Chapter One
The Man from Lisbon
The rumour reached the tile workshop before the man did, which in Vila Andorinha was standard procedure. Rumours here travelled by pastelaria, and the pastelaria opened at seven.
"He is at the widow Fonseca's guesthouse," reported Sofia, arriving with the bread and the intelligence in the same basket. "One suitcase, one enormous tube, like for posters. He runs, Ines. At six in the morning. Along the cliff path. Rui saw him and says he runs like a man being chased by his own thoughts."
"Rui says everyone runs like that."
"He ordered his coffee in proper Portuguese, no big city nonsense, and he tipped, but not too much, which Dona Fonseca says shows calculation." Sofia set down the basket and delivered the headline. "And this morning he is at the camara, signing papers. It is him, Ines. The hotel's man. The architect who takes down the wall."
Ines Almeida went on wedging clay for a moment, because her hands were her hands and finished what they started.
Everyone had known he was coming. The sale had gone through in the spring, the hotel group's drawings had appeared in the regional paper, tasteful and terrifying, and in them, where the cannery's south wall should have been, the caption had said: Historic tile panel to be conserved and relocated to the reception atrium. Relocated. The town had said the word all summer the way you say a diagnosis.
