Azorean Dreams
By Sue Fagalde Lick
Prologue
Azorean Dreams is now available from the bookstore at iUniverse.com. You can also order copies at www.suelick.com, Amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, or your favorite bookstore. Cost is $20.95. Contact Sue Fagalde Lick (541-867-4692) or suelick@charter.net) for autographed copies, book signings or speaking engagements. Sue is also the author of Stories Grandma Never Told and The Iberian Americans, which are both also about Portuguese immigrants.
Chapter One
Chelsea would never forget that hot June in San Jose. It was the month Aunt Julia died, the month she met Simão Freitas and the month she got the anonymous tip about San Jose City Councilman James Slater’s shenanigans. It was also the month she became Portuguese.
“They’re having this big Portuguese parade downtown on Sunday afternoon. I need you to cover it,” said Mel, her editor at the South Bay Weekly Times.
It was already Friday afternoon, and she had been looking forward to a weekend with no commitments.
“Why me? Because I once told you I was half Portuguese? I don’t see you covering the Jewish events just because your great-grandfather was a Polish Jew.”
“Hey, you know that’s not the reason. I heard the parade is a big deal, and you’re the best photographer we have. I’ll give you comp time next week.”
“Sure you will.”
So she found herself at Five Wounds Church, surrounded by girls in white dresses, crowns and long velvet capes, and parents dressed in their Sunday best. They were dark and heavyset like her mother’s family, but she had no idea what it was all about.
She had to park a half mile from the church. Frowning, she slung her camera over one shoulder, shoved a notebook into the back pocket of her jeans, and hurried toward the band music.
The parade stretched way into the distance. Behind the first band came two boys carrying a banner, a man with a flag, then a teen princess. Two little girls, also in white, marched beside her, their capes dragging on the ground. The girls stared straight ahead, weary already from their stiff dress shoes and the warm spring weather. Mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles plodded behind them. Then came another banner, more princesses, and more adults.
The onlookers called to the marchers in Portuguese and waved green and red flags. Pressing to the front, Chelsea ran quickly through her first roll of film. This looked a lot like the pictures in Aunt Julia’s album, she thought. Aunt Julia was all in white like these girls, a crown on her dark, curly hair. Mom had pointed out Great Grandma Silveira in the background and her own mother, then a tiny girl marching next to Aunt Julia. How come nobody ever talked about these parades, she wondered. Was this one of those old country customs her mother couldn’t wait to leave behind?
She hated to admit Mel was right, but this was going to be a great feature. She squatted in the path of the parade and finished the roll with more shots of the princesses. She was hastily changing film when a man’s face caught her eye.
He was younger than many of the men in the parade, too young to be a princess’s father, yet he led the San Jose delegation with an air of authority. He was tall and well-built, wearing a charcoal pin-striped suit and shiny black leather shoes. His thick hair was short and wavy, his brown face intersected with a thatch of mustache. Something about his erect posture and shining eyes drew her to him.
She snapped his picture just before he broke off from the parade and hurried up the steps into the I.E. S. Hall next to the church. Chelsea stood, rubbing her stiff knees, and was gazing in his direction when she heard a sharp command no more than two feet away.“Please move out of the way,” an old man in a navy blue band uniform said in English. “You will get run over.” He pounded his bass drum for emphasis.
“I’m so sorry,” said Chelsea, seeking an empty space. She raised her camera again. A long line of women marched down the street with baskets of bread on their heads. Behind them rattled an oxen-drawn cart with a five-foot tall statue of the Virgin Mary. Chelsea dashed into the street and took pictures of it all, finding it hard to believe this was happening in San Jose.
When the parade was over, the flag carriers lined the lodge steps, American flags on the right, Portuguese flags on the left. The man Chelsea had photographed earlier stepped to the center and began to speak in Portuguese. She edged closer, aiming her lens at him.
She had no idea what he was saying, but the sound was melodious, with lots of shushing and zhhzing. Growing up, she hadn’t heard much Portuguese, only a few curses and whispered gossip between her grandmother and her great aunts. Now she listened intently, frustrated at not understanding.
The speaker was smiling, perfect white teeth glowing beneath his mustache. He waved his arms and signaled the bands to begin. She didn’t know the first song, but the second was “The Star Spangled Banner.” The people around her sang along with both songs, switching from Portuguese to English.
What a great closing shot, Chelsea thought. She raised her camera to photograph the double rows of flags and the men singing with their hands over their hearts. The shutter clicked in the silence after the National Anthem. Suddenly, from behind the flags, a pair of doves rose into the sky and fluttered awkwardly to the eaves of the old church. The crowd applauded, the speaker shouted, and everyone surged toward the door. Chelsea was swept up the steps with them, barely able to hold onto her camera.
The doors swung open, and the people poured inside. Huge tables were set for hundreds of diners, and the smell of roasting beef and fresh bread was so thick she could barely breathe.
Clearly the story wasn’t over yet. She eased back against a side wall, listening to the clamor of Portuguese and English, the stamping of hard-soled shoes on the wooden floor and the scraping of folding chairs as people settled in.
Outside, the people moaned.
“Paciência. Patience. You will be next,” he said.
Meanwhile, inside, men with aprons tied over their white shirts and dark slacks brought immense bowls of steaming meat and bread to the tables. The bowls were passed from hand to hand. Green salad followed. Sons and fathers lined up at the back of the hall to purchase beer and canned soft drinks as mothers helped their children fill their plates. Chelsea watched in awe, her camera still in her hands. Someone touched her elbow.
“Can I help you?”
“Oh!” she said, startled. The handsome master of ceremonies she had admired through her lens stood beside her. Up close, he seemed taller. He had taken off his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. She cleared her throat. “Yes, I'm a reporter for the South Bay Weekly Times. I've been taking some pictures, and I wondered if you could give me a little background on what's going on.”
His dark eyes fixed on hers, puzzled. “Are you not Portuguese yourself?”
“Half,” she admitted. “My mother’s side of the family. But . . . .”
He glanced back at the crowded tables. “You have never been to a festa? Amazing. You know, I would really like to get something in the newspaper, but right now, I am quite busy.” He pulled a business card from his jacket pocket. “Call me tomorrow, and I will tell you anything you want to know.”
“Thank you.” Simão Freitas, Entrepreneur, she read.
A sweating, aproned man came up and said something in Portuguese.
“Sim, agora,” Simão said, already walking away.
“Thanks, I'll phone you tomorrow,” Chelsea called.
He turned. "If you are hungry, I can find you a seat . . . "
“Oh, no thanks.” She felt him watching her as she slipped out a side door away from the crowd.
“Simão,” she heard the anxious man urging.
“Sim, sim,” Simão replied.
As she walked through the dust and gravel to her truck, only the soft whizzing of cars on nearby Highway 101 broke the silence. The air was warm and heavy, promising an early taste of summer. She set her camera on the passenger seat and got in, rubbing her aching neck and shoulders and cranking the windows open.
She drove slowly back to Santa Clara Street. Now that the parade was over, traffic was light. Only a few dropped carnations on the pavement remained of those who had marched through.
On the way to the freeway entrance, Chelsea noticed Portuguese names on most of the stores—Furtado's Jewelry, Silva's Restaurant, Carvalho Insurance—and wondered where Simão's office was. As she read the signs and thought of the girls and women marching down the street, she felt a twinge of nostalgia for a life she had never known, the life of her great-grandmother, Aunt Julia and other Azorean women. She felt cheated. Why hadn't anyone ever told her about her Portuguese roots?
When she got home, she would take another look at that photo album. Maybe there was a story to tell after all.
Copyright 2000 Sue Fagalde Lick
