Chapter 2 of 5

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Chapter 2: Preparations

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House stepped out of the hotel and into a warm evening. The sun remained high on the horizon. A cool wind blew from time to time. It would be colder by nighttime but not by much. He started to descend the long street in front of him. After a few steps, he stopped. It was a very steep street. Climbing it again would not be easy. House frowned. Porto was not built for cripples, he thought. Everywhere up and down. No place was level, except by the river or by the sea. He prepared mentally for the night ahead, for the incessant walking up and down streets, for the crushing crowds, for the pain. For a few brief seconds he asked himself what he was doing there. Why had he come back? An imaginary cloud covered his initial good mood. He pushed it away with a shake of his head. He knew why he was in Porto. Besides, what was Vicodin for? He straightened, drew a deep breath and resumed the walk. No pain, no gain.

The street ended in a big and wide avenue. Trees flanked the sidewalks on each side. In the middle, an open space, cut perpendicularly by two streets. Scattered along the avenue were people selling food, bread, basil in flowerpots and other merchandise. Everything was ready for Saint John Feast. At the top of the avenue, in front of City Hall, a strange plaster structure had been assembled: a huge basil in a red flowerpot and on top of it a child with a lamb in his arms. House raised his eyebrows when he spotted this "art piece" representing John the Baptist, Porto's patron saint.

He looked around him. There were many people walking around but nothing compared with what would be happening tonight. House imagined the crowd filling the avenue. A crowd so big that it would dwarf the surrounding space, making what was now wide look as tiny as a fish bowl. What he was doing there? He asked himself again. This would be his second São João. He had experienced it before, when he was a child. Things had changed since then. The avenue had seemed happier in those times. It had had a garden in the middle with trees, flowerbeds, wooden seats, statues. Children used to play on the grass. He remembered chasing pigeons around the flowers and the trees. He lured them first with some corn and then, when they were close at hand, he would jump suddenly among the mass of birds, trying to catch one. They would run before him amid a shower of feathers and wings, frightened and confused. It had been fun. Now everything was different. A stone pavement had replaced the garden. Only architecture reigned supreme now.

He walked down the avenue and entered a fancy café with marble covered tables and wooden chairs. He chose one of the tables near the window. A waiter in a white uniform approached. House asked, somewhat distractedly, for a beer and stared at the people outside. His mind was filled with the past. He shouldn't be surprise that things had changed. After all more than forty years had passed. A long time in a city's life… and in a man's too. The beer came. It tasted very good. While he drank it, House started to think about the night ahead. He wanted it to be memorable for Wilson, as it had been memorable for him long ago. But first he needed to go shopping. They couldn't go unprotected into the night. He emptied his glass, paid, left the café and headed towards the nearest seller.

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Wilson was dreaming that he walked on a field of daisies under a pink sky when he felt something caressing his nose and a nauseous smell filled his nostrils. The daisies withered and died instantly. Not completely awake, he made a gesture to push the bothersome thing away. The smell disappeared, and Wilson returned to his dream. But, a second later, there was the same caress on his nose and the same putrid smell. And this time both were joined by what sounded to him like a snigger. House! Fast as lightning Wilson opened his eyes and raised himself to a sitting position, ready for anything. For anything but the vision that appeared before his eyes. House was in front of him holding some kind of plant with a purple flower and a stalk so long that was almost House's height. House waved the plant in Wilson's direction. There was that smell again. It came from the flower.

"What a foul thing," said Wilson, squeezing his nose between his fingers. "What is that?"

"It's an alho-porro."

"And what the hell is an alho-p… whatever?"

"It's a type of French garlic," answered House simply. He looked amused by the whole situation.

"I never saw a French garlic that looked like that before. Where did you find it and why did you bring it here? It will fill the room with its smell from the grave. It will be impossible to breathe."

"Relax. The smell is only noticeable up close. Isn't it a wonderful weapon? I can attack other people from afar and be safe from their attacks at the same time. And if I get bored I can hit them with the other end." House turned the alho-porro and Wilson saw that it ended in a garlic bulb. A mischievous look appeared on House's eyes as if saying that the possibility of him hitting someone with the bulb was not at all remote.

"Again the weapons story. What do you mean? What is going to happen tonight? House, what are you up to?"

House's answer was to remove something from his backpack and throw it into Wilson's lap. Wilson looked down and saw a small plastic object in the shape of a "T". Each of the extremities of the shorter arm ended in some sort of tiny bellows, like in an accordion.

"That is your weapon," announced House with solemnity.

"What is it?"

"It's a little hammer."

"And what shall I do with a little hammer?" said Wilson with a slight tone of dismay in his voice.

"This." House picked the hammer and gently tapped on Wilson's head with one of its bellows. They heard a low squeak: tchic. House hit again, this time harder. Tchic. He hit two more times in a quick succession. Tchic-tchic, made the hammer.

"Okay, okay, I get it". Slightly annoyed, Wilson grabbed the hammer from House's hand just as he got ready to hit him again. He passed his hand through his hair to straighten a possible disarray and looked at the hammer attentively. He noticed that it had two holes carved into the handle. It was through them that the sound exited. He hit the palm of his hand several times to test it. Tchic-tchic-tchic-tchic.

"Not bad. Not as good as your smelly garlic but not bad," said Wilson appreciatively. "It's specially good for hitting bald men or persons who start to show signs of baldness. I'm not thinking of you," he added with a naughty look in House's direction.

House picked a baseball cap from his backpack and put it on.

"Of course not," he said.

There, framed by the French windows, holding the garlic as if it was a spear, he looked, to Wilson's eyes, at the same time ridiculous and dignified, like a modern Don Quixote ready to charge against windmills. Only House could be both of those things, thought Wilson.

"You still didn't say what is going to happen tonight."

"Oh, yes. It's a feast. Saint John Feast. São João, in Portuguese. Originally it was a pagan festival celebrating June solstice. Of course, the Catholic Church had to stamp a saint on it. Never mind, the pagan atmosphere is very strong tonight, who knows what will happen," House said mysteriously and then he asked, "By the way, how many pairs of pants do you have?"

"Two. Why?"

House didn't answer but stared intently at his friend. Finally, Wilson understood.

"Nah, nah, nah, nah, no way," he said. "Not a chance. I'm not going to lose my pants… again… nor are you going to take them from me. I don't know what you're scheming but forget it, it won't happen, not even in your darkest and wildest dreams. Even if I have to glue the pants to my legs."

"We're feeling safe, huh?" said House mockingly. Wilson felt his determination weaken a little. "What about a bet? Sixty dollars. If you are so sure of yourself it's easy money."

Wilson narrowed his eyes and scanned House's face looking for clues that would reveal his friend's plans. He knew he was stepping into a trap. House rarely lost a bet, especially one that had to do with him, Wilson, and pants. He thought about it for a bit. He could simply say no, but that would be admitting defeat beforehand. But if he accepted the challenge… if he accepted it and won… Ah! Wilson imagined House's face if that happened and laughed to himself. "Not this time," he thought.

"Okay, deal," he said out loud. "Oh, you are going to be so disappointed this time."

House's mouth stretched into a smile. The blue in his eyes sparkled.