This is Francisco, the brother whose image I didn't dare to steal. He lived for such a short time, but who knows what he might have become. Sometimes I think that, by living, I have tried to give him life.
I am six years old and standing on the balcony at the back of the house in Rua Fernao Lopes. If my memory serves me right, beside me were Antonio Barata and his wife; however, an implacable pair of scissors has separated me from them. My mother was always very clear where relationships were concerned: the end of a friendship meant the end of any photos too.
***
This dates from my primary school days. It is, I think, the second photograph taken of me, if I don't count the one that disappeared and in which I was pictured with my mother outside the grocer's shop, with her dressed in heavy mourning following the death of my brother Francisco and with me looking very sad.
They've put a tie on me in this one, and pinned the badge of Benfica football club to my lapel. My father made me a member of the club and used to take me to watch them play at the old Amoreiras stadium. This was more for his benefit than for mine. It was fun, but I wasnever that much of a fan.
There's a triumphal air about me here; I'm wearing a confident half-smile. I assume this was taken after the fourth-year exams, when I was already looking forward to the responsibilities that awaited me at secondary school. The triumphal air didn't last.
I should perhaps have placed this photo earlier. I look rather fragile and delicate, in complete contrast to the positive and slightly smug expression of the previous picture. One thing, though, that doesn't quite fit with my theory that this is an earlier photo is the loosely knotted tie, a fashion that came in later.
Here I am, a full-fledged adolescent. The Benfica badge has vanished, and I seem to recall that, by then, I had stopped going to matches. I've gone back to wearing my tie tightly knotted, a style that has accompanied me all my life, right up until the present day.
By now, I had a girlfriend .
You can tell by the look on my face.
In Azinhaga. Legs straddled, I gaze at the camera with a determined air. I didn't know what to do with my hands, so I stuck them in my pockets. Trouser pockets are the refuge of the shy.
Here they are, Josefa and Jeronimo. I find that hand on my grandmother's shoulder very touching. They didn't much go in for public displays of affection, but I know they loved each other and still did then.
My grandmother has a child in her arms, but I don't know who it is. He looks to me like Uncle Manuel's son.
I'm not sure what to make of this gentleman. His face is that of my grandfather Jeronimo, but the suit isn't him at all. It was lent to him for the occasion by the husband of my Aunt Maria da Luz, who, at the time, lived in Oporto, where the photo was taken.
My mother was a beauty.
It's not me who says so, but the photo.
They made a handsome couple. My mother was pregnant with my brother Francisco at the time. I came along later, but there's no photo.
My father, when he'd already been promoted to sergeant. He was what people used to call 'a fine figure of a man.'
So beautiful!
The years passed, and this is possibly the last photo of my father. Despite his various shenanigans, he was not a bad person. One day, when I was already a grown man, he said to me: 'Now you, you've always been a good son.' At that moment, I forgave him everything. We had never been so close before.
