A Cure for Broken Hearts

My dog was stolen. Or rather, he was in my car when it was stolen. 

We were at a mall downtown. I had just run in to exchange some backsplash tile that was the wrong color. Buddy was sleeping in his crate in the back of the car. I never should have left him, but he was so comfy, all tucked in, snoozing away. And I was literally in there for just a few minutes. But that’s all it took. 

They never found the car or Buddy, and it's been two years, so... well... I bought another car. I had to, so I could get to work and get on with life. 

But Buddy... I'm not sure yet about another dog. Which is weird because how can you live without a dog, either? Somehow I've managed these two years, but maybe I haven't been living. Just existing.

Buddy went everywhere with me. He was friends with everyone in our dog-friendly office. Hence his unoriginal name. He probably kissed the guy who took my car. 

I don't even want to think about it.

Maybe after the trip. A friend and I are meeting in Portugal! We'll start in Lisbon. I can't wait. I LOVE tile, and Lisbon is THE tile capital of the world. That's one thing that would be tough, too, with a dog, I think. Traveling overseas. 

So, after Portugal. Maybe this trip will reset me. Then, I'll think about another dog. Maybe.

***

Two weeks later…

I’m in Lisbon! It’s Tuesday. My friend doesn’t get here until Friday, so I’m out solo. 

The weather is great. February is a good choice. Sunny with a breeze; light jacket. The Tagus River winks at me between orange trees and terracotta roofs. I’m in the old town, paused on a steep cobblestone street, catching my breath. 

Tile is EVERYWHERE. Covering the buildings. Spilling out of the souvenir shops like you wouldn't believe. It hasn’t taken long to figure out which types can be found all over the place. I’m trying not to be too tempted.

I'm at an intersection now. Across the street, a white awning over a shop door is waving at me. One corner of the awning is hanging a bit crooked, lower than the other. A sign says "Antiguidades (Antiques)".

There isn't much outside except some tile pieces perched on a wooden rack, grouped in fours. I've seen these types of arrangements already, but this one seems different. Older maybe?

I step into the shade of the awning. I can see the store windows now, stuffed with curio cabinets, lamps, boxes, figurines. The tiles outside look worn in a way only time can achieve. Their colors are faded, but deep. These look real. I go in.

Careful arrangements of crystal and mahogany crowd every space. I find myself next to a display case with a small piece of tile behind the glass.

The tile is propped on a wire stand. The first thing I notice is the flower pattern in the center, spikes of alternating yellow and green petals, circled by a dark blue ring. The colors cross their lines and blend as if melted. Bits of the dark blue are smeared into the pearly background. The corners are chipped, two even charred as if by fire.

Something in my brain stops.

And then a voice startles me.

"Boa tarde. Em que posso ajudar?"

A salesman in a crisp suit appears from the back of the store. He looks so young! Like a high school student. His curly hair is neatly combed back. He smiles, his eyes lighting up.

"Oh, hello!" I say, smiling back. "I’m sorry, I only speak English."

"No problem," he says, completely natural. "How are you today? Can I help you find anything?"

Impressive. This kid must deal with tourists a lot.

"Oh, I'm just looking, thank you," I say, my go-to in these situations.

But the flower tile catches my eye again. I can't help it.

"That's a beautiful piece," he says, approaching the glass. "My father just got it from an estate sale. It's from the 16th century."

The kid gazes at it, like he's lost in thought.

"That's pretty cool,” I say.

"We think it came from a stove, from an ordinary house," the kid says. "That's why you see some of the burn marks there, and some smudging of the color."

So it really did melt! I could almost see it liquefying with heat.

"That's amazing," I say. "That's what I love about it, actually."

"Yes," the kid says. "There's no other like it."

I think I might be getting into trouble with this one. This piece was a part of someone's daily life, hundreds of years ago. I'm actually considering asking him how much it is.

Am I nuts?

"There's a story about the pattern too," the kid continues, opening the case.

He cradles it in his hand. He tips it toward the light and the colors dance.

“This is a rosette medallion,” he explains, running a finger over the flower motif. ”These came from Spain until the early 1500s, but then we started making them here in Portugal. We think this one is local.”

He holds it out to me, inviting me to take it.

“They say that if you return this to its origin, it will cure broken hearts.”

I let him slide it into my hand. The weight feels at home in my palm.

So it has its own legend! It’s a beautiful thought. This kid is pretty smooth. He really does want to sell this to me.

“How much is it?” I hear myself ask.

“Two hundred fifty Euros,” he says.

That’s actually not crazy. I’m surprised. It’s more than tourist-tile, more cash than I have on me. But I could put it on my credit card.

It’s a good story. I want it to be true.

“Ok,” I say. “I’ll take it.”

***

That night…

Back at the vacation rental, I unwrap the tile, wanting to look at it again. The kid has put about fifteen layers of bubble wrap around it. How cute is that? I think he misses it. Maybe it cured him of his own heartbreak somehow.

I set it on the nightstand by my bed. I examine the satiny finish, the swirling colors. If I were to paint a dream, I might start with this palette.

And then the blue is turning purple.

What?

I pick it up again, tip it around, trying to see better.

The blue pigment is moving. Not bleeding outward. Moving inside like ripples on water.

Or flames in a furnace.

I bring it to the kitchen and look at it under the stove light. The gold is doing it now too, turning into a sunlit orange.

And now the green. Flickering. Bubbling. Boiling into a deep crimson.

I put the tile down. The pearly stone starts to glow, as if white-hot.

What is happening?

And then, just as quickly, the fires fade. The colors come back to rest.

That was weird. Should I touch it?

I brush it tentatively with a finger. It’s cool. Totally normal. The pigments are right back to the way they were before. The flower looks as if nothing happened.

I watch it for a while. Thank goodness I saw this before I went to sleep. Maybe I should leave it in the kitchen. What if it does this again? Is it catching fire? Should I put it in the oven? Great, now I’m paranoid. Still. I can’t let this place burn down overnight.

I’m getting tired. I find a baking dish and put the tile in it, then put it in the oven. It will have to do until I figure it out. 

***

Next morning…

We survived. I find the tile just as it was, safe in the oven. I take it out and watch it as I make breakfast. 

And then it starts again.

Purple. Orange. Crimson. White light.

I drop everything. What is it doing? I reach toward it and can feel warmth.

And then it settles again. Cool and quiet.

I wonder if I should take it with me today. I think I’ll take it back to the store and see what they say about it.

I wrap it back in the bubble wrap, stuff it in my bag, and head out.

The corner with the white awning isn’t too far away. It takes me about 30 minutes to hike there. As I approach, I notice bunches of fresh flowers stacked outside. The tile quadrants are gone.

I step under the awning, and instead of the stuffed windows of the antique shop, I’m greeted with bright, cheery windows showing off plants and floral arrangements.

What?

An older woman in a printed dress and an apron waddles out of the shop.

“Bom dia!” she says, clasping her hands.

I know I have the right place. This awning is exactly the one I saw yesterday. The corner is crooked. It’s waving just like it did before.

“Hello!” I say, trying to smile back. “I’m sorry, I only speak English.”

“Oh, ok I see,” the woman says, hesitant. “I know some. I can try.”

She chuckles. I’m so confused.

“I thought there was an antique shop here,” I say.

“Antique?” She frowns, as if thinking.

“Antiguidades,” I say, trying to remember the Portuguese word from the now-gone sign. I pull out my phone for help.

“Oh, no, no antiguidades. Flores. Flowers,” the woman says, pointing to the bunches.

Her displays look like they’ve been there a while. The flower racks and the ground around them show mineral buildup from watering.

“How long have you had your store?” I ask.

She beams. “Oh, long time. Long! Family business. I take it from my grandmother.”

Ok then. Is it possible I do have the wrong corner?

“Do you know any antique shops nearby?” I ask.

“Not sure, no,” the woman says.

It’s probably not fair to pump her for information. I have my phone for that.

“Well, your flowers are beautiful,” I say. I buy a bundle and head off.

I find another corner to stop and scour the maps on my phone. Nothing like that antique shop comes up. I’m trying to remember any marks on the tile packaging, but it was just the bubble wrap and a plain paper bag. How did I miss the name of the store?

I head back to the rental and get out my laptop.

I tell the search engine everything I remember. I take a picture of the tile and upload it. Nothing comes back about a broken heart legend, but I do find a possible origin location. 

I text my friend. She has plans to pick up a car when she arrives. I tell her I’m going to try getting it tomorrow, a day early.

“I need to make a short side trip,” I say.

“Ok!” she texts back. “Where are you going?”

“Well…” How do I explain this? I bought a glowing tile from a disappearing shop, and now it's leading me somewhere. She’ll think I’ve lost my mind.

What if all this isn’t real? I’ll feel like a fool.

But what if it is?

“I… need to find something,” I tell her. “I’ll explain later.”

***

Thursday…

I’m driving the A2 across 25 de Abril Bridge to the south side of the Tagus. The tile lies in the front passenger seat. It has flared three more times since yesterday. The flares are growing longer and warmer each time. 

It’s about 45 minutes to Santo António da Charneca, a town in the Barreiro region. I’m looking for a primary school called Escola Básica. There should be a church across the street from the school, and a small residential area. And a cow farm.

I had to dig deep, but last night, in the middle of a 1997 research paper, I found the story about the excavation. How in 1531 a giant earthquake destroyed so much of Lisbon, and how the people made Spanish-style tiles here as a quicker way to rebuild. Construction workers found the old site by accident when digging trenches for modern water pipes.

There were two original kilns. One was paved over long ago by the school. The other is somewhere in that cow pasture.

The city falls away behind me. I’m really doing this. I’m ready to feel stupid, or at least grounded back in reality when this doesn’t pan out. But I imagine Buddy sitting in the back seat, window cracked, his ears flapping. I don’t know what this tile has in store for me. My heart is filled with an unnatural hope.

Eventually I’m rolling down a narrow road, and I see it. The school is hard to miss. Cream with thick yellow trim. Big arches in front and fenced grounds.

And there’s the church. Stark white with a copper-topped bell tower and a big cross on the front. Pink-and-coral duplexes stand along a few short streets just behind it. And further still, the pasture.

I find a spot to park, then grab the tile and start walking.

There’s no one around, just a few people far off down the road at some shops near the school. I cut past the homes, thread around parked cars, and reach the pasture’s edge. A simple wire fence separates the waving grasses from the roadway. I start heading along the fence line, looking for some clumps of trees, some cover.

I didn’t really think this through either. I’m about to trespass on someone’s land. What is wrong with me? What if I get arrested?

But it pulls me. The tile is getting warm again.

There’s a stand up ahead. I’ve come this far. This description looks about right. If I get caught, I’ll claim insanity.

I hold my breath and slip between the wires into the pasture.

I run through the grass until I reach the trees. I start looking, pushing undergrowth aside, striding deeper into the pasture under the shady cover.

The tile is growing hot now. It is really flaring hard.

I see a pile of stones. I can’t tell what it’s supposed to be. It could be a crumbling wall, or an old well. Or the kiln. Who knows. But the tile is too hot now. I can’t carry it. I slide it onto one of the stones and wave my hands to cool them. 

And then there’s a bark. 

A dog is out here.

That bark. It couldn’t be.

Maybe it’s a guard dog. I had not planned on that. I thought about getting caught by a person, but not an animal.

There’s a tail coming through the grass like a shark fin.

It’s silver and scruffy. It curls at the tip and bounces just that way.

It’s headed right for me.

The dog bursts through the grass.

He’s skinny. He’s dirty. He barks, then starts wiggling uncontrollably.

Buddy?

“No way!” I exclaim.

He throws himself at me. I wrap him in my arms. I can barely get my hands on him; he’s moving so much. His coat is a disaster.

“Oh, Buddy!” I cry. “Is it you?”

He starts bark-howling. That ear-splitting decibel that just about makes you deaf. And that right eye, it’s cockeyed. Hard to tell what direction he’s looking. Yep, no doubt.

There’s a rope around his neck. It’s frayed, chewed through.

“How did you get here? How?” I ask.

Buddy answers, but it's just a noisy mess. I try to get him to calm down.

“Ok, mister,” I say. “Let’s at least get you out of this farm. Before we both end up in jail.”

Then I turn to pick up the tile.

But it’s not a tile anymore. It’s just a pile of ash, sitting on the rock where I had placed it.

***

We ended up staying a bit longer in Portugal than planned, arranging how we’d get Buddy home. I did ask around, but no one claimed him. And the charge for the tile that healed our hearts? Never showed up on my credit card statement.