Chapter 58: Volume 1, - 55: Youssef’s Counter
It was ten past four on a Friday afternoon in Amadora at Café e Restauração Atlas, the quiet lull between the lunch rush and evening orders. Outside, the street noise of Avenida da República rattled past the open front door, mixed with the hiss of diesel buses pulling up to the kerb.
Karim sat on a tall metal stool near the end of the counter, his knees wedged beneath the Formica edge. A glass of lukewarm mint tea sat untouched by his right hand.
Behind the counter, Youssef Azzouzi worked with the practised rhythm of someone who had run the place for years. He was forty-two, thick-wristed, with silvering stubble along his jawline and an apron tied tight around his waist over a faded black polo shirt. With a heavy stainless-steel knife, he diced roasted peppers on a board, the blade tapping steady against the plastic.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"I’m telling you, Youssef, it’s completely different now," Karim said, leaning forward and gesturing with his open palm. "The last three weeks, he’s been a different boy on the pitch. Even in drills. He could start on the left tomorrow against Estoril."
Youssef scraped the diced peppers off the board and dumped them into a wide bowl. "Estoril," he said, his voice deep and raspy.
"Estoril Praia," Karim clarified, his tone sharpening with pride. "Away match tomorrow. Ten-thirty kick-off. They gave Rayan six more weeks before they decide on retention for next season. The coach, Tavares, he’s watching everything."
Youssef didn’t look up. He reached under the counter for coriander, shook off the excess water, and laid it across the board. "Six weeks."
"It’s formal," Karim insisted. "They track everything. Data, distance covered, tactical recovery. And tomorrow is key. If he puts in another solid seventy minutes against Estoril, if he gets down the flank like he did against Casa Pia, they’ll have to keep him for next season."
"They’ll have to keep him," Youssef repeated dryly.
"No, really," Karim said, missing the faint edge in his friend’s voice. "Because you can’t ignore results, Youssef. Football is simple at that level. If you produce, you stay. If he dominates his full-back tomorrow, the whole review resolves itself right there."
The brass bell above the front entrance chime-clinked as a courier in a bright green delivery jacket pushed inside. He tapped his phone screen against the glass counter.
"Order forty-two," the courier said, barely pausing his stride. "Two couscous boxes, extra harissa."
Youssef didn’t break stride. He set his knife down, wiped his fingers on his apron, and pulled two insulated foil containers from the heated pass behind him. He slotted them into a brown paper bag, tucked two plastic forks and a foil tub of sauce inside, and slid the package across the counter.
"Have a good evening," Youssef said in flat, professional Portuguese.
The courier snatched the bag, offered a single nod, and pushed back out into the noise of Avenida da República. The door clicked shut, leaving the kitchen quietly humming once more.
Youssef picked up his stainless-steel blade again, resting it on the coriander stems. He slowly raised his eyes, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. He looked at Karim across the glass counter, his dark eyes heavy and patient, carrying the quiet history of two decades of shared tea and long afternoons in Amadora.
"You talked like this two weeks ago," Youssef said softly.
Karim’s jaw tightened. "That was different."
"You sat right there," Youssef continued, not raising his voice, "telling me Bento knew people who could move Rayan if Sporting let him go."
"Bento couldn’t prove anything," Karim snapped, his posture shifting, his hands pulling back from the glass. "Why are you bringing up Bento?"
"Because you believed him before you checked," Youssef said, resuming the steady chopping motion. "You believed a promise in a café because it sounded good to your ears. I’m asking if you learnt anything from that, or if you’re still selling the boy the trophy before he’s put his boots on."
"Rayan is at Sporting!" Karim said loudly, his face flushing. "He’s on the pitch in an official kit! That’s real!"
"The kit is real," Youssef agreed, sweeping chopped herbs into a copper pot on the side burner. "The boy is real. He works hard. I’ve seen that myself."
Youssef turned a dial on the gas stove, the blue flame clicking to life beneath the pot. He picked up a wooden spoon and stirred before looking back at Karim.
"So be careful what you build up in his head," Youssef said plainly.
Karim glared at him, his mouth opening to deliver an instinctive defence. But Youssef didn’t wait for a reply. He turned back to his stove, checking the simmering pot, wiping the edge of the burner with a rag. He was done with the conversation; he had a kitchen to run and three catering trays of couscous to prep for six o’clock.
Karim sat rigid on the stool. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, anger burning hot behind his ribs. He wanted to argue, to detail the statistics, to prove he knew what he was talking about this time.
The quiet hum of the refrigerator filled the gap between them. Youssef didn’t poke him again. He just kept working, leaving Karim alone with his own heat.
Karim stared at his untouched tea for a long moment.
"I told Rayan I’d be there tomorrow," Karim said quietly.
Youssef kept stirring the pot. "Then be there."
Slowly, Karim picked up his phone. He opened his messaging app and pulled up the text from Sofia confirming the away match details.
Match tomorrow away at Estoril Praia. Kick-off 10:30 AM.
Karim tapped his thumb against the screen, opening the transport application. He checked the train route from Amadora into central Lisbon, connecting to the Cascais line down towards Estoril. He worked out the departure times, leaving a forty-minute buffer for potential train delays. He double-checked the weekend timetable updates just to be sure there were no track maintenance closures scheduled along the coastal line.
He opened his banking app next. He checked his account, swiping to his secondary balance where thirty-five euros sat. Enough for the round-trip train fares and a coffee at the ground. He locked those funds into his transport wallet so he wouldn’t touch them for anything else.
Finally, Karim opened his clock application. He set an alarm for 06:45 AM. He added a second alarm for 06:55 AM, labelling it Estoril Train.
Across the counter, Youssef paused in his prep work, quietly taking in the deliberate movements of Karim’s fingers on the screen. The checking of times, the double-checking of timetables, the setting of alarms, the locking away of travel money.
Youssef said nothing. He simply lowered a pot onto the stove and reached for his spices.
Karim finished setting the second alarm and slid the phone into his jacket pocket. He reached for his tea, took one small, cold sip, and set the glass back down.
"I’ll see you Sunday, Youssef," Karim said, his voice flat, stripped of the earlier inflation.
"Inshallah," Youssef replied without looking around. "Don’t be late."
Karim stood up from the stool, pulled his jacket shut, and walked toward the exit. Before his hand touched the glass door leading out onto Avenida da República, he pulled his phone out of his pocket one last time, unlocked the screen, and verified the 10:30 AM kick-off time against his schedule.
Satisfied, he slipped the phone away, opened the door, and stepped out into the afternoon breeze.