled on Alejandro’s shoulder as he watched Serafina walk away, her slender shoulders slumped. “The last time you left her,” Joaquim said, “they told her you died. I knew they were wrong, but even so, she was terrified and heartbroken.”

And it must be hard for her to let him go.

Alejandro reminded himself to be patient.



On the fourth floor of the building, up a narrow old stairwell that twisted around, the flat wasn’t much. There was a narrow bed with old, musty blankets that had once been blue, a small table with a single wooden chair, and little space to walk around those. There wasn’t a toilet on this floor, so Alejandro had to make do with a chamber pot under the bed. He owned only two sets of work clothing, but kept those neatly folded on the end of his bed.

At least he’d left it that way.

When he opened his door, he found his clothes and bedding strewn about. Gaspar entered first and walked about the small room, peering at each item, perhaps searching for magic. “It’s safe.”

Alejandro didn't feel safe, though. The three books he owned were torn apart. And thrust into the pillow was his knife, impaling a single piece of paper. “I didn’t leave it this way.”

“No,” Joaquim said. “I didn’t think you did. You’ve always been tidy.”

Alejandro tucked away that thought
—
I’m tidy
—
and went to where a small painting of the crucifix hung on the wall. He lifted it down, popped the board out of the back of the frame, and withdrew a handful of mil-reis. “Whoever did this wasn’t after my money.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Joaquim said slowly as he removed the knife from the pillow and picked up the piece of paper there. It was a frontispiece from one of his now-ruined books, a decrepit copy of
The Mines of Solomon
he’d bought used in the market. Scrawled on the page were the words,
Don’t talk
.

Alejandro peered at the sheet as he tucked his cash into a pocket. “That’s idiotic. I can’t remember anything to talk
about
.”

“Nothing recent?” Joaquim asked.

“I haven’t been here long enough to make any enemies,” Alejandro said with a shrug.

“This person was here last night,” Gaspar said. “His contact with the knife has faded enough that I can tell it’s been several hours.”

Alejandro swallowed. If he hadn’t spent the night in Serafina’s bed, he might have ended up with that knife in
him
instead of in his pillow. Normally this would be his sign to move on, to find another city and start over again.

“Has this happened before?” Joaquim asked him.

His desire to flee was strong, but if he was going to trust anyone, it should be these two. He looked over at Joaquim. “Yes.”

Saturday, 18 June 1920, Lisboa

S
ERAFINA WAS WAITING
in the hotel’s lobby when Alejandro returned, apparently expecting him to have retrieved a great deal of baggage. She glanced past him, arched brows drawn together. “I thought you went to pack.”

“I did,” he admitted, “but someone ruined what little I had.” The intruder had ripped his clothes and destroyed his books. He and Joaquim had agreed there was no point bringing any of that back to the hotel, so all he retrieved was his money and his knife. “Joaquim says I have plenty of clothing back at his house, so I can just go there tomorrow.”

Serafina held her hands close in front of her. Her dark eyes were worried. “What do you mean by
ruined
?”

Alejandro
—
he was actually feeling comfortable calling himself that now
—
gazed at this girl who was his wife. Was she the sort of woman who would handle the news well? Or would she become histrionic? His brief acquaintance with her suggested the latter. He took a deep breath and told her about the damage to his flat anyway.

She laid one hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and pained.

Alejandro took her hands in his. “Don’t worry. It was just a threat.”

“Has this happened before?” she asked.

She deserves the truth.
He told her of the shadowy fear that had pursued him from France to Spain and now to Portugal. It always seemed like he would just get settled when he would feel the need to flee come over him.

Joaquim claimed that was his seer’s gift, sending him forth ahead of his pursuer, although there was no way to know that for certain.
Something
had prompted him to go see Serafim Palmeira sing the previous night.

“So if you hadn’t been with me last night. . . ?”

“That person would have found me there,” Alejandro told her.

Her lips trembled, but she didn’t cry, which was a relief to him. “Then it’s a good thing we’re leaving,” she managed, lifting her chin. “I’ve canceled all my performances. We can go home and be safe there.”

He kept hold of her hands. “Joaquim has said we can stay at his house for now, since it’s larger than your parents’ home.”

She flushed. “Yes, I suppose that would be better.”

“Joaquim also told me that . . . we never did have a wedding in the Church before.”

Her eyes lifted, a line between her brows. “Do you . . . are you . . . going to leave me?”

He found himself blinking like an idiot. Had she been worried that he would? “Am I the sort of man who would abandon you?”

Her webbed fingers picked at his lapel. “You wanted to wait,” she whispered, “and I was afraid you were changing your mind. I heard stories of what soldiers got up to in Angola, and . . .”

And so she’d convinced him somehow to marry her in order to hang on to him. Joaquim hadn’t implied that, not exactly. “But you knew I would marry you eventually. Why not go ahead and do that now?”

“Are you sure?” she asked, tears glistening in her eyes.

What an awful question.

He didn’t remember her. He didn’t recall making any kind of promise to her.

If he was honest with himself, he was asking because he didn’t want to see
himself
as the kind of man who wouldn’t do what was right. He felt guilty that Old Alejandro hadn’t married her properly. Was he doing this only because he was expected to do so?

If he could have any woman in Portugal, though, he wanted Serafina. “I’m sure.”

Her shoulders relaxed, as if she’d been holding herself tight.

Alejandro took her hands in his. “Now, we have to get ready for the train, but once we’re underway, we can talk, all right?”

She gave him a glittering smile that set his heart at ease.



Alejandro kept his arms wrapped tightly about a sleeping Serafina as the train rattled through the mountains. The compartment’s bed wasn’t large, merely the bench pulled out and made up with blankets and sheets, but they would manage. The train shifted as they came around a wide curve, sending him rolling against Serafina’s side.

They must be near Coimbra now. Even if he didn’t remember Coimbra, he
could
read a map. Supposedly he’d attended the university there.

It didn’t matter that everyone thought he was Alejandro Ferreira. He felt like an imposter. Would that ever go away? Or would he have to regain his memory to believe in this identity?

Serafina clearly believed. As did Joaquim and Inspector Gaspar and Marcos Davila.

He wanted to trust their judgment.

Serafina sighed and her arms twined around him. “Why are you awake?”

“Do you not worry that I’m an imposter?”

“I know you’re not,” she answered. “I don’t need you to remember me to remember you myself.”

Yes, this
was
a different experience for her. “Before,” he asked, “what would we talk about?”

Her fingers touched his chest. “We only had three days. We didn’t talk a great deal.”

He had the impression now that they’d spent those three days in bed. “What did we plan to do? Live with my family forever?”

“We didn’t discuss it.” Her fingers wandered, informing him that
she
was the one who didn’t like to talk.

He caught her errant hand. “We will have to talk about it someday.”

“Can it not be tomorrow, then?” she asked. “I don’t want to worry about little things.”

Little things? Like where they would live?
I am clearly the practical one in this relationship.



Sunday, 20 June 1920, The Golden City

The train station at São Bento he remembered. Not a real memory, but Alejandro had seen photographs of the intricate azulejos on the station’s walls, tile murals depicting scenes from the country’s history. He would have liked to stay and look at each one, but he could tell Joaquim wanted to get home, so they made their way out of the train station and called one of the cabs that waited there. It wasn’t far to the house, Joaquim explained, but he would rather not walk, as the streets were steep. Alejandro suspected his brother had gotten less sleep on the train than he had, although not for the same reason, certainly.

And their destination
was
close, just a short drive down the main street before the station that connected the palace on its hilltop to the Douro River. This would be the Street of Flowers. The cab let them down in front of a dark stone house, one that looked like it belonged in the countryside, not the city. Joaquim opened up the wrought iron gate and proceeded through a small garden to the house. Carrying Serafina’s two bags, Alejandro followed.