Fiction: Group 4
18 days ago
I have never seen Senado Square in such enlightening spirits, every inch of the intricate tiled
ground covered with a crowd of cheering people, applauding in awe and merriment as the acrobats and
dancers perform. Young children climb the statue of Colonel Nicolau, venturing on the tips of their toes
just to catch a glimpse of the imaginative leaps, flips and twirls.
As the hours near midday, food stalls, markets and neighboring restaurants begin to thrive. The rich
aroma of coconut milk and cinnamon waft through the crowd, and collides with the savory scent of
turmeric and bacalhau. Spices linger in the air, the distinctive fragrances of nutmeg and ginger weaving
through flocks of families and friends as bakeries open their windows.
Framing the town square are saffron arches and the chalk cathedral with emerald shutters, along
with local restaurants painted cream with gold frames. Behind the cobalt-carpeted stage, stands our church.
And despite its small figure it seems to be looking over us, basking the square in warmth and bliss.
“Catia, my mother is about to come on.” Tomás nudges me.
I spin around to tell my father that Xiao Ling is about to perform for it was the act we had all been
waiting for in the mild chill of autumn. However a stranger who applauds vigorously stands before me
instead of Papá. A mild rush of panic soars through me as I search the densely packed herd, squinting
through the thick rays of sunlight.
“Where is he?” I murmur, “Tomás, where is my father?”
He glances around carelessly, but before he can respond I slither through the old couple behind us,
in search of my father. Despite the congested state of the crowd, I manage to jam my way in the direction of
St. Domingo Church, behind the stage.
“Catia!” Tomás calls after me, struggling to weave through for his frame is wider.
I ignore the sound of his voice for I know the clearing is only a metre away.
“Catia, he’s not here!”
Finally, I push past the last layer of tangled bodies and the air is no longer stale and sweaty.
“He left to Taipa Island…” Tomás follows, out of breath.
“Taipa Island?”
“There’s a situation there, my father… he left too,” his attempt to reassure me only arises more
questions.
And almost as if it were on cue, the faint hum of police sirens interrupt the melodious beat of the
performance behind us. And I imagine the route they follow to Taipa Island as the wailing of the sirens fade.
“What situation? Is it about the school they were going to build? Was there an accident? Did…
something collapse, did someone die?” I hear myself getting louder, higher-pitched so I pause and take a
breath, “What happened?”
