I don’t know what it is, but even indoors Lisbon feels charming and safe. The only danger the city may pose to the occasional tourist is a massive earthquake, like the one that destroyed most of it in 1755. This interesting piece of information was imparted to me by our easily offended tuk-tuk driver, who pointed to some buildings that survived the earthquake after our walk through Alfama Quarter. Luckily, being from California, I am used to earthquakes, and the fear of living through another one did not cause me to lose any sleep.
Vera’s screams, however, did interrupt my sleep a couple of times during the night. Although I was somewhat prepared for them, I didn’t know they were going to sound that loud and horrific. I don’t know much about night terrors, but I assume something must have happened to Vera in the past to have triggered them. Back in California, during one of our walks, Rita mentioned that her mother was kidnapped after the family returned to Poland from Kazakhstan or Uzbekistan at the end of World War II and was probably traumatized by it. According to Rita’s story, her mother was a toddler at the time of the kidnapping and doesn’t have any memory of the experience. She also doesn’t know who kidnapped her, how long she was missing, and how she was rescued and reunited with her family. Rita speculated then that the kidnapping might have triggered the night screams, but considering Rita’s vivid imagination and exaggerations, I don’t even know if I believe the story. She also said that her grandparents ended up in Kazakhstan after they were expelled by the Nazis from Poland to Siberia, something I seriously doubt because it doesn’t agree with what I have learned about the Holocaust. I think the Nazis killed Jews they came across without bothering to send them anywhere but to death camps. So again, I am at a loss. However, I don’t plan on asking Vera about the screams or what causes them. I’ll let Rita contrive whatever story she wants if the topic comes up, which I doubt because I am sure Vera will not allow that to happen.
I pack up my stuff and straighten up the room I occupied during the last two nights. I never leave a mess behind. That’s what growing up on a kibbutz and waiting tables for many years have taught me. To care about the people who do the shit jobs because I used to be one of them. I wish I could stay in this room a little longer and explore the city and its inhabitants at a more leisurely pace, but I have no control over my destiny. Rita decides how I spend most of my time, even though she is still stretched out on the couch, unconscious, with her bare feet dangling over the couch’s arm and her face buried under a pillow. Last night she told me that we had to be at the airport at eleven to pick up the rental car, and even calculated at what time she had to call the Uber ride. Soon she will have to wake up and spring into action.
When she finally wakes up, she puts Vera through the same routine she performed yesterday. “Who were you screaming at?” She asks and gives a cute little giggle that makes her sound like a five-year-old girl. It sounds as if she’s laughing at a secret little joke that no one but her ever heard. It’s a unique giggle I’ve heard before, mostly when I witnessed her scrolling down her phone, and looking at videos she thinks are hilarious and I think are beyond stupid.
“What were you quarreling about? You sounded really mad. You didn’t want to let someone get on the bus.” She tries to provoke Vera to respond and bursts out laughing as if it’s the funniest thing. Again, Vera shrugs off the questions without raising her head from the phone. She’s been through this before and she’s not going to get sucked in.
This whole scene is cringe-inducing and I am not sure how I’m supposed to deal with it. I don’t understand why Rita finds the manifestation of trauma so funny. To me, it looks like serious stuff. I wonder if she is trying to hide her unease and make these unsettling horror shows feel harmless because her reaction is simply mind-boggling. I’ve never seen anything like this. Not that I have been around a lot of Holocaust survivors and their offspring in such intimate settings. I wish I could talk to Vera about it, but she seems completely disinterested, showing no emotions or any desire to share her thoughts about her night terrors or her daughter’s behavior. From the way she reacts to Rita’s giggles and nonsensical questions, it seems that we have to treat her nightly screams as a quirky habit she acquired in the course of her life and move on. Pretend it's all normal stuff.
Or perhaps she is used to this silliness and cannot be bothered.
As our unofficial chaperon and timekeeper, Vera is all packed up and ready to go. Her small suitcase stands by the door signaling to us that our time in this quaint, little apartment is coming to an end and we’d better get our shit together already. She sits at the head of the table, drinking instant coffee and reading something on her cell phone just like she did yesterday. Since I am not sure what the plan for breakfast is and I’m not particularly interested in finding out or initiating anything, I boil water for tea and prepare a light breakfast that includes bread, cheese, and jam. Anna joins me at the table with a cup of tea. I offer her bread and cheese. I can’t watch her eating a carrot and crackers for breakfast. There’s a limit to my selfishness.
By the time we finish eating, Rita is almost ready. She is dressed in colorful tight leggings, a purple overshirt that accentuates her protruding belly, well-worn knee-high leather boots that she had bought for two dollars in a garage sale, and a variety of her favorite silver jewelry around her neck and fingers. We only have to wait for her while she enjoys a cup of instant coffee with milk and a breakfast that includes whatever is left from yesterday’s shopping spree. She takes her time, though, savoring her coffee and whatever she is reading on her cherished phone. She is the opposite of what I expect a tour guide to be because as a rule of thumb, she is the opposite of anything one might expect. She is the last one to wake up, the last one to clean up, and the last one to pack. The world is her stage and she is the main character, director, and playwright and we are her loyal audience. The moment she takes the last sip of coffee, Vera jumps from her chair and takes the cup and plate to the kitchen sink, where she washes them with her back turned to us. She then collects what little food is left in the refrigerator and puts it in a couple of plastic bags. Then she wipes down the kitchen’s surfaces.
“Come on, Rita, we need to leave,” she nudges her daughter who I need to remind myself is over 50.
“I’m calling the Uber ride,” Rita says, partly to herself and partly to her phone.
One last check of the apartment and off we go. It’s the last time we will walk down the rickety staircase from the fourth floor. I help Vera with her suitcase again, even though going down is easier. She doesn’t resist this time, which is nice. She’s starting to relax. Maybe she feels that she doesn’t need to prove that she is strong enough to travel with us. She showed what she could do last night when she went with us to listen to Fado.
The car arrives within a few minutes. It is the first time that the four of us travel in one car with all of our luggage. Until now we have only shared a tuk-tuk and traveled in a streetcar, so this is a test to see if we can fit into one vehicle. Luckily, everyone is traveling light so we manage to secure everything in the trunk with the help of our cooperative driver. Rita takes the front seat by the driver and the three of us squeeze into the back. Vera, the smallest among us, insists on sitting between Anna and me. We don’t argue.
Since it is a short drive to the airport, it is not an issue who sits where, yet. I only hope it will remain so during the next few days. When Rita first told me that she invited her mother and Anna on the trip, I got pissed because I immediately saw myself riding in the back seat the whole time; something I did not plan to inflict on myself when I agreed to travel with her to Portugal. But now reality has handed me this situation which I need to cope with in the most gracious way I can think of, and the only idea that comes to my mind is to just wait and see.
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