Azulejos: Part 2

In part 2/3, a foreign couple visits Olinda with big hopes and little tact to buy her home.

“Hurry up, dumbass,” Isaac said.

“I can’t walk any faster in these boots. These damned white stones on the sidewalks are slippery as fuck,” Robbie said. He was pushing forty and still managed to wear the wrong thing. Always.

“They’re called calçada. Weren’t you listening on the tour?”

“Not as closely as some of us, apparently,” Robbie scoffed.

“Oh get over it. The guide was hot. You weren’t exactly ignoring him,” Isaac shot back.

“And because of it, I know all about the Carnation Revolution,” Robbie said proudly.

They rushed through the neighborhood, having gotten just a little lost on their way to the property. Isaac called the owner almost twenty minutes ago, and his app said they were still ten minutes away. They weren’t out of shape by any means, but the hills and poor footwear choices complicated the task.

Robbie huffed a little as he picked up the pace up the hill. Issac smiled to himself, finally. They had been here many times before, but not like this. This time they came to do more than drink wine and eat, well, whatever came with the wine. This time, they came to immerse themselves in Lisbon for several weeks and do the one thing Isaac had always wanted to do — buy a home.

Robbie hadn’t been ready to leave London. But Isaac had convinced him over the past few weeks that life could be better here.

Robbie said he couldn't live without Prêt coffee.

Isaac introduced him to Portuguese espresso.

Robbie said he loved living along the Thames.

Isaac introduced him to the Rio Tejo.

Robbie said he might not like Portuguese food all the time.

Isaac introduced him to pastéis de bacalhau, fried cod fritters, and Robbie shut up real quickly.

Now, they were visiting yet another property to find the place they would eventually call home. Isaac’s grandparents came from Lisbon, moved to France, had his mom, who then had Robbie with his British father. They were a real Schengen Zone success story — pre-Brexit, of course — but no one in the family ever considered returning to Portugal.

Until now.

They walked faster.

“That’s it, there,” Isaac said. He pointed to the house they walked by earlier in the day.

“Are you sure?” Robbie asked.

“For fuck’s sake, Rob, that’s it.” He looked down on the street in front and saw the “for sale” sign on the ground. He picked it up. “Shit, she really did take it off the market.”

“Let’s do this then and get some vinho verde after, yea?” Robbie asked. Isaac ignored him and pushed open the front door as instructed.

“Hello?” he said.

“In the kitchen,” a breathy voice called back.

They walked in, the stench of unwashed upholstery saturated with decades of human contact mingled with wood rot and mold.

“A fixer upper, for sure,” Robbie muttered behind Isaac.

The wallpaper was thick, chunky stuff from the sixties, maybe. The wood paneling on the walls would go, but the molding could stay, and the sconces seemed too haphazard to belong in the space. The staircase, however, was a thing of beauty, begging for a tasteful chandelier to hang anew from the hole in the ceiling where one surely once hung. Isaac could see Robbie scanning and evaluating every little detail at the same time.

They walked through a small hallway and saw her. A thin old woman, no more than five feet tall, with tightly pulled back white hair, was pouring something into small glasses. She wore track pants and a chunky knit sweater, channeling something dignified and comfortable, but also familiar. He thought of his own grandmother, passed years ago, and how she would have worn something very similar in the house.

“Why hello there,” she said. “I’m Olinda.” She reached out to shake their hands.

“Issac. And this is my partner Robbie,” he said.

“Lovely. More importantly, do you like Port?” she asked. She put the bottle down and gestured to the glasses on the counter.

“Trick question, right?” Robbie said. He smiled eagerly. Issac put an arm on his shoulder.

“That’s kind of you, and of course,” Issac said. They all took a glass and clinked them, sipping the warm stuff. It was sweet, but not too much so.

They spoke for a few minutes, and Olinda explained she had been living in America for years. Isaac explained their desire to move to Portugal, that he wanted to immerse himself in his culture, and Robbie wanted to continue his interior design business someplace warmer and friendlier than London. Robbie then mistakenly called her Belinda after a second glass of Port, and she steadied herself, one hand on the counter, fingerprints visible as she smudged the dust and grime.

“I really am touched that you want to buy my family’s home, but like I said on the phone, it’s off the market,” she said. “I simply cannot sell it now.”

“But you could make a fortune off this place, even its current state,” Isaac said. He gestured politely to the ceilings.

“That’s for sure,” Robbie echoed.

She looked at them weirdly. Eyes squinting. A dubiousness came over her face.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not selling this place anymore,” she said.

Isaac was shook.

“But it needs love. Lots of it. I’ve been saving and working for years to find a place like this for me. For us,” he said.

“He has been,” Robbie said, nodding next to him. Isaac couldn’t help but smile at how much he wasn’t helping.

“I’ve had a change of heart,” she said. “I don’t want anyone else to have it.”

“I understand, I really do. My own heart ached the minute I saw this place,” Isaac pleaded.

“Why does it smell like petrol in here?” Robbie asked.

“Robbie!” Isaac said. 

He was trying to negotiate here.

“I understand you want this place, but no,” she said.

“No, it’s definitely petrol, like from a lawnmower or something,” Robbie said, following his nose out of the kitchen.

“Let’s talk about price, at least. I can give you a fair price. I know what these apartments and homes are going for. I’ve done my research. I —” Isaac continued.

“Sweetheart, that’s very kind, but no,” she insisted.

Isaac was furious, driven by his passion for the walls around him, the creaky floorboards, the sagging roof that begged for a lift, the rusty sink and stained counters, chips of broken pottery on the floor and puffs of dust erupting with every step. Couples have babies or dogs or careers, but Isaac and Robbie wanted to bring something else into the world. A new home. A thing of beauty. And this was the egg they wanted to fertilize, so to speak. This house was their rescue pup — to work a less gross metaphor.

“Where did your friend go?” she asked.

“Robbie?” he said.

“Really, I must sit down now. If you’ll let yourselves out,” she said.

“No, one second, please,” he said. “Robbie!” Isaac said as he retraced their steps down the hall.

He found him in the living room.

“This place is amazing,” Robbie said, “a real wet dream for a designer come true.”

“Always a way with words,” Isaac said.

“Imagine redoing the whole facade with custom tiles, locally made, of course, and then cleaning up that roof, and just putting these old bones to use, you know?” Robbie said.

Isaac could almost see tears in his eyes. In his frantic quest to move to Lisbon, he forgot that Robbie was more than on board. He wanted it to, a project together, a thing to build, to nurture, a place to apply his talents for them both.

“I’m imagining it,” Isaac said. He couldn’t hide his tone.

“She’s not selling it?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“I don’t know what’s changed. But I think we should go.”

Robbie looked at Isaac with those puppy dog eyes he usually gets after a few beers — but it wasn’t the two glasses of Port or the looming perfume of petrol — and Isaac felt the very real, very honest disappointment.

He wanted to offer him the chance of a lifetime in Lisbon.

But all he had in his hands at that moment was a hug.