Page 7 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

6

LISBON, 1936

One of the most frustrating things about the whole world thinking you’re dead is having to read the utter horse shit some people say and write about you. In a way, it’s as if I really have been a ghost these past fifty-nine years – able to see and hear what’s going on but unable to respond, until now of course. So, the first thing I need to do is tell the story of how I came to Lisbon. The true story.

Legend has it that I came from a terrible background – everything from an alcoholic and violent father to a neglectful mother – but nothing could be further from the truth. The truth was, I never knew my father and I never knew anything about him – my mother remained tight-lipped on the subject until her dying day, when she passed from cancer when I was just sixteen. So it wasn’t abuse or neglect that drove me to Lisbon; it was the spirit of adventure.

I’ve always been able to take care of myself – something else the biographers and journalists always get wrong, calling me the songbird with the broken wing and other such tosh. I was taking care of my sick mother from the age of twelve, so of course I could take care of myself. And once she’d passed, I was faced with a choice: to stay in my hometown of Ovar, haunted by loss and grief, or to change my surroundings and start again. And what better place to start again than Lisbon, our wonderful capital city. Lisbon also offered a unique opportunity for a Portuguese woman at the time – the chance to earn your own money working in the port selling fish.

Many women and girls from Ovar had been tempted to make this journey – so many in fact that the Lisbon fisherwomen came to be known as Ovarinas, which was then shortened to varinas . But this is another part of my story that’s been misrepresented. So many times I’ve had to read that those were the unhappiest days of my life. That being a humble varina and selling fish was somehow akin to being a leper, when the truth was, I loved it.

From the moment I got off the train at Rossio and made my way to the bustling harbour, I felt alive again. Caring for my sick mother, especially in the final year, made it feel as if my world had shrunk right down to the inside of her bedroom – and I wouldn’t have had it any other way, I hasten to add. It felt like such an honour to take care of her and help her in her final days. We shared such a close bond. But arriving in Lisbon was the perfect antidote to all the sorrow. The busyness and the physical aspect of the job felt so cathartic. With every box of fish I’d carry down the gangplanks from the fishing boats, I felt myself working the grief out of my body. And then taking the fish into the city to sell, and walking up and down the steep Lisbon hills, released more grief from my limbs. And as the pain left my body, there was space for something new to come in – excitement.

I loved the challenge of trying to win customers. There were a lot of us varinas walking the streets, and we were quite a sight to behold in our colourful costumes, with baskets of fish balanced on our heads. At first, I found the competition intimidating, and my mind would freeze every time I tried to think of a witty slogan to capture people’s attention. But then one day, I made up a song about the shrimp I was selling, and as soon as I started to sing it, people started buying from me. I soon became known as ‘ o canto varina ’ – the singing varina – and the job became even more enjoyable. I’d always loved to sing, so much so that I often thought in song too, and when my mother became bedridden, I spent hours making up fun little ditties to entertain her with. So, I was just doing what came naturally.

Then one day, after I’d been in Lisbon for about six months, I was selling a basket of mackerel outside a taberna in the Madragoa neighbourhood where I had lodgings. I’d got a little carried away, to be honest, composing a mournful ballad about two mackerel who’d fallen in love but then one of them was dragged off in a fisherman’s net, never to be seen again, and I’d become quite overwhelmed with the emotion of it all. I was singing the immortal line, ‘Oh how I miss your slippery kiss,’ when a ruddy-faced middle-aged man came marching out of the taberna.

‘And the pout of your mouth,’ I sang, my voice tapering off as I waited for the inevitable scolding but, ‘Oh,’ was all he said.

‘Oh to you too,’ I replied.

‘Was that you singing?’ he asked, even though he’d just seen me with his very own eyes.

‘Er, yes,’ I replied, wondering if he had perhaps indulged in a little too much wine.

‘How old are you?’ he asked, and I instantly bristled.

‘Old enough to be able to kill a man with my bare hands and fillet him like a fish,’ I snapped with a scowl.

He burst out laughing and raised his hands. ‘It’s OK; I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘I know,’ I said defiantly, mentally preparing my next move, which mainly consisted of throwing the basket of fish in his face and running like the blazes.

‘My name’s Joao Paulo and I own this place,’ he said, pointing to the shabby taberna. It was named after Santo Antonio, the patron saint of couples and marriage, amongst many other things, although as I took in the grimy windows and shabby paintwork, I couldn’t think of anywhere less conducive to romance. ‘And I’m always looking for fado singers.’

‘Fado?’ I’d never really considered myself a singer of the melancholic Portuguese folk music, although, on reflection, my ballad about the lovesick mackerel could have been categorised as such.

‘Yes, and yours is one of the most powerful voices I’ve heard,’ he continued. ‘It’s quite incredible, coming from one so small.’

‘Size isn’t everything, you know,’ I said, straightening myself into my full five feet, one inch. ‘A germ is tiny, but it surely can cause a lot of mayhem.’ This was one of many lines my mother had given me to say whenever bigger kids picked on me. And it worked. By the time I was ten, I was able to pack quite a punch, mentally at least – and when I unleashed a verbal volley upon a boy in my class for calling me a sprat, no one ever bothered me again.

‘Hmm, I’d never thought of it like that, but you’re right,’ he said with a grin. ‘So, anyway, if you’re looking for a way of earning some extra money, you’d be welcome to come and sing here.’

Now he had my full attention. ‘How much are you talking?’ I said in my most businesslike manner. Bearing in mind I was still only sixteen at this point, not to mention knee high to a grasshopper, I’m not sure how he kept a straight face.

‘It depends on the tips you get from the customers,’ he replied, creating a spark of excitement deep within me. This was exactly the kind of challenge I loved.

‘I’m in,’ I said. ‘When do I start?’

He laughed. ‘Well, how about I give you a trial slot on Saturday night, around ten? Come and sing a couple of songs and we’ll see how it goes.’

‘OK.’ I held my hand out to shake his, as it seemed like the fitting way to end our business transaction. Again, he gave me an amused smile, but he shook my hand, and just like his smile, his grip felt friendly and warm.

It was only when I was heading down the hill back to Ribeira Market that the enormity of what I’d just agreed to hit me. I had a gig as a fado singer and only two days to prepare some songs.