The boy on the bridge wore a wetsuit, was barefoot, was maybe twelve or thirteen years old, had thin hips, was a child, was not her child. The other boy held a baseball hat in his hands.
“Dollar for jump?” he asked. He knew Amelia’s currency without asking.
He held his foot in a way that suggested he was hurt. His teeth were wide apart. His eyes were hungry for other people’s money.
A crowd of tourists stood watching the boys, waiting for them to jump. The crowd was pretending to look at the river below, pretending to take selfies, but really waiting for the boys—wondering if they would really do it and if they would be okay. The boy with the hat was also barefoot. His wet hair was drying off in the late afternoon sun. In his hat were only a few Euros. No dollars yet.
How tragic. To risk your life for money.
Amelia shook her head, kept it down, but then she opened the lens on her camera and took a photo of the boy on the bridge. He stood like the God of all children. Like he knew something she didn’t know.
The boys were assertive, aggressive, and had, in fact, insulted her by asking for a dollar. He saw her as a meek tourist that should give him money because he was going to do something dangerous. He wanted her to pay as a way to protect him, almost like he was asking her to be his mother.
She was waiting for her period. She was supposed to get it any day now and hadn’t yet. Could he know that?
She stopped by a bench near the Douro River and looked back at the bridge: the Dom Louis I. It was a beautiful bridge, designed by the same person who designed the Eiffel Tower. It was 150 feet from the water. It spanned across the river and connected the city of Porto to Vila Nova de Gaia. She walked across it almost every single day.
A man whose face was ghostly white with zinc sunblock walked in front of her with a child on his back. He was trying to read something on his phone.
“It says it’s a 23-minute walk,” he said in a British accent.
His wife was drinking water. She let out a sigh, exasperated. It was very hot. Maybe it would feel good to jump in the river after all.
Just off the bridge, there were a few places to get water and a coffee. She’d go to Cafe Curara Ressace. It meant the coffee used to help a hangover. She didn’t have a hangover. She felt perfectly healthy, but wished she felt sick in the morning.
At the cafe, she could still see the bridge. She wanted to kiss the head of the boy who was collecting money in his hat and wrap him up inside of her. She would hold him as an infant and redirect his whole life, so he wouldn’t have to ask tourists for money in exchange for jumping in the river.
“What would you like, mam?” The waitress had a way of looking downwards and then looking up from her eyes. A gesture of humility. The royal family in England had the same gesture. Like noble dogs.
Amelia ordered an espresso, a glass of tap water, and a creamy Portuguese dessert: a pasteis de nata.
“Those bridge jumpers?” she added.“Do they ever get hurt?”
The waitress put her hands on the back of the empty chair, leaned her weight onto it. She had a small cut on her lip, like a cold sore. It was ever so faintly bleeding. Everywhere she looked, people were injured.
“The jumpers? No, the kids know where and how to jump. They learn when they are little. But it’s the other people: the tourists and those who commit suicide. That’s the problem. The top layer, you know, the people jump to kill themselves. It’s a lot of people. Too many people.” She smiled, splitting her lip open more. It looked painful. “You want American coffee? We can do this, you know?”
Everywhere Amelia went she was American. She couldn’t escape it.
“No, no, it’s fine. The espresso will be good.”
The waitress brought the water and the espresso right away. It was desperately needed.
Amelia took a sip of water. It was luke-warm but still somewhat refreshing. She watched men walk by in the afternoon. They smiled at her. She liked this. Back home, the men were being tamed, but here the men were still misogynists. She could prepare for misogynist men. The men in America were unpredictable, angry that they had to reform, angry that they had gotten caught for misbehaving for so long.
The waitress came back with the dessert and looked at the espresso which sat there, untouched.
“You are supposed to drink it right away,” she said. “Otherwise, it gets bitter.”
Amelia cleared her throat, annoyed. “Yes, I know. I was just thinking.”
The waitress looked back to the bridge. “Don’t worry about those kids. They are professionals. They are okay.”
Amelia finished her coffee. It did taste bitter. She should have drank it right away. Just like she should have tried to have a child earlier. She was thirty-nine years old.
It’s too late for me. I do everything wrong, she thought. She simultaneously wished she was as young as the bridge jumpers and also that they were her children.
Amelia got on a trolley that would take her to her neighborhood. She sat next to a grandmother who was holding her granddaughter’s hand. The girl looked at Amelia and smiled as she kicked her short, thick legs back and forth. Amelia smiled back. She asked the grandmother if it was okay to take a photo of them. The grandmother nodded. Amelia opened her camera and took a photo of the little girl’s face. Since she had arrived in Porto, she had mostly taken portraits of other people’s children.
Amelia walked back to the apartment that she and Enzo had rented for six months while he was on sabbatical from his job. She thought more about those boys on the bridge.
Where were their parents? Children in America were more protected. This wouldn’t be allowed to happen back home. In America, the children were angels, protected and attended to. Not here. Maybe it was a class thing. Maybe those boys were really poor and they really needed the money. Maybe this was their only option. But, it seemed more like summer fun to her–daring death for a little bit of money to spend on candy or video games.
She put the keys into the little teal bowl on the table near the door and took off her shoes and socks. The camera strap had left a sweat mark on her shirt and she felt clammy and tired. The tile floor felt cool on her feet as she walked to the bathroom to check her underwear for blood. Still no period.
The bathroom had all these pictures of women from the 1950s. They looked at her dismissively. You fuck up. You can’t have a baby because you’re broken.
Her body was completely healthy. Not even dry skin. The doctors couldn’t explain the infertility
Maybe this month will be the month.
A woman in Enzo’s department at the college had gotten pregnant at 41. Not planned. Amelia touched her stomach as she poured herself a glass of cold water. She prayed to the God of children, whomever that was, maybe it was those boys.
“You want to try that wine bar tonight?” Enzo asked, lounging on the sofa. He was reading some book and had a little cup of espresso next to it. Last night, they had walked past a wine bar on the corner. People were watching soccer and rooting for Portugal.
Amelia nodded and murmured some kind of agreement, but she really wanted to take her contacts out. She didn’t want to see these women that the airbnb owner, Benedita had put up.
Amelia went over to the sofa. Enzo was wearing pale pink shorts and a white long-sleeve shirt that made his thick dark hair look wild and appealing.
“Maybe,” she said, then went over to him and swung her legs over his. He was growing out his beard here, while he was on sabbatical. She liked to put her hands on his cheeks. He felt like a seal. They should have sex, but she was sick of sex.
She wondered if she smelled sweaty from walking across the bridge. Even her sweat smelled healthy. It was too late in the month to have sex that would lead to pregnancy so she just kissed Enzo on the lips and hopped off of him.
“We could just fool around for fun,” Enzo said. He put his book about treasury bonds on the table.
“Blah,” she said. He smiled, sweetly, shrugged and was happy to return to the fascinating financial world of the stock market.
Sex for fun. Not possible. Partly because she didn’t feel like it, but also because she couldn’t stop thinking about those children. She couldn’t understand how it wasn’t dangerous to jump off that giant bridge. She was worried the boy with the hat had hurt his leg from jumping so often.
***
When Amelia and Enzo returned home from the wine bar later that night, the electricity had gone out in their apartment. Enzo texted Benedita, the owner of the apartment. Amelia and Enzo lit candles.
Amelia took a blanket from the couch and pulled it over her head.
“Come into my fort,” she said to Enzo, who smiled and complied.
They sat there together under the blanket looking at each other. There was no way to know their future. Amelia wanted Enzo to say something reassuring, like, “Don’t worry. Of course we’ll get pregnant.”
He seemed to pick up on the tenderness of the moment and reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers touched her cheek. She smiled and tears filled her eyes.
“I just want it so badly,” she said.
“I know.” His phone lit up. It was Benedita, the owner of the airbnb. Apparently, she had been close by.
Benedita was in her twenties and had dark hair. Amelia felt embarrassed about her own hair, speckled with gray. Benedita had a big bag with a bottle of wine stuck in it. It was ten o’clock, and she was only just going out for dinner. She seemed annoyed that she had to come over, but was happy to talk to them. Enzo flirted with her in the way that Enzo flirted with all young women.
“It just went off?” she asked. “Just like that?”
“Yes!” Enzo smiled. He put a hand through his hair. “Just like that. We came home and, you know, nothing!” He leaned on the counter, smiling at Benedita.
“The circuit then,” Benedita said. “No problem. I’ll be back in a moment. Sorry for this. It’s a very old building.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Enzo said.
Amelia cleared her throat and looked at him, annoyed, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Benedita noticed and giggled, “No, no.”
Enzo was oblivious. He said, “Okay” and got a beer from the fridge.
“This happens all the time,” Benedita continued. “Don’t be alarmed.” She was looking at Amelia. At first, she thought that Benedita meant women’s husbands flirting with her, but she then quickly realized the circuit.
Benedita ducked down into the basement, leaving Enzo and Amelia there in the kitchen.
Enzo put his hand on her stomach, under her tank top. “Want a beer?”
“I better not,” Amelia said. “Just in case.”
Amelia decided she’d go down to the circuits with Benedita. She liked being around Portuguese people. She didn’t want to be just a tourist. Maybe Benedita knew something about the bridge and the boys.
She saw Benedita in the basement with the light from her phone.
Benedita looked up, casually, apparently not startled by anything.
“It’s one of these,” she said.
Amelia nodded.
“Sorry for my husband. The flirting.”
“No,” Benedita laughed. “Don’t worry. I know Italian men.”
“It’s just his way of being nice, I guess.”
Benedita smiled, “My brothers are like this with women. It means nothing, I know. Don’t worry. You are happy here in Porto? Enjoying it?”
“It’s beautiful. The parks and the wine. I love it. But…the bridge. Children were jumping today.”
“Oh, yes. It’s a tradition here. You just have to jump with your feet down, making sure not to land on your neck, land on your tushy.” She pointed to Amelia’s bum. “You want to do this, jump?”
“No!” Amelia said. “I just see the kids asking for money. It seems so dangerous. I wonder where their parents are.”
Benedita was testing a circuit. “I jumped when I was a child. There is a club here that will teach you how to jump.”
Benedita pushed a circuit over. “There it is.”
“That’s it!” Enzo yelled from upstairs. The electricity was back on.
“Have a good night!” Benedita called up to Enzo. She then looked to Amelia and put her hand on her heart. “Good luck.”
Amelia was confused. How could Benedita know she was trying to have a baby?
“With what?” Amelia asked, as they climbed the stairs to the first floor.
“The bridge!” Benedita said, cheerfully, then stepped outside.
Amelia returned to the apartment and walked out onto the balcony to where she could see the Dom Luis I bridge, all lit up. People were walking over it, holding the hands of their children.
“I’m gonna jump off that bridge, Enzo,” she said to Enzo as he was switching on the TV.
“What?” He laughed. “Why?”
Amelia didn’t exactly know why she wanted to jump off the bridge. Maybe she was angry that she couldn’t get what she wanted. Maybe she was annoyed at those boys for making her worry. Maybe she just wanted the adrenaline.
The next day, she walked to the bridge, anxious and unsure whether she would do it or not. The children were not there this time. She wondered if their parents had finally come to get them, to keep them safe. She took off her dress to stand only in a black bathing suit. She folded the dress in a pile and hid her keys underneath, attracting a couple of looks of people walking by.
She climbed over the rail and stood there, shaking; the wind was quite strong. It felt high now. She looked for boats. There was none.
“Lady, don’t do it,” a voice called from behind her.
She turned to see the two boys.
One of the boys had an orange in his hand.
“He doesn’t speak English,” the other boy said.
Suddenly, she felt exposed and stupid.
“Don’t jump,” the boy said. They came over to her and pulled her back from the bridge.
“I don’t want you to jump,” she told the boys. “You’ll get hurt. Where are your mothers?”
“We not gonna jump today. It’s too dangerous. The wind makes the water choppy.”
“Oh, right,” Amelia said, slightly annoyed they had to explain this to her.
“My mother, she works. We need money for the food. You have kids, like us?” The boy said.
“No. Not yet,” she said.
The boy smiled, “Any day now, huh?” His teeth were spaced far apart; an American orthodontist would have solved this.
“What if I give you money?” she asked. “What if I give you a hundred dollars? Are you going to stop jumping?”
The boys looked at each other, “Maybe, but it’s fun, you know. To risk your life and then be okay when you pop up and eat the air.”
“Isn’t anyone worried about you? What if you die?”
“We not gonna die because we have mothers everywhere. Like you,” The boy with the hurt foot handed her the orange and smiled lovingly, knowingly, greedily, as if he were her son.
