Books Set In Portugal Novels & Stories

[The Last Lie] The Atlantic mist clung to the windows of the Portuguese villa like a shroud, blurring the line between the sky and the sea. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood, salt, and the devastating weight of a trust that had just been incinerated.

“We didn’t have time to see much. You know… there was that issue with the Alpha, and we had to stay to resolve those matters. I hope to go back there to really enjoy it.” “Well, that's too bad. I’m sorry to hear that,” Lilith said, nibbling on her fruit. “And Portugal? How was it?” “Portugal was delightful,” I replied, smiling. “We stayed in Lisbon, and the city is full of life. We walked through the Alfama and Bairro Alto neighborhoods, and the fado we heard in the small fado houses was a truly touching experience. We also took a trip to Sintra and explored the Pena Palace, which looked like it was straight out of a fairy tale.”

I suppose I’d just assumed that the word was the same in both languages. Evolução Handmade Costumes, Portavora, Brazil. It read exactly like that, in mixed Portuguese and English. While the word for “evolution” obviously stood out loudest, the name Portavora also hit me, as I had seen the seaside town on a map I was looking over on the bus ride down from Rio de Janeiro. It lay to the southwest of Tago, easily within twenty miles.

They drove south on the ninth day. The Alentejo was the interior—the part of Portugal that was not the coastal thing, the cities, the tourist geography. The interior: broad plains, cork oak, the specific quality of a landscape that was doing something older and quieter than the coast, the something that required space to understand.

There were four wall murals made of Azulejo tiles, depicting Portugal’s transportation history, life in 19th-century Porto, Henry the Navigator’s conquest of Morocco, and the celebration of King João I and Queen Philippa’s visit to Porto. “Ahh … our train’s arrived on the platform, Emmy Darling. Let’s get ready to board!” William said excitedly. Emmy smiled brightly, taking William’s arm as she walked toward the train beside her beloved sugar daddy. The clear sunset sky with no more snow falling was their last moment before leaving Dublin, Ireland.

She paddles in the shallows, her hair plastered to her face, her laughter carrying across the beach. Celeste watches from the sand, a book open in her lap, not reading. "You're staring," I say. "I'm witnessing." "That's the same thing." --- The residency in Portugal hosts a summer reading. Writers from around the world gather in the garden. Sofia sits in the front row, wearing a dress covered in sunflowers, her legs swinging. The poet from Palestine reads about home. The novelist from Mexico reads about migration. The memoirist from South Africa reads about forgiveness.

I return to the palace, after tiring myself in my forays into these new lands. Jafar informs me where the library is and that there is a plethora of old books, classics of English literature, French and I find Gabriela’s Clove and Cinnamon version in English, besides Captains of Sand and Tereza Batista, all of Jorge Amado, apparently we have a lover of Brazilian literature here in Bahrain. I take a volume of “Grandes sertões veredas” and decide to re-read, writers like Jorge Amado, João Ubaldo Ribeiro, Guimarães Rosa are never too much, it is always a new pleasure to rediscover them.

For comfort. The train to Lisbon was quiet. She sat by the window. Watched the landscape slide past. Vineyards bare in winter. Villages sleeping under slate roofs. The river appeared at last. Wide. Brown. Patient. The bookstore occupied a narrow street near Alfama. Old wooden shelves. Exposed beams. Thirty chairs arranged in neat rows. A small platform at the front. A single microphone. She arrived early. The owner greeted her warmly. Offered tea. She declined. Walked the space alone. Tested the microphone. Placed the notebook on the podium. Felt the weight of the room even when empty.

He had opened his laptop right there on the marble counter and booked two seats on the first morning flight out of JFK. ​Isabel Carmo had booked them into a hotel in Alfama. ​It was the old district, a labyrinth of stone that climbed the hill above the river like a survivor. Rebuilt after the earthquake of 1755, it had the honest, weathered beauty of a place that had seen the worst the world could do and decided to persist anyway. Narrow streets, blue-and-white azulejo tiles, and the smell of roasting sardines.

He laughed, low and warm, and squeezed my leg. “Portugal,” he said. “Little coastal town south of Lisbon. House on a cliff, ocean view from the bedroom, closest neighbor half a mile away. I already bought it. Papers signed yesterday.” I blinked. “Portugal?” “Yep. New language, new coast, new life. And,” he added, glancing at me with that crooked smile that still wrecked me, “best prenatal care in Europe. Figured our boy deserves to be born somewhere the sun actually shines.”