Waiting for Alfonso

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“Mama, come in for dinner.” Nina wiped her hands on the stained apron tied around her waist. Then she twisted her dark hair into a knot and re-pinned it up off her neck.  “He’s not coming, Mama,” Nina called down the pathway. She shook her head and stepped back into the dark country kitchen.

Maria’s work-worn hands remained folded in the lap of her most respectable dress. She had spent extra time scrubbing her nails, and rubbing a little olive oil into the fragile skin. She wanted to look her best when Afonso arrived. He would come. He never failed to do as he promised.

Breezes gently pressed the fragrance of ripe oranges along the winding valley. Tall pines, and thick undergrowth crowded blackened cork trees. Portals of blue skies widened, pushing banks of clouds away into the dark hills.

Maria flattened each fold of the green gingham dress between her thumbs and middle fingers. She had loved this dress for many years, but no amount of ironing would make the pleats crisp now. Then, her fingers found the edge of her faded cotton cardigan. A gift from someone, someone who cared. The short sleeves offered just enough warmth on a sunny day while seated at the edge of the road beside the fruit stand.

She must ask Gregorio to fix the wobble in this chair. No, she couldn’t ask Gregorio, her husband. He was no longer young. She wouldn’t ask him anyway because he might find it an excuse to get rid of the chair, rather than have his wife sitting in it comfortably, enjoying the late afternoon Portuguese sun, while she waited for the love of her life, Afonso.

Afonso had thick wavy hair, eternally neat. His smile always reached his eyes, and each time he stopped by, he directed it towards her. Gregorio would be jealous if he saw. But he never noticed the looks she and Afonso exchanged. For a fleeting moment, she wondered about that. Had her husband been resentful of her quick intake of breath each time she heard Afonso’s motorbike approaching?

 A car pulled up to the stand. A stout woman in a floppy black hat stepped out and began squeezing the oranges piled in crates under the awning.

“Ripe? Are they ripe?” the woman demanded, her voice sharp in Maria’s ears.

Maria frowned suspiciously, wondering why the woman would squeeze the oranges. She might bruise the sun-ripened fruit. She didn’t understand the language the woman spoke, so she pointed to the sign Nina had made. The sign didn’t mean anything to her either, but it must have satisfied the woman who nodded and began picking up more oranges than one hand could hold.

Maria remembered the bags under the table the crates sat on, and pulled one out. She didn’t recognize the material of its slippery surface but opened it up wide, allowing the woman to drop a dozen oranges into the bag. The woman held out some coins and Maria accepted them in the palm of her hand. Was this correct? They were not centavos. She glanced at the sign Nina had written. The funny E had an extra line through it. She shrugged, placing the coins in the box Gregorio had made for such a purpose. It must be correct. People didn’t cheat the poor farmers—often.

The chair wobbled as Maria sat down again. She tried not to inhale the fine earth flung into the air by the wheels of the departing car. Better were the donkey carts that made a slow, but steady plodding step, rarely raising the dust.

Maria started to hum a song. It would be the one they would dance to when Afonso came to take her away. She stared at the intersection of dirt road in front of her. The sign for Salir had rotted near the bottom of the square post, tipping it downwards. Twenty-five km it said. Not too far to where there was dancing in the hotel. The arrow pointing to Alto Fica had faded so much, nothing could be seen of the black lettering. It pointed to heaven.

Afonso said he would come. He would stop his motorbike, and flick out the kickstand, then come dashing over. He always dashed.

“My beloved Maria,” he would say. “How are you this fine day?” Then he would reach for her right hand and kiss the back of it, tickling it with his bristling moustache. She would raise her left hand to the base of her throat, overcome with the thrill of his touch. But she would lower her head, eye lashes aflutter, and smile demurely. It was not becoming for a woman to be bold.

Maria startled, then relaxed as she realized it was her daughter who had placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Mama, come in for some supper. It’s cod, your favourite.” Nina took her mother’s arm and helped her off the chair. They walked side by side down the path of broken stones.

“Did someone come to buy oranges?” Nina asked to fill in the silence.

Maria nodded. “I’m not sure she gave me enough money.” They walked arm in arm to the door. “Is Gregorio in from the fields yet?”

Nina tilted her head as she turned to her mother. “No Mama. Papa has been gone a long time. He died seven years ago, remember?”

Maria frowned, hesitating to sniff as she brushed the jasmine blossoms thick on the shrub beside them. Nina led the way inside to the kitchen and Maria headed to the table where two youthful boys, a young man, and an old man sat. The boys flicked each other’s hats off, and the old man smoothed his moustache. Maria stopped short at the wooden bench where a place had been set for her. “Afonso?” she asked under her breathe.

“Sit down Mama. I’ll bring the soup.” Nina stepped over to the black woodstove where an iron pot steamed. She shook her head.

Maria slid into the space at the bench, and narrowed her eyes still in contact with the older gentleman. He looked away. “You’re not Afonso, are you?” She turned to watch the two boys poke each other. Their fingers flew in search of each other’s ribs, stifled giggles breaking out between them.

“Boys, stop,” came the firm reprimand from their father. They stilled, now eagerly holding their spoons ready for the soup their mother brought to the table.

Maria bowed her head and crossed herself, waiting for the head of the house to bless the food. She breathed in the strong garlic aroma and smiled.

After the blessing, spoons pinged against pottery bowls, bread was passed, and the family chatted between bites.

Maria emptied her bowl and rose to leave the table.

“Mama, sit. It’s okay. I can clear the table and get the fish. You stay here.”

“I don’t want to miss him. He’ll be coming soon, and I don’t want your father to know.”

“Mama, who are you expecting?” Nina could guess, but let her mother speak.

“Don’t tell your father, Nina. He’s jealous,” and she started to rise again.

“No, Mama. I wouldn’t dare tell him,” she smiled, stroking her mother’s arm. “I’ll get the fish.”

“He may be coming soon. I think I can hear his motorbike, now.” Maria rose, the backs of her legs forcing the bench to scrape on the stone floor.

“No, Mama. Afonso died before you married Papa. Thirty-five years now.”

Maria faced her daughter, distraught, frowning. Rivulets of tears wound their way along wrinkles to her chin. “No. It can’t be. He said he would come.”

Nina grasped her mother’s hand, drawing her closer to the bench. Every night recently they went through the same ritual. She drew in a deep breath. “He overturned the motorbike and died from his injuries, Mama.” She tightened her lips and sighed. “He’s not coming tonight.”
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Maria sat down, her entire body sagging. “Maybe tomorrow.”