The afternoon sun in Cape Verde was so intense it was hard to keep one's eyes open.
In the open-air beach bar with nothing but a roof, scattered tourists lounged in beach chairs, enjoying the sea breeze flowing through the bar. Yet the bartender behind the counter showed no sign of relaxing just because lunch hours had passed.
He watched the woman beside the bar with platinum-blonde shoulder-length hair in concern. Wearing sunglasses, she stared intently at the nearby white beach. It was not that he was curious about a beautiful woman. Cape Verde was full of white women in bikinis during the summer; there was nothing unusual about that.
Besides, she was not wearing a bikini.
The local young man, devoted to the art of bartending, was simply worried that this beautiful customer disliked his work. It had made him pessimistic about this quarter's revenue—she had come to bars near this beach every day recently, ordered a drink, then sat there in silence. For the first time in his life, the bartender doubted his own skills.
"Ma'am."
Only after the bartender spoke did the female tourist turn her gaze away. Her reproachful look made him feel as though he had done something wrong. But that kind of atmosphere could not keep a bartender quiet. Someone who could not talk could not be a bartender—at tourist destinations, bartenders also had a side job: recommending services to tourists and earning commissions. Without a silver tongue, how could they persuade visitors to sign up for surfing camps, diving lessons, and essential-oil spas?
"Are you waiting for someone?" the bartender asked as he wiped a glass. "The ice has melted. If you want to keep waiting, I can make you another."
"I'm leaving." The woman spoke Portuguese with a slight Eastern European accent.