Page 8 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

7

LISBON, 1936

For the next two days, I rehearsed my songs as I walked the streets selling fish. I’d somehow landed myself an unexpected opportunity and I was going to grab it with both hands. When it came to a subject matter for my first song, there was no competition. Fado is the musical expression of the word saudade , a word unique to the Portuguese, meaning a profound longing for a beloved person or place; that almost indescribable bittersweet feeling. So I wrote my first proper song about my mother, and in composing something about the love I’d lost, I discovered, a new love – for music and songwriting. My previous ditties had either been designed to sell fish, or to make my mother laugh and take her mind off her pain; writing a piece of music that was a channel for my own pain opened my eyes to a whole new way of singing and creating.

The night of my debut performance, I gave myself a transformational makeover involving a set of hair curlers, a black kohl eyeliner and a ruby-red lipstick, and as I gazed into the mirror, I learned something really important, something that would prove to literally be life-saving in the future and something I can see forms a key theme of my story – we don’t have to remain stuck in our lives or identities; we have the power to completely change any time we like or need. That night I changed from a scrappy, street-smart varina into a glamorous songstress and singer – or I began the transformation at least.

I set off for the taberna feeling excited and confident, but once I’d climbed the steep hill to get there and was covered in sweat, I felt a little less so. In a place as hilly and hot as Lisbon, one has to accept that it’s not always possible to be elegant, and you have to make peace with frequently frizzy hair and a flushed face. So I arrived feeling more than a little flustered, especially when I could hear the raucous laughter from inside the taberna from the end of the street.

I suddenly felt very young and inexperienced. It was a feeling I hated, so I forced myself onwards, and I imagined the spirit of my mother cheering me on. I’m not sure if she’d have been all that keen on me going to sing in a bar at such a tender age, but that’s the good thing about loved ones who are deceased – you can conveniently imagine them supporting you in all kinds of endeavours without any objection. Over the years, I’d have to say that my poor mother has become my Patron Saint of Anything Goes!

What happened next was something of an anticlimax as no one appeared to notice me enter the taberna at all. The men at the bar were all engaged in boisterous conversation, and those sitting at the small round tables were watching a pot-bellied man playing the guitar. A blue-tinged cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air, mingling with the sickly-sweet aroma of alcohol sweating out through the patrons’ pores. Of course, I’d been inside tabernas before and knew what to expect, but when I’d been dreaming of my singing debut, I’d dared to hope for something slightly less raucous.

I made my way over to the bar in search of Joao Paulo. At first, all I could see was a buxom older woman in a gypsy-style dress and hoop earrings, and again I was hit by a wave of panic, but then he appeared through a door at the back.

‘ Boa noite ,’ I greeted him as confidently as I could muster.

He stared at me blankly, and I realised that either he’d forgotten me entirely or my transformational makeover had been a little too good.

‘I-I’m the girl who sings love songs about mackerel,’ I stammered, which, to this day, remains the most mortifying way I’ve ever introduced myself to another human being. But it worked and his eyes instantly lit up.

‘Wow!’ He looked me up and down. ‘You look so different without a basket of fish on your head.’

‘Yes, well I thought I ought to make the effort if I’m going to sing in your fine establishment.’ Perfectly on cue, the man sitting next to me at the bar let out a loud belch. Meanwhile, over by the guitar player, another man began to jeer.

‘Play something good for God’s sake,’ he heckled before almost falling off his chair.

‘Looks like you’re just in time,’ Joao Paulo said, grabbing my elbow and steering me over to the tiny stage.

‘You want me to sing straight away?’ I squeaked. I’d been hoping to have the chance to freshen up in the bathroom first, although the air in the taberna was twice as sticky as it was outside.

‘I think it’s probably best,’ Joao Paulo yelled at me over the growing din. ‘The natives are getting restless.’

The good thing about a baptism of fire is that pretty much anything that comes after it will seem relatively easy. That first night at the taberna proved to be quite a reassurance to me over the following years, when I faced challenges like flying across the Channel in the middle of the war, liaising with spies and encountering some of the most duplicitous characters I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. At least you’re not about to get on stage at the Santo Antonio taberna, I’d tell myself and instantly feel soothed. Of course, it couldn’t prepare me for everything I would encounter – but then nothing can prepare a person for the ultimate betrayal.

Joao Paulo strode up onto the tiny platform and took a mic from its stand, gesturing at the guitarist to stop playing. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, I have a real treat for you.’

‘You’re going to take the guitarist outside and have him shot?’ the heckler yelled, to a chorus of braying laughter.

‘Er, no, but I do have a very special guest for you.’ He looked at me and smiled, and I could sense a blind panic in his eyes. My heart sank as I realised he was counting on me to keep his patrons from starting a riot. ‘Here to sing some traditional fado songs, we have—’ He broke off and looked at me. In his rush to get me on stage, he’d forgotten to ask me my name.

‘Sofia Castello,’ I called. Another trait that I credit from my years taking care of my sick mother is that whenever the chips are down, and it feels as if things are going south fast, some kind of survival instinct kicks in, overriding my anxiety or fear. I felt it that night in that hot, sweaty bar, and I’ve felt it again many times since. I had to take control of the situation before all hell broke loose.

‘Sofia Castello!’ Joao Paulo announced, gratefully handing me the mic as I stepped onto the stage.

I put the mic back on its stand, not wanting the crowd to see my hands trembling and took a breath. I’m with you, my darling , I imagined my mother whispering in my ear.

‘Is it all right if I sing one of my own compositions?’ I asked the guitarist.

He nodded eagerly, clearly grateful to have someone save him from the spotlight. ‘That’s fine; I’ll pick it up as you go,’ he replied.

I contemplated telling the audience that I was going to sing a song about my dearly departed mother, but none of them were paying any attention, so I just cleared my throat and began.

Almost immediately, I felt a potent cocktail of all the emotions I had experienced at the time of her death swirling inside of me. The loss, the pain, the longing, the love. As I reached the end of the first verse, I gripped the microphone tightly and closed my eyes, and I heard the guitarist join in. Somehow, he knew exactly which notes to play and hearing him strengthened me, and I sang louder and with more conviction as tears began streaming down my face. I still had my eyes shut tight when I reached the end of the song, and it was only then that I realised the taberna had become deadly silent. Had I horrified them speechless? I cautiously opened my eyes a crack and saw everyone looking at me, even the heckler, whose mouth was gaping open.

‘Thank you,’ I squeaked, preparing to flee, but then the place burst into rapturous applause.

I turned and looked at the guitarist incredulously. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head like he couldn’t believe it either.

‘More! More! More!’ the heckler yelled, banging his wine bottle on the table. Others began joining the cries. I looked at Joao Paulo behind the bar and he nodded eagerly.

So I sang my ballad about mackerel, which thankfully everyone loved – I guess it appealed to their drunken sense of humour – and I left the stage with their hearty laughter and applause ringing in my ears.

Joao Paulo was delighted with my performance, mainly I think because I averted a riot. But he invited me to perform a regular weekly slot, and over the next year, I honed my craft, writing and singing songs for a drunk and unforgiving crowd, which, with hindsight, really was the best training. After all, you don’t learn anything from having smoke blown up your arse. By the time I got my big break, at the ripe old age of eighteen, I felt like a seasoned professional.

Of course, what I couldn’t have anticipated back then was that something far more threatening than a bar full of drunken hecklers was building on Europe’s horizon. Something that would alter the course of my life in the most dramatic of ways.