A blind Spaniard driven by Tarotic Fate. He fancies dice and fresh biscuits.

From the Journal of Ricardo Reis:

-Day 1-
...Captain Christiaan, though he is plainly not an observer of any religion save scoundrelism. The damnable Conradie has sailed away, leaving me stranded here. I see now it was a mistake to put my trust in a Dutch freighter, but what choice was there? Ahhh, I need to find shelter before sunset.

...walls caked in blood, horrible stench of rotting corpses and beneath it, a thick layer of rum. I nearly tripped over a body on my way in, thought it was a sleeping dog, aha! Letters carved inch-deep into the wall: 'The Hanged Musket'? What a hellish place!

-Day 2-
Waited interminable hours to be served at the local tavern. Anywhere else would have been preferred to that den of rotting corpses, but I soon learned that the tavern is the only restaurant in the village! Finally got tired of waiting and halloed a porter until he woke up, damn lazy layabout, told him to bring some biscuits and cold beer out on a platter. Not ten minutes pass before some ruffian sneaks in and kills him. Well, what about my biscuits?

...now convinced from the accents bandied about and the low manners that this must be an American colony. Piss and grim!