Quinta de Monteiro, Penafiel, 2019 (45 years later)

Regret was the least of his emotions—the time for it had passed. He had had ample leisure over the years to think, act and regret. Anger was more the emotion he felt. Anger directed at how life had given him everything but had withheld his soul. Yet when he thought back, he didn’t know what he could have done differently. But even as the familiar denial set in, Ricardo knew the answer. He could have followed the path of love…

Ricardo heaved a big sigh and leaned against his cushioned seat. A tall figure with his hair still surprisingly thick and shimmering silver, he looked the epitome of good health. Only he sensed a strange kind of hollowness in his chest. Like a deep well waiting to be filled, but which he knew was too dry now, no matter how much moisture was added. At eighty years, he wasn’t at all surprised.

Ricardo stared out the box window at the stretches of vineyard, dappled in the pale rosy shades of the garden light. The scene never failed to fill him with pride. Quinta de Monteiro, their family estate and one of the oldest in Portugal, was not just a legacy-it was an heirloom. The land of his ancestors, the foundation of all their sacrifices, the springboard for all their ambitions and the foremost love of his family. And the special superior quality Vinho Verde— green wine made from the choicest grapes… He hoped that Filipa would carry the legacy forward with the same energy and dedication that he had. But then there was no doubt about that. Ricardo was proud of his granddaughter. She was bestowed with the essence of the Monteiro spirit. He and Juliet had raised her right. And she had no clue, but right now, she was on the cup of setting the crown straight—at least marginally, and mostly for him.

He moved away from the window and headed to his writing desk. On an impulse, he sat down and extracted the letterhead with the embossed Monteiro logo. For ten minutes, he scribbled with the calm of a seasoned confessor. Finally, he sat back against his carved wooden chair, with the trademark Montero green and purple cushion. He delved into his coat pocket and took out a large iron key. For a few moments, he turned the key over in his palm, a little absently, then placed it in an envelope and carefully wrote the name ‘Filipa on it. He glanced at the letter again and reread it; then on a sudden impulse he tore it up into pieces and hastily dropped them in the dustbin. He would write a better note some other day with the right words and the right explanations, he told himself. She was the light of his life, and he couldn’t risk alienating her with misunderstandings that arose out of awkwardly written hasty confessions-the way it had transpired with his daughter.

He opened the drawer and placed the envelope inside, locked it and slipped the drawer key into the pocket of his coat. Feeling a confused sense of accomplishment, he was uncertain why he felt the need to do this now. No conclusive answer popped into his head. Sometimes the heart instinctively knew things better than the head, and reason and logic played no role in it. He just knew that it was time to share his deepest secrets with Filipa and pray that she would understand why he’d acted as he had. If she didn’t, it would break his heart all over again… and he wasn’t sure he had the strength or the energy to face another loss. He glanced at the grandfather clock standing against the stone wall. It was time for his ritual morning walk across the estate.

The door opened and a girl in her late twenties walked in.

“Good morning, Grandpa. You are late for your walk,” Filipa announced, planting a swift kiss on the old man’s soft cheek.

“On my way. You are up bright and early.” He glanced at her formal blue jacket and matching skirt.

Filipa was a beautiful curly-haired brunette, with distinct sharp features which sometimes turned soft. But most times, she was a composed, determined VP of Quinta de Monteiro and Penafiel county, with a no-nonsense attitude-someone who always knew her mind. He was proud that she was an elected mayor of the district.

“The big event is tomorrow and we still have tons to do. The gold symbol is arriving today and the committee would be meeting in the early afternoon to finalize details. It is going to be such a wonderfully special ceremony, Avô, and I am so excited. Joana’s dream and brilliant idea will finally be realized tomorrow evening, on Carnation Revolution Day.”

For a few seconds, Filipas mind travelled to her days of mentoring with the passionate workaholic Joana de Cruz, ex-mayor, under whom she had trained. Those were days of intense but joyful learning, and she would never forget them. She experienced a momentary sadness… Joana was no more, but her dream of a unified world symbol of love would live on.

Ricardo placed a gentle hand on her arm. “You have staunchly supported her endeavours and principles. And although I never met her, I know that Joana would have been very grateful to you for realizing her dream.”

Filipa smiled, her brown eyes moistening suddenly. “Thank you Avô, you have always appreciated everything I do… you are partial to me! But yes, Joana would have been delighted, because Basílica Santa Luzia will be shining tomorrow, like it never has before. We have received hundreds of emails of confirmation; all the five mayors are arriving this evening, and everything is set.”

“Filipa, there’s something I want to talk to you about,” Ricardo cut in, gravely.
She instantly noticed the change in his tone. “What is it, Avô?”

Ricardo was staring at the garden light filtering through the window, forming a latticed shadow on the carpeted floor.

“Just a few words of wisdom, carissima… Something I have always wanted to say to you but have been afraid you’d think I’ve become soft with age!” He laughed, awkwardly. “I am proud of what you have achieved-you are a true-blue heir of Quinta de Monteiro. It is good to be ambitious and it is great to do your duty, especially to the estate. But remember one thing my dear… never compromise on love. Follow your heart always, carissima… in the end nothing else matters.”

She glanced at him in surprise. “You’ve never said anything like this to me before. What’s up, Avô? Should I be concerned?”

She expected him to laugh at her comment and crack a joke, but he pursed his lips and avoided eye contact. The connecting door to the dining room opened just then, and a maid in a starched white uniform stepped in. “Bom dia, tea is served in the dining room.’

Filipa nodded. “Obrigada.”

“I have to go for my walk now. But we haven’t finished talking… in fact there is lots I want to say to you… So please, meet me at the wedding lawn in half an hour.” Ricardo rose hastily and gripped his walking stick.

Before Filipa could comment, he exited the room.

With quick strides, he stepped out of the front door and headed towards the garden. It was still quite dark, and the lights from the lampposts trellised the garden in geometric patches. But even without the illumination, Ricardo knew his way. He took the path into the dense garden with the towering trees huddling overhead, blocking the light. He trudged past the 200 year old Japanese cedar, the hundreds of varieties of camellias—his favourite Alower—and the hydrangea bushes. The gardens and park were his pride. He had personally planted some of the varieties of camellias and delighted in their growth.

As he walked past the ancient Porter’s House, fancy and funny with its conical thatched roof, he approached the goat tower and involuntarily his steps faltered. He had strolled down this route every morning, for more than half his life. And yet today felt different. Like he was seeing it all for the first time. The way the goats scurried to meet him and strained against the wired fence so that he could touch their fur, and then scampered up the little path to the tower. Even the lake, which glistened a dull green, had borrowed a strange hue.

The Ladies’ Tea House on the edge of the man-made lake, where he and Juliet had often met to discuss and argue the future of the estate, had to be refurbished. He made a mental note about it even as he experienced an immense wave of gratitude to have been born in the Monteiro family-he was so proud of his legacy. He had done his best to keep the Monteiro flag flying. He had committed mistakes, of course, but nothing that couldn’t be repaired. Except that one incident-the biggest mistake of his life… he sighed, regret and anger filling his heart again like a physical pain. For a few seconds, he clutched his chest, as uncharacteristic tears rose in his eyes. Wasted chances, wasted bonds… he brushed the drops away roughly. Too late, too late… he thought.. and yet…

His feet crunched on the gravel as he finally halted at the rectangular lawn. The family wedding meadow-Ricardo’s favourite spot on the estate. It was a large stretch of green land at the head of the fields, enclosed within dense tall trees. On one end, seven long moss-bordered steps led up to a tall carved wall with two pillars. Ricardo mounted the steps and stared at the high wall—a mossy concave stone cocooned a blue statue of Senhora Mary with baby Jesus in her arms. In the soft light of dawn, she looked peaceful and calm. Below the statue, in the centre of the wall, was a waterspout that emerged out of the carved face of a demon, the water flowing into a stone basin on the ground. As a child, Ricardo had always found that fascinating… the co-existence of the holy and the profane on the same wall.

He heaved another deep sigh and leaned on his stick, wondering how much longer Filipa would be. He couldn’t wait to have a tête-à-tête with his granddaughter and finally reveal his heart to her-speak of everything in his life that was sacrosanct and especially that which he had carefully evaded mentioning, all these years. He wanted to describe the depths of agony that had engulfed him, and the journey out of it… he suddenly wanted to share every little detail of his life with his beloved Filipa… every single emotion, desire and the guilt that was weighing him down. With one sole yearning… he sought freedom, in the true sense of the word… to be free of a burden he had carried far too long, alone and in doomed isolation. He longed to end his lonely, crusty journey, to finally find closure… But would she understand? He didn’t dare contemplate that question.

She had to understand! He prayed that she would… she was his last hope… to heal, to mend and to resurrect.

His shoulders drooped with an uncharacteristic fatigue, born more out of an anticipated moment of letting go. He was deep in thought when instinctively he sensed a shadow and a bodily presence right behind him.

“Filipa?”

He turned, but a second too late. Something hard use struck him on the back of his head, and he lost his balance. Blinding pain seared through him as he collapsed, his frail body tumbling down the seven steps.

At the back of his mind he fought to stay conscious, even as blood trickled through his collar and seeped into his shirt. He heard shouts from afar and hasty footsteps approaching him. Hurry… he felt like shouting, but no words came up.

“Help… Someone help!” That was Filipa.

Excerpted with permission from The Mystery of the Portuguese Hearts by Manjiri Prabhu  

Publishing/ Jaico Publishing House (2024)

You can buy your copy here.