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Levity
By Geeta Johal
I sat next to a statue of Pessoa, trying to figure out how to fix what lay broken in me, but he didn’t answer. I searched for the right words, but how do you express the inexpressible? Words can betray, sometimes, they are too much, other times, not enough.
It’s the festival da Sardinha. Bright garlands hang above the city streets, limestone gleams in the moonlight, wait staff weave in and out of a maze of tables, replenishing drinks. Green wine flows.
I’m inside my hotel room, shivering under wool blankets. I got sick from drinking ginja on a Miradouro, a lookout point, the night before. I only packed summer dresses, shorts, and tank tops for my trip. I was not at all prepared for the freezing nights.
Across from my window, lights flash at the National Theatre for Maria, the musical. It’s the story of a prostitute who became a Fado icon. She sings in a mournful tone about love lost, with a black shawl on her shoulders, the man to her right plays a tear-shaped guitar.
Fado means fate, the inescapable fate that nothing can change, the destiny that betrays us. Ballads are sung with a feeling of longing and sorrow. Some trace Fado’s origins to Lundum, music brought over by Brazilian slaves to Portugal. Fado is sung without a stage, microphone, or spotlight. Its influence is found everywhere.
I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since I landed. My balcony window opens above a bustling street filled with restaurants and shops; music pulsates from a corner bar. I pull at the curtains but they won’t close over the sheer panels, one of the men on the street below shouts something to me. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders to show him that I don’t understand. Even with the windows closed, it’s still freezing.
The train from Lisbon to Lousada left an hour ago. I search for car rentals, bleary-eyed, trying to find something within my budget so I won’t miss the Dead Combo concert. I’m willing to drive the three-hour distance myself, even if it means getting lost along the mountainous roads. I can’t find anything. My heart sinks, it’s not willing to listen to reason.
My soul is restlessness, Mágoa, I’m hurting but I’m not hurt. There’s pain buried inside me, the kind that keeps me awake when I should be sleeping. The kind that I avoid because it hurts too much to feel.
I put on my headphones and sink into the mattress. ‘Esse Olhar Que Era So Teu’ plays, I sit captive to its serenade. Wailing guitar notes linger against the steady pace of a rhythm guitar. The sonic sorrow, a feeling of longing conveyed through melody. I play it over and over again. There are no words-there is no need for words.
The music calls out to me, there’s beauty in its sadness. I feel it, let it move me, and suddenly the disquiet within me stills.
The sensation is fleeting, but the tension breaks, my heart softens, and I’m reminded of all that is not lost. In those brief moments of beauty, we find our way back, with a sense of levity.
