Broken Together by K. S. Ruff

traditional; and fadistas are only accompanied by a
Portuguese guitar, an acoustic guitar, or both.”
    I
adored B.B. King. I’d seen him perform in concert and couldn’t fathom anything
more sorrowful or traditional than the blues.
    A
rather imposing man stepped behind Rafael before I could inquire further. He
barked some foreign command I didn’t understand.
    Rafael’s
eyes widened as he shot to his feet.
    The
man burst out laughing.
    Rafael
shook his hand excitedly. They slapped one another on the back and exchanged
hugs.
    Eventually,
the man’s eyes slid toward me. Rafael led him around the long row of tables so
they could stand on the same side of the table as me.
    I
rose uncertainly.
    Rafael
wrapped his arm around me. “ Comandante , I’d like you to meet my fiancé,
Kristine Stone. Kristine, I’d like you to meet Leandro D’Souza, the Chief
Superintendent of the Public Security Police.”
    I
offered him my hand. “ É um prazer conhecê-lo, senhor, ” I recited
hopefully. I’d been practicing my Portuguese.
    Rafael
beamed at me.
    “The
pleasure is mine,” Chief D’Souza replied. “I do not wish to interrupt your
dinner Senhorita Stone, but I would appreciate a few moments with Senhor Garcia
if you don’t mind.”
    “Of
course,” I encouraged, meeting Rafael’s eyes.
    He
kissed me on the cheek before easing me back onto my seat. “I’ll be standing
right outside the entrance.” He stopped a waiter who was walking by. They spoke
briefly before Rafael leaned over and whispered, “I just ordered, so you don’t
have to worry about deciphering the menu.”
    I
forced a smile. “I’ll be fine.”
    They
walked toward the entrance and disappeared out onto the street.
    A
female vocalist approached the microphone. The gentleman accompanying her
leaned against the stone wall on the opposite side of the fireplace. With his
foot propped casually against the wall, he began strumming an instrument that looked
more like a giant banjo than an acoustic guitar. I leaned forward in my seat. I
counted twelve strings, although I wasn’t certain I’d counted right given the
dim lighting. I could only assume this was the Portuguese guitar Rafael referred
to earlier.
    I
studied the man’s fingers. I was trying to discern how a single instrument
could sound like two or three. My eyes widened when the woman began to sing. I
almost wished she wouldn’t sing so I could focus exclusively on the strings.
    I
looked around the restaurant. Rafael was right. Not a single person was
talking, and no one was eating. Everyone was staring intently at the fadista. A few were sipping wine. I shifted uncomfortably. The woman’s mournful song
seemed more like an impassioned cry. I thought about the Chippewa pouring their
grief into the ground and sky.
    The
woman visited with a few patrons after finishing her song. A waiter set two identical
plates on our table.
    “Grilled
sardines,” Rafael revealed, dropping into his seat.
    I
blinked in disbelief. “We’re eating sardines?”
    “Grilled
sardines, potatoes, and red pepper salad to be more precise.” His smile didn’t
quite reach his eyes.
    Goosebumps
pricked my spine. “What’s wrong?”
    “I
can’t. Not here.” Storm clouds rolled through his eyes.
    “Maybe
we should leave,” I suggested uncertainly.
    “We’re
staying.” He reached for his fork. “So, what do you think of fado ?”
    “The
vocalist was a little too dramatic for me. I liked the guitar, but the singing
was… I don’t know… haunting?”
    Rafael
nodded. “That’s a fair assessment. I’m not terribly fond of fado , but I
thought you should experience it at least once.”
    We
started eating. I peeked at Rafael when he wasn’t looking. He was concerned
about something. His entire body was tense. This wasn’t the same man I’d
entered the restaurant with.
    The
food was wonderful, but I could barely lift it from the plate. My arms felt leaden
as if burdened by some invisible weight. I pushed the