On the morning of 25 April 1974, Celeste Caeiro is on her way to work. Celeste is forty years old–short, with a tight mop of greying hair and thick round glasses, she heads from her tiny downtown apartment to the self-service restaurant Sir on the ground floor of the Franjinhas, where she works as a cleaner. Celeste knows the owner is preparing a celebration of sorts–the restaurant first opened exactly one year ago. The cunning marketing strategy for today, she’s heard, is to offer gentlemen customers a free glass of port, and give ladies a carnation. The flowers arrived yesterday, dozens of large bunches in anticipation of the lunch rush. As she arrives, Celeste is surprised that the restaurant is dark, the door closed, with no sign of the cheerful decorations she was expecting. She pokes her head in and sees the owner hunched by the radio, which is tuned to Rádio Clube Português, the room strewn with large unopened bunches of red and white carnations. His expression is grim. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.
‘We won’t be opening today, Celeste.’ He gestures at the radio. ‘Something’s happening in the centre, some sort of military operation. They’re telling people to stay home.’ They stand for a few moments in the dark restaurant, listening as the radio plays the military tunes the MFA has lined up for the gaps between their missives. ‘You’d better go home too, Celeste,’ the owner says. ‘Here–take some of these with you.’ He gestures at one of the large piles of flowers strewn around him. Celeste grabs a bunch and leaves, facing the notion of an unexpected day off, curious about the events that have caused it. She walks to the metro station at Marquês de Pombal and travels two stops down, to Restauradores.
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