Page 21 - SpontaneousSuccessMatos

“Thank you, Donna Casilda. Your English gets more
exquisite by the day.”
A short, chunky man in a porkpie hat plonked a case
of beer on a shelf and spoke to me. I didn't understand a
word.
“I want to send a postcard to England.”
The Englishman translated, “Senhor Viera,” he said,
but Donna Casilda was there in a flash.
“My husband no English,” she said, flirting with the
Englishman as he left. Then to me as she slipped behind
the till, “Postcard to England, eight escudos. Very nice.”
As I stepped outside, the man was leaning into the
trunk of a gleaming dark blue vintage Oldsmobile, his
movements effortless and cool. I approached him, and he
looked up, vinyl records scattered around him. With a
hint of curiosity, he emerged from the trunk, the records
now cradled in his hands.
“Yes?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.
“Hello, I'm Nick,” I said, extending my hand.
He took it, his grip firm, and for a moment, our eyes
locked. It was a moment that would change everything.
“Thomas,” he said, his voice low and smooth.
"I asked him if he lived around here, and he nodded.
“Indeed, I do,” he replied, “but I have to go.” He moved
with a fluid motion, closing the trunk, and sliding into
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