Fiction: Group 4
Before I can take a step closer or even respond, a dry, rough hand grips my wrist and drags me
around. It’s Tomás, “Are you skipping mass?” I ask irritated.
“When I woke my parents were gone,” he says in a surprisingly calm manner, “My mother left a
note, saying she went to stop her brother from going to the Governor’s house.”
“So
you are
skipping mass.” I roll my eyes and turn, before the church doors close, but his reflexes
are faster and he pulls me back.
“Catia, my uncle is a supporter of this revolution that I was telling you about, he supports the
chairman, and there are many more like him in Macau,” he speaks rapidly, as if there is too much to process,
“And I think they are angry… because of the Portuguese police brutality.”
“Did your father tell you what they did? That they beat the people on Taipa?” I say quietly,
because even though we’re alone I’m afraid someone will hear.
“Yes,” he pauses to glance around quickly, “Lots of people, not just the construction workers…
reporters… and other residents too.”
“We should go to the Governor’s house, tell them that they meant no harm, stop the uprising. We
can calm them down, stop the revolution from getting here-
“Don’t you see? The police did mean harm, and the revolution is already here,” distress colours
Tomás’ voice, “It isn’t safe… that’s why I’m going back to Portugal.”
I hesitate to respond, for there are no words to be said. I take a proper look at him, his eyes are a
soft hazel but they are no longer warm, his pupils now fiery, they almost seem to scream. His face suddenly
feels harsh, defensive – afraid. But he shouldn’t be, Macau isn’t a threat- it is our home.
And as the church doors click shut, and the ominous echo of the priest begins, the streets nearly
look frozen. There is no movement, no gale, it is just the Latin chorus of mass, and Tomás and I standing on
a bare street. In this moment where time is still, I beg Tomás not to leave to Portugal, I plead, I need him to
know there is nothing to be fearful of, that this is home, and this is where he belongs and needs to stay.
“I’m not like you,” he says finally, “Because I am not fully Portuguese, because my mother has ties
and connections to people who worship this new chairman. I’ll be a threat; I could be arrested or worse.
You may be safe here, but I’m not.”
“So you’re not going to stay?” he can hear the hint of disappointment in my voice because he
lowers his head, to think.
“No, I’ll stay,” he takes my hand lightly, “but the second this situation worsens I’ll make sure we
both get out of here.”
As the days drag into nights, mild threats drag into protests. The newspapers are coated in stories of
rebellions, television immersing into controversial footage, the media plunging into politics. Sometimes in
the starless nights, we can hear the faint chanting of Chinese revolutionary songs, and in the somber days the
quotations of the Chinese chairman crawl through our streets.
The silence of the authorities is almost daunting; I wait for them to rise, for the startling ring of my
father’s pager, to see countless men in navy blue – armed. But as weeks past, that day doesn’t come because I
am right, there is no danger, there is no conflict to fear.
Not until December the third.
