Twisting into a small village (the mountains are dotted with them, clusters of 2-300 houses, a church, a bar sometimes, a restaurant rarely), we slowed down to admire a flock of goats belling their noisy way through what seemed like a v. large vacant lot or a v. small field right in the middle of a residential block. Anticipating my request, Pater pulled over to park, and encouraged me to get a picture, so I headed over with my camera, past the old goats of the human variety that were sitting on a wall nearby -- these latter old goats (and their younger counterparts occasionally) are a feature of every village as well, especially from noon onwards when they seem permanently fixed to their seats, keeping watch on everything that passes.
As I set the camera to video mode and panned the field of goats, Pater caught up to me and called out something which I answered. Nearby, a solitary smoker's ears perked up and he engaged us both, speaking in English. Even more surprising for these parts, he continued to chat in v. decent English and then expressed "what a pleasure it is for me to speak English." repeating "It gives me great pleasure." Obviously, we were happy enough to indulge him in this and chatted for a few minutes about this and that, weather and geography and goat-wise. Just as we were getting ready to head back to the car, though, he asked us if we would drink a beer with him, his treat. I'm not sure which surprised me more, his request or Pater's barely-hesitating acceptance, as Pater, though friendly enough, is often assessed as reserved, and he's never been the guy to go for beers after work. But he sensed an opportunity here, to get to peek inside local life, and he also sensed a need, a loneliness of language in someone whose English (one of many non-native languages held by a man whose world travelling was always driven by stresses of economy and politics rather than desires and whims) revealed aspects of personality generally tucked away from his Portuguese neighbours.
So we went with Edouard around the corner to this tiny, smoky bar -- just a large room with tables, a pleasant young woman serving drinks, bicas (coffee), bottled rather than draft beer, simple snacks, and a variety of patrons behaving, as E. pointed out, as if they were in their own homes. Two old fellows played dominoes at the window table as they apparently do each day from 3 p.m. on(that's the domino table, E. pointed out, the one we sat at because it was the only other spot that would host 3, was the "cards table".
We got our Sagres (that and Bock are the beers to order in Portugal) and chatted with E. about the village's size and qualities (perhaps 500 pop., most worked nearby, main industry textile-related historically and even now), his own history (he was fairly evasive but was born to Mozambiquan parents, learned his English in Johannesburg, had worked in shipping many places, and was hoping to put together some possibility for retirement within the next few years).
But his pleasure in speaking English was soon under threat -- along came a good friend of his, described by him as a v. good man with a good heart, the richest man around these parts . . . And this man had lived in France for many years, working there as so many Portuguese did during economic struggles in Portugal, and was pleased to speak French with Pater, delighting in some variety, I suspect, to the regularity of village bar life. E. was equally comfortable in French, so the next beer (our treat by now, although that took some arm-wrestling) was enjoyed in that language while curious villagers drinking around us tried to figure out who we might be and what we were all talking about.
One of them would not be deterred by his lack of English or French, but shuffled over to join us, enthusiastically telling us something important in a Portuguese I couldn't have understood even if it had been enunciated through more teeth than this old fellow possessed. His charm was still in full force, though, and E. introduced him as "the oldest man in these parts, 91", which clearly delighted him even if he couldn't follow us. Despite my repeating "No fallo Portuguese" he continued to rattle off something which had the other men laughing and trying to shush him. Apparently, dementia was part of the picture and he was telling us how happy he was to see Pater, given that he'd worked with his father for many years, long ago. Pater just played along and hugged the old fellow back.
Then stood for a photo with him, for which the old guy took off his hat. Both he and Pater, you might be surprised to learn, are standing for this photo -- Pater is just six feet; Mr. Oldest Man might be 4'10" . . . What a life he's probably lived . .