Page 16 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

15

LISBON, 2000

Sofia sits back on the sofa and clears her throat, clearly emotional. And she’s not the only one. Gabriel had returned midway through this latest instalment of her story, and we’d both been sitting there, totally rapt.

‘Oh boy,’ she says before taking a sip of wine. ‘It still gets to me, even all these years later.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ I reply. ‘It sounds terrifying.’

‘Yes.’ Sofia stares down into her drink. She looks tired suddenly, and older, the lines on her forehead more pronounced.

‘Did you manage to protect Judith and help her get to America?’ I ask.

Sofia shifts uncomfortably, and I hope that I haven’t overstepped the mark again by allowing my curiosity to get the better of me.

‘I think that’s enough reminiscing for one day,’ she says brusquely. ‘I’m getting bored of the sound of my own voice.’

‘Why don’t we have some lunch?’ Gabriel gestures at the brown paper bags he’d brought back with him. They smell delicious and are shiny with oil. ‘I got pork sandwiches.’

‘Excellent.’ Sofia turns to me. ‘So, what do you say?’

‘Pork sandwiches sound great.’

‘No, I mean about the job. Do you want to help me write this book, or at least attempt to write it?’

‘Maybe you should take a little more time before deciding,’ Gabriel says, instantly making me bristle. Why is he sticking his nose in?

‘I’m eighty years old,’ Sofia responds. ‘Time is not something I can afford to be frivolous with. Plus, if I have to wait too long, I might get cold feet and ditch the entire idea.’ She places her glass on the coffee table and stares at me intently. ‘So, are you up for the challenge?’

‘Abso-bloody-lutely!’ I reply, shooting Gabriel a defiant look.

‘I’ll go and get some plates,’ he mutters, heading off into an adjoining room.

‘That’s bloody brilliant!’ Sofia replies with a smile in a mock British accent. ‘You can come and stay with me in my place up north. How soon do you think you’d be able to join me?’

‘Straight away if you like,’ I reply as Gabriel returns with some plates.

‘Really?’ Sofia raises her thin black eyebrows. ‘You don’t have any other commitments back in the UK?’

I shake my head, aware that this might make me seem pitiful, but I honestly don’t care. There’s no way I want to go back to my empty flat with all the pain of the past year soaked into its walls. This isn’t just an incredible work opportunity; I’m starting to see how much I could gain from it personally too. Sofia might be a little tricky to handle, but she’s fascinating and inspiring – the kind of woman I feel I could learn a lot from. Jane was right: this could be just the thing to get me out of the butterfly soup.

And so I find myself a few hours later in the back of Gabriel’s car, speeding along a bumpy road somewhere in the middle of Portugal. In the passenger seat in front of me, Sofia has wound her window down to smoke a cigarette, and the warm breeze ruffles my hair. I gaze out at the darkening sky and the remnants of the sunset glowing red on the horizon, and I feel as if I’m made of air. Maybe this is how the butterfly feels when it finally flies free from the cocoon, I think as I look down at my backpack on the seat beside me. And it dawns on me that this is the first time in my life that I’ve really thrown caution to the wind.

My childhood was so chaotic and unstable, it left me craving normality. When I met Robin at university, I loved how he seemed to personify normalcy, with his happily married parents and their three well-rounded children, two bounding Labradors and magazine-perfect home. It was the blueprint for the kind of life I desperately needed – or at least, I thought I did. But in all the years Robin and I were together, even before the strain of trying to get pregnant, I never felt this excited and free.

I close my eyes and a scene from my last holiday with Robin comes back to me. It was about a year before we broke up, and we were driving to his parents’ holiday home in Provence – another feature from their perfect life – and we had made most of the six-hour journey in silence. But not the warm, companionable silence that comes with time. This silence was heavy and awkward and punctuated only by a petty squabble over whether or not we should have taken a right turn about an hour out of Paris. As I sat there staring blankly through the windshield at the French countryside rolling by, I realised that I could think of absolutely nothing to say. Or, more specifically, nothing to say to him. It was as if we had exhausted all topics of conversation. Plus I’d grown tired of bringing something up, only for Robin to make a sarcastic retort or not understand what I was trying to say.

I open my eyes and gaze out at the fluffy clouds glowing pink and gold in the setting sun. I feel so relieved that I’ll never have to endure a torturous car journey like that again – although I can’t help feeling that Gabriel would prefer it if I wasn’t here. I glance up and catch him looking at me in the rear-view mirror. He quickly looks back at the road.

By the time we arrive in Sofia’s village, it’s completely dark, and as we bump our way along a dirt track, all I can see from the car window are the countless stars dusting the sky. It’s not a sight I ever get to see in London due to the light pollution, and it’s breathtaking. As Gabriel brings the car to a halt, a beautiful old cottage with terracotta walls and pale blue shutters appears in the beam of the headlights.

‘Home sweet home!’ Sofia exclaims.

I want to ask how long she’s lived here, but I bite my lip, remembering how she doesn’t like to be pressed when it comes to telling her story.

Gabriel gets out of the car and hurries round to open Sofia’s door. I step out and breathe in the cool fresh air. It smells of honeysuckle and the sea, and sure enough I hear the soft lap of waves coming from somewhere nearby.

‘Do you live right by the beach?’ I ask Sofia.

‘I do indeed,’ she replies. ‘Just wait till you wake up tomorrow and see the view from your room. You’re in for a real treat!’

‘Sounds amazing!’ I take my backpack from the back seat, experiencing another pinch-myself moment that this is actually happening.

Gabriel opens the boot and takes out Sofia’s case, and the three of us form a slow procession up the path to the front door, with Sofia leading the way. She takes an old iron key from her bag and unlocks the door and steps inside, and a moment later we’re bathed in golden light. I follow Gabriel into a spacious hallway. The walls are painted forget-me-not blue, and the floor is covered with large rust-coloured tiles. A rug has been placed in the middle, woven in brightly coloured stripes. Gabriel puts the case down and says something to Sofia in Portuguese.

‘Yes, of course, and thank you so much,’ she replies before turning to me. ‘Gabriel is going to leave now as he has to be out on his boat at four.’

‘Ah, OK,’ I reply, trying to hide my relief. Maybe it’s the unfortunate way in which we first met but I still can’t quite get a handle on him.

He says something to Sofia while shooting me a sideways glance, and I get the distinct impression that he’s talking about me. I catch a couple of the words – ‘ a verdade ’ – and I make a mental note to look them up in my Portuguese dictionary later.

‘ N?o, n?o, n?o ,’ she says, frowning and ushering him out of the door.

‘It was lovely to meet you,’ I call after him, hoping he’ll detect the sarcasm in my tone.

Sofia shuts the door behind him and takes me by the arm, leading me into a cosy living room off the hall. The walls are painted fern green, perfectly complementing the wooden furniture. My eyes are drawn to a beautiful lamp made from driftwood by the fireplace. Then I notice a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It’s a black-and-white portrait of a young woman with an uneven haircut and round, wire-framed glasses.

‘Is that Judith?’ I ask, pointing to the picture.

‘What? Oh…’ Sofia instantly looks a little flustered. ‘Yes – yes it is.’ She turns on her heel and heads back to the door. ‘On second thoughts, why don’t we go to the kitchen? You must be thirsty after that long drive. I’ll make us a drink. Would you like a hot chocolate?’

‘Oh, OK,’ I say as she hurries past me and out of the room.

I glance back at the photograph. Judith looks so innocent and sweet. It’s horrible thinking of her travelling alone across Europe at such a young age trying to escape the Nazis. I wonder why the Gestapo were after her and if she managed to reach the safety of America.

‘Would you like me to tell you the next part of the story?’ Sofia calls as I make my way to the door.

‘Yes, please.’ I take a final look at the photograph. I’d assumed that the big reveal of this job would be the mystery surrounding Sofia’s supposed death, but something tells me there are deeper, darker secrets to uncover, possibly involving this sweet young girl.