Chapter 116: Volume 2, - 116: The Setúbal Car

Chapter 116: Volume 2, Chapter 116: The Setúbal Car

The heavy rattle of a diesel engine idling three floors below signaled their arrival just as Rayan was pulling on his black Sporting training jacket.

He pulled back the curtain, watching his grandfather’s faded grey Peugeot wedge into a tight spot on the Olivais street. It was barely a quarter past eight in the morning, but Joaquim Duarte stepped out into the bright sunlight stretching his back, immediately gesturing up at the third-floor balcony.

"They’re early!" Leonor called, running down the hall.

"Don’t run, Leonor," Sofia called from the kitchen. "And leave the latch open."

By the time Rayan reached the landing, Joaquim was already coming up the stairs, carrying a heavy woven basket and a battered leather bag. He was a broad, thick-shouldered man with sun-darkened skin, calloused palms, and a stiff right knee from decades of laying concrete around Setúbal.

"Third floor gets higher every six months, Sofia!" Joaquim called out, his voice echoing off the stone. "I told your mother we should leave before seven, but she spent an hour packing meat!"

"Because you can’t buy proper meat in Olivais, Joaquim!" Rosa’s voice came sharp and clear from two flights below. "Everything in the supermarkets here is frozen twice!"

"Granddad!" Leonor squeezed past Rayan, leaning over the handrail.

"Look at you!" Joaquim set the bag down and pulled Leonor into a heavy bear hug, ruffling her hair until she squirmed. "Are they feeding you timber in Lisbon? You grew another three centimeters!"

"I’m thirteen in four months," Leonor said, taking his bag.

Rosa reached the top step carrying a covered stockpot wrapped in tea towels. She was a small, sharp-eyed woman in a floral dress, smelling of lavender soap and garlic.

"Rayan," Rosa said the instant she saw him, setting the warm pot directly into his arms. "Take this to the kitchen. Don’t tip it. It’s green bean soup with the ham bone."

"Nanna," Rayan smiled, balancing the pot against his chest. "Morning."

Rosa held him at arm’s length, her fingers digging into his shoulders with firm, diagnostic precision. "Look at his collarbones, Sofia. He lost weight since the Algarve photos."

"Mum, he didn’t lose weight," Sofia sighed, taking another bag from her. "He’s running six kilometers a morning in training."

"Running," Rosa scoffed, following Rayan into the kitchen. "They don’t give him lard or olive oil. Where is the bread? Leonor, get the board."

Rosa moved through Sofia’s kitchen with practiced ownership, adjusting jars in the fridge and inspecting the counters. "Your cousin Teresa had her baby on Thursday. Seven pounds. A boy named Martim. I told her it sounds like mineral water, but nobody listens to me."

"Teresa texted me the picture yesterday, Mum," Sofia said, leaning back against the counter while she poured two glasses of cold water. "He looks just like Uncle Rui. How is her recovery going?"

"She wants to go back to the pharmacy in two weeks," Rosa grumbled, taking a glass and shaking her head. "I told her she’s mad. Her mother is going down to help with the laundry, but you know how your aunt is, she’ll spend three hours talking to the neighbours about the building works on the avenue and leave the soup to burn."

"Aunt Maria hasn’t changed in thirty years," Sofia laughed softly, handing the second glass to her father as he walked into the kitchen. "And how was the drive up? Did the Vasco da Gama bridge have roadworks again?"

"Smooth across the bridge," Joaquim said, taking a long drink. "Then two lanes were blocked once we got into Lisbon for match banners."

Rosa stepped over to Leonor, who was sitting at the table with a sketchbook, and picked up the paper. "What is this dress? The sleeves are uneven."

"It’s asymmetrical, Nanna," Leonor explained defensively. "It’s supposed to look like that."

"It looks like the tailor ran out of cloth," Rosa said, though her thumb brushed gently across the corner of the drawing. "Next time you come down to Setúbal, I’ll show you how to finish a proper hem."

In the living room, Joaquim sat down near the balcony doorway, leaning his elbows on his knees as Rayan checked his phone for the time. He had to catch the eight-forty-five bus to link up with the academy shuttle across the river for his nine-thirty report time at Alcochete.

"Did you listen to the sports radio this morning, Rayan?" Joaquim asked, his face alight with curiosity. "They were talking about the Villarreal match. Saying Rui might give squad numbers to three academy kids because the South Americans only got back Wednesday."

"Did they name anyone?" Rayan asked, stopping in his tracks.

"No, just general talk," Joaquim waved his hand. "Pundits arguing whether youth players can handle senior minutes. What do they know? Grass is grass. If you hit the ball clean, it goes into the net."

Sofia’s phone vibrated on the table, displaying Karim’s name. She picked it up, pressing it to her ear. "Karim... Yes, they just got here... No, they drove up early."

Joaquim looked over, his eyebrows pulling together. "Is Karim actually coming tomorrow, or is he going to call from Amadora with a broken engine?"

Sofia held up a finger to her father, her tone calm. "He’s right here, Karim. Talk to your son."

She handed the phone to Rayan.

"Dad?" Rayan said.

"Rayan!" Karim’s voice crackled through the speaker alongside the hiss of an air compressor. "Listen, I’m finishing the bakery deliveries in Sintra by one o’clock tomorrow. I’m taking the Metro straight to Campo Grande. I’ll be outside Gate One by six!" ℴℴ𝘮

"Okay, Dad," Rayan said. "Match kickoff is at eight. We find out about family tickets after training today."

"I have the meeting spot written down on my dashboard, son!" Karim said over a metallic clang. "Don’t worry about me. Keep your head down at Alcochete today!"

"Okay. See you tomorrow, Dad."

Rayan handed the phone back to Sofia, who locked the screen.

"Did he fix the van?" Joaquim asked softly.

"He says he’s taking the Metro after his Sintra route," Sofia said, heading back toward the kitchen. "I’ll believe he’s in the tribune when I see him in the seat."

"He loves the boy, Sofia," Joaquim said gently.

"I know he loves him, Dad," Sofia called back. "Love isn’t the problem."

Joaquim turned back to Rayan with a sudden, mischievous grin. "You know, when you were seven, your father bought you those cheap rubber boots from the market in Setúbal. You insisted on wearing them to bed, and when your mother tried to pull them off, you kicked her straight in the chin and hid under the kitchen table for two hours."

"Granddad!" Rayan groaned, his face flushing hot as Leonor burst out laughing from the kitchen table. "I was seven!"

"You cried so hard your nose bled," Joaquim chuckled, winking. "Your mother had to feed you ice cream with a teaspoon to get you out."

"All right, that’s enough," Sofia said, coming back out and tossing Rayan his duffel bag. "Rayan needs to catch his bus or he’ll be late for the MD-1 briefing."

Joaquim’s laugh faded into a warm, grounded expression. He stood up, placing a thick, calloused hand on Rayan’s shoulder, his thumb pressing firmly against his collarbone. He looked at the small green Sporting crest on Rayan’s jacket.

"Rayan," Joaquim asked quietly. "Have you ever walked out through that tunnel at Alvalade when the stands are full?"

Rayan adjusted his bag strap, looking down at his boots. "No, Granddad. Just the empty stadium during the tour when I was eleven."

Joaquim patted his shoulder twice, a slow, heavy rhythm.

"Tomorrow," Joaquim said gently, "you might."