This was written by my partner, Jose Tavares http://www.far103josetavares.blogspot.com
and I have translated it into English.

Ten bread rolls

During the night ten bread rolls had mysteriously disappeared. It was ten in the morning, everyone was still sleeping and he had to go for bread, yet again.

By the water butts the women shrieked gossip back and forth as they beat the crap out of the washing. The sun was shining but a great mass of black clouds could be seen approaching from the sea.

Lighting a cigarette he starts his ascent. A minute or two later he looks back down the steps. The final ramp was so steep it had left him almost out of breath. He stops and takes a few drags of his cigarette before emerging between two cracked stone buildings and crossing the square.

It begins to rain, lightly at first and then in great torrents.
People run for cover, all except the policeman who, being on duty, has to just stay there.

Still out breath he passes a familiar face:
“How’ya doin’ Nelo?”
Nelo responds with a brief nod and begins to count aloud to himself “One…two…” then suddenly remembers where he is at, catches his eye again and lifted two fingers to his mouth in a recognisable gesture, as habitual as his presence on the stone bench outside the public showers:
“You got a ciggy?”
…
“It’s nippy out, isn’t it?”
Adds Nelo as he waits, not wanting to seem interested purely in the cigarette.
“Yeah, it is a bit, maybe you feel it more for being sat there all the time.”
Clocking the blue fag packet as it’s pulled out of a ripped jeans pocket he asks for another “for later”.
Nelo was a stone mason, and was said to be a good one at that. The problem, as he himself proudly proclaimed, was that he just wasn’t born for working.

That week things were looking really bad.
“We’ve got to get work” Someone said.
“Doing what?” Retorted another.
“On the ‘sites, seems like they need people on the new bridge.”
“Hah! Yeah, yeah! You sick in the head?” The chorus of disapproval was deafening.
“The sun’s got to him!” Commented one.
The sun was in fact beating down hard on them all, but as it would soon be gone, they stayed there a little longer, eyes closed, enjoying the heat on their faces in silence for a while, with those words echoing round their heads. “We’ve got to get work. We’ve got to get work. We’ve got to get work.” As if by thinking it they’d somehow convince themselves.
They waited. For what? A reaction, perhaps. Their next course of action would be decided by whoever spoke next and what was said. This topic arose often and when it did it was either a joke or was treated as such and they soon drifted away from it.
There was a tension in the air, what would come of it?
“Tomorrow morning I’m gonna get up early and go over to that bridge.” declared his uncle Zacarias courageously.
Zacarias was the oldest and step-father to the other three. No one said a word, they waited for the usual laughter, but it didn’t come and they couldn’t hide their surprise. Silence. From one moment to the next silence was followed by more silence, a different silence. Conformism or perhaps unease.
“I’ll come with you.” Said Manel, “But you’ll have to wake me up.”
“I’m not waking anybody up!” retorted Zacarias. “If anyone wants to come, come, but don’t go asking me for stuff later if you don’t!”
They glanced at each other.
“I’ll come too” came another resignation
“Me too.” He added.

“So, are you all going then?” Zeza, Zacarias’s wife and mother to the other three, had been listening all the time.
“Should I make extra food for your lunchboxes?" She asked, corners of her mouth twitching, “I’ll be not making it for nothing I hope, I’m not your servant you know!” She retorted, pretending to be severe, fighting back her smile.
“Make it. We’re going.”
“You’re really going?”
“We’re going Maria, make lunches up for all of us.”

They had made a difficult decision and were all agreed, but deep in the back of their minds there was still the hope that one of them would pull out, providing the perfect excuse for no one to go at all. They even seemed to feel better, of course, that could have just been the effect of the smell of chicken and pasta cooking that came from indoors.
Maria José had gone down to Sr Joaquim’s grocery shop to ask for credit as up at Sr Manuel's the tab was right off the paper and he now only gave credit to customers who were more than eighty years old and who came accompanied by both parents, at least, that’s what it said on a hand painted tile fixed above the counter.
Conversations like the one today cheered Maria up. They made her feel like a real house-wife, gave a little bit of meaning to her existence, gave her back her kingdom. So many layabout men underfoot all day, stinking of feet and scratching their stomachs,it got her down.
Stomachs were rumbling now. Then they all stretched one after another, like it was something contagious or a practised choreography, and they went inside. As for the lunch boxes, that was just a question of adding more pasta to the pot.

Maria was up the next morning before the sun rose, something that was definitely out of the ordinary, she even had a piece of fruit for each of them, and as there weren’t enough bags to go round she put them all into a fashion sports bag which had been kicking around the house for some time without serving any purpose.

The site was enormous and was split between various construction companies and there were hundreds of workers, most of which were from outside the city or even abroad. The men moved from one place to another in a constant frenzy of activity. They carried stones and planks, built scaffolding, and took scaffolding down. Some cut the materials, others welded them. Some tried to erect the great steel skeleton as carpenters drove thousands of nails into enormous boards to form the gigantic wooden mould which trucks would later fill with tonnes of cement. They were like ants crawling over a child’s sandpit.
There were four kinds of workers: the supervisors who went from one side to the other from time to time holding a piece of paper and wearing a hard-hat, trying to look like they were in charge of people; the master craftsmen, who worked unhurriedly because that was the advantage of reaching the level of master craftsman; the assistants who, wanting to reach the level of master craftsman, worked enthusiastically, to the envy of others who didn’t dare do the same; finally, the ‘specialists’, a vague category who only worked when the ‘supervisors’ and ‘master craftsmen’ were around and in the meantime found time to sink a few beers and exchange stories of that cousin’s 'fine looking'wife who was charmed into bed by some slick Don Juan carpenter.

They’d been on the site for three days before they discovered that Nelo was up there too, putting the kerbs stones on the pavements which required the precision stone work he was good at.

“Hey, Nelo! You here too?”
“Oh man, you know… What’s a guy to do?”
“When did you get here?”
“Oh, I bin here ‘bout a fortnight.”
“Oh yeah? I didn’t know. You’re a bit thin man, you sick?”
“Me? No. As far as I know.”

Nelo had thickened fingers and big rough hands where the natural creases merged with the crevasses left there by life.

Three days. Ah! Three days and they were holding up well. Their aim, although no one had said it, was to last a week, less than that and they’d wait ages to get paid. Three days was already halfway there. From time to time they’d ask each other, ‘How much have we earned so far?’ and stop to do calculations. Of course, it was so little for so much sacrifice that it was better to think about the whole week as if it had already been earned, that was much more motivating. Extra hours were paid at one and half times or sometimes double the usual rate, if only they could just work extra hours, they thought.
Someone told them about some guys who’d left after a weeek and then when they went to get paid had been told they’d only get it at the end of the month.
“No! No! How can that be!” Indignation took hold of them, putting colour in their cheeks and vigour in their gestures as they took up the stance of a two-bit politician.
There and then they held an emergency meeting.
“Did you hear that, man? I don’t like the sound of that…now what do we do?” chests puffed up with self-righteousness “I’m not coming tomorrow!”
“Aaaw, Maria won’t like that, she’s been spending down at the shop…”
“What do I care! D’you think I’m going to slave away here until the end of the month? You’re mad!”
“Come on, man. We’ll get to the end of the week and then we’ll come at the end of the month to get the cash.”
As time dragged on they became more and more desperate for the ending of their torture, which was occasionally eased by the chinking of coins adding up in their heads which they brandished at any one of them who showed the merest sign of giving up.
After the first week their bodies got used to it, the worst thing was always getting up in the morning, especially if it was raining.

That weekend they did nothing except stroll to the café when they found a bit of cash and spent the evening playing cards and dominoes. They enjoyed the occasional spot of praise from some neighbour or other who’d noticed the change in them, they commented on how hard the work was and spent the afternoon sat out in the sun with their feet resting on an old crate. Nelo did the same, stretched out on his bench.

The fourth weekend was jubilant, a great celebration. Not only were they freed from their miserable labour; they ate out, went shopping in the market, bought drinks for friends and even for those who weren’t friends, but also they felt they had fulfilled some kind of duty which justified the holiday atmosphere.
The following Saturday evening there was just enough money left to get a few coffees, the debts had been paid off and so they were now living on ‘tick’ once again, received by much grumbling on the part of the grocer who’d cottoned on to the fact that they weren’t going back to the bridge.

They climbed up to the café and crossed the square. Someone was asleep on Nelo’s bench.
“Must be some homeless guy who’s crashed there for night”
“Yeah, must be” was the murmured response, it was understood that any local who wanted to sleep went home to bed. The figure was all wrapped up in checked red blankets that, on closer observation, seemed in such good nick that it was a shame to be sleeping with them out in the street.

Later on, when the ads were on during the late night tv film, he and Zacarias had to go up to the café, the action was more intense when viewed through a haze of smoke. The figure was still there on the bench.
“That guy must be freezing his balls off!” hissed his uncle.
They had another coffee and glanced at each other when it came to pay, trying to hide their concern about the money which had now faded like a mirage.
“Fuck it. God’ll provide tomorrow as they say.”

There was a crowd of people making a great noise right by the door of the public showers. Further on a policeman was urging the crowd:
“Stand back, you can’t stand here, please move off.”
It was starting to rain, lightly at first, then in torrents. The people ran for shelter but the policeman had to stay where he was.
“That one’s not going anywhere” Said the lottery seller.
“What’s happened, what’s going on?”
“It’s Lina’s man” commented the fishmonger, a huge woman with hands like shovels.
“Oh! How awful!”
“Which Lina?” asked the one armed man
“The one that lives just here off the steps, with the son, Jorginho.”
“Oh! My goodness. Our Lady preserve us!”
“You know, they’ve got into this shit…”
“Can you believe, he’s been here since yesterday!”
“But I saw him just yesterday. He seemed fine!”
“This one’s not going anywhere” Repeated the lottery seller.

Nelo had had an overdose. He’d invested his salary in ‘powder’, not to sell but to support his and his wife’s addiction. He died at home and, frightened the police would find the drugs, they'd put him out there on his bench but, something his wife and friends hadn't counted on, the ambulance couldn’t take him because he was already dead. The police doctors had to come and as it was the weekend Nelo stayed there all night and all day, waiting, in the rain.
“This one’s not going anywhere” The lottery seller moved off.

Jose Tavares 2006