Page 18 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

17

LISBON, 1940

‘What is it?’ I whispered, unable to tear my gaze from the magnificent jewel.

‘It’s the Vadodara Teardrop,’ Judith replied. ‘From India originally, and one of the most valuable diamonds in the world.’

‘But how—’ I broke off, too stunned to speak. All of the gems I’d owned up until that point had been costume jewellery procured from the market stalls of Lisbon and made of coloured glass. Compared to the Vadodara Teardrop they were dull as mud. I’d never seen a jewel so dazzlingly bright. It was as if it were a living, breathing thing, pulsing away in the palm of Judith’s hand.

‘How do I have it?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘My great-great-great-grandfather bought it from Napoleon’s stepson in the early 1800s and it’s been in our family ever since. The Nazis knew my father had it, so when they came to take him away, they ransacked our home looking for it.’

‘But you managed to escape with it?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘My father insisted I take it with me if I had to escape.’

‘To stop those thieving Nazis from getting their hands on it?’

‘Yes, and to secure my future. The Germans have taken everything from us. It reassured him to think that if I needed to, I’d be able to sell it and start again.’

I felt a pang of sorrow as I looked at the diamond. Its teardrop name suddenly felt all too apt.

‘I sewed it into the lining of the coat to stop it from being found – or stolen.’ Judith continued. ‘I assumed that no one would look twice at this tatty old thing.’ She laughed as she surveyed the coat.

‘Well, you got that right!’ I exclaimed. ‘I couldn’t understand why you were so attached to it. I thought maybe you were suffering from delusions.’

She burst out laughing. ‘Is that why you came rushing in here to make me some food?’

‘Yes! I thought maybe hunger was sending you crazy.’

‘No, although part of me wishes that it was and the diamond didn’t exist.’

‘What do you mean?’

She looked at the diamond and sighed. ‘Legend has it that the Vadodara Teardrop is cursed. I never used to believe it before, but now I’m not so sure. It’s certainly made my life hell since I’ve had it.’

‘The diamond has, or the Gestapo?’

‘Good point, but it’s been so much pressure trying to keep it safe.’

‘I can imagine.’ I shuddered as I wondered what lengths the Gestapo would go to get their hands on the diamond. It certainly explained why they were following Judith.

Judith gave a heavy sigh. ‘I’ll totally understand if you don’t want to help me anymore. The last thing I want to do is put you at risk, so if you want me to leave, just say.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I scolded, suppressing my fear. ‘I want to help you.’

‘Thank you.’ She gave me a relieved smile. ‘Hopefully I’ll get my passage to America soon, so I won’t be here for much longer.’

I nodded, although I knew from my conversations with the refugees who came for lunch at the taberna that getting their precious ticket to freedom could take weeks, if not months. ‘I will help you for as long as you need me to,’ I said firmly. ‘Now, let’s have something to eat.’

Judith flung her arms around me and hugged me tight, and I said a quick prayer of thanks to Santo Antonio for this opportunity to help someone so lovely and so in need.

‘I can’t believe you thought I was suffering from delusions about the coat,’ she said, laughing as she tucked the diamond back into its lining.

I squeezed some lemon juice over the sardines and placed them in the frying pan.

‘I thought you were about to tell me it was woven from gold by magical elves!’

We both giggled, and I felt a rush of warmth. Despite the crazy and undoubtedly scary circumstances, I gave another prayer of thanks for this unexpected new friend.

After dinner, I insisted that Judith stayed for the night, giving her my bed and making a bed for myself on the sofa. Once she was asleep, I sat in the armchair by the living-room window and began composing my song. Using the jacaranda tree as inspiration, I wrote a classic fado ballad about someone pining for Portugal and wishing they could drift on the breeze like a jacaranda seed and be brought back home. I imagined I was Judith having to flee my homeland to tap into the emotions of fear and longing. I knew I’d captured the feeling when I started to cry mid-composition.

I was up most of the night, experimenting with the melody and honing the lyrics, and when Judith woke, I made her a breakfast of toast and eggs and sang the song to her while she ate. I felt way more self-conscious singing in front of her than I did singing in a club, but it was because I’d drawn upon her experiences as inspiration – I didn’t want her to think me a fraud.

‘Well?’ I said nervously, after I’d finished and translated the lyrics into English for her. ‘What do you think? It’s obviously very new and rough around the edges.’

She was silent for a moment, and I thought my worst fears had been confirmed and the song was a dud, but then she wiped a tear from her eye. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered with such sincerity I knew it wasn’t empty praise.

‘Thank you! And thank you for inspiring it with your talk about jacaranda seeds. I’m so grateful I met you.’

‘Me too!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s bashert , I’m sure of it.’

‘Yes!’ I smiled. It was lovely to think that Judith and I had been destined to meet. It made life feel magical.

After breakfast, Judith returned to her lodgings in her blonde wig and one of her new outfits, with the diamond inside the coat, which was stuffed inside a small case I’d given her for the rest of her new clothes.

As soon as she’d gone, I got ready for my audition, putting on a dress in the same vivid purple of the jacaranda blossom and spritzing myself with a floral scent before setting off for Alexandre’s office. It was only when I walked in the door and saw the framed records on the walls that I got nervous. I’d put so much effort into pretending that Alexandre wasn’t that big of a deal, I’d almost convinced myself that it was true. Seeing the success of his clients lining the walls made me realise he was a very big deal indeed, and so was the fact that he’d invited me to come and sing for him. I also knew that in this business you didn’t get many chances like this so I couldn’t blow it.

‘I’m here to see Alexandre Fernandes,’ I said to the stern-faced secretary click-clacking away on a typewriter behind her desk. She nodded and called him.

Moments later, Alexandre appeared, wearing a crisp white shirt and baggy pants with a sharp crease up the front. ‘You came!’ he exclaimed, clearly surprised.

I was about to say, ‘Of course I did,’ then remembered just in time to slip back into the irreverent persona he was expecting. ‘Yes well, cleaning my bathroom didn’t take as long as expected, so I thought I might as well.’

The sourpuss secretary audibly tutted, but Alexandre let out a bellowing laugh.

‘Well, I hope this proves even more rewarding than scrubbing a toilet,’ he said, ushering me through a door into a narrow, dimly lit corridor. ‘No calls until we’ve finished, please, Fatima,’ he said over his shoulder before taking me into a room that looked half office, half lounge bar.

A dark-haired stocky man with the flattened nose of a boxer was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace. As soon as we came in, he leaped to his feet.

‘This is Sofia Castello,’ Alexandre said to him before turning back to me. ‘Sofia, this is Emilio Almeida, my favourite producer.’

My heart skipped a beat as I shook his hand. Emilio Almeida was a very big cheese in the music business, from Chicago but with Portuguese origins.

‘Great to meet you,’ he said, smiling warmly. His accent was a weird hybrid of Portuguese with a slight American drawl. ‘I’ve heard very good things about you – and your fado for the fish,’ he added with a laugh.

‘Yes, well, fish have feelings too,’ I said, instantly kicking myself for sounding stupid.

But both men appeared to find it hilarious and laughed heartily.

‘I have to admit, I’ve not felt the same about eating sardines since hearing your song,’ Alexandre said. ‘I swear I could almost hear them singing up at me from the plate, lamenting the fact that their silvery skin had helped the fisherman catch them.’

We all laughed this time, and I felt myself relax slightly.

‘So, did you manage to write anything for us?’ Alexandre asked.

‘I did.’

‘Excellent.’ Emilio went over to the piano in the corner. ‘You start singing, and I’ll pick up the melody.’

‘OK.’ I took the piece of paper from my bag and instantly remembered Judith tearing it out of her notebook for me. If she had the courage to travel halfway across Europe on her own, on the run from the Nazis, I could sing a damn song to a couple of men in a room. And even better, I’d sing it for her, and everyone like her, so full of saudade, so far away from home.

Alexandre went and sat behind his desk and nodded at me to begin.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The enormity of the moment seemed to have sucked all the air from my lungs. How can you expect to sing a song for the Exhibition of Portugal? a sneaky voice inside my head wheedled. You’re just a lowly varina who got lucky.

Closing my eyes, I tried to summon my courage. You’re not a lowly anything , I heard my mother whisper in my ear, and the skin on my arms erupted in goosebumps. You’re the girl who took care of me when I was dying. You’re the girl who came to Lisbon with nothing. You can do anything you set your mind to .

I opened my mouth and began to sing.