Salt, Sketches, and Static

Mateo's afternoon was characterized by the sound of Formica clattering against cheap ceramic. He placed a plastic container on his hip, and another plate, scraped bare of expensive bacalhau à brás, fell heavily into it. He was unable to remove the perfume that stuck to his clothing from the stale cooking oil and disinfectant. The dark interior and the false cheer of the restaurant's name were mocked by the Atlantic glittering beyond the dirty window of the "O Pescador Feliz" café under the unrelenting July sun. Contented Fisherman? Only the unaware tourists who paid five euros for a little bottle of water were pleased.

"Mateo! "Agora, you need to clear table four." Years of smoking cheap cigarettes had made Senhor Alves' voice hoarse as he yelled from behind the counter.

Mateo nodded without trying to respond orally. He emptied the tub next to the crowded kitchen doorway and walked across the narrow aisle between tables. As he collected crumpled napkins and sticky glasses, the tanned German couple at table four, who were already peering at their phones, hardly saw him. His movements were frugal, his face was a deliberately neutral mask, and he worked with an efficiency that came from continuous repetition. But his thoughts swirled inside.

He imagined the way light could be captured in graphite, the shape of a wave just before it broke, and the smooth, pleasing glide of charcoal on thick paper. Behind his eyelids, he saw images of the cliffs at sunset, the weathered face of old Manel beside the docks, and the elaborate patterns of peeling paint on a neglected doorway. His hands ached to make these things, and they were what he ought to be doing. Rather, they were cleaning sticky surfaces and stacking soiled plates.

Art school seemed like a different world, a brief respite from the sun before the harsh realities of everyday life returned. Before he was drawn back home by the burden of his younger sister's school fees and the repairs of their faltering fishing boat, his family could only afford two semesters. Ambition now seemed like a luxury, stored beneath his bed with his portfolio.

At last, his shift came to an end as the sun started to slowly sink towards the horizon, illuminating the sky with colors he longed to photograph. He stepped out into the sweet respite of the sea breeze and murmured good-bye to Senhor Alves, who was already counting the small till. The antidote to the grease-filled ambiance of the café was the air, which was heavy with the scent of drying nets and salt.

He moved swiftly through the town's winding, cobbled streets. Crowded close to whitewashed walls stained with rust from window grilles. Splashes of defiant color against the dominant impression of faded charm and economic pressure were the geraniums that spilled from terracotta pots. He nodded curtly to Dona Elvira behind the counter as he passed the tiny grocery store where his mother carefully credited them for their necessities. He noticed the creases of stress around her eyes, which he knew were a reflection of his own mother's face.

The stairwell still smelled faintly of yeast, and his family's apartment was above a closed bakery. He pulled the door open to the sizzle of something frying and the familiar murmur of the nightly news on the TV. Ana, his mother, stood with her shoulders slightly hunched over at the stove.

"Mateo? How did it go? With a weary smile that stopped short of her eyes, she turned and inquired.

"All right, Mãe. As usual. His keys fell to the tiny table as he deflected. "Tips were okay." Lying, he stuffed the few crumpled euros into his pocket even further. Maybe enough for coffee tomorrow. Not enough to change anything.

The creases of worry on his father's forehead grew deeper with each headline about fishing quotas or gasoline prices as he read the local paper at the table. He gave a welcoming grunt. Sofia, Mateo's sister, was likely studying late at the library and wasn't home yet. He was burdened by the unsaid fears of the household: the impending boat engine repair bill, the uncertainty of the next catch, and the never-ending balancing act of making ends meet. The café's earnings, which he contributed, felt like stones thrown against a tidal tide.

He spoke only about practical matters throughout his somewhat silent supper. Later, when Sofia was home, he withdrew to the tiny room he still shared with her, claiming tiredness. It was small, with a small scarred desk squeezed beneath the window, a shared closet, and his narrow bed. His only haven was here.

He waited until he heard the gentle click of his parents' bedroom door closing as they went to bed. Then he softly and gently slipped the battered portfolio out from behind his bed. The familiar scent of paper and graphite was a soothing salve when he opened it. He didn't sketch any landscapes or faces tonight. Rather, he allowed his hand to go freely, drawing curves, lines, and abstract shapes that were the result of frustration and an unidentified need. Remembering that he could create and that the artist within wasn't entirely hidden beneath filthy aprons and unpaid debts was more important than producing a masterpiece.

With the steady scratch of charcoal acting as a lullaby, he worked until his eyes became sleepy. He put the sketchbook away, went into bed, and pulled the thin cover up to his chin, finally giving in to fatigue. Usually, sleep provided oblivion, a pleasant diversion.

It was different tonight.

He wasn't slipping into the night. Somewhere he was. The first thing he felt was sound—a thudding, deep bass that echoed in his bones and vibrated through the floor as well as in his ears. It was forceful and unbelievably loud. Hairspray, something faintly electrical like heated plastic, and the undercurrent of hundreds of people breathing in close proximity were the next strong and artificial odors to emerge.

His chest began to twitch with panic. Where had he gone? He didn't have this room. Portugal was not here.

His viewpoint violently changed. He appeared to be standing in almost complete darkness—possibly on the backstage wings? The floor was covered in cables that resembled thick black snakes. Nearby, hulking forms covered in black fabric loomed. Headsets clamped over their ears, faces lit by the harsh blue glow of invisible displays, people hurried by him with purpose. Somewhere nearby, a tinny, anxious disembodied voice crackled, "Standby, lighting cue seven! Check out the second pyro! "Where is she?"

She?

Then there was a dazzling flare. A figure was silhouetted as it approached by the intense white light that burst from ahead. He just caught a glimpse of her profile: youthful, resolute, and oddly alone in the midst of the mayhem. Her hair was like spun gold in the light. Her jacket's sequins gleamed ferociously. Massive and thunderous, the clamor of a throng surged like a wave in the ocean.

But it wasn't the sea. It was created thunder, devotion. It was strange, overwhelming, and completely unfathomable. He was drawn in an odd way, both fascinated and confused. Who was she? Where was this location?

Then the scenario broke apart as fast as it had started. Mateo was suddenly awake, gasping in the silent darkness of his own tiny room as the sound turned into harsh static and the sights vanished like smoke. The only sounds were his own heart thumping frantically and the distant murmur of the waves. The phantom bass, the hairspray smell, and the lights' brightness were among the remaining impressions that seemed uncanny and like an inconceivable incursion into the familiar textures of his existence. The static fuzz of the dream continued to echo in the abrupt, deep calm as he stared at the ceiling, completely confused.