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“The ship’s departure will be at dawn.”
“… Pois é…”
“If you change your mind...”
The sweet, flaming taste of cachaça stung José’s throat as he recalled his last exchange of words on that night. The tambourine and guitar blaring amongst a quite crowded coterie at Pedra do Sal seemingly had no sound to his ears as he recollected his memories — the shyly wrapped arms and pleading eyes — with a tinge of regret and way too many “E se” to tell.
It had been nearly ten years ever since his last encounter with Donald. He insisted his decision to stay in Rio was for the best. His history, his memories, it all belonged to each corner of the city. He owed his life to every street, every slope and every alley, everything. And yet—
Another swig reached his lips. The samba, still rolling, suddenly returned to his concerns with the tenderness of a hand reaching his shoulder. José looked up eagerly, yearning for a pair of warm blue eyes and sailor garments… and met a pair of sweet brown ones that belonged to a stranger in a golden dress instead.
“Tem algo errado, moo-soh?”
He blinked once, maybe twice. In a split second, however, a sluggish smile readied in his lips as he replied,
“É solidão, moça”, grabbing a cigar and a lit match, he continued, “I’d be glad to have your aid if you’re willing to join me for a chat though”.
Her laughter was as soft as her touch. Zé stood up, gently holding the hand formerly placed over his shoulder and led her to a seat next to his.
“American, I should say?”, he inquired with an all-knowing look.
“Canadian, actually,” the lady corrected, “working for the U.S. since 1942. Thankfully off-duty tonight to enjoy a bit of this city before returning to my station, though.”
The familiarity struck José right on spot. He thought of protectively distancing himself, yet he just—
“Ah, you work for the… Navy, is that it?”
“Not exactly… it’s a cruise liner that did, in fact, serve as a troop ship a few years ago... You must’ve heard of SS Brazil?”
Até demais, he reasoned bitterly. He could not have expected to hear of this ship again, after such a long time. Joan – he soon learned her name – told him, then, of recent wartime tales on board. He feigned surprise at some details of the ship, but the more he listened to her, the more he felt the urge to ask her all sorts of uncertain questions, but most importantly—no.
He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.
“Say…”
He reached for his wallet in his pocket—his mind screaming not to—and took a small photograph out of it.
“… do you know, by any chance…”
Nononononononononono.
“… someone like this?”
He did.
And his chest tightened once again at the sight of a rather fair-skinned, harmless-looking face. Donald, chest inflated and furrowed brows, aimed for a serious and imposing look in the picture, but his eyes—they always gave him away. Round and of light blue shade, they reflected his nature unabashedly, much to Donald’s chagrin.
But José loved it. José loved h—
“What a coincidence! I did meet him during one of my routes”, José’s eyes widened in a pleasant surprise as she replied, “he signed off not too long after I met him… I do recall him on board though. He couldn’t help his smile when he spoke of his marriage.”
And that was enough to shatter José. Yet he smiled, and it was definitely the gloomiest expression one would have seen in that cheerful, carefree roda de samba. Clueless Joan, nevertheless, candidly smiled back and it took her just a few more words for a change of topic.
As dawn approached, José bid farewell to the lovely acquaintance he made that night and strolled the streets of Rio back to his place. He passed by the port on his way home and the warmth of Donald’s eyes lingered in his thoughts.
A large, familiar ship stood by the docks and he sighed heavily as he stopped to watch the sunrise illuminate the red M marked on the stack.
He painted once more a handful of scenarios in his mind, holding tight on his umbrella, and for a brief moment, for the first time in a decade, he allowed himself to weep for his choice on that night.
Shyly wrapped arms, pleading eyes and an incomprehensible mutter against his shoulder as he held Donald in a soothing embrace.
“Vou sentir saudades”, José had said, nose buried into Donald’s neck.
“You could have so much more in America, Joe”, the young sailor insisted, standing to face his companion. “Think of it! When I come back, you, me and Daisy, we could live in a nice flat, I’m gonna resign from the ship and we could live the—”
He never finished that sentence – he was shut by a quick peck on his lips that left him astounded. To José, however, this was the most plausible response he could ever deem to receive.
“I wish you the best”, José concluded.
Donald locked his eyes on him, unable to utter a single word for a long, distressing minute. Then, he pursed his lips and nodded. Was there even anything else to do in such a short amount of time?
The ringing of a bell struck the docks – the clock indicated it was half past four.
“Please keep this.”
Reaching for the pocket in his uniform, Donald took out a tiny photograph and gently placed it on José’s hand, which he clasped with his own. José did not meet Donald's stare as the words timidly rolled out in a thick accent:
“Até logo.”
José’s chest clenched. Anxiety rolled up his senses as a load of words rushed through his mind, thoughts of grabbing the man in front of him by the arms and pleading him to come along, the urge to live by his side but—
“So long, Donal’.”
–At last, José smiled shakily and thus, each gentleman departed to their own way.
To this day, he could still hear the ship’s bell striking in his ears. As he casted a final glance to a renewed SS Brazil at the port, he hummed an old song and resumed his walk home.