Pedro wakes at 5:30am in his small apartment, the same one he's rented for eighteen years. The rent increased again this year—"market forces," the landlord said—but Pedro doesn't blame Ventura for that. He blames the same people he's always blamed: the politicians who came before, the system that forgot people like him.
The coffee maker gurgles as he scrolls through his phone. Correio da Manhã leads with Ventura's latest speech: "Four years of cleaning house." Pedro smiles slightly. He remembers voting in 2026—his first vote in twenty years. The feeling of finally having someone speak his language.
At the warehouse where he's worked for sixteen years, the mood among his colleagues is mixed. Zé, who's been there even longer, voted for Ventura too. They sometimes exchange knowing looks when the news mentions another "investigation" into some PS figure from the old days. But Ricardo, the younger shift supervisor, keeps his opinions to himself now. Smart kid.
The lunch break conversation is different than it used to be. Before 2026, politics was either boring or depressing. Now it's alive. Controversial, sure. Pedro's sister-in-law won't talk to him anymore—she called him a fascist at a family dinner two years ago. Her loss, he thinks. But there's something satisfying about not feeling invisible anymore.
Walking to the canteen, Pedro passes Amadou, the Senegalese worker who joined the warehouse three years ago. They nod at each other. Pedro has nothing against Amadou personally—he works hard, keeps to himself. But Pedro does think there are too many coming in, too fast, without anyone asking the Portuguese if they wanted this. That's not racism, he tells himself. That's just common sense.
The afternoon drags. His back hurts more these days. The raise he was promised hasn't materialized—company profits are up, but management says "economic uncertainty" prevents salary increases. Pedro voted for change, but his paycheck looks the same. Sometimes late at night, this bothers him. But then he sees the alternative—the same people who ignored him for decades—and he knows he made the right choice.
After work, Pedro stops at the café where he's been a regular for thirty years. The TV shows a parliamentary debate. Ventura is speaking, finger pointed, voice rising. The café owner, Senhor Domingos, shakes his head. "He talks a lot," he says carefully, watching Pedro's reaction.
"At least he talks about what matters," Pedro responds. "Not like the others who just talked to each other."
Domingos shrugs. He's learned not to argue. The neighborhood has changed this way—people are more careful about what they say, who they say it to. Pedro sees this as a sign that finally the "politically correct" crowd can't silence ordinary people anymore. Others see it differently.
Evening at home, Pedro watches the news with a beer. There's a report about a Roma encampment being "relocated" after complaints from residents. The reporter uses neutral language; Ventura's spokesperson calls it "restoring order." Pedro doesn't know any Roma personally. He's never visited their communities. But he's heard stories—everyone has—and the president seems to know what he's talking about.
His daughter calls. She's in London now, has been for five years. She doesn't visit much anymore. "I can't, pai," she said last time they spoke about it. "It's not the country I grew up in." Pedro doesn't understand this. Portugal looks the same to him—better, even. Cleaner streets in some places. More flags. More pride.
Before bed, Pedro checks his bank balance. Still barely enough. The corruption investigations haven't put money in his pocket. The "true Portuguese" rhetoric hasn't fixed his back or increased his pension. But when he closes his eyes, he remembers the feeling of walking into that voting booth in 2026, marking his ballot for someone who would shake things up.
That feeling was real. The rest... the rest is complicated.