"Boss Bruno, you're finally back!"
"Mm..."
"Lord! You look awful. Are you sick too?..."
"Mm..."
In the Sierra Leone Port colony, the liveliest places were naturally the tavern and the brothel—two large clusters of tropical wooden houses and shacks joined together. Alcohol and women were the most important stabilizers of order in an overseas colony, especially for soothing soldiers stationed abroad. Incidentally, this was also an extremely profitable trade, one that could shake the very last copper coin out of the soldiers' and Sailors' hands.
When Bruno walked into the tavern, waves of noise and teasing laughter, along with thick, pungent scents, stenches, and the reek of alcohol, surged over him like a tide, making him feel uneasy all over.
When he had been an ordinary crewman, he had often frequented places like this too, and had taken pleasure in it, mixing as one with the lowliest Sailors. But as he climbed step by step into the ranks of the nobility, places meant for the lower sort always made him feel awkward and cheap, even becoming part of that humble past he wished to forget.
Soon, the passing patrons saw Bruno's noble attire, and their voices abruptly lowered. Some of the people here were employees of the trading post, most were local garrison troops, and there were not many black-skinned men. There were, however, black-skinned women everywhere. And whenever Portugal's navy passed through, they would domineeringly reserve the tavern's wine and women for themselves, indulge hysterically for a day or two, and then set out once more on a sea voyage with death as their companion.
"Quem vai ao mar perde o lugar. Haroldo, those who go to sea always lose their seats."
"...?"
"A vida no mar é breve como a espuma das ondas. Life at sea is always