TWENTY-FIVE SUMMERS

A staggering man walks down a deserted street in the late hours. The mouth of the night breathes hot, muggy air, thick with the scent of the worn-out tarmac, lingering exhaust fumes. The soles of expensive shoes seem to float on the surface, like a disjointed dance without rhythm—dishevelled, confused. He sways slightly, trying to find his bearings in the surroundings...

The unsteady steps luckily missing small obstacles—loose pebbles, a crushed soda can, a banana peel (oops), old papers and leaves swirling in a wind blowing warm. The pale, yellowish light that escapes through the trees throwing flickering halos from the lampposts overhead, acting as makeup, concealing the imperfections of the old brick façades along the street.

A speedy rat rushes across the street, vanishing into the shadows. Dogs growl fiercely from behind a gate, their barks echoing off the walls.

His footsteps falter. Then, from up ahead, something grows—a vehicle roaring closer, its open window, and voices shouting angry curses. The headlights momentarily blind him, and fear flashes over him as he freezes, unsure of what’s coming next...

But the vehicle disappears into the night...

A pair of eyes watches him from the balcony of a terraced house.

Having awoken from a distressing dream, feeling suffocated in the stifling heat indoors, she has just stepped on her loft’s balcony, seeking solace in the night air.

Who is he? I’ve never seen him before.

His clothes, crumpled, seem out of place, notices the woman as he gets closer to her building.

His hair is blonde, and his face, younger than she had imagined, looks disorientated, lost...

Maybe he needs help. But what have I got to do with it?

The breeze brushing her face brings a scent of jasmine, instigating memories.

Once upon a time, the brunette girl, waiting anxiously for the man she loved to arrive, on a summer’s evening...

If it weren’t for his stumbling steps, the young man could be the personification of the one who once stole her heart. But there is also no bouquet of flowers.

With a jolt, she turns her attention back to the young man and sees that he is now standing right under the balcony, looking up at her, talking to her...

‘Hey, you... Where am I?’

His voice, though slurred, has a strong, deep timbre that resonates in somehow familiar way...

‘I think you’re far from home.’

He grimaces ‘Damn. Of course, I am... you—’ he curses as he bangs his fists on the wall of the building next door—a shop.

She scolds him. ‘You’ll wake people up...’

‘Who cares?’

‘Excuse me.’

‘Look, I’m lost...’

‘I can see that.’

‘Can you help me?’ He raises his arms, momentarily loses his balance, bending his legs and getting back on his feet.

Like a tree branch that bends in the wind but doesn’t fall to the ground.

There’s  still something intriguing about him that tells her he’s a trustworthy person, yet she craves more evidence.

‘Can you tell me your name, please?’

He closes his eyes tightly as he gazes upwards, as though struggling to remember his own name, and takes a few seconds to speak out.

‘Durval... My name’s Durval Estevam...’

Her eyes widen is disbelief. ‘What? How is it possible?’

But the young man cannot hear what she whispers.

Her curiosity is greater than the distance to the nearest star in the sky.

‘Wait a minute...’ She leaves the balcony, throws a silk gown over her nightdress, and goes down the stairs.

Reason screams in her head, Are you crazy?  Don’t you dare open that door!, while intuition retorts, Don’t worry, it’s okay...

Hesitantly for a moment, she opens it and takes a few steps through the small front garden. The young man is leaning against the wall of the shop, crestfallen.

‘Hi,’ she says as she fixes her gown.

He slowly approaches the little wooden gate.

‘What happened to you?’ She’s still suspicious, her reason still advising, ‘and if he’s a thug pretending to be in trouble?’, so she keeps a certain distance that makes it easier for her to run inside and lock the door. Despite this, their faces are on the same level. Well, not so much, since he’s taller, but that doesn’t stop her from realising, even in the dim light of the lamppost, that he has a nasty bruise on the left side of his face as he explains. He’s a stranger, yet there’s something recognisable about him...

‘I was having a drink with a girl in a bar in town...’

‘Your girlfriend?’

‘No. She’s not. She appeared next to me, I offered her a drink and we started to talk...’ He speaks holding the gate for support.

‘And?’

‘I just recall a guy came closer and asked a silly thing like, if the bar was always very busy. Not long after that, I began to feel a bit dizzy. But I’m sure I didn’t drink much, I never drink a lot, just enough to avoid getting stopped by the police when driving...’ He presses his forehead with his hand, ‘Oh no, what a fool I was...’

‘What?’ she looks perplexed.

‘I was poisoned... She put a drug in my drink while he was talking to me. The girl and the man were together. I was their prey...’ he punches his head with a fist.

‘Do you think?’

‘Yeah. I remember she offered help to take me to my car, parked in the street behind the bar. She said she could drive and take me home, and... I ended up here...’

She sympathises with his story and comes closer. ‘Can you recall anything else?’

‘Not much. Someone came from the side and punched me hard in the face. I think now it was the same guy from the bar. I tried to fight back, but my vision was blurred. I felt a punch in the stomach and blacked out...’

‘How did you end up here?’

‘Good question. I assume they dumped me here, in a vacant lot on this street...

‘What time was it?’

‘I think I left, or rather, I was taken away from there around ten... What time is now?’

‘One thirty, two, perhaps...’

 He looks at his arm and gropes in his trouser pockets. ‘Damn them, they stole my watch, my wallet, and my car...’

‘Do you have a family to call?’

‘Yeah, but I can’t call my father at this time. He’d be very angry...’

‘Even being an emergency?’  

‘Perhaps...’ He is visibly more disorientated, crossing one arm through the gate and resting his head on it, speaking muffled. ‘Well, if not now, then soon he’ll know. I can’t escape it...’

‘Sounds like your dad is tough...’

‘Full of principles, I’d say...’ He glances at her.

‘I have a phone, if you want to call...’

Why are you offering? Let him fend for himself, screams reason again...

But she’s more than involved with his dilemma.

‘No, that’s fine. Thank you.’

‘What are you going to do though?’

‘I don’t know. Wait for the day to dawn... Just a few hours...’

‘Where?’ She sounds more worried than he is about himself.

‘In the street, sitting on the pavement, on a bench, maybe...’

‘So what? You don’t have any money, how are you going to get home?’

‘I can walk...’

‘Do you live in town?’

‘Yeah...’

‘It’s a long walk...’

He shrugs his broad shoulders. How familiar... She thinks her mind is playing tricks on her. Anyway, once she’s out here, chatting to a handsome young stranger, she can’t just turn her back on him, pretend nothing happened and go back to sleep.

Impossible. She has no choice, and as if to justify it, rain begins to fall.

She maybe is committing madness, putting herself at risk, but...

‘Come with me. You can’t stand in this rain, and let me take a close look at the wound on your face...’

He appears irresolute. ‘Are you sure?’

She nods.

He sighs. ‘Okay then...’

She opens the gate, and he follows her in stumbling steps, walking into her two-storey house. Despite the late hour, the living room exudes a warm, muffled air.

One of the heavy curtains is drawn open, letting a sliver of external light mingle with the soft glow of a single lamp in the corner, casting a golden haze that dances across the room, its reflections shimmering on the surface of the piano near the far wall.

In the centre, there is a couch with plump cushions.

‘Sit down, I’ll be right back.’

She arranges some cushions behind him for more comfort, then disappears down a hallway.

Shortly, she returns to find—much to her surprise—the young man with his eyes closed and his head thrown back, his mouth open, snoring.

What did you expect?

That he’d be waiting for you with a gun in his hand, ready to ransack your house?

That it had all been a scam?

No, he doesn’t look like a bandit.

But what  does a bandit look like?

She doesn’t know, but she feels that he’s not...

He’s a just good boy in trouble. Only this...

Nothing to worry about...

‘Let me help you with that,’ she says gently.

He opens his eyes. On the coffee table, she is pouring water from a kettle into a porcelain bowl, where she soaks a cloth and squeezes it out.

Switching on the lamp next to the sofa, she sits beside him and, with tender care, dabs the bruise on his face, wiping away the dried blood.

He flinches at her touch yet makes no move to stop her.

‘You mentioned your father, but what about your mum? She might be worried about you...’

‘Impossible,’ he mutters.

‘Why?’

‘She passed away three years ago...’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘No worries...’

‘Do you have siblings?’

‘No. I don’t...’

‘Just you and your father then?’

He grimaces, seemingly not in reaction to the rubbing of the cloth, but from discomfort at her probing questions.

‘What about you?’ he retorts.

‘What about me?’

‘Are you married? Kids?’

She applies some ointment, choosing not to respond to him...

His eyes are on her—an uneasy sensation. She had seen similar ones before. The same intensity. The archive in her mind knows that, though it does not explain.

She avoids looking at him. She stands up.

‘The wound is clean and treated now. I’m going to make some chamomile tea. It should help to ease the pain and help you relax. I’ll get you some painkiller as well...’

He shakes his head, staring at her face, perhaps sensing the conflict within her.

Reason and uncertainty provoke the intuition to give its opinion. Nothing comes...

To ease the pain and relax. Who? It’s probably you...

She leaves the room.

In the hallway she enters the small bathroom.   

She is confused, perhaps hoping to find the image of the eighteen-year-old girl in the mirror, for everything seems real...

Or has she woken to a parallel reality? Could it be?

It’s incredible how much the young man looks like him.

The same chiselled face. The jaw, the nose, the enigmatic, penetrating eyes, with which she became besotted.

How is that possible?

To her disappointment or relief, the reflection in the mirror reveals a woman in her early forties. Her skin still retains a youthful radiance, despite the passing years.

Her black hair isn’t as long as it used to be, and every now and then she needs a few strokes of colour to conceal some grey strands—a cunning way to cheat time...

She studies herself for a few seconds, momentarily forgetting what she was going to do. She knows she is a beautiful woman. So why has she never been lucky in love?

You had. Did you forget?

‘Yeah, I had... for a short time,’ she replies to herself. ‘I loved, and I know I was loved...’

Satisfied that she is truly awake and standing in the house she has called home for over twenty years, she remembers the chamomile tea and strides to the kitchen.

A short time later, carrying a tray, she returns to the living room. The young man is sleeping soundly, sprawled across the couch.

She sets it on the coffee table and watches him.

He looks so peaceful, as if nothing bad had happened to him.

He could be her son...

Well, if she had married the only man she ever dreamed of...

But how old is he? Twenties, perhaps?

Though he is young, he doesn't dress casually. His trousers and shirt look like he's been to a party, not a bar. That's probably what attracted the scammers—they thought he had money.

She glances at the window, hearing the rain pouring, yet she cannot see it, for it is pitch black out there.

The young man is completely passed out. Poor boy.

She removes his shoes with careful movements so as not to disturb him.

Then she extinguishes the lamp and retreats to the kitchen once more.

Pouring herself a cup, she settles at the table.

The warmth and aroma of the tea soothe her senses as she reflects on the unexpected turn of events.

She sips slowly.

Her body is tense as she ponders each detail—the boy tottering, her imprudence in going outside, in inviting him inside.

The adrenaline of it, not fear anymore...

Well, the way he collapsed, he just needs a good night's sleep, or rather, hours of it, just as she does too...

She rinses the cup and puts it by the sink to dry.

Before going up, she checks on the boy. He’s snoring softly.

Is he feigning it? Probably not...

Once in bed, her ears are perked, listening for any movement.

Her door is locked.

Her eyelids took a while to finally close...

Some hours later, voices from the street shake her senses back to reality.

She lies in bed in the hypnopompic stage, gradually becoming aware of where she is, opening her eyes.

Her room. The old wardrobe beside her—her deceased husband’s choice—in dark wood and as heavy as her head.

She raises herself up and rests on her arms. The bedside clock reads 7:35.

Getting out of the bed, moving a bit dizzy from lack of sleep, she opens the shutters on the door to the balcony to glimpse the new day, but the sun isn’t shining. A light rain is falling.

She starts to recall hours ago...

Oh, goodness, the young man...

Her first instinct is to check the door. It’s locked, just as she left it. Nobody broke in...

Are you still having these bad thoughts?

She puts on comfortable clothes. It’s Saturday, and there are no students today, so she doesn’t have to worry so much about how she looks.

She quickly runs a comb through her hair and heads downstairs, a little apprehensive...

Who she expects to see isn’t there.

Has he gone?

She opens the curtains.

The couch cover is crumpled, the cushions scattered.

She hears a noise coming from the corridor.

‘Hello...’

‘Hi,’ responds the young man, materialising in the room. ‘Sorry, I was using the toilet...’

‘Oh, no problem...’ A tense grin forms on her lips.

‘I think it’s time to call my dad. Can I?’

‘Of course, you can...’ She points to the phone on the small sideboard near the stairs.

He gives her a grateful look.

She begins to straighten the couch, arrange the cushions neatly, and tidy a few objects on the table and nearby surfaces while he talks to his father.

Such an awkward situation. She feels inadequate eavesdropping on his conversation.

But you’re in your own home...

It’s bizarre to have a stranger in your living room...

If she had ignored him. Instead of being curious and going out of her way to help him.

She would now be having an ordinary Saturday morning like so many others.

No plans for the day ahead.

No expectations—much like life has been for her in the two years since she became a widow, after an unsatisfactory marriage that had lasted two decades.

You haven’t learned how to enjoy your freedom yet...

Freedom... It sounds so vague. Like a bird trapped in a cage all its life.

One day it finds the door open and gets out, but it doesn’t go far because it doesn’t know how to fly...

Her thoughts are filled with sentences spoken by the young man on the phone.

‘It wasn’t my fault, Dad...’

‘I can explain it better later...’

‘I’m at someone’s house...’

‘I don’t know her, Dad. She helped me last night...’

‘I know the car is yours, but you have insurance, don’t you?’

‘I’m so sorry, Dad...’

That sounds weird. His father should be worried about him—about his well-being.

Something worse could have happened.

Instead, he’s angry with his son?

It seems he lives off his father?

Could it be that this wasn't the first time?

Her back is to him. Absorbed in what she’s doing, she doesn't realise at first that he’s speaking to her.

‘Just a moment, Dad. Uh, hey, lady...’ he calls out to her.

She turns. ‘Sorry?’

‘The address here, please...’

He repeats it to his father.

‘Dad? I’m waiting for you...’

He places the phone back on the hook.

‘I hope Dad doesn’t take long...’ he says with a faint smile.

It’s kind of familiar, isn’t it?

The dimples that appear on his cheeks.

She tries to push the thoughts away. ‘Why don’t we have some breakfast? Are you hungry?’

‘Don’t bother...’

‘Oh, it’s not a bother. Come with me.’

Definitely this boy—this young man—could have been her child. The one she never had.

Her maternal instinct feels more acute now, listening to his conversation with his father. How vulnerable he seems. How burdened by a sense of responsibility.

A good boy. No doubt about it.

On the kitchen table, she arranges a plate with biscuits, a half-eaten loaf, some butter, jam, and a few pieces of fruit, while she prepares a pot of tea.

‘Sorry for the lack of variety. I don’t buy a lot because it’s just me here...’

‘You live alone?’

Oof. She let slip what she didn’t want to reveal...

‘I have a sister...’

‘You said it’s just you...’

‘She’s coming sometime...’

Really? The last time you saw her was many years ago. She lives so far away, and you've never been friends. Just sisters by fate.

She calls you twice a year. On your birthday, as if to remind you that you're getting older, and at Christmas—knowing you don’t celebrate—taking the opportunity to wish you a happy new year.

The same emotionless vows. So cold, so mechanical, like the recorded words of an electronic secretary...

You live by yourself. No parents anymore. No relatives, no family. Just a few friends who drop by or call from time to time, but they have their own lives. Most of the time, you’re alone. Your dead husband was responsible for reducing your life to a small space in this world...

So why are you lying to him?

He’s looking at her, perhaps wondering why she’s gone silent.

Perhaps her face is showing the feelings inside.

He doesn’t press further. He just grabs a biscuit.

For a moment, the only sounds are the crunch of the biscuit and the soft sip of tea.

She nurtures her cup between her palms.

In the daylight, though cloudy, she can see his face more clearly.

The resemblance is still striking.

‘That cut was nasty...’ she finally says.

‘I think the guy who hit me was wearing a ring...’ He touches his face.

‘That explains the cut. Are you in pain? I forgot to give you something for it earlier...’

‘I don’t think so... thanks...’

‘Sorry for asking, but it sounds like your father is upset with you. Why? You were mugged.’

‘I wasn’t supposed to be in the pub.’

‘Why not?’

‘I took his car to go to a friend’s wedding in the late afternoon. After the reception I decided to stretch the evening out a bit before going home, and ended up in that bloody bar...’

‘Oh, I see. You don’t have your own car?’

‘I crashed mine a while ago...’

‘Do you work or study?’

‘Both... I’m studying Business Administration and I help my father with his business.’

‘Which is?’

‘He has three bakeries...’

‘Oh, interesting. A busy man I assume...’

‘Yes, he is...’

‘Do you have siblings?’

‘Nope. Just me...’

‘Do you live with your father?’

‘Yeah. After Mum died, it’s just the two of us. I don’t intend to leave home anytime soon. Maybe one day, when I get married. He can be harsh at times, but he’s always been a good father. The kind who told me stories when I was a child, helped me with my school lessons, taught me how to ride a bike, how to drive...’

‘I can imagine...’

‘I want to thank you for taking me in. Someone else would have turned their back on me... Much appreciated.’

‘Oh, that’s fine...’

Why don’t you tell him that you were about to do the same? You didn’t because you were intrigued...

‘I also apologise for being rude...’

‘Were you?’

‘I might have been dizzy, but I remember punching the wall, and you called me out on it. And yes, I was...’

‘Don’t worry about it. I understand. You were in a bad way...’

‘Even so, it’s no excuse... You were trying to help me...’

She sips her tea, swallowing with it her embarrassment, discreetly observing the knife cutting a thick slice of loaf, being smeared with a generous portion of butter, and disappearing bite by bite into his mouth.

‘Your father is a baker?’

‘Yep, though he mostly manages the shops for now...’

‘Of course...’

‘When he married my mum, her father had a small bakery. Dad started working with him and came up with ideas that made the business thrive. After my grandfather died, my mum, being the only child, inherited it. By then, the business had expanded. So, Dad became the owner, and today he has three shops. I said bakery, but it’s much more than that. All the shops have an adjoining lounge where customers can savour the in-house products along with hot and cold drinks.’

‘That sounds good...’

‘Yeah. Maybe you’ll come and visit us one of these days...’

‘Me?’

You’re not going to tell him that your income doesn’t allow for certain perks. The piano lessons and the rent for the shop below aren’t enough for luxuries, not while you’re still paying off debts left by that notorious gambler—your deceased husband...

At least you managed to keep the house, and it won’t be long until the instalment is paid.

For now, every penny saved is indispensable.

As if he could guess her thoughts. ‘You’re my guest, I insist...’

‘I don’t know...’ she smiles awkwardly.

The rain intensifies, splashing heavily against the windowpane.

‘Oh, dear. I thought it would stop after all that rain last night. It’s good for the garden.’

‘I hope Dad doesn’t take much longer. He hates driving in the rain...’

‘He’ll be all right...’

‘I think he’ll like you...’

‘Why are you saying that?’

‘You’re a good person... You helped me...’

Oh goodness, that feeling of inadequacy again.

His father is coming. Him. It’s certainly him...

Suddenly, she becomes aware of the comfortable but old clothes she likes to wear around the house. Of her tired face, showing the lack of sleep she’d glimpsed in the mirror this morning.

You don’t want to be introduced to his father—or rather, to meet him—looking like this, do you?

She stands up abruptly.

‘Excuse me for a moment. I need to... sort something out. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back...’

In her room, she flusters, trying to make decisions.

What to wear? How to not appear deliberate, but casual?

She rummages through the hanging clothes, touching them lightly, her hands trembling slightly as she chooses...

She decides on a greyish-blue dress—sober, yet elegant against her slim frame—and quickly removes her worn blouse and skirt, movements clumsy with haste.

She swaps her slippers for low-heeled sandals.

Then, with deft movements, she applies touches of freshness and vitality to her face.

She’s just finishing when she hears a honk from the street.

She dashes to the balcony door and glances out.

Through the rain, which has now diminished, she sees a large, dark car parked in front of her house. Soon, beneath the shelter of an umbrella, a figure emerges and strides towards her gate, opening it.

From the shoes and attire—a pair of trousers and a shirt—it’s a man.

She cannot see his face, but that gait...

It’s him... The young man’s father...

She walks out of her bedroom, her entire body shaking with anticipation.

From the top of the staircase, she can see the young man sitting on the couch.

The doorbell rings.

‘I think it’s your father. Can you answer the door, please?’

As she descends, the muffled sound of voices drifts from the vestibule.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she finds the young man and the newcomer entering the living room.

Her heart skips a beat. A name escapes her lips, her voice on the verge of breaking...

‘Durval!’

‘Angelina!’ His eyes widen in astonishment.

The young man, mouth falls open. ‘You know each other?’

Flashes of a film play out silently between their gazes—hers and the grey-haired man’s...

Once upon a time, two young people loved each other.

It was pure, genuine, all-consuming love.

The kind that could last a lifetime.

They had plans and dreams together.

But it was a love kept in secret. Until one summer evening, when he went to ask her father for permission to court her, he was rejected.

He was poor. Not good enough for her—or rather, not good enough in her father’s eyes.

Twenty-five years ago...

She cried for days. To prevent any further contact, her father sent her away to live with his widowed sister—her grumpy aunt in a distant town.

Her dream of seeing him again was destroyed when she was forced to marry a much older man—a wealthy one.

He, for the humiliation he had suffered, swore to himself that he would turn things around. Disillusioned, he ended up marrying a woman he learned to like, but never loved.

He never stopped loving her. Just as she never stopped loving him.

She ended up returning, many years later, as a quirk of fate.

He never knew.

She never looked for him.

It was too late...

Now, this...

‘We were sweethearts,’ Durval finally responds vaguely to his son.

His blue eyes stare at her hazel ones.

The colours merge, becoming one, such is the intensity of their gaze.

Her breath is shallow, steady.

Her stomach flutters, stealing away all sense of time and place.

All she can hear is the beating of her own heart, competing with the rain falling outside—like tears she has accumulated inside, yet refuses to shed.

The young man stands perplexed, not knowing what to do, what to say in this tangible commotion.

 ‘Dad.’ He touches his father’s arm, as if to rouse him from a trance.

‘Wait outside, son...’

‘It’s raining, Dad.’

‘Here’s the key.’ He removes it, automaton-like, from his trousers pocket. ‘Wait in the car...’

The young man turns to her. ‘Bye.’

She replies hollowly, in a whisper. ‘Bye...’

From the door, the young man looks back to see the two of them still standing there, as if hypnotised, as if nothing else existed around them.

He shakes his head, and his mouth twitches into a faint grin.

The door clicks shut.

The spell is broken.

‘How are you, Angelina?’

With a storm of emotions rattling inside her, she stammers, ‘I... I’m... I’m fine, Durval. How about you?’

‘I’m all right...’ His hand runs absently through his grey hair.

She remembers this gesture—he’s nervous.

‘Your lost your wife...’

‘How do you know?’

‘Your son told me.’

He smiles sadly, echoing her words. "Ah, he told you...’ Then, after a pause: ‘What about you?’

‘I’m a widow too...’

‘Do you live by yourself?’

‘Me and my memories... ‘ She hesitates. ‘Do you want to sit down?’

‘No, sorry. I have an appointment. I can’t stay longer...’

‘Oh, I see...’

He shuffles closer. ‘You look as beautiful as ever...’

And you as handsome as before... The beard suits you...

It rings loud, though unspoken. Instead, she feels her face blush, just as it did, in the old days, when his eyes admired her.

‘Can I come round sometime? To talk?’

‘Yes...’  And inwardly, a desperate, silent please...

He steals a kiss on her cheek—softly, as softly as the first time.

 At the end of that Sunday, when she had been allowed to stroll in the main square with her girlfriends.

He was there with friends too. Breaking away from his group, he approached her.

That day, every fibre of her body had reacted, leaving her numb.

Still, in this moment...

As if more than two decades haven’t passed, and it’s just the next day of their youth...