The first thing I see when I open the bedroom door in the morning is Rita’s mom. She doesn’t look like someone who was butchered or bludgeoned to death or anything close to it. She’s already dressed in street clothes, sitting at the dining room table with a cup of coffee, and reading something on her phone, completely at peace with the world. Last night before we went to bed she said that she forgot to bring her hair spray, so her short hair is not perfectly set in place, but is still presentable. Rita is snoring on the couch, her bare feet stretched over the side showing her professionally painted toenails that hide a persistent case of nail fungus. Anna is nowhere to be seen; her improvised campsite is folded into a neat pile on the floor.
I am not sure if I am supposed to say anything except for “Good Morning.” Do I show concern about the screaming? Should I ask Vera if she slept well? Would it embarrass her or would it make her think that I am trying to be provocative? And why is Rita sleeping on the couch? What happened during the night? I am at a loss, but I prefer to hide my confusion. I have to let things unfold in their own time and pace. I am sure that Rita will provide some reaction to the night’s screaming, so I have to wait for her to wake up. Or more accurately, we all have to wait for her to wake up.
The unusual scene makes me feel like a teenage girl on a field trip with our chaperon waiting for us to get ready for the daily activities. I don’t like that feeling. I am not used to following other people’s timetable when I travel. I like to hang out in one place, talk to people, visit friends, and immerse in the ambience. Get out of my autopilot life, rather than put checkmarks next to items on a busy itinerary. Last year when I went to Brazil, I spent two weeks at an organic coffee farm owned by friends of mine, learning to pick coffee and prepare the local dishes. When they told me they wanted to take me to see a nearby waterfall but had to cancel because of the rain, I told them not to worry about it. Seeing one more waterfall in the mountains would not make me happier. I was just as happy sitting with them on the patio and looking at the rainbow. But here, in Lisbon, I am a tourist. I have to go places and see things, take pictures, figure out bus routes, and learn how to use the local currency. Time cannot be wasted on taking it easy in the morning.
As soon as Rita wakes up, we get an update. Her mother had more screaming fits early in the morning, so Rita left the bedroom to sleep on the couch.
“Who were you screaming at?” Rita asks and bursts out laughing.
Vera looks up from the phone and shrugs. “I don’t know, I don’t remember anything.”
“She doesn’t even wake up,” Rita chuckles.
I don’t know if Vera’s answer made her laugh or the memory of the screams. “You were really mad at someone last night.”
Vera shrugs again. “I don’t remember.” This time she doesn’t even look up from the phone.
“Her doctor said she should take sleeping pills, but I told her it will only make her drowsy,” Rita says. “And you can’t wake her up to make her stop. You have to let her scream.” She giggles to herself as if it’s an inside joke while folding the blanket and straightening up the couch.
To say that I am somewhat disoriented by Rita’s unhinged reaction to her mother’s night terrors is an understatement. I mean, this is serious post-Holocaust stuff, not standup comedy as far as I understand. Anna stands at the kitchen sink with her back to me so I can’t see her expression. Vera takes the laughter in stride. She knows who she’s dealing with. She doesn’t try to explain or apologize for the disturbance. All she wants to happen is to see us getting out of the house and doing things. She tells Rita that she’s been up since 6 a.m. and that it is time to start the day.
“We didn’t come all the way to Lisbon to sit here,” she says. “Get your coffee and let’s go.”
I’m glad she doesn’t tell me to wash my hands when I get out of the bathroom or remember to take my jacket if it starts raining. At least for now the rain stopped and the sun is coming out from behind the clouds.
* * *
We leave the apartment to conquer the city on foot, by bus, tram, or whatever comes first. At the bottom of the hill we ask passers-by how to get to Belém, which is a district full of touristy things to see but too far to walk to. We are told to take the tram. When the tram stops in front of us, I immediately become disoriented. I have no idea how to pay or whom since the operator does not accept money. By the time I find a money machine in the middle of the tram, Vera has already figured it out and bought me a ticket. She shoves a ticket into my hand.
This is not good. If Rita finds out her mom spent money on me she will make me buy her something, like she did at the airport, and who knows what it might be. I can’t take the risk.
“I’ll pay you back as soon as we get off,” I tell Vera. I am too scared to let go of the sidebar to look for my wallet. The tram feels like an ocean-liner in the middle of a level four storm.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, but I know that under no circumstance will I stay indebted to her. It would be my undoing. I can't live with the suspense of how I will have to pay back those euros.
The tram line ends by a gigantic structure called the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos; a breathtaking vision of stone carvings from the 16th century. A grand tourist site that I know nothing about, but I can now say “I’ve been there,” and if I take a selfie with the building behind me, I can also prove it. Not that I’m planning to do any of it.
Maybe because it is still early in the morning, or maybe because it is November, there are only a few tourists around and fewer coach buses parked across the street. But there are many women in colorful clothing waving necklaces for sale ready to cross the street and swarm us.
I know that by buying something I will be supporting the local economy, but I really don’t like to buy stuff I don’t need, especially when I travel light. Rita, on the other hand, loves to buy stuff she doesn’t need and she has a good excuse. She can always sell the things she gets tired of at arts and crafts fairs or street festivals. At least that’s what she tells me when she is gripped by a buying spell. The women are delighted. Finally, they found a tourist who wants to buy stuff. They don’t know, though, that Rita is a master negotiator. She never pays the first price. She will force them to make a deal or she can go elsewhere.
The boldest among the women approaches us on the wide stairs of the monastery.
Rita chooses a necklace, a painted ceramic pendant hanging on a leather string, and tells the woman that she loves it. The woman does not speak English. I translate. The woman shows Rita another necklace. Rita loves that one as well. She shows it to me. Yes, it’s beautiful. Probably made in China, but who cares. Rita wants to see more necklaces. I translate. The woman hands Rita a few more necklaces. I don’t need to translate anymore. They are talking numbers and making gestures most people can understand no matter what language they speak. Rita admires the intricate designs. The woman cannot believe her luck. Now, Rita wants to take a picture with the woman. The woman giggles timidly and agrees to pose.
She knows she has to do it; it’s business after all. I take a picture of the two of them. Everything is progressing fabulously. Rita shows the woman the jewelry she is wearing: large sterling silver rings adorned with turquoise stones on her fingers and several Jewish themed pendants hanging on silver strings around her neck. The woman feigns appreciation for the jewelry. Now, Rita goes in for the kill.
“I’ll take four necklaces for ten euros,” she says.
It’s half of what the woman wants. I can’t help but think about the 5,000 dollars on Rita’s credit card which are going to be spent on similar nonsense while those ten euros will probably be spent on food.
The woman looks as if she was smacked in the face. But Rita laughs. She is friendly and adores the woman. She wants to hug her but the woman keeps her distance. Rita opens her wallet and hands the woman two five-euro coins. The woman accepts the coins and puts them in her embroidered pouch. Better make a sale than go back across the street with nothing.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Rita dangles the necklaces in front of my face after the woman accepts the money.
“Yes, they are,” I agree, and all I can think is, she never fails.
I feel bad for the woman. I was not a collaborator in this scheme even though I was the unofficial translator. I was as unprepared for what happened as that unsuspecting woman. But I have to let it go because we still have a long day ahead of us. And Rita is a businesswoman after all. I just forgot that even during our trip, the businesswoman is still working, doing business.
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