The moment he got home Pereira went into the bedroom and removed the towel from Monteiro Rossi’s face. He covered him with a sheet. Then he went back next door and sat down at his typewriter. He wrote a title, ‘Journalist Assassinated’, then double-spaced and started to type: ‘His name was Francesco Monteiro Rossi, his father was Italian. He contributed articles and obituaries to this newspaper. He wrote texts on many great writers of our time, including Mayakovsky, Marinetti, D’Annunzio, Lorca. His articles have not yet been published, but perhaps one day they will be. He was a spirited young man who loved life, and instead it fell to his lot to write about death. A task he never shirked. But last night death sought him out. While he was dining with the editor of the culture page of the Lisboa, Dr Pereira, the writer of this article, three armed men forced their way into the flat. They stated that they were Political Police, but produced no documents to support their claim. It is almost unthinkable that they were official police officers, because they wore civilian clothes, and moreover it is to be hoped that the police in this country do not employ such methods. My conviction is that they were gangsters acting with the complicity of persons in high places, and the authorities would do well to enquire into this ugly business. Their leader was a skinny little person with a moustache and a small goatee. The other two addressed him as Captain, and he several times called them by name. These names, unless fictitious, are Fonseca and Lima. They are both tall, powerful men of swarthy complexion and apparently low intelligence. While the skinny man kept the writer of this article covered with a pistol, Fonseca and Lima dragged Monteiro Rossi into the bedroom to carry out what they called an interrogation. The present writer heard blows and smothered cries. Then the two men returned and said their work was done. The three of them hurriedly left the present writer’s home, threatening him with death if he disclosed the occurrence. The present writer hastened to the bedroom but could do no more than ascertain the decease of young Monteiro Rossi. He had been beaten to pulp, and the blows, inflicted with a cosh or the butt of a pistol, had smashed his skull. His corpse is to be found on the second floor of number twenty-two, Rua da Saudade, the residence of the present writer. Monteiro Rossi was an orphan and had no relatives. He was in love with a beautiful sweet girl whose name is unknown to us. We only know that she had copper-coloured hair and loved literature. To this girl, should she read this, we offer our sincerest condolences and deepest affection. We urge the competent authorities to maintain careful vigilance over these episodes of violence which under their wing, and perhaps with the direct complicity of certain persons in high places, are today being perpetrated here in Portugal.’
Pereira double-spaced again and then, beneath and to the right, he typed his name: PEREIRA. He signed it simply Pereira because that was the way everyone knew him, by his surname, that was how he had signed all his crime reports for so many years and a day.
He raised his eyes to the window and saw that dawn was breaking over the fronds of the palm trees of the barracks across the way. He heard a bugle call. Pereira sank back into an armchair and nodded off. When he awoke it was already broad daylight and he took a startled look at the clock, he maintains. He had to be quick off the mark. He shaved, rinsed his face in cold water and left the flat. He found a taxi in front of the cathedral and gave his office address. There he found Celeste in her cubbyhole. She greeted him fulsomely. Nothing for me?, asked Pereira. Nothing new, Dr Pereira, replied Celeste, except they’ve given me a week’s holiday. And waving the calendar at him she continued: I’ll be back next Saturday, for a whole week you’ll have to do without me, nowadays the State protects the underprivileged, people like me I mean, we’re not organized into corporations for nothing. We’ll try to bear your absence as best we may, muttered Pereira, as he plodded upstairs. He entered the office, took the ‘Obituaries’ file from the shelf, put it in a leather briefcase and left again. He called in at the Café Orquídea, reckoning that he had time to sit down for five minutes and have a drink. He settled himself at a table. Dr Pereira, a lemonade?, asked Manuel brightly. No thanks, replied Pereira, I’ll have a dry port, I’d rather have a dry port. This is something really exceptional Dr Pereira, said Manuel, and at this time of day too, but I’m pleased because it means you’re on the mend. Manuel gave him a glass and left the bottle on the table. Look Dr Pereira, he said, I’ll leave the bottle, so if you want another glass just help yourself, and if you’d like a cigar I’ll bring you one right away. Yes, thank you, bring me a mild cigar, said Pereira, but incidentally Manuel, what about your friend who gets the BBC, what’s the news? It seems the republicans are getting a clobbering, said Manuel, but you know Dr Pereira, he added lowering his voice, they also said something about Portugal. Did they now, said Pereira, and what did they say about us? They said we’re living under a dictatorship, replied the waiter, and that the police are torturing people. And what have you to say about that, Manuel?, asked Pereira. Well what do you say, Dr Pereira?, he replied, scratching his head, you’re a journalist, you’re in the know. I say that the English are perfectly right, said Pereira. He lit his cigar, paid the bill, went out and took a taxi to the printer’s. When he got there he found the foreman all huffing and puffing. We’re going to press in exactly an hour, said the foreman, you did a good thing Dr Pereira, putting in that story by Camilo Castelo Branco, it’s a beaut, I read it as a schoolboy but it’s still a beaut. We’ll have to cut it by a column, said Pereira, I’ve got a piece here for the end of the culture page, it’s an obituary. Pereira handed him the sheet of paper, the foreman read it through and scratched his head. Dr Pereira, said the foreman, this is pretty tricky, you bring me this at the last moment and it’s not passed by censor, seems to me that this is no joke. Look here Senhor Pedro, said Pereira, we’ve known each other for nearly thirty years, ever since I started crime reporting for the best paper in Lisbon, and have I ever got you into trouble? Never, replied the foreman, but times have changed, it’s not like it was in the old days, now there’s all this bureaucracy and I have to toe the line, Dr Pereira. Senhor Pedro, said Pereira, the censor’s office gave me permission by word of mouth, I called them from my office half an hour ago, I spoke to Major Lourenço, he gave me the all-clear. All the same it’d be better to ring the Chief, objected the foreman. Pereira heaved a deep sigh and said: Very well, Senhor Pedro, ring him then. The foreman dialled the number and Pereira listened. And his heart was in his mouth. He realized that the foreman was speaking to Senhora Filipa. Then the foreman replaced the receiver and said: The Chief’s out to lunch, I spoke to his secretary and he won’t be back until three o’clock. The paper’s already off the press by three, said Pereira, we can’t wait until then. You’re telling me, said the foreman, I don’t know what to do, Dr Pereira. Look here, suggested Pereira, the best thing would be to call the censor’s office direct, maybe we can talk to Major Lourenço. Major Lourenço!, exclaimed the foreman as if the very name struck panic into him, talk direct to Major Lourenço? He’s a friend of mine, said Pereira as nonchalantly as he could, I read him my article just now, he’s perfectly amenable, I’m in contact with him every day, Senhor Pedro, it’s part of my job. Pereira took over the telephone and dialled the number of the thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede. At the other end came Dr Cardoso’s voice. Good afternoon Major, said Pereira, this is Dr Pereira of the Lisboa, I’m here at the printer’s with a view to inserting the article I read you this morning but the foreman here is worried because it hasn’t got your clearance stamp, do please see if you can reassure him, I’ll pass him to you. He gave the foreman the receiver and watched every flicker of an eyelid. Senhor Pedro began to nod. Certainly Major, he said, very good Major. Then he hung up and looked at Pereira. Well?, asked Pereira. He says the Portuguese police are not afraid of scandal, replied the printer, that there are a lot of criminals around who must be denounced and that your article absolutely has to appear today, Dr Pereira, that’s what he said. And the foreman added: He also said tell Dr Pereira to write an article about
the soul, because that’s something we all need, that’s exactly what he said, Dr Pereira. Just his little joke, said Pereira, however tomorrow I’ll be talking to him myself.
He left the article with Senhor Pedro and made it to the door. He felt like a wet rag and his insides were churning madly. It occurred to him to stop for a sandwich at the cafe at the corner, but in the end he only ordered a lemonade. Then he took a taxi as far as the cathedral. He entered the flat warily, afraid that someone might be lying in wait for him. But there was no one there, only an enormous silence. He went into the bedroom and gazed a moment at the sheet that covered Monteiro Rossi. Then he fetched a small suitcase, packed the absolute minimum and the file of obituaries, went to the bookshelves and began to hunt through Monteiro Rossi’s passports. Eventually he came across one that suited him. It was a French passport, a good piece of work, the photograph was of a fat man with bags under his eyes, and the age was about right. His name was Baudin, François Baudin. It sounded a pretty good name to Pereira. He slipped the passport into the suitcase and picked up the picture of his wife. I’m taking you with me, he told it, you’d much better come with me. He packed it face up, so that she could breathe freely. Then he took a look around and glanced at his watch.
Better be getting along, the Lisboa would be out any moment and there was no time to lose, Pereira maintains.
By the Same Author
Also by Antonio Tabucchi
The Edge of the Horizon
Indian Nocturne
Letter from Casablanca
Little Misunderstandings of No Importance
The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro
Requiem: A Hallucination
It’s Getting Later All the Time
Copyright
Published by Canongate Books in 2010
Sostiene Pereira copyright © Antonio Tabucchi, 1994
All rights reserved
Translation copyright © Patrick Creagh, 1995
Introduction copyright © Mohsin Hamid, 2010
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
First published in Italy as Sostiene Pereira, by
Giangiacomo Feltrinelli Editore, Milan
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by
Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street,
Edinburgh EH1 1TE
www.meetatthegate.com
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available
on request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 84767 964 2
Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd,
Grangemouth, Stirlingshire
Table of Contents
Title Page
INTRODUCTION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
By the Same Author
Copyright
Table of Contents
Title Page
INTRODUCTION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
By the Same Author
Copyright
Antonio Tabucchi, Pereira Maintains
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