The Librarian Spy(47)
Her hand pressed to the center of her chest, and she began to sing, her voice husky and filled with a grief that reached deep into all the places in Ava’s soul that had ever been raw. Agony and sorrow pulled at the woman’s brow as she lifted her head, hand out in a beseeching manner that curled into a fist as the bright, clear notes faded into a vibrato.
As her palm went once more to her heart, she gazed around the room with tears shimmering in her eyes as her song went on. A lover whose affections were unrequited, the pain relayed through her was as adroitly written on her face as the fingers of the guitarists played over those six strings.
On and on the woman sang until tears also stung Ava’s eyes. The final notes tingled to a close, and the woman dropped her head to her chest.
The room exploded in an applause that the singer graciously received with the same heartfelt emotion with which she had sung. The lights were turned up once more and Ava blinked to remember where she was, having been so enraptured by the production that she’d forgotten all space and time. On the table before her, the green wine had grown warm and the food cold. But no one cared. They were all clapping with enthusiasm for what was the most incredible performance Ava had ever witnessed.
The singer and guitarists left the makeshift stage, nodding their thanks to patrons as they disappeared, and guests resumed eating and drinking once more. As Ava followed their departure, she caught sight of a familiar face, one that made her appetite shrivel despite the veritable feast laid out before her.
Lukas.
It had been months since she’d seen him. His presence was unmistakable—not only in his straight-backed appearance at a far table, tucked away in a corner, but also how he watched her, unblinking; with purpose. Except that she refused to back down from Lukas’s blatant stare and met it with one of her own. She was no coward, and she would not show fear.
Lukas smiled at her then, his white teeth, which she had once so admired, flashing from across the room. She did not smile back.
In the end, it was he who rose from the table and slipped from the room, pausing only to give her one final look before taking his leave. Whatever unease Ava had set from her mind regarding their initial meeting took root once more.
She hid her malcontent from her companions, refusing to allow Lamant’s last night in Lisbon to be tarnished. Much to her relief, he did not seem to notice, nor did Ethan. James, however, caught her eye several times, his expression concerned.
Once the food had all been eaten and the wine drunk, the evening stretched late into the night with performances that continued to amaze her. Somewhere before midnight, Lamant pushed back from the seat and declared he wanted a final shot of Ginjinha—a tart cherry liquor, he stated, that was made best by a woman he knew in Alfama—before falling into America’s embrace.
As they wound their way into the heart of the medieval area, Ava lost herself in the convivial spirit, forgetting Lukas. Instead, she found herself entranced by the stars winking from above the narrow alleys, beyond the strings stretched between the buildings dotted with remnants of paper flowers from the St. Anthony’s Festival several months before.
They stopped below blue-painted shutters where Lamant called to Senhora Ferreira, whom he deemed to be the kindest woman in Alfama. The older woman opened the shutters with a smile, revealing a neat apartment behind her lace curtains. She poured them all a bit of red liquor into small chocolate cups for a few escudos. Her eyes filled with tears as Lamant bid her goodbye, clearly another person whose life had been impacted by the insightful Frenchman.
As the last of the chocolate cup dissolved on Ava’s tongue, about all she could manage to stuff into her overfull stomach, she shook Ethan’s hand and embraced Lamant in a final farewell. “Remember to always look past the page, ma chérie,” he said to her before kissing each cheek and leaving the scent of his spicy cologne lingering on her sweater.
The following day he would be on a ship bound for America, whose shores would offer him a safety that was only tenuous at best in Lisbon. He would escape the fear of Nazi observation and the threat of the PVDE. After nearly a year of being twisted in the broken visa system, he was going to be free.
“Did you like listening to fado?” James asked as he led their way through the starlit streets of a now quiet Alfama.
“It was moving,” Ava said.
“It isn’t common for most refugees to enjoy the sadness of it. Not when they have enough sorrow already.”
Ava nodded in understanding. “Lamant sees things differently than others.”
“Which is why I knew you two would get on well.” James tossed her a grin.
Clipped footsteps sounded behind them. James put a hand to her lower back, nudging her to walk a little faster. Not that she needed the encouragement. The steps mingling with theirs in the thin, October night air held a note of authority and importance. This was no drunk staggering home from a late night of imbibing.
James turned abruptly down a narrow alley, then up a flight of stairs and through another slender alley. Lukas entered Ava’s thoughts once more. How he had shown up that night, how he’d been so fixedly watching her.
Though Portugal was neutral, it did not mean an undercurrent of clandestine activity didn’t happen beneath the government’s nose. Nazis still found ways of making people disappear.
James pulled Ava into an alcove, so her back was against the wall, and he was covering her with his own body. They were face-to-face. Close. His features half-shadowed, his eyes dark in the late night, his jaw smooth from a recent shave.