Paulo arranged it in four days, which she considered impressive.
The setting was a tasca on the Rua do Barão de Sabrosa — an old place, deep in the Alfama, one of the ones that had been there since before the neighbourhood became a destination. She and André had been there a dozen times, as teenagers, for the cheap bifanas and the owner who tolerated them taking up a table for two hours over a single Coke. It was, on a Tuesday afternoon, exactly as unremarkable as it needed to be.
She arrived first. Ordered coffee. Sat at a table by the wall where she could see the door.
Paulo was at the counter, reading a newspaper, with the complete naturalism of a man who spent his professional life becoming furniture.
André came in at four minutes past two.
He was different from the boy she'd know
