In her song ‘Cheira a Lisboa’, Amália Rodrigues, Portugal’s undisputed queen of Fado, sings that Lisbon smells of the coffee shops of Rossio. This early afternoon, just gone noon, Rossio smells of gasoline and blistered asphalt as Maia’s convoy enters the square and begins to veer left, trying to fit its enormous frames into the narrow Rua do Carmo. The square seems to vibrate with the rumble of the M47 tanks. Maia spots a column of infantrymen from the 1st Infantry Regiment, packed into the backs of transport trucks, rolling into the square from the other end. He exits his jeep to speak with the commander. It’s another push from the government–they’ve been sent to stop Maia’s column, but the commander says they’re with the revolutionaries. Maia orders them to follow along, and the convoy gains several dozen more heavily armed soldiers. Celeste Caeiro is here now, among the crowd, clutching her bunch of carnations in her hands, her eyes wide as she watches her city taken over by machines of war she’s only ever seen on grainy footage of military parades. One of the M47 tanks passes a few feet in front of her, and the man atop it looks down, smiling.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks the man, with a sudden surge of courage.
‘A revolution!’ he replies.
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