He put the cup back down on the table and dabbed at his lips with a napkin before settling back in his chair. The coffee was over-extracted and bitter. He gazed across the street toward the tree-filled Jardim de Príncipe Real and sighed. There was no point in complaining on the guy’s first day. He would learn.
John nodded at the elderly man walking past. “Bom Dia.”
“Bom Dia,” the man replied, his face creasing in a smile, the lines on his forehead and around his eyes, filled with stories from a long, well-lived life.
The sun burst through the clouds, bringing warm rays of light. John loosened the scarf around his neck, dropping it on the seat beside him. He sucked in a lungful of crisp spring air and reached for his coffee again. Apart from the coffee, life was wonderful.
He and Adriana had a nice apartment in the Príncipe Real district, a lovely neighborhood with cobblestoned streets, trees, and cafes and restaurants within easy walking distance. He glanced over at the car parked at the curb, a recent treat for himself. A 1970 Porsche 911 S in Bahia Red, the car he had dreamed about since he was a kid. She was beautiful and gave him a lot of pleasure, racing around the streets.
After the traumatic experiences in Oman and India, life was enjoyable again. Adriana loved her work and was enjoying being back in the country of her birth, close to her parents. John had settled in easily, was picking up Portuguese, and had been enjoying exploring Lisbon, seeking out great places to eat and drink. Their circle of friends had grown slowly, and the city was beginning to feel like home.
John was fortunate he didn’t have to work, his shareholding in the Hong Kong listed Pegasus Land more than sufficient to provide him and Adriana with an extremely comfortable life. With all the time John had at his disposal, he had become fitter than ever before, lean and strong, full of energy and well-being. He was sleeping well. The occasional nightmares filled with repressed memories from the past were fewer and further between.
He reached for the coffee cup, then remembering the taste, changed his mind. He sighed. There was something wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it... He felt restless as if there was something lacking. It had been troubling him for a while, eating away at the back of his mind. It was why he had come out this morning and was drinking awful coffee, instead of one of his own at home. The walls of the apartment had felt as if they were closing in, and he needed to get out, to move around, to do... something. Perhaps he had too much time. It was ironic. When he had worked for a living, when he had been a wage slave, he had dreamed of free time, of being in control of every hour, not being bound by the clock and deadlines.
A presence beside him disturbed his thoughts.
“John bom dia, como você está?”
John smiled and reached out to shake the hand of Agostinho, the owner of the cafe.
“Bom dia Agostinho, estou bem, obrigado.” He then gestured toward his coffee cup and made a face.
Agostinho placed a hand on John’s shoulder and nodded, switching to English.
“I’ll make it myself.” He glanced toward the cafe and shrugged. “He’s still learning.”
John smiled. “It’s okay.”
“Give me a minute.”
“Obrigado.”
John sat back and continued his train of thought. People here were nice, friendly. His life was perfect, there was no reason to be dissatisfied, but if the truth be known, if he was completely honest with himself—he was bored.
2
The ground rocked with a heavy impact, and a fine mist of dust filled the air. Mahfuza pulled her daughter closer as they huddled under a blanket in the corner of the room. That was the closest one so far, the explosions getting closer and closer the past week. She looked down and placed a hand on her daughter’s forehead. She was hot, a low fever, but there was little she could do. They hadn’t eaten properly in months, and any medicines were solely for the use of the fighters. Mahfuza shivered and wrapped the loose end of her hijab across her face, covering her mouth and nose, and pulled the blanket tighter to keep warm. She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth, the motion the only comfort she could give her child.
It hadn’t always been like this. There had been happier times in another world—a world filled with love and abundance, where people smiled and laughed, where food was plentiful. It seemed so long ago, and the thought increased the heavy feeling of despair that enveloped her. She wouldn’t cry, there was no point. She had stopped crying a long time ago. She was here, and she must accept it.
Another explosion shook the building, and she winced, opening her eyes, and glancing down at the little girl in her arms as the sound of a jet fighter screamed overhead, but not a sound came from the child, her eyes open, staring blankly across the rubble-strewn floor, oblivious to her surroundings. Mahfuza leaned down and kissed her on the top of the head, continuing her rocking. She closed her eyes again, and her lips started moving.
“Bismillaah ar-Raḥmān ar-Raheem. Alhamdulilah rab il alameen, Ar-Raḥmān ar-Raheem......”
3
John felt a vibration in his pocket and shifted his position, so he could remove the phone as Agostinho returned with another cup of coffee.
“Obrigado, Agostinho.” John smiled and glanced at the screen. He raised his eyebrows, and his grin became wider. John nodded at the café owner, then answered the call.
“Steve.”
“John, mate, how’s it hanging?”
John chuckled. “I’m well, Steve. How are you?”
“Can’t complain, mate. People keep having affairs, so I’m always busy.”
“The glamorous and exciting life of a private eye.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t think that after sitting in a car
