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Chapter 8
Benfica
Dark. My head ached. I was alone. Again.
Then, lights. Red and white. I saw them strung along
the shore.
People. Music. Loud. Barbecues smoking. Chicken,
pork, beef. The smell was thick.
Benfica won?
Donna Casilda. Francesca. Antonio. They waved.
"Come here."
Antonio gave me a drink. Aguardente. It burned.
“Ben-fi-ca. Ben-fi-ca.” They beat Juventus one-nil. We
bounced up and down, cheering. The booze and the
conversation flowed. One more aguardente, a plate of
chicken Piri-Piri, and fries, and my hangover was gone.
Sometime later, I was chatting with an Irish sculptor
when a child wearing an oversized Benfica sweater and
waving a white envelope tugged at my sleeve. She had
the face of an angel.
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