A Portrait of Rosa

Alfred had not slept properly for many years.

Every morning he would leave his apartment overlooking the river Tejo and somehow fill his time until late afternoon, whereupon he would return clutching the 'Times Iberian Edition' and one plastic shopping bag containing food for the day.

"Bom dia, Senhor Alfredo," would say the porteiro, and "Boa tarde," never receiving an answer, and never realising that Sehnor Alfredo was not portuguese and not an 'Alfredo' at all, but an 'Alfred' who could not understand much of any language apart from english.

The inside of his apartment had not been maintained but was by no means untidy and to an occasional visitor, if there were such a thing, it would look like nothing had been moved in years. Ornaments and ephemera neatly gathered dust and framed photographs hung like fish scales on every spare inch of the walls.

At night he would stare at the photographs in the apartment and then out the window at the bridge along the Tejo and count the lights along the river bank as they gradually blinked out with the passing hours.

The ships in silhouette moved on silently until the dawn started another meaningless day.

"Boa tarde, Senhor Alfredo," said the porteiro as Alfred walked past the reception to the elevator.

Unusually on this occasion he was carrying a box from the local pastelaria.

He opened the box and placed the cake in the middle of the mahogany table, set formally for one and accompanied by a glass of wine and a single rose and vase.

He consumed his evening meal slowly, supping the wine after each deliberate mouthful.

The empty plate clanked and echoed in the silence as he placed it in the sink.

The match fizzed as he lit the candle on the cake.

"Happy birthday, Rosa," said Alfred, and he raised his glass, and the shadows from the candlelight flickered against the portraits on the walls.