Lost Sheep
It was five in the morning, and Miguel was awake. It was Sunday; he didn’t have to be up at this hour. The rooster was already crowing, and the granite chill was freezing his shoulders. Unemployment had stripped him of his sense of time; sometimes he slept until two in the afternoon, other times he woke up at five in the morning. He got up, slipped his feet into his furry slippers, and wrapped himself in his old bathrobe. Quietly, he went to the kitchen, careful not to wake his widowed mother. He was sad and tired of being there. Life’s twists and decisions driven by the heart had brought him back to the countryside, far from Lisbon, the city that had led him astray. He warmed up some milk and added a few drops of coffee. From the kitchen window, through the strong, cold granite and the old glass, he could see the hillside with the goats huddled under the olive tree. It was a beautiful sight for someone coming from the city and a bit sad for someone who was born there and would die there.
His teeth ached; he might be losing another molar. He only had four on one side and hoped to have at least three left by the time he turned 50. There were still seven years to go! He hadn’t taken good care of himself over the past ten years, and tobacco and alcohol had made him older than he was. ‘How foolish,’ he thought... what had he done with his life? He had always been a man of dreams, fearless and eager to achieve more than his parents could ever give him. To escape his tyrannical father’s alcoholism and his dear mother’s pessimism, who, with a heroic arm, always kept the house in order. He had dreamed of getting married and going to Lisbon to become a taxi driver. One day, perhaps a private chauffeur for a great family or a prominent man! Who knows, maybe he could even fly! He would show his father that what is not given can be achieved and prove to his mother that fate is like clay in the hands of the bold. Twenty years later, he looked in the kitchen mirror and saw a finished man, thin, with an unshaven face. Sparse and uneven hair... dark circles from tobacco and rotten teeth. A chauffeur? Not at all...
He opened the kitchen door and breathed in the fresh morning air. The goats woke up from the noise and, frightened, moved away to the fence. On the other side of the hill, he could already see the dawn, and looking at the light, he tried to find some hope in it. He didn’t know how to open his soul, as his condition as a simple man did not incline him towards clear ideas... The world seemed to have closed its doors to him; he could only rely on the charity of his ever-faithful mother. The only woman who had ever loved him. His ex-wife, she had only destroyed what his father hadn’t. She had violently ripped away the good child within him and given it to her suburban boyfriends who abused her, knowing that Miguel was gentle.
With tears in his eyes, he lit a cigarette and enjoyed his faithful companion while watching the sunrise. The smoke of the tobacco formed various shapes that slowly rose until they revealed the first rays of sunlight. Miguel knew he had to put an end to all that sadness but couldn’t find the strength in his emotional but unassertive spirit. What could he do to start anew? He felt like the prodigal son... tending pigs after a life of indulgence. But here, there were no pigs, and his Father had died before he could forgive him. What was he to do...?
"‘Son? Come inside, it’s freezing. I’m going to light the fire, son, come warm up those little hands!’"
With a loving smile, he felt good hearing his mother’s chatter as she had just woken up. If it had been 20 years ago, he would have been annoyed and responded with a tongue sticking out or something more aggressive. Now, he simply said, “I’m coming, dear, thank you.” And he joined his mother in the kitchen, kissing her and helping her stack the logs to start the fire.
"So, son, can’t you sleep?"
"I can sleep, Mom. But never at the right times. I woke up an hour ago and went outside for a cigarette..."
"Oh, boy... Put that stuff away... it’s bad for you and ruins your body."
"Oh, Mom! As if there was anything left to ruin."
"Miguel Francisco... don’t say foolish things! You know you’re my most beautiful boy, and those blue eyes will always be the most beautiful thing in this world. If you don’t do it for yourself, do it for me. While I’m alive!"
"Sorry, Mom." And embarrassed, he stacked the logs one by one until he finally set them on fire.
It had been two years since he had moved there. After his father’s death, his mother, feeling more alone, became increasingly absorbed in her marital problems, hastening the inevitable. His ex-wife, Rita, made his life miserable, blaming him for the lack of money, the stupidity of their daughters, the crappy house they lived in, and the lack of friends... Miguel had never managed to respond or justify that he had tried his best... but whether it was for being too passive, too kind, or even a bit dumb... he had never managed to stabilize in a job, and his dream of becoming a successful driver was replaced by frequent visits to the unemployment office. After each failed interview, Miguel consoled himself in "Ramires," the local café in Rio de Mouro, and watched his skin age 30 years in just five years.
His daughters watched all this, not knowing if all families were like this or if it was just theirs. They took refuge in the television, growing up without knees scraped from the stones of the field. They grew up behind cheap curtains that hid a depressing urban landscape. They grew up amidst the screams of their neurotic mother and a father seeking deafness in whiskey, looking at his daughters with sweet eyes, seeking consolation from that vile and possessive woman. It took seven years of marriage to put an end to that misery and leave the house... taking refuge in what was their protected kingdom. Now, completely broke and stripped of everything, Miguel tried to rebuild his life, freeing himself from alcohol and low self-esteem. He drove tourist boats on the river, visiting the prehistoric caves along the Tagus. He was renewed by the cheerful tourists who gave him generous tips that paid for his tobacco and the occasional meal at a restaurant, for himself and his dear mother. It had been two comforting years, of unconditional love, that restored the two broken hearts of a widowed mother and an abandoned son.
"‘Son, the kids are coming for lunch today—don’t forget to shave and take a shower!’"
He had completely forgotten about the Matos Rezende family—the family where his mother had worked for 20 years. A wealthy family, very kind people, who treated his mother as if she were one of their own. He liked them but felt an intense jealousy seeing them as a greater source of pride for his own mother. After all, they were all lawyers or doctors, all with higher education and nice homes in central Lisbon. He always felt inferior, even knowing that there was no intention of such from their side. On the contrary, he remembered Dona Margarida, the employer, telling his mother how handsome he was. She always asked if he had a girlfriend. Little did she know that her own daughter, Ana, was his great impossible love... She would be coming today. He hadn’t seen her in at least 10 years. He didn’t want her to see him like this, without teeth and with dark circles.
"Oh Mom, who’s coming today? Dona Margarida, Dr. so-and-so, and the three kids?"
"No, only Ana and Gabriel, the youngest. Do you remember Ana?"
Miguel was annoyed by this question. How could he forget that sweet girl he had played with as a child? That light and cheerful girl who always asked his mother about him and made an effort to keep the old clothes that Dr. so-and-so was throwing away for him, Miguel. She always treated him as an equal, knowing that he was like her, only born into a different reality. But she saw in him a kind and honest heart, the most important thing in a man.
"Okay. Look, I have to take a group of French tourists to see the caves and will be back around noon, before lunch."
"Okay, son, but take a shower if you get dirty with the boats and the visits!"
"Alright, Mom! Don’t treat me as if I don’t know... don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you in front of ‘your kids.’"
"Miguel, what’s with the talk?"
And with that, he slammed the door and went to dress in his room. He lay on the bed, looking at the bare brick ceiling, depressed with his life and the misfortune of being born there. In that house smelling of a pigsty and with no finishings. He lived in poverty, although his mother told him it was the normal life of the countryside. It wasn’t, he knew. It was extreme poverty hidden by simplicity. He smoked another cigarette and entertained himself dreaming with the smoke cloud. He thought of Rita and how she had been good to him at the beginning of their relationship. She too had been born into that misery of the countryside. Her father had killed himself when she was only three years old, and she grew up with an indebted mother who blamed her for all the world’s evils. She became a rebel, wearing dark glasses, a black denim jacket, and her hair pulled back. She had known Miguel forever, but it was only when they were 20 that they started dating. They would go to the river to throw stones and complain about that miserable village. When they managed to get a car, they would drink beer and skid on the roads of neighboring villages. They got into trouble and adventures with the police, and when they escaped, they laughed heartily. The first kiss was inevitable, and with it the union of bodies. That’s how Rita got pregnant and how they both rushed into an even greater adventure for which neither was prepared: marriage. That wild and rebellious woman had ruined the good boy in Miguel and turned him into a reckless and hopeless man. When they moved to Lisbon, they realized that the rebellion they considered intelligence did not work in a big, unjust city, where the distance between people is unfair in validation. Neither of them managed to adapt to that reality, and even the second daughter did not save a marriage that was doomed from the start. As he remembered all this, Miguel looked at the photos on the bedroom wall. They were photos of the two of them, in the golden days of rebellion. In one, they were leaning against a black Fiat by the riverside, each with a cigarette in their mouth and a tough look. In another, they were at Zé Júlio’s tavern making a toast after watching a motorcycle race in the village. In others, they were trips to Castelo Branco, cheap discos, or the hospital when one of Rita’s friends got into a fight. They were all traces of fun but very destructive times. In the corner of his room was a photograph of a different girl. It was Ana. She was 9 years old in the photo, leaning against a wall in her house’s garden in Estoril, wearing a school uniform. In the bottom right corner, it said ‘Merry Christmas from Ana’—it had been a Christmas present he had given to Lúcia, but Miguel had subtly brought it to his room, as he had a great affection for Ana that went far beyond any physical attraction or even interest. It was that kind, innocent look of someone who had a good life and was not used to seeing the bad in things. Ana saw the best in everything. He turned his gaze back to a photo of Rita, standing on a rock by the river. It had been an afternoon when they had gone on a picnic and drank so much that they fell asleep on the beach. They were awakened by the GNR and had to go to the police station because Rita was half naked on top of Miguel's naked body...
The sun had risen, and deciding to get up, he sought some consolation. Something more than the burning waters of Zé Júlio’s coffee. He had no money, so he had to walk somewhere where he didn’t have to pay. He decided to go to the dam. It was cold outside, so he put on an old coat of his father’s—a forest ranger coat with a sheepskin collar. He walked with determination along the edge of the road, occasionally getting a honk from a car that recognized him. Farther down, a unique light appeared on the road. Behind the wheel of a fast motorcycle was a woman, a girl in a white nightgown. Her face was familiar... he strained to see who it was and recognized her face. It couldn’t be... He knelt and, as if awaiting his fate, opened his arms, surrendering to the mysterious motorcyclist he knew so well: he said, “Come to me, Ana.”
João woke up startled. He looked at the wooden ceiling and still saw the golden fan spinning. He got up and looked to the side. Ana was sleeping peacefully, one foot on each side, and her back twisted as if she had fallen off a motorcycle. Her angelic face was enjoying being a pampered woman... Still disturbed from sleep, João embraced Ana and smelled her soft hair. Whispering, “How wonderful, my dear,” he tried to fall asleep. Until Ana, stretching, said, “What time is it? We have to wake up early... don’t forget. We agreed to be there for lunch... Miguel said he had to leave early for the afternoon shift at the factory. Poor thing, I hope he’s well... I’ll take him a big king cake.” João, looking at the comfort of the room, thought... how lucky I am to have married this woman... how lucky I am to have escaped the factory...