When he reached the street a strong wind was swaying the tree-tops. Pereira started out on foot, then stopped to wait for a cruising taxi. At first he thought he would have some supper at the Café Orquídea, then changed his mind and came to the conclusion that it would be wiser to have a café-au-lait at home. But unfortunately no taxis came cruising past, he had to wait a good half-hour, he maintains.
TWENTY-TWO
Next day Pereira stayed at home, he maintains. He got up late, breakfasted, and put aside the novel by Bernanos, as now there was no chance it would be published in the Lisboa. He hunted through his bookshelves and found the complete works of Camilo Castelo Branco. He picked on a story at random and started in to read. He found it oppressively dull, it had none of the lightness and irony of the French writers, it was a gloomy, nostalgic tale full of problems and fraught with tragedy. Pereira soon tired of it. He had an urge to talk to his wife’s photograph, but he postponed the conversation until later. He made himself an omelette without fines herbes, ate every scrap of it and went to take a nap. He fell asleep at once and had a beautiful dream. Then he got up, settled himself in an armchair and gazed out of the window. From the windows of his flat he had a view of the palm trees in front of the barracks over the way and every so often he heard a bugle call. Pereira couldn’t decipher the bugle calls because he had never done military service, for him they were nonsense messages. He just gazed at the palm fronds tossing in the wind and thought of his childhood. He spent a large part of the afternoon like this, thinking of his childhood, but it is something Pereira has no wish to talk about, as it has nothing to do with these events, he maintains.
At about four o’clock he heard the doorbell ring. Pereira tried to shake off his drowsiness but did not stir. He found it odd that anyone should be ringing the bell, he thought vaguely it might be Piedade back from Setúbal, perhaps her sister had been operated on sooner than expected. The bell rang again, insistently, twice, two long peals. Pereira got up and pulled a lever to unlatch the street door. He stayed on the landing, heard the door very quietly close and footsteps hastening up the staircase. When the figure reached the landing Pereira couldn’t make out who it was, the stairwell was so dark and his sight not as good as it used to be.
Hullo Dr Pereira, said a voice which Pereira did recognize, hullo it’s me, may I come in? It was Monteiro Rossi. Pereira let him in and closed the door at once. Monteiro Rossi stopped in the hall, he was carrying a small bag and wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Forgive me, Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, later on I’ll explain everything, is there anyone in the building? The caretaker is at Setúbal, said Pereira, the tenants on the floor above have left the flat empty, they’ve moved to Oporto. Do you think anyone can have seen me?, panted Monteiro Rossi. He was sweating and stammering slightly. I shouldn’t think so, said Pereira, but what are you doing here, where have you come from? I’ll explain everything later, Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, for the moment what I need is a shower and a clean shirt, I’m dead beat. Pereira showed him to the bathroom and gave him a clean shirt, his own khaki shirt. It’ll be on the big side, he said, but never mind. While Monteiro Rossi was in the bathroom Pereira went and stood in the hall looking at his wife’s photograph. He would have liked to tell it lots of things, he maintains, that Monteiro Rossi had suddenly turned up, for example, and other things besides. Instead he said nothing, he postponed the conversation until later and returned to the living-room. Monteiro Rossi came in absolutely swamped in Pereira’s outsize shirt. Thank you Dr Pereira, he said, I’m dead beat, there’s lots I want to tell you but I’m absolutely dead beat, maybe what I need is a nap. Pereira took him into the bedroom and spread a cotton blanket over the sheets. Lie down here, he said, and take off your shoes, don’t go to sleep with shoes on because your body won’t relax, and don’t worry, I’ll wake you later. Monteiro Rossi lay down and Pereira closed the door and returned to the living-room. He pushed aside the stories of Camilo Castelo Branco, reopened Bernanos and set about translating the rest of the chapter. If he couldn’t publish it in the Lisboa well never mind, he thought, maybe he could publish it in book form, at least the Portuguese would then have one good book to read, a serious, moral book, one that dealt with fundamental problems, a book that would do a power of good to the consciences of its readers, thought Pereira.
At eight o’clock Monteiro Rossi was still sleeping. Pereira went into the kitchen, beat up four eggs, added a spoonful of Dijon mustard and a pinch each of oregano and marjoram. He wanted to make a good omelette aux fines herbes, very likely Monteiro Rossi was as hungry as a hunter, he thought. He laid the table for two, spreading out a white cloth and using the plates made in Caldas da Rainha which Silva had given him for a wedding present and fixing candles in the two candlesticks. Then he went to wake Monteiro Rossi, but he crept in on tiptoe because he really felt it was a shame to wake him. The lad was sprawled on the bed with one arm outflung. Pereira called his name, but Monteiro Rossi didn’t stir. So Pereira shook him by the arm and said: Monteiro Rossi, it’s time for supper, if you go on sleeping now you won’t sleep tonight, you’d do better to come and have a bite to eat. Monteiro Rossi leapt from the bed, obviously terrified. No need to get the wind up, Pereira said, its Dr Pereira, you’re quite safe here. They went into the dining-room and Pereira lit the candles. While he was cooking the omelette he offered Monteiro Rossi some tinned paté which he’d discovered in the store-cupboard, and from the kitchen he called: What’s been going on then, Monteiro Rossi? Thank you, was Monteiro Rossi’s reply, thank you for your hospitality Dr Pereira, and thanks also for the money you sent me, Marta got it through to me. Pereira brought the omelette to the table and tied his napkin round his neck. Well then, Monteiro Rossi, he said, what’s going on? Monteiro Rossi fell on the food as though he hadn’t eaten for a week. Steady on, you’ll choke, said Pereira, eat more slowly, and anyway there’s cheese to follow, and now tell me everything. Monteiro Rossi swallowed his mouthful and said: My cousin has been arrested. Where?, asked Pereira, at the hotel I found for him? No, no, replied Monteiro Rossi, he was arrested in Alentejo while trying to recruit Alentejans, I only escaped by miracle. And what now?, asked Pereira. Now I’m on the run, Dr Pereira, replied Monteiro Rossi, I suppose they’re hunting for me all over Portugal, I caught a bus yesterday evening and got as far as Barreiro, then I took a ferry, and from Cais de Sodré I’ve slogged it on foot because I didn’t have the money for the fare. Does anyone know you’re here?, asked Pereira. No one at all, replied Monteiro Rossi, not even Marta, in fact I want to get in touch with her, I want at least Marta to know I’m in a safe place, because you won’t turn me out, will you Dr Pereira? You can stay as long as you like, replied Pereira, or at least until mid-September when Piedade gets back, Piedade is the caretaker here and also my daily, she’s a trustworthy woman but she’s a caretaker, and caretakers natter to other caretakers, your presence would not pass unobserved. Right ho, said Monteiro Rossi, between now and the fifteenth of September I’ll surely find somewhere else to go, maybe I’ll get on to Marta at once. Look here Monteiro Rossi, said Pereira, let Marta be for now, as long as you’re in my house don’t get in touch with anyone, just stay put and rest. And how are things going for you, Dr Pereira, asked Monteiro Rossi, still busy with obituaries and anniversaries? Partly, replied Pereira, however the articles you have written are all unpublishable, I’ve put them in a file in the office, I don’t know why I don’t throw them away. It’s time I owned up to something, murmured Monteiro Rossi, I’m sorry I’ve taken so long about it, but those articles are not all my own work. How do you mean?, asked Pereira. Well Dr Pereira, the truth is that Marta gave me a lot of help with them, she wrote them partly herself, the basic ideas are hers. How extremely improper, said Pereira. Oh, replied Monteiro Rossi, I wouldn’t go that far, but Dr Pereira have you heard the Spanish nationalist slogan?, their slogan is viva la muertel, and I can’t write about death, what I love is life, Dr Pereira, and I’d never have managed to write obituarie
s on my own, to talk about death, I’m really not able to talk about it. All in all I’m with you there, said Pereira, so he maintains, I can’t stand it any longer myself.
Darkness had fallen and the candles shed a wan light. I don’t know why I’m doing all this for you Monteiro Rossi, said Pereira. Perhaps it’s because you’re a decent person, replied Monteiro Rossi. That’s too simple, retorted Pereira, the world is full of decent people but they don’t go looking for trouble. Then I don’t know, said Monteiro Rossi, I really can’t imagine. The real problem is that I don’t know either, said Pereira, until a few days ago I kept on asking myself, but maybe it’s better for me to stop asking. He brought cherries in maraschino to the table and Monteiro Rossi helped himself to a whole glassful. Pereira took only one cherry and a drop of juice, because he was afraid of ruining his diet.
But tell me all about it, said Pereira, what have you been up to all this time in Alentejo? We covered the whole region, replied Monteiro Rossi, stopping in the safe places, the places where there’s most turbulence. Excuse me, put in Pereira, but your cousin scarcely seems a suitable person, I only saw him the once but he seemed to me a little ill-equipped, I’d even say rather slow-witted, and on top of that he doesn’t even speak Portuguese. True, said Monteiro Rossi, but in civilian life he’s a printer, he’s good at handling documents, there’s no one like him for forging a passport. Then he might have done a better job on his own, said Pereira, he had an Argentine passport you could see was a fake from a mile off. He didn’t make that one himself, replied Monteiro Rossi, they gave it him in Spain. And then what?, asked Pereira. Well, replied Monteiro Rossi, we found a safe printer’s in Portalegre and my cousin got to work, we did a first-class job, my cousin made up a whole bunch of passports, a lot of them we managed to distribute but some are left over because we didn’t have time. Monteiro Rossi picked up his bag from an armchair and reached into it. Here’s what I’ve got left over, he said. And he placed a bundle of passports on the table, there must have been a couple of dozen of them. My dear Monteiro Rossi you are mad, said Pereira, you traipse about with those things in your bag as if they were sweeties, if they find you with these documents you’ll be for the high-jump.
Pereira picked up the passports and said: I’ll see to hiding these. He first thought of putting them in a drawer, but that didn’t seem safe enough. Then he went into the hall and slid them into the book-shelves right behind his wife’s photograph. Please excuse me, said he, addressing the picture, but no one will come looking here, it’s the safest place in the whole house. Then he went back to the living-room and said: Time’s getting on, maybe we’d better go to bed. I’ve got to get in touch with Marta, said Monteiro Rossi, she’ll be worried, she doesn’t know what’s become of me, she might think they’ve arrested me as well. Look here Monteiro Rossi, said Pereira, tomorrow I’ll call Marta myself, but from a public telephone, for this evening the best thing for you is to stop worrying and get to bed, jot me down the number on this pad. I’ll give you two numbers, said Monteiro Rossi, if she doesn’t answer at one she’ll certainly be at the other, and if she doesn’t answer in person ask to speak to Lise Delaunay, that’s what she calls herself now. I know, admitted Pereira, I met her a few days ago, that girl has got as thin as a rake, she’s unrecognizable, this way of life is doing her a bit of no good, Monteiro Rossi, she’s ruining her health, and now off to bed.
Pereira snuffed out the candles and asked himself why he had got mixed up in this business, why shelter Monteiro Rossi and ring Marta and leave coded messages, why meddle with things that didn’t concern him? Was it perhaps that Marta had got so thin that her shoulder-blades stuck out like the wings of a plucked chicken? Was it that Monteiro Rossi had no mother or father to shelter him? Was it his visit to Parede and Dr Cardoso explaining his theory of the confederation of souls? Pereira did not know, and even today he could not presume to say. He wanted to get to bed because next morning he intended to be up early and make careful arrangements for the day, but before doing so he went into the hall for a brief glance at his wife’s photograph. He said not a word to it, just gave it an affectionate wave of the hand, he maintains.
TWENTY-THREE
That late August morning Pereira woke at eight, he maintains. Several times during the night he had woken and heard rain pelting down on the palm trees of the barracks over the way. He doesn’t remember dreaming, he’d slept fitfully with a few dreams now and then, presumably, but he doesn’t remember them. Monteiro Rossi was asleep on the living-room sofa, wearing a pair of pyjamas so vast on him they could practically have done him for sheets. He was sleeping all bunched up, as if he was freezing cold, and Pereira spread a rug over him, very gently so as not to wake him. He moved gingerly round the flat for fear of making a noise, brewed himself some coffee, then set off to get supplies at the grocer’s on the corner. He bought four tins of sardines, a dozen eggs, tomatoes, a melon, a loaf, and eight ready-made salt-cod fishcakes. Then he spotted, hanging on a hook, a small smoked ham sprinkled with paprika, and he bought that too. So you’ve decided to stock up your larder, Dr Pereira, commented the grocer. Well yes, replied Pereira, my daily won’t be back until mid-September, she’s with her sister at Setúbal, I have to look after myself and I can’t go shopping every morning. If you want a capable woman to come in and do for you I can recommend one, said the grocer, she lives a little up the hill, near La Graça, she’s got a small child and her husband has left her, she’s a reliable person. No, thank you all the same, Senhor Francisco, replied Pereira, it’s better not, I don’t know how Piedade would take it, there’s a lot of jealousy between these dailies and she might feel ousted, maybe over the winter it might be an idea, but just now I’d better wait until Piedade gets back.
Pereira went home and put his purchases in the ice-chest. Monteiro Rossi was still asleep. Pereira left him a note: ‘There’s ham and eggs or fishcakes to heat up, you heat them in a frying-pan with only a little oil, otherwise they go to a mush, have a good lunch and don’t worry, I’ll be back late afternoon, I’ll speak to Marta, see you later, Pereira.’
He left the house and went to the office. There he found Celeste in her cubbyhole busying herself with a calendar. Good morning Celeste, said Pereira, anything for me? No telephone calls and no post, replied Celeste. Pereira felt relieved, all the better that no one had tried to get in touch with him. He went up to the office and took the telephone off the hook, then reached for the story by Camilo Castelo Branco and prepared it for the press. At about ten o’clock he called the head office and was answered by the dulcet tones of Senhora Filipa. This is Dr Pereira, said Pereira, I would like to speak to the editor-in-chief. Filipa put through the call and the voice of the editor-in-chief said: Hullo. This is Dr Pereira, said Pereira, I just wanted to keep in touch, sir. You do well, said the editor-in-chief, because I tried to get you yesterday but you were not in the office. I wasn’t feeling too well yesterday, lied Pereira, I stayed at home because my heart was playing me up. I quite understand, Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, however I would like to know what your intentions are for the forthcoming culture pages. I am publishing a story by Camilo Castelo Branco, replied Pereira, as you suggested yourself sir, a nineteenth-century Portuguese author should fit the bill, don’t you think? Very much so, replied the editor-in-chief, but I think you should also continue the anniversaries feature. I had thought of doing Rilke, said Pereira, but I left it because I wanted your approval. Rilke, said the editor-in-chief, the name does seem vaguely familiar. Rainer Maria Rilke, explained Pereira, born in Czechoslovakia but to all intents and purposes an Austrian poet, he wrote in German and died in Nineteen Twenty-Six. Look here Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, as I told you before the Lisboa is becoming much too foreign-orientated, why not do an anniversary feature on one of our Portuguese poets, why not do our great Camoens? Camoens?, replied Pereira, but Camoens died in Fifteen Eighty, nearly four hundred years ago. True, said the editor-in-chief, but he is always topical, and haven’t you h
eard that António Ferro, Director of the Secretariado Nacional de Propaganda, in short the Minister of Culture, has had the brilliant idea of celebrating Camoens Day on Portuguese Race Celebration Day, so that we shall celebrate our great epic poet and the Portuguese Race on one and the same day, and an anniversary feature will be just the thing. But sir, Camoens Day is the tenth of June, objected Pereira, what sense does it make to celebrate Camoens Day at the end of August? Ha! but on the tenth of June we didn’t yet have our culture page, argued the editor-in-chief, and you can point out as much in your article, and then you can always simply celebrate Camoens, who is our great national poet, and merely make some reference to Race Celebration Day, the least reference would be enough for our readers to get the message. Please bear with me sir, replied Pereira with some compunction, but I feel I must tell you that originally we were Lusitanians, and then came the Romans and the Celts, and then came the Arabs, so what sort of race are we Portuguese in a position to celebrate? The Portuguese Race, replied the editor-in-chief, and I am sorry to say, Pereira, that I don’t like the tone of your objection, we are Portuguese, we discovered the world, we achieved the greatest feats of navigation the world over, and when we did this, in the sixteenth century, we were already Portuguese, that is what we are and that is what you are to celebrate, Pereira. The editor-in-chief made a pause and then continued: Pereira, last time we talked I addressed you informally and I don’t know why I have gone back to using the formalities. Do as you please sir, replied Pereira, perhaps it’s the telephone that has that effect. You may be right, said the editor-in-chief, however please pay attention to what I say, Pereira, I want the Lisboa to be an ultra-Portuguese paper, not least in its culture page, and if you don’t want to do an anniversary feature for Portuguese Race Celebration Day you must at least do one for Camoens, that will be better than nothing.