Fernando checks the exchange rates first thing, as he has every morning since the communist took office. The euro-dollar relationship matters for exports; the spread on Portuguese bonds matters for financing. Four years of this vigilance. Four years of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It hasn't dropped. The apocalypse he feared—capital flight, international isolation, Venezuela-style collapse—didn't materialize. AD governs. Parliament overrides vetoes. The EU monitors but doesn't intervene. Portugal continues, improbably, with a hammer-and-sickle president and a functioning market economy.
The factory operates. Orders come from Germany, though less than before—some clients worried by "political instability," relocated to Poland. Fernando lost perhaps 15% of business to perception. Perception matters when your president gives speeches about "parasitic capitalism."
Morning meetings bring the usual concerns. His accountant warns about potential policy changes—always "potential," never actual, because the government doesn't change policy just because the president demands. But the uncertainty costs. Investment decisions delayed. Expansion plans shelved. The climate of confrontation makes planning impossible.
Lunch with other business owners is therapy and complaint. Everyone has stories: contracts lost, partners worried, banks asking uncomfortable questions about "exposure to Portuguese political risk." None of them have gone bankrupt. Most are surviving. But survival isn't growth. Caution isn't confidence.
The afternoon news shows Filipe speaking at a workers' rally. The language is inflammatory—"exploitation," "class struggle," "capital's war on labor." Fernando hears himself condemned by his president. The man in Belém considers his life's work—building a business, creating jobs, serving customers—as predation. This isn't just policy disagreement. It's existential rejection.
His son Ricardo, who returned from Belgium three years ago, is thinking of leaving again. "I can't build a career here," he says. "The atmosphere is toxic." Fernando doesn't argue. The young professionals he hoped would return, the brain drain he hoped would reverse—Filipe's presidency has accomplished the opposite. Who invests in a country where the head of state denounces investment?
Dinner with his wife brings weary conversation. "How much longer?" she asks. Fernando doesn't know. Filipe might seek re-election—he'd probably win again, the anti-right coalition holding. Or PS might recover. Or something else might break. The future is opaque in ways it wasn't before.
The evening news shows market analysis. European investment in Portugal: down. Spanish investment: way down. American: minimal. "Political uncertainty" cited in every report. The president gives speeches about foreign capital exploiting Portugal. Foreign capital responds by going elsewhere. Irony, or strategy, or both.
Before bed, Fernando reviews the reduced forecast for next year. The factory will survive—it has survived everything—but growth won't come under these conditions. He's managing decline, not building future.
"Four more years?" he asks the ceiling. Maybe. And if so, then what?