Fado is Good for the Soul (9)

Shortly after 6 p.m., Rita makes an announcement. “We have ten minutes to be downstairs. I called an Uber and it’s on the way.”

Vera has been ready to go for the last half hour. When Rita asked her earlier if she wanted to go listen to Fado in the evening she immediately said yes, even though she had never heard of it. But she is not one to miss anything. She paid good money to come to Portugal and does not plan to waste her precious time idling in the apartment. I think it’s a generational thing. My father was also a dedicated traveler, although his traveling style was a bit different from ours. He used to organize tours that were led by prominent archaeologists and historians who gave lectures about every Nabatian ruin and Roman mosaic floor his hard-core companions encountered on their hikes. Our tour feels more like being caught inside a slow-moving, aimless tumbleweed.

Anna is not interested in going anywhere. She needs some alone time to regroup and work on her art. I am not sure I believe her. I suspect that it’s the money thing again. I don’t know how much we will have to spend on the privilege of listening to live Fado, but I am sure that paying for the Uber ride there and back is on her mind too. Stop it, I tell myself. She’s an artist, and artists need solitude to create their art and reflect; they need to slow down to let the muse emerge from her hiding place. I decide to pretend that I believe her and head out with Rita and her mother. It’s raining again but at least it’s not too cold. 

The restaurant hosting the Fado performance is tiny and nearly filled to capacity. There are only six tables in the split-level dining area and they are fully taken except for one table at the far end of the room. It stands in a corner near a tall microphone and a couple of empty chairs. Two women sit at that table, eating their salads. We are directed to join them. A young man who does not look like a waiter comes to take our drinks orders. I ask him to recommend one of the ports on the wine list. After I order a glass of port, we are told that we have to order dinner as well. This time a young woman who doesn’t have the vibe of a waitress comes over and hands us three menus.

The bilingual menu is succinct. All the dinners cost the same, 20 euros, and include soup or salad and fish. I realize that instead of charging a cover to listen to the music, the establishment includes the dinner in the deal, and two thoughts immediately pop into my mind. The first is that the sandwich I made for myself back at the apartment was too big, and the other is, lucky Anna.

Because I live in California, I am familiar with many types of ethnic foods, but Portuguese food was never one of them. Only recently did I learn that some of the foods I ate in Brazil, like the delicious bolinhos de bacalhau, which can be described as fried codfish cakes (the fish is mixed with pureed potatoes, onions, and eggs), originated in Portugal. I used to think those bolinhos were a Brazilian invention until my Portuguese friend told me that her mother used to make them. Now I am learning about authentic Portuguese food. Or more accurately, authentic Portuguese food served mostly to tourists. After checking the menu a couple of times, I order the only vegetarian dish, accompanied by an unfamiliar “green soup.” 

 

While waiting for the food, I start a conversation with the woman next to me. I find out that she and her daughter, who sits across from her, are from the United States. The daughter, who is a PhD candidate in special education, came to Lisbon to present a research paper at a conference and the mother came along for moral support. They’d never heard of Fado until someone at their hotel mentioned it and they decided to give it a shot. The conversation turns to how the daughter got the funding for her research and the invitation to the conference, and I suddenly find myself in my element for the first time since I arrived in Portugal. I am talking about topics I understand and find interesting, since my daughter is a graduate student too, and is going to present a research she had worked on in San Diego. Luckily, Rita cannot interfere and cut my conversation short because academic research and academia in general are not her forte. The conversation eventually has to be put on hold when the women’s meals and our first course arrive. 

 

The soup, which was described as cabbage soup, contains no visible cabbage, only a couple of small pieces of sausage floating in it. It’s also watery and borderline flavorless. The color of the broth is not really green, but not really any other color I can name. I eat it anyway. Luckily, I am not really a vegetarian and I am not one to complain when braving unknown cuisine in a foreign country. 

The main dish does not redeem the opening act. Next to the few steamed vegetables I can recognize, there is a small brown brick that tastes like a mix of fried bread, tofu, and tempeh, which is another variation of fermented soybeans. I have no idea what that little brick is supposed to be except that it is vegetarian and tastes awful. But hey, I’m in Lisbon and I am living the high life of a privileged tourist. So who cares what I’m eating. I’m not hungry anyway.

Rita in the meantime stuffs her face with a piece of salmon and the same sides that are spread on my plate. Vera, who also ordered fish, has the same expression I have seen at the falafel place: resignation mixed with determination not to say anything negative. I don’t ask her if she’s enjoying her food. I think she’s tired and this meal has long passed her dinner time.

At the end of the meal, Rita orders two desserts, for herself and for her mother. I think she does this to liven up the conversation or maybe make our server less frowny, because hungry she is not. I focus on my glass of port and wait for the performance to begin. And suddenly I notice a man staring at me from across the room. 

The first thought that comes to my mind is that I must be imagining things. I am far beyond the flirting age, plus it’s quite obvious that I am sitting next to Grandma. Then I’m thinking, maybe it’s wishful thinking, because the man is attractive and definitely younger than I am. Then I decide that it’s probably the port, although I can tell that it doesn’t have enough alcohol to give me such a strange buzz. I look again in his direction, and yes, his eyes are still planted on me. Now I think, maybe that’s why I came to Portugal. To let my non-existent hormones re-enter my bloodstream and reawaken my dormant fantasies. An embarrassing thought for a dedicated feminist like me. I decide to ignore him. 

Thankfully, the two elderly men who sit at the corner near our table begin to play on their stringed instruments. A man who stands by the upright microphone and looks like the mayor of a small, rural town begins to sing. And time stops. I let the music swirl around me for a few minutes before I realize that the true reason I came to Portugal was not to visit historical churches, monuments, and monasteries or see where Jews were killed centuries ago. I did not make the trip to taste the local cuisine or decide if this land is a good place to retire. I didn’t even come here to discover whether I can still feel something when a stranger eyes me, or if I can understand continental Portuguese. I came to Portugal to lose myself in Fado. The music penetrates my skin, my blood cells, and some internal organs I never knew existed, and stirs up the painfully sweet sensation of what Portuguese speakers call saudades. It’s mesmerizing.

Those who said that the heart has four chambers overlooked the attic where Fado dwells. It is unexpectedly powerful and soul-stirring no matter who sings it. The first singer who moves me nearly to tears is replaced by another man who looks like an accountant, by which I mean no glamor or charisma; but his voice and emotions make the air vibrate and the heart aches with something that I can recognize but not ready to admit or dwell on. So I just sit, among strangers, and listen. I can understand a word or two here and there. They sing about Fado, Lisbon, love, loss, and beauty but most of the lyrics go over my head.

After a short break, more singers take to the microphone. The last one is a tiny woman with short, bleached blond hair and thick, black eyebrows. She is dressed in a dramatic black dress and feathers, reminding me of the famous Fado singer Mariza. I don’t retain her name or the names of the other singers, but I can tell that this beautiful woman who sings in an unmarked venue that holds barely thirty people, has the energy, magnetism, and voice that can captivate an arena. She is magnificent and I don’t want her to stop. But after several songs, her performance comes to an end and the spell begins to dissipate. Soon we will have to vacate our seats for those who will come to enjoy the next performance. I want to hold on to the feelings that washed over me. I am not ready to leave. 

A petite woman who helps herself to the empty seat at our table provides me with the excuse to stay a little longer. I silence my inhibitions and ask her if she is a friend of one of the singers because earlier I saw her standing by the bar talking to one of them. She laughs. Although she knows the singer, she is not connected to him romantically or otherwise. She lives in the neighborhood, she says, and often comes to the restaurant to listen to the music. I’m impressed. She seems well into her seventies, maybe even eighties, yet she goes out on her own to listen to Fado, have a glass of wine, and hang out with strangers. Absolutely admirable. I ask her if she is also a musician or any other type of artist because despite the cane she left leaning on the back of the chair, she looks like a true bohemian. Again, she laughs and says no, she is not an artist. She likes to dress up when she goes out at night. 

My pleasant conversation comes to an abrupt end in the same manner that most of my conversations here have ended recently. Rita grabs center stage. She can only be sidelined for so long, and since my conversation with the bohemian-looking woman is in Portuguese, Rita is excluded and there is only one way to intervene. She does it by declaring that she wants to buy a CD. I have absolutely no idea why she wants to do it. I don’t believe she owns a CD player. From what I have seen, she uses streaming services to listen to music, mostly in her car. Besides, CDs are so passé and Rita is a connoisseur of new gadgets, so her announcement seems somewhat contrived. However, I do have to admit that she likes interactions that involve buying things. She buys stuff not only because she wants to own it—after all, she always plans to sell whatever she buys once she gets tired of it—but for the attention that the act of buying provides and the opportunity to connect with someone who might otherwise not have noticed her.

She quickly gets what she wants. One of the elderly singers brings her a couple of CDs to choose from. She tells him in broken English how much she enjoyed the show and then points to one of the CDs. He hands it to her, extremely pleased to have made a successful sale. He doesn’t know, though, that she will never listen to it. But that’s a minor detail. She was noticed, he made some money, and everyone is happy. Now we can leave.

On my way out, I see the man who was looking at me from across the room earlier standing up and putting on his jacket. He is talking to the people who shared his table. They prepare to leave, maybe to another bar, perhaps to another show, I can’t tell. It is not clear if they are locals or foreigners. Their clothes don’t give away their nationality and I can’t hear what language they speak. A small part of me contracts with envy. I wish I could join them. They seem so much more fun and interesting than my little group. But I know that this will never happen. I surrendered to my special circumstances when I flew to Portugal and I cannot escape.