One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) (17 page)

Dr. Varela shook his head. “The janitors?”

“Think about it. It’s the perfect cover. They have access to all the rooms on campus, nobody ever questions what they do, and they can come and go at any time.” Simon turned to the laptop and navigated to the staff files. “I checked the employee records. Manuel Silva has been working at the academy since its opening. I confirmed he doesn’t speak English. But Filipe Macedo served in the army. I wouldn’t be surprised if his specialty was in electronics. He’s been working for three years at the academy and he lied about not speaking English, although he hides it well.”

“How do you know all this?”

Simon flicked the screen. “Some of it is here and some of it I deduced from observation. Like I said, this is just what I think. I only have the ISP and electronic tracker, but I’m most certain the police will be able to confirm my theories.”

Dr. Varela called the security company and it took them half an hour to arrive. Simon repeated his findings to them and they called the police. When two uniformed officers and a plain-clothes detective came, they conferred with Dr. Varela and the security officers for almost forty minutes and finally asked Simon to accompany them to the police station to take his statement and receive the flash drive with the evidence. The detective in charge of the case didn’t speak English well and by that time Dr. Varela had already left, forcing Simon to wait until the interpreter arrived. If he left and came back the next morning, they’d probably make him wait for another detective and interpreter, or maybe even both. So Simon stayed until he’d signed all the forms, both in English and Portuguese.

It was after eleven at night when Simon finally returned to the apartment. He unlocked the door and dropped onto the sofa in the living room. If he had a blanket within reach, he might just spend the night there. But the small apartment was too cold, with the blinds still up in all the windows after having the rain hitting the glass all day. After a few minutes, Simon got up to draw them, then turned on the space heater. Was he hungry enough to make something before he slipped into bed? His stomach rumbled, answering for him.

After he warmed up a can of soup on the stovetop and ate it directly from the small pot, Simon sat on the edge of the bed with his cell phone. He’d sent texts to Isabel throughout the day, but she hadn’t replied to him.

He had to see her.

Before he changed his mind, Simon called a taxi. He arrived at Isabel’s building and rang the bell to her apartment. After three rings, the door opened and he went in. Hope rose in his chest. She was in and he was going to see her.

The door was still locked when he got out of the elevator. Simon knocked on the metal surface.

“She left yesterday,” a voice said behind him.

He turned. It was the neighbor girl from the other apartment with the door half open, wearing a man’s shirt and nothing else. The top three buttons hung open and Simon cast his eyes to the wall beside her.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“You looking for Isabel, yes?” Her English was heavily accented, but good enough for him to understand.

A man’s voice sounded from inside the apartment. The girl turned her head and replied. Simon understood only two words,
Americano
and
professora
. American man and teacher lady. Him and Isabel.

The guy appeared at the door in his boxer shorts and hugged the girl to his chest.
Frio
and
cama
, he said to her
.
Simon’s neck heated and he looked away again. After almost four months in the country, his understanding of the Portuguese language was mediocre but good enough to let him know the guy was cold and asking his girlfriend to go back to bed. They were very uninhibited, for sure.

The girl brushed off the boyfriend and brought her hands up in front of her. “Isabel have—” She made the shape of a small rectangle close to the ground. “Box, like dees.”

“You mean a suitcase?” Simon kept his eyes on her face.

She nodded. “Yes, small suitcase. Yesterday.”

So Isabel had left somewhere with a small suitcase. That was not good. He thanked them and left.

Within twenty minutes, Simon rang the bell at Cristina’s apartment. He’d copied her cell number and address from the personnel files. He hadn’t planned to come this late, but this way he could look for Isabel first thing in the morning. Cristina buzzed him in and was waiting when he got out of the elevator.

“Simon, what are you doing there? You do know it’s close to midnight?” She was wrapped in a shawl and had pajama pants on.

“I know it’s late, I’m sorry.” He let out a breath. “I need to know where Isabel is.”

Cristina shook her head. “She asked me not to tell you.” She leaned on the door jamb and started closing the door on him.

Simon put a hand out in front of it. “Please. I really need to see her.”

Cristina paused. “She said you couldn’t be distracted from something you were doing at the academy.”

“I’m finished with it, that’s why I’m so late.” He shifted in place. “I’m worried about her. She said—” He stopped himself. It was Amélie who’d told him she’d be away from a computer, not Isabel. He blew out a long breath.

Cristina bit her bottom lip. “Do you have a TV?”

He frowned. “What? No, I don’t have a TV.”

“So you didn’t watch any TV this evening?” she asked.

“No, I was at the po—I was busy with something. What happened on TV?”

Cristina leaned against the door jamb. “But you have your laptop, right? Go home and look up the website for the PortugalHoje TV channel. They have several shows, but make sure you watch the one they had tonight at nine. Then tomorrow night you need to find a TV and set it to that same channel. Go to a café or something.” She paused. “Better yet, go to the Tivoli Resort and watch TV there. The seven o’clock show. At night.”

“The Tivoli Resort? Where is that?”

“It’s across the bridge, in Almada. Be there early because it will be busy and crowded. You might have to wait three hours or more, but I’ll text you where to go exactly when it’s done.”

“Cristina, what does all this have to do with Isabel?”

She tilted her head with a small smile. “Everything. If you like her half as much as I think you do, go and do as I told you.” She closed the door.

Simon stood on the threshold for a moment. A website for a TV channel. The nine pm show. And tomorrow night at the Tivoli Resort, on the other side of Lisbon. A smile tugged his lips.

There could only be one reason why Isabel was linked to a TV show.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dear Amélie,

I haven’t heard from you. I’m worried. Can you please let me know you’re okay?

Yours,

Elliot

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Isabel passed a hand across her forehead and rolled her shoulders back. She glanced up at the digital clock display on the wall behind the cameras. Eleven minutes left in this round. She looked at her station, making a mental note of what she’d done already and what was left to do. Plating.

She walked behind the counter to the metal shelving where all the kitchen gear and serving ware were available and grabbed four rectangular plates. Thanks to the tour of the pantry on the first day, she knew where everything was. Remembering where everything sat exactly was a different story. One of the camera men with the portable cameras followed her back but she ignored him.

That had been hard to get used to, all the cameras and lights, the microphones dangling over the stations, the camera men running back and forth and the grips holding the electrical cords for them. Not to mention the make-up crew, the production team, and the director. So many people on her heels and in her face all the time. But it was all coming to an end in less than an hour after the last dish was judged.

The pizzas cooled on the counter and Isabel cut them into triangles. She’d taken three of the most typical Portuguese dishes and given them a makeover as pizzas, inspired by the ones she’d made before. One square of each pizza for each judge, and the dipping sauces beside them: roasted pork, clams and parsley with lemon sauce; fried onions with salted cod and olives with an olive oil-infused yogurt sauce; and fruits of the sea pizza, a combination of lightly grilled shrimp, calamari, and sea scallops with a spicy tomato-cilantro sauce. Just enough heat to kick the other flavors.

Caldo Verde soup inspired her salad appetizer and for dessert she’d planned a variation of the chocolate soufflés with a flan pudding sauce. Her menu drew from the traditional Portuguese flavors but with a light, modern twist. The feedback had been positive on the appetizer round, but the other contestants had received really good comments as well, and it was too early to figure out who might be ahead. Judges awarded points for originality, presentation, flavor, and an extra point for their favorites.

They couldn’t be more different, Isabel and the other contestants: a retired construction manager named António who babysat his grandkids three times a week; Paulo, a university student majoring in computer science; and Marisol, a middle-aged woman who operated her own stall at the fish market. From what Isabel had observed in the elimination rounds, her biggest competitor was António. For a sixty-seven year-old man, he was still in great shape. Like her, he was an amateur, but being older gave him the advantage of more experience in the kitchen. Marisol and Paulo had enough passion, but they seemed less experienced.

The show had given Isabel and her opponents one hour for the entrée category and had allowed them some minimal preparation of the ingredients for each course. She’d made some mistakes, and so had the others, which was what the producers wanted for the show. Live broadcast conflict made for better reality TV than breezing through the whole thing without any problems. And they weren’t professionals, after all. A lot was at stake, but she couldn’t think about it, or the pressure might get to her. One task at a time would get her to the end, and that was all she wanted for now.

By the time the judges were done with the commentary on her entrée, Isabel welcomed the scheduled break for the sponsors’ advertising, a blessed eight minutes to think of something else. Cristina came down the stairs to the edge of the stage and Isabel joined her there with a water bottle in hand.

Cristina reached over the railing and hugged Isabel. “You’re doing great. The judges loved your entrée, Isabel.”

Isabel drained the water bottle. “Do you think so? I was trying not to analyze their reactions.”

Cristina touched her arm. “You’re almost done now. What do you have planned for dessert?”

“A variation of the chocolate soufflés. Remember when I made those at the academy’s kitchen?”

Cristina frowned. “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t there. Those sound amazing and I would have remembered.”

It was Simon who had been there, and he’d loved them. Isabel smiled at the memory. The five-minute warning buzzed and she blew out a long breath. “I need to go check my station and make sure I’ve got everything. Are you staying until the end?”

“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

* * *

Isabel turned as they called her name from each side, her smile in place while the camera flashes blinded her. More pictures by herself, pictures with the other contestants, pictures with the producers in front of the sponsors’ wall.

One of the production assistants took her by the elbow. “This way, Isabel.” Handshakes, hugs, congratulations from people she’d never met.

Second place. Isabel had won second place in the national amateur cook-off, a six-month paid internship at the Tivoli resort with the best chefs in the country.

She blinked again, half-expecting to wake up in her bed. Only the soreness in her muscles reminded her that the dream around her was very much the real deal, however strange it felt. The last course on the show had flashed by in a blur, and Isabel had held on to her instincts and her memories of Avó Marta while she cooked. She’d felt grandmother’s presence beside her, as if cheering her on and reminding Isabel of all the little tips she’d always shared. The feeling in her chest expanded and brought a smile to her lips. Entering the amateur cook-off competition had been a hasty decision, wrought from a situation she couldn’t control, but she was glad to have done it. Whatever happened, Isabel had followed her dreams and Avó Marta would have been the first person to congratulate her. How she missed her.

Cristina had briefly hugged her before Isabel had been thrust in the media craziness. But now she couldn’t see her anymore.

“Just a few more minutes, then we’ll let you go get cleaned up,” the assistant said.

Did she look that bad? She probably did, after so many hours cooking under the studio lights. She must look a fright. Isabel tucked her hair behind her ears, feeling the loose strands at the nape. She was sweaty and tired and ready to go to her room for a long, long shower.