Alentejo Blue Read Online Free PDF

compatriot,’ he said.
    The boy grew unsure. He beheaded flowers with his stick.
    ‘We’re both English,’ said Stanton.
    ‘Watch this,’ said the boy and threw the stick. It arced high and landed a distance off in the silves .
    ‘Good throw.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said the boy. ‘Thanks.’ He smiled and rubbed a hand over his head which was just about shaved, the scalp showing pinkly through. Lice, thought Stanton. A sneeze of freckles covered the bridge of the boy’s nose and strayed to his cheeks. It was a nice face, open and willing.
    ‘You write books,’ said the boy. ‘I like your truck.’
    ‘I’m heading back,’ said Stanton.
    ‘Me too.’
    They walked together in the rutted track. The boy stamped his feet in the grass to make the crickets jump about. His shoes looked as if they might not last the journey home. He found a piece of marbled stone, swooped and put it in his pocket.
    ‘What’s your name?’ asked Stanton.
    ‘Jay,’ said the boy. ‘Jay Potts. We used to have a truck like yours.’
    ‘What happened?’
    The boy raised his thin arms. ‘Crashed it.’
    ‘Dad or mum?’
    ‘Me.’ He left a long pause and when Stanton did not fill it, he went on. ‘I only drive off the main roads. You know, on tracks like this round our house or in the field. Don’t know what happened really. All I know is it ended up smashed on a fig tree and I had to have one of those neck things for weeks.’
    Stanton laughed. ‘What you driving these days then?’
    ‘Well, me dad had a tractor and he used to let me drive that sometimes but now he’s turned it over in the ditch and we can’t get it out. We’ve got the Renault 4 but I don’t drive that. Don’t ask me why.’
    ‘Why?’ said Stanton.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Jay. ‘Don’t ask me.’
    An owl flew across the trees, coming low against the path. ‘He’s up early,’ said Stanton. He thought about having orange with his gin this evening, getting some vitamin C. ‘So, do you go to school or do you have more important business to attend to?’
    They came up to the shepherd and Stanton exchanged boas noites and the boy spoke Portuguese, his accent so thick that Stanton could not understand. They went up the hill towards the house, the eucalyptus coming into view, watery now in the lowering light. The evening lay in prospect and Stanton began to sag.
    ‘We don’t have to keep talking,’ said the boy. ‘I’ll just walk with you.’
    A pair of rangy cypress trees marked the entrance to the property. ‘Funeral trees,’ Dieter had said when he came to give his estimate. They flanked every cemetery, growing tall and fat on the underground deposits. Jay stood with his hands on hips. He stared at the ground and kicked his heels in the dust.
    ‘Well,’ said Stanton.
    Jay looked away as if a difficult issue had been raised.
    ‘I might have some Coke in the fridge.’
    They drank on the terrace and watched the sun slide down the sky. At first Stanton was glad of the boy’s presence, as if there were something unpleasant he should be doing that he could put off for a while longer. Jay sipped his drink, making it last. His bare arms were thin but sinewy, blueprinted for muscle. He didn’t speak, barely moved, hoping perhaps to be forgotten.
    Nothing changed but everything began to look different. The boy was in the way. Stanton focused on a distant hill, the one shaped like a pyramid, and tried to block out this singular oppression. Slowly the feeling grew that the boy was preventing him from getting on with his evening, though in truth he had nothing to do. He was about to speak when Jay jumped up. ‘Best be off.’ On the steps he turned. ‘I like your truck.’
    ‘You can ride in it one day,’ said Stanton, restored and generous. ‘I’m driving.’
    He opened a bottle of vinho verde and went to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed he drank and watched the shadows on the wall. If a man is to have success, he thought, it is better for