Lisbon, beautiful Lisbon, lies on the very edge of Europe. Once upon a time, gypsies traveled west from India. On the way, they wandered into Bessarabia and Hungary. Many stayed there. The rest moved on. They settled in Bosnia, Croatia, and Spain. And the bravest reached Portugal. There was nowhere else to go, there was an ocean beyond. In time, the inhabitants of these places became different from their neighbors. Dark-curly-haired, with big eyes, stately, beautiful! And their songs – it is something! Their songs smell of the steppes’ wattle and the mountain valleys’ flowers, with the ocean murmuring and the seagulls crying in them.
Chuguev was the captain’s second mate on a refrigerated ship carrying a cargo of fish caught by trawlers off the coast of Africa to Lisbon. He was in charge of unloading and had spent the day drowning in waybills and cargo manifests. The day was over and Chuguev, nervous and tired, decided to walk into town to drink and relax. The fourth mate, Sashka Lizovsky, and mechanic Karin went along for company.
“Lesha, I’ve been here before, I know a place. Not expensive and very original,” Karin slowed down and lit a cigarette. “The vodka there is delicious and the girls are beautiful,” he added, puffing on the smoke.
“No questions, let’s go there and pick up the pace,” Chuguev patted Sashka on the shoulder and winked at Karin.
It was dusk and the town, like a ripe cherry, was aglow with red and yellow lights. The tavern, or rather snack bar, was on the edge of the cliff. They found a table on the veranda and ordered vodka and sturgeon, the most familiar thing they could find on the menu. The veranda was like the deck of a ship, swaying slightly in the evening breeze, and it seemed as if they were being carried out to sea again.
The waiter rolled a cart on which stood two vases of thick green glass. Filled with ice chips, the vases were in a light mist. The neck of a bottle of ‘Absolut’ vodka peeked out of one, and the long legs of tiny shot glasses, fifty grams each, no more, were sticking out of the other.
“Mamma mia, I’ve never seen such a thing,” Lisovsky’s eyes widened.
“Save your eyes for the night watch,” Chuguev muttered, “you’d better fill the glasses!”
The vodka poured into ice-cold shot glasses was immediately thickened like liquor. Chuguev put his finger on the bottle:
“Is it half a litro, buddy?” – he addressed the waiter.
“Si, señor,” the waiter bowed in readiness.
“Let’s double it, please bring another one,” Chuguev smiled, “and where is the fish?”
“The fish is being prepared for you, señores, it will be brought right away,” the waiter disappeared like a mist over the vases.
The vodka flowed smoothly and soon the bottle was empty. The second cart arrived just in time.
“Here you go,” Karin uncorked the new bottle: “They’re cooking the fish, especially for us!” He held up a finger, “capitalism, you know!”. The mechanic was already squinting one eye, the vodka was of good quality.
“And you said the girls here are pretty?” Chuguev winked at him.
“Ho-ho! The first word the first man muttered was ba-boo…” Karin snorted and they laughed.
“Centuries passed and another man rhymed,” Chuguev added:
The man who caught the fish
Should understand a simple truth
The fish is never fresh for long,
Enjoy your catch and cook a dish!
“Did Omar Khayyam say that? I thought he was an impotent philosopher,” Sashka Lizovsky woke up.
Their chatter was interrupted by a girl bringing in a cart. All three fell silent, stunned. She emerged like a diva from the sea foam, her beauty seemingly unearthly. Her long, curly hair was playfully pinned up with a huge silver pin and a tiny white lily. A fragile figure, thin waist, beautiful hips, small breasts, the dark face of a Madonna.
“Your sturgeon, señores,” she quickly and skilfully arranged the plates on the table with the smooth movements of her graceful hands,
“I gather from your speech that you are guests from another country, so I would like to offer you a sauce for this fish. It is only made in one village in Portugal. My grandmother lives there and every time I visit her, she gives me a basket of bottles of her sauce,” the girl smiled as she turned to leave.
“Just a moment, señorita, por favor,” Chuguev strained all his knowledge, mixing English words with Spanish and fearing to slip in some sailor’s slang, “please, señorita, we would like to try Porto, your famous wine, for dessert…”
“Yes, of course,” the girl nodded.
“What is your name, excuse me,” he had already come to his senses.
“My name is Anna-Maria. And you are from Russia?”
“Yes, we are sailors,” Sashka Lisovsky interrupted, “we brought you a cargo of fish…”
“That’s great, we don’t get Russians very often, otherwise I would have improved my Russian,” she smiled, “my grandfather fled your revolution. I only remember a few words from him. He loved the guitar and often hummed beautiful songs. Such sad romances! The magic of my gypsy ancestors must live in them,” her expression grew distant.
“I would like to sing such a romance for you,” Chuguev froze. He loved the guitar, and his twelve-stringed friend was always welcome at feasts.
“You know, I have an idea,” the girl’s eyes lit up, “I’ll ask our musicians to give you a microphone. Will you try?”
He was given a guitar and sat on the ramp with his legs overhanging. The guitar had six strings and he familiarised himself with the instrument by trying the chords. As he played the melody, he looked around the room. There were the smiling people at the tables, and among them, he saw her face. Her loose hair fluttered in the evening breeze, she was like an angel in the night. And he whispered the first words of the romance:
Eh, dari-dari-da.
You’re beautiful and slim
Eh, dari-dari-da
In my dream!
The guitar obeyed him and he sang:
I don’t whine about fate
Keeping in the best of you
And I’m sharing with you here
My confession
I will walk through pain of wounds
Will forgive you a deceit.
You are like a gypsy song
Full of passion
Eh, dara-dara-da,
Full of passion…
The musicians grabbed a tune:
I won’t ask you to explain
Why you live like in your dream
In your sleep, you only sin,
Little dreamer
Who’s a shadow in your dream?
What a hope you keep for him
Only miracles in dream
But in life, they don’t, my passion
Eh, dari-dari-da,
Eh, my passion!
I can only be the one
In your sleepless journey fashion
Who will make your dreams alive
With my passion
But you right, as you are young
I say nothing
Don’t afraid to burn your dream
Dreams are coming
Eh, dari-dari-da,
Dreams are coming
Everything I bless in you
I will poison soul with blessing
I just say that I love you
You my beautiful obsession
The guests at the bar were already dancing and singing along to the gypsy refrain:
Eh, dari-dari-da,
My obsession…!
People applauded and didn’t let him go for a long time.
“Señores, your dinner was paid, we all thank you very much for the song,” the restaurant owner bowed his head, “You asked Anna-Maria for our best Porto wine. This is her little gift to you,” he beckoned and the waiter placed a silver platter with three tiny glasses on the table. “This wine is made from a recalcitrant grape that grows on rocky sea cliffs,” the owner smiled, “it is rattled by salty storms, it has little fresh water, and only rare rains wash and nourish its berries. But this berry will never grow on plantations, will never submit to the slavery of man. It gives itself to you tonight, on this marvelous evening.”
‘May I ask you something?’ Chuguev timidly turned to the owner of the restaurant, but he seemed to have anticipated his question: ‘Anna-Maria has left on urgent business. The young people always have urgent business, you know,’ the owner bowed his head, and Chuguev saw on his face the shadow of a barely perceptible smile. As barely as the sauce that gave the sturgeon a barely savoury flavour…
On the way back, Karin and Sashka Lisovsky joked and sang songs. And Chuguev was thoughtful. The restaurant owner’s story was stuck in his head.
And suddenly he had a spark… After all, in the parable of the unruly berry, an old man who had been tempted by life told them about the beautiful gypsy girl!
“And he’s right,” Chuguev smiled. “One sip is enough to appreciate the wine…”
(Original lyrics of a song by Efrem Amiramov were modified in translation)
© Copyright: Walter Maria, 2015
Certificate of Publication #215031402106
Insightful piece
Insightful piece
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