Page 13 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

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LISBON 1940

Another interesting thing about reflecting upon one’s life as if it were a story is that you get to see how some of the seemingly innocuous choices you make end up becoming crucial plot twists, like the day I chose to say yes to Alexandre Fernandes.

Like me, Alexandre was born in rural Portugal and came to the city to seek his fortune as a teen. He began by working in the clubs as a cloakroom attendant, but he always knew he was destined for far greater things. His big dream was to become a music manager. He had no experience in this field, other than watching artists perform in the clubs where he worked, but, thanks to his whip-smart brain and a huge dose of chutzpah, he didn’t let a little thing like inexperience stop him. And by the time I met him in January 1940, he was one of the most respected figures in the Portuguese music business – at the grand old age of thirty.

I’d heard about him from other singers on the circuit, who would speak of him in the reverential tones one might reserve for the Pope. But I guess he did pretty much offer the promised land to singers back then. If Alexandre represented you, it pretty much guaranteed billing on the best stages in the city.

Given my natural disposition towards cynicism, not to mention my bruising experience with Bing, I couldn’t help feeling slightly suspicious of this much-revered man. So, when he appeared in a club off Avenida da Liberdade that I sang in every Friday night, I felt a strange inner conflict. On the one hand, I didn’t want to be like all the other fawning singers so desperate to grab his attention, but on the other, I wanted to prove my worth as a singer and stand out from the crowd. So, I pretended I hadn’t noticed him sitting at a table right under my nose, and I decided to sing my latest comedy composition – a fado-style ballad about a sardine who wished his scales were shinier.

As I started singing about the sardine imploring the moon to shine some of her silvery light into his skin, I noticed Alexandre gazing up at me, mouth agape, cigarette hand frozen in mid-air. Realising that I’d captured his full attention, I poured every ounce of emotion I could into the song. When I reached the end, where the moon grants the sardine’s wish and he swims off all shiny and pleased with himself – only to be spotted by a lurking fisherman – I heard Alexandre cry out, ‘No!’

As I placed the microphone back on its stand, everyone burst into rapturous applause – apart from Alexandre, who stared up at me, shaking his head.

‘How could you have killed him off when his dream had finally come true?’ he called as I stepped down from the stage.

‘Because I’m a realist,’ I replied. ‘And besides, it’s fado; it’s supposed to be sad – hadn’t you heard?’ I added this last bit deliberately, to try to make out I didn’t have a clue who he was.

My tactic worked.

‘Please, won’t you join me for a drink?’ Alexandre said, pulling out the chair beside him. He was slender, with a boyish face and a mop of brown hair that gleamed like a chestnut in the soft lamplight of the club. Even an old cynic like me couldn’t fail to be excited at this development, but I tried damn hard not to show it.

‘OK, I have about ten minutes,’ I said, sitting down.

‘Before your next set?’ he asked, and I couldn’t help noting that he looked hopeful at the prospect of me singing some more.

I shook my head. ‘Before I go to bed.’

‘Oh.’ He seemed momentarily stunned. ‘Well, I’d better speak quickly then if we’re on the clock. I assume you must be the infamous singer of fish fado I keep hearing about.’

I took a breath to compose myself. ‘The very one.’

He gazed at me intently, but not in the lascivious way in which Bing did. This was more the inquisitive look someone might give an abstract painting in a gallery when trying to make head or tail of it. ‘I have to say, you have a very interesting take on music.’

‘I don’t see why it’s causing such a commotion,’ I retorted. ‘I was a varina before I became a singer. I used to make up songs to sell my fish. Now I sing about fish to sell my career as a singer.’ I laughed. ‘To me, it’s simply a natural progression.’

‘Well, yes, when you put it like that.’ He smiled, revealing a perfect set of white teeth framed by a pair of dimples that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an advertisement for tooth powder.

He retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered them to me. I took one and leaned closer so he could light it. His cologne was fresh and smelled of pine trees.

‘It’s a very interesting backstory,’ he said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘And very Portuguese.’

‘I suppose it is.’ I took a long slow inhale on my cigarette to try to calm my nerves. The man I was smoking with had the power to send my career into the stratosphere if he so wished.

‘Have you heard about the Portuguese World Exhibition starting this summer?’ he asked, lighting his own cigarette.

‘Who hasn’t?’ I replied. The whole city was abuzz in anticipation for the double celebration of the founding of Portugal 800 years previously, plus 300 years of independence from the Spanish. Half of the city was under construction in preparation too, with a marina and monuments and pavilions being built specially. While the rest of Europe prepared for war and built bunkers and defences, our neutrality enabled us to focus on more positive things. For the time being at least.

‘The government is looking for artistic contributions to the celebrations,’ Alexandre said, and my nervous anticipation grew.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, including pieces of music that celebrate what it is to be Portuguese – but I’m talking about a Portuguese person rather than a fish,’ he added with a grin. ‘I don’t suppose you ever write about the human condition, do you?’

‘I have been known to.’

‘Excellent.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘I’m sorry, I should introduce myself. I’m Alexandre Fernandes. You might have heard of me?’ He didn’t ask this in an arrogant way; if anything, he sounded slightly bashful. It was a pleasant and refreshing surprise.

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, no. Oh wait, the name sounds kind of familiar…’

He looked at me hopefully.

‘Did you used to be a fisherman?’

He laughed. ‘No, I can categorically say that I’ve never been involved with fish in any way other than eating them.’

‘Ah, what a shame.’ I grinned, and he laughed again. My plan to be refreshingly irreverent appeared to be working.

‘So, what name do you go by then, other than the creator of fish fado?’

‘Sofia. Sofia Castello.’

He reached his hand across the table for me to shake. His grip was just the right mix of firm yet friendly. ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Castello. Now, how would you like to change your life forever?’