“Where are we staying tonight?” Vera brings me back from my reverie when the road starts climbing toward a small town that does not look too promising from a distance.
“Belmonte,” Rita says.
It’s about time she decided where we’re staying. Too bad she waited until the last minute to announce it.
“Maybe you can call your friend and ask if we can stay at his Airbnb,” Rita says as if she can read my mind and looks at me in the rear-view mirror.
Her last-minute decision makes little sense for someone who claims to be a tourist guide. Why wait until the last minute when you know we will end the day here? Especially on a Friday?
I was really hoping to catch up with Umberto. I was dying to ask him about his meeting with Lula, the former Brazilian president, back when Lula was still in prison. He did it as a private citizen, but I heard from our mutual friends that many people were mad at him because they thought he was posing as someone who represented the Jewish community, which I’m sure he wasn’t. But now, it’s too late. If he’s in Israel, he is having a Shabbat dinner with his family and might not answer the phone, and if he is in Belmonte, he's preparing for Shabbat dinner and might be too busy to talk.
“I can try,” I say. I don’t say I doubt he will answer.
The car passes a gas station and some modern-looking apartment buildings, which are not typical of the small towns we have passed today. It pushes toward the top of a rocky hill until it stops beside a medieval fortress overlooking the town’s red roofs and surrounding valleys. A Portuguese flag is fluttering on top of the fortress. In the distance, I see snow patches on the mountain ridges. It’s going to be cold tonight.
Rita parks the car near the entrance to the fortress, facing a low stone wall. Only one other vehicle is parked by the wall. The fortress does not look like a tourist hot spot; it is just another remnant from bygone days that attracts the few curiosity seekers who stop here on the way to more famous places. There is a big plaque by the entrance to the fortress, probably explaining its history and listing the different spots that a tourist who is not me should visit once inside. The problem is that I couldn't care less when it was built, burned, and rebuilt, and by whom or when it was abandoned. My main concern is what to say to Umberto in case he answers the phone.
“Anyone want to go inside?” Rita asks the obligatory question, forgetting that only a minute ago, she wanted me to call Umberto. I don’t understand why she asks if we want to go in. There is no way she’s interested in seeing the insides of this thing or paying to do it. She also knows that neither Vera nor I would say yes. We’ve seen enough for one day, and this shell of a fortress looks like nothing worth getting out of the car.
“We should find a place to stay first,” Vera reminds her of the obvious, as she always does.
“Can you call your friend now?” Rita turns to me.
“I need to use your phone,” I say.
She knows I can’t make international calls on my phone, but she loves hearing me say it. It shows who’s in charge. I feel stupid for putting myself in this situation and not buying a plan that would have let me make phone calls without wi-fi. I should have been more responsible.
“What’s his number?” she asks, reaching for her phone.
She taps in the numbers I read to her on her phone, repeating them out loud. There is a ring, and I hear a man’s voice. She hands me the phone. I say my name and ask to speak to Umberto. He does not sound surprised when he confirms it is him. I am not sure why he is not surprised. Perhaps because I occasionally comment on his Facebook posts and send him personal messages, he doesn’t feel like I showed up out of nowhere. Or maybe he is used to receiving phone calls at unusual hours from random people.
“Ma koreh?” he asks, as if I am one of his buddies. Which I am in a way, but not completely. I’m more an acquaintance than a friend by now.
The last time I spoke to him in person was in the mid-eighties, when I bumped into him in Tel Aviv before he got married, had children, and became a super-progressive rabbi, but nothing in his voice gives the impression that so much time has passed since.
“I’m in Belmonte with a couple of friends,” I start.
“For how long?”
“One night. We just got here. I thought maybe we could stay at one of your places.” I get to the point quickly. I would have loved to ask him about his trip to Brazil and our mutual friends, but Rita and Vera are listening and waiting. I have to make this conversation a lot shorter than I would like.
“Sure, I have several places. Go to Sinai Hotel and ask for the key at the front desk. My partner should be there now. Tell him you talked to me.”
“Will do, thanks. How are you?” I don’t want the conversation to be only about business.
“Great. I’m in my car, driving home. My son had a baby a few hours ago,” he says. He sounds happy.
“Mazal tov. How are the baby and the mother?” I can hardly believe he answered the phone on such a momentous night and is so friendly, sharing this amazing news as if we’ve been in touch all these years.
“Everyone’s great. Now I have three grandkids,” he laughs. “Listen, I’m getting into an area where there’s no reception, so I’m going to lose connection in a minute, but go to the hotel and talk to whoever is at the front desk. They’ll take care of you. Call me if you have any problems.”
“Thank you so much. I was hoping we could meet while I’m here,” I admit, keeping my tone light despite my disappointment. “It’s been so long since I've seen you.”
He pauses. He probably didn’t expect to hear me say that. “Yeah, that would be nice. You won’t recognize me, I’m all gray now,” he laughs.
I know I have to wrap up the conversation because Rita is getting restless, but I am not going to cut him off. “Yeah, I saw the pictures you posted from Belmonte. You don’t look much different than you did during our days in Rio when we lived on Rua Gago Coutinho.”
“Wow, you remember the name of the street, I can’t believe it,” he sounds impressed. “You missed me by a few months. I was in Belmonte over the summer. Call me when you’re back in Israel. We can try to meet.”
“Too bad I missed you. I’d love to meet your grandkids,” I say, meaning every word. I have never met his family, having left Israel before he got married. “I’ll text you in any case, even if…” The call drops before I finish, saying, “Even if we don’t have any problem getting the key.”
And that is it. The most pathetic anticlimactic conclusion of my hope of meeting Umberto in Belmonte and catching up. Just like everything else on this trip, things don’t work out the way I imagine. Hopefully, I will meet him before another 35 years pass.
I hand the phone back to Rita, who entertains herself by looking at the mirror and rearranging her hair.
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