Page 12 of The Little Porto Book Club

How to tackle this and not ruin book club before any novels have even been read? ‘Goofy. Well, that’s not a word I’d associate with the Amber Quill, polymath, prodigious powerhouse that she is, but reading is subjective so I will try my best to understand how you could come to that very wrong conclusion. Your turn next, Zephyr.’

She tilts her head as if she’s confused. Possibly seeing the error of her ways. ‘OK. Sure. My favourite read ever is Notes from Underground by Dostoevsky, because the character Underground Man fascinates me. It’s like depression core lit-fic that’s giving despair. Peak pessimist energy, and I’m here for it.’

‘I have no idea what any of that means,’ Lucinda says with a frown.

‘Me neither,’ old Albert declares with a huff. ‘Depression core lit-fic? The youth of today, honestly, I despair.’

Zephyr rewards him with an exaggerated eye roll.

Now Zephyr’s existential crisis makes more sense. Not a bleaker book will you find, and especially at such an impressionable age. Part of me wants to suggest to Zephyr that a light-hearted romcom might ease her cosmic anxiety, but my helpful nuggets of advice usually manage to trip me up in social situations. I wade in gently. ‘Do you not find that a rather nihilistic novel, that has the potential to blacken an already dark day?’

With a fist raised she says, ‘Yes! As a species we’re existentially cooked.’

Lucinda’s frown deepens. ‘Cooked? What?’

‘Doomed,’ Zephyr says. ‘Done for.’

Lucinda’s face is a picture of confusion. ‘But why?’

‘Exactly!’ Zephyr says. The two women are at cross purposes, not on the same track at all. I would expect that it’s the use of Gen Z slang that makes it difficult for Lucinda to grasp the meaning. I, too, would struggle in this regard, but I’ve been exposed to the ever-evolving linguistics of the younger generation through many copyedits. It’s been quite the education. And funnily enough, I can respect them, even though they’re essentially butchering language conventions, because the words they conjure are quite amusing, and it’s like learning a foreign language. Just as you think you’re fluent, they alter it again. It’s a fast-paced world when you’re born into that particular era.

‘Zephyr enjoys a mood read, it just so happens that mood is bleak with a side of hardcore angst,’ I add helpfully, remembering well my own phase of consuming melancholy literature. It’s a rite of passage, isn’t it?

Old Albert steals a swig from a hip flask and shakes his head. ‘The youth of today, eh? Life is too easy for them, so they’ve got to invent problems. Reading the Russians for validation. You probably read the book on your phone.’ The old man makes a show of shaking his head.

I study old Albert, the slight tilt and twitch of his lips, as if he’s waiting for a sparring partner. A person to parry with. Is that why he blurts such inflammatory statements? For a reaction. A response?

I hold my breath and wait to see how it plays out.

‘Cool story, bro.’ Zephyr’s trill is strangely melodic, as Albert frowns in confusion.

Tiago fidgets as if sensing the Little Porto Book Club is off to a rocky start. And it is, but in the most interesting way. These fascinating oddballs are a delight. For once I am not the odd one out, so I take a moment to relish in that.

‘Who’s next?’ Zephyr asks, eyeing them one by one.

‘Lucinda,’ Tiago says, ‘why don’t you go next?’

While this icebreaker goes against every unwritten rule of what constitutes a silent reading club, I’m curious about Lucinda. The injury to her hand is now wrapped, and despite the summer heat, she wears a cardigan with wide sleeves as if to hide it. It could be that Lucinda cares about appearances and might want to disguise an unsightly bandage, but the temperature is scorching today, so does wearing such heavy clothing make an iota of sense? I think not.

‘Can I pick an author instead?’

I’m sensing a pattern here. I’m going to be stuck with a group of rule breakers. I personally like the shape of rules, of routines, but that doesn’t mean everyone else does. So I grit my teeth and don’t mention it.

‘Go for it,’ Tiago says, easy-going grin at the ready. When his gaze lands on mine he winks. I frown.

Lucinda leans slightly forward towards the group. ‘Agatha Christie is the queen of the whodunnit. The woman sure knew the ins and outs of a good murder plot. I admire her in every way.’

Zephyr guffaws. ‘You and Viviane are obsessed with murder.’

‘Obsession is a strong word,’ I argue.

‘I might be obsessed with murder but it’s all about the details.’ Lucinda’s gaze drops briefly to her bandaged hand then back to Zephyr; when she speaks again, there’s a playful lilt to her voice. ‘It’s helpful to learn new ways in which to dispose of dead bodies. Technology changes so rapidly these days.’

I freeze. ‘For … what purpose?’

Revenge? Retaliation! My synapses fire as my whodunnit senses twitch again. Does Lucinda have murder on her mind – but the bigger question is, is it simply of the fictional variety?

‘For fun, what else?’ Lucinda shakes her head as if I’m dense. I don’t buy it.