“That Father tells Portuguese jokes?” “No. After that. Something rude.” “Is ‘son of a gun’ as bad as ‘son of a bitch’?”
“It’s almost the same.” “Then I’ll try not to say it... So, what do you think?”
“You tell me. Have you got a solution? You don’t want to call me Valadares, and by the sound of things, Manuel won’t do either.”
“There’s one name I love.” “What?” I made the cheekiest face in the world. “What Seu Ladislau and the others call you at the pastry shop.”
He shook his fist, pretending to be angry. “Why, you’re the cockiest person I know. You want to call me ‘Portuga’, don’t you?”
“It’s a good name for a friend.” “Is that all you want? Very well, then. Shall we go now?”
He started the engine and drove a distance, thinking. Then he stuck his head out the window and looked up and down the street.
No one was coming. He opened the car door and said, “Out.” I obeyed and followed him to the back of the car.
He pointed at the spare tyre.Now, hold on tight. And be careful.I positioned myself for the piggyback, happy as could be.
He climbed into the car and drove off slowly. He stopped after five minutes and came to check on me. “Like it?” “It’s like a dream.”
Well, that’s enough. Let’s go, it’s getting late.
Night was gently falling and off in the distance crickets were singing in the hawthorn trees, announcing that there was more summer to come.
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