descant
In last reading of the night,
Anthony De Sa shares part of the story of a young boy growing up in a Portuguese immigrant family in downtown Toronto in the 1970's. The excerpt describes the boy's response to the slaughtering and butchering of a pig. The slaughter is juxtaposed with news of the disappearance and murder of twelve year old Emanuel Jaques.
If you lived in Toronto and you're over 40, you will probably remember news of the murder of Jaques, an inner city kid, shoeshine boy, son of Portuguese immigrants. I was a teenager then, and the reading brought back a part of the shared history of this city, but from the perspective of another community much closer to the event.
When the author switches into Portuguese to speak the dialogue of father and uncle, I feel stirrings of emotion and memory. I've lived for many years now in a part of our city with a large Portuguese population from the Azores, and for years I had my office in a building which housed the Portuguese community centre. the sounds of the language, including the music, have been woven into my life. It was my Portuguese neighbours who taught me to garden and showed me how to prune my grape vines properly. In the sounds of the language, I hear a mix of roughness and sweetness that is so familiar.
The reading was a pathway into this part of the story of my city. I'm grateful to have been there to hear it.
This story of a boy's coming of age remembers a boy who never had the chance to grow up. The story reminds me, also, of another boy I used to know. Matthew was my across the road neighbour when I lived on Euclid Street. He was 6 when we first met, and I guess he would be about 14 now. He spent a lot of time in my garden. He would come over to talk and to help. He tried to teach me Portuguese, and I tried to learn, but even the simplest words were like tongue twisters for me. When I was sure I was saying them right, he would just laugh at me.
All my neighbours were exceptionally tidy and neat people (by my standards). Many swept the front walk every day. I would be invited for tea and see the spotless, elegant main floor kitchen that is never used. We would go downstairs to where the working kitchen was - everyone seemed to live in their basements, saving the main floor for a special occasion. The first time little Matthew came into my house, he looked around and noted piles of books, papers and stuff. "You have stuff EVERYWHERE" he exclaimed. And then, lowering his voice in awe and wonder, "you're allowed?"
When we sold the house on Euclid, I was so sad to say goodbye. He was too. He stayed in his upstairs room and watched the movers loading up the truck. Shortly before we left, he sent his four year old sister down with a message. She was a wonderful, bold little character. She walked up to me and stood at attention. Her voice was very clear and strong: "Matthew want me to tell you he hate you". I could see him peeking through the window, watching how I would take the news. It was a tough breakup.
