Words & Olives - Stories in the Market

Katia Bonfanti

Psychologist and Systemic Therapist

There was a voice that fell silent a long time ago. It told me: sleeping more than eight hours is shortening your life. This voice, perhaps, knew about its own end. It died at thirty-nine, and I wonder if it had a presentiment. What comforts me is knowing that it was willing to live each moment as if it were infinite, in a finite and short life.

Last Saturday, I slept past eight o'clock. I arrived late at the Market. Not that this is not living , but I think I could have felt the soft warmth of the autumn morning more, the twenty-two degrees embracing the day like someone holding something precious. The streets were already full of people, hands carrying eucalyptus branches, flowers that resemble purple cabbages, tulips that open like promises whispered in the wind.

So many things slipped away in the milliseconds. I could have smelled the bread coming out of the clay oven, still warm, its steam dancing in the fresh morning air. Maybe the sweetest persimmons were there, waiting for me, ready to burst into sweetness. But it’s just a matter of perspective, maybe of time. Because deep down, everything was there, somehow, even if I had arrived later.

When the clock struck a quarter past eleven, I entered the Market. I found Mr. Carlos saying goodbye to Pedro, the empty glass of ginjinha on the table, a vestige of the morning that warmed his chest. His greenish eyes, clouded by age, carried a veiled longing. He commented, almost casually, that his wife could no longer walk without losing her breath. Small in stature, but with a voice that filled the corners of the room, Mr. Carlos was waiting for me expectantly, smiling and welcoming.

He always comes to Salgados do Fundão. It’s a habit of his, and now it’s mine too — part of this attempt to be whole in Portugal. It’s not just me. There are many of us, immigrants spread out like different fruits on the stalls. Every corner of the Mercado da Vila carries a little bit of who we are.

Amidst the smells of chocolate, suckling pig, Italian pizza and cheeses from here and there, there is always Fundão. At the improvised high table, we talk about everything and more: food, winters, shortness of breath, pasts that never disappear and futures that we don't know if they will come.

Mr Carlos talks a lot about Garrincha. He played for Sporting, but has a fervent love for Chelsea. Despite an almost fraternal connection with England, Portugal is his home. He shows me, with the enthusiasm of a boy, how he used to swing around the field. “Other times, other times! A time when football was less money and more grit”, he says, with the sparkle in his eyes of someone reliving the glory of each dribble.

Inspired by the “Angel with Bent Legs,” he almost makes me see Garrincha on the field: his unpredictable movements, his shrewd gaze, his joy in playing for the sake of playing. Deep down, there is something Brazilian about Mr. Carlos — not only in his football, but in his warm openness to conversation and his way of transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary.

He soon says goodbye, in a hurry. He says it’s time to make grilled mackerel for his wife. He speaks of this with the reverence of someone performing a sacred ritual, small but full of love, as essential as the air she struggles to keep. When I see him disappear into the crowd at the Market, something inside me feels uneasy. He wasn’t the only one returning home, to the warmth of the stove and the company of a breathing that is already failing.

It was I who remained. Like the flowers on the stand, like the bread that is no longer warm, like the coffee brand drawn on the cup. Looking around, I notice a subtle nostalgia in the details. Those moments had been unique. We are subject to unique departures – moments suspended in the midst of the rush of the world.

Maybe that's what she meant, all those years ago, when she talked about shortening life. It wasn't about the hours we sleep, but about what we do with the moments we have left awake. May each second be infinite, because, deep down, it can really be the most beautiful. Let's go to the Market!