By the time he opened the office door Pereira was bathed in sweat and felt weak at the knees. He switched on the fan and sat down at his desk. He dumped his omelette sandwich on a sheet of typing paper and took the letter from his pocket. The envelope was addressed to Dr Pereira, Lisboa, Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca 66, Lisbon. The handwriting was stylish and in blue ink. Pereira placed the letter beside the omelette sandwich and lit a cigar. The cardiologist had forbidden him to smoke, but just now he really needed a couple of puffs, then perhaps he’d stub it out. He thought he would open the letter later, because his first task was to prepare the culture page for tomorrow. He considered revising the article he had written on Pessoa for the ‘Anniversaries’ column, but then decided it was all right as it was. So he began to read over the Maupassant story he had translated, in case there were any corrections to be made. He found none. The story read perfectly and Pereira gave himself a pat on the back. It really perked him up a bit, he maintains. Then from his jacket pocket he took a portrait of Maupassant he had come across in a magazine in the City Library. It was a pencil drawing by an unknown French artist, which showed Maupassant wearing an air of desperation, with beard unkempt and eyes staring into space, and Pereira felt it would suit the story perfectly. After all it was a tale of love and death, it cried out for a portrait with intimations of tragedy. Now what he needed was an insert to appear in bold in the centre of the article, with the basic biographical facts about Maupassant. Pereira opened the Larousse he kept on his desk and began to copy. He wrote: ‘Guy de Maupassant, 1850–1893. In common with his brother Hervé he inherited from his father a disease of venereal origin, which led him to madness and an early death. At the age of twenty he fought in the Franco-Prussian War, and thereafter worked at the Ministry for the Navy. A writer of great talent and satirical vision, in his tales he describes the shortcomings and cowardice of a certain stratum of French society. He also wrote very successful novels such as Bel-Ami and the fantasy-novel Le Horla. Struck down by insanity he was admitted to Dr Blanche’s clinic, where he died penniless and derelict.’
He took three or four mouthfuls of his omelette sandwich. The rest he threw into the wastepaper basket because he didn’t feel hungry, it was too hot, he maintains. Then he opened the letter. It was an article typed on flimsy paper, and the title read: Death of Filippo Tommaso Marinetti. Pereira felt his heart sink because without looking at the next pagehe knew the writer was Monteiro Rossi and realized at once that the article was no use to him, that it was an unusable article, he could have done with an obituary for Bernanos or Mauriac, who probably believed in the resurrection of the body, but this was an obituary for Filippo Tommaso Marinetti who believed in war, and Pereira set himself to read it. Truly it was an article to dump straight in the rubbish, but Pereira did not dump it, God knows why he kept it but he did, and for this reason he is able to produce it as evidence. It began as follows: ‘With Marinetti dies a man of violence, for violence was his muse. He began his career in 1909 with the publication of a Futurist Manifesto in a Paris newspaper, a manifesto in which he idealized war and violence. An enemy of democracy, bellicose and militaristic, he went on to sing the praises of war in a long eccentric poem entitled Zang Tumb Tumb, an onomatopoeic description of the Italian colonialist wars in Africa. His colonialist beliefs also led him to acclaim the Italian invasion of Libya. Among his writings is another nauseating manifesto: War: the World’s Only Hygiene. His photographs show a man striking arrogant poses, with curled moustaches and an academician’s cloak covered with medals. The Italian Fascists conferred a great many on him because Marinetti was among their most ardent supporters. With him dies a truly ugly customer, a warmonger …’
Pereira gave up on the typed section and turned to the letter, for the article was accompanied by a handwritten letter. It read: ‘Dear Dr Pereira, I have followed the reasons of the heart, but it’s not my fault. In any case you told me yourself that the reasons of the heart are the most important. I don’t know if this is a publishable obituary, and who knows, Marinetti may live for another twenty years. Anyway, if you could let me have something in the way of cash I would be grateful. I can’t come to the office for the moment for motives I won’t explain now. If you would care to send me a small sum at your discretion, perhaps you could put it in an envelope and address it to me at Box 202, Central Post Office, Lisbon. I’ll be giving you a call soon. With best wishes, Yours, Monteiro Rossi.’
Pereira placed the obituary and the letter in a file on which he wrote: ‘Obituaries’. Then he numbered the pages of the Maupassant story, gathered up his papers from the desk, put on his jacket and went to deliver the material to the printer’s. He was sweating, he felt uneasy, and he hoped not to meet the caretaker on the way out, he maintains.
EIGHT
That Saturday morning, on the dot of midday, Pereira maintains, the telephone rang. Pereira had not brought his omelette sandwich to the office that day, partly because he was trying to skip a meal every now and again as the cardiologist had advised him, and partly because even if he failed to stave off the pangs of hunger he could always get an omelette at the Café Orquídea.
Good morning Dr Pereira, said the voice of Monteiro Rossi, this is Monteiro Rossi speaking. I was expecting a call from you, said Pereira, where are you? I am out of town, said Monteiro Rossi. Excuse me, insisted Pereira, but out of town where? Out of town, replied Monteiro Rossi. Pereira maintains he was slightly nettled by such a stiff uninformative response. From Monteiro Rossi he would have liked more cordiality, even gratitude, but he restrained his vexation and said: I have sent a sum of money to your post office box. Thank you, said Monteiro Rossi, I’ll go and pick it up. And he volunteered nothing more. So Pereira asked him: When do you intend to call in at the office?, perhaps it would be a good thing to have a tête-à-tête. I’ve no idea when I’ll be able to call on you, replied Monteiro Rossi, to tell the truth I was just writing a note to fix a meeting somewhere, if possible not in the office. It was then that Pereira realized something was up, he maintains, and lowering his voice, as if someone else might be listening in, he asked: Are you in trouble? Monteiro Rossi did not answer and Pereira thought he hadn’t heard. Are you in trouble?, repeated Pereira. In a way yes, said the voice of Monteiro Rossi, but it’s not something to talk about over the telephone, I’ll write you a note to fix a meeting for the middle of next week, the fact is I need you, Dr Pereira, I need your help, but I’ll tell you about it when I see you, and now you must excuse me, I’m calling from somewhere very inconvenient and I have to hang up, forgive me Dr Pereira we’ll talk about it when we meet, goodbye for now.
The telephone went click and Pereira hung up in turn. He felt apprehensive, he maintains. He considered what was best to do and made his decisions. First of all he would have a lemonade at the Café Orquídea and stay on there for an omelette. Then, in the afternoon, he would take a train to Coimbra and find his way from there to the baths at Buçaco. He would be sure to meet his editor-in-chief, that was inevitable, and Pereira had no wish to get into conversation with him, but he had a good excuse for not spending any time with him because his friend Silva was also at the spa for his holidays and had often invited him to join him there. Silva was an old college friend at Coimbra now teaching literature at the university, a cultured and sensible man, a level-headed bachelor, it would be a pleasure to spend two or three days in his company. And in addition he would drink the health-giving waters of the spa, stroll in the gardens and perhaps take a few inhalations, because his breathing was terribly laboured, he was often forced to breathe through his mouth, especially when climbing stairs.
He pinned a note to the door: ‘Back mid-week, Pereira’. Luckily he did not meet the caretaker and this was some comfort to him. He went out into the blinding midday light and made for the Café Orquídea. As he passed the kosher butcher he noticed a small gathering outside it, so he stopped. He saw that the window was smashed and the shopfront covered with scrawls which the butcher was busy covering wi
th white paint. He edged his way through the crowd and went up to the butcher, whom he knew well, young Mayer, he had also known his father well, old Mayer, with whom he had many a time partaken of a lemonade at one of the cafés down by the river. Then old Mayer had died and left the shop to his son David, a hulking youngster with quite a paunch in spite of his youth and a jovial air about him. David, asked Pereira, what’s happened here? You can see for yourself, replied David as he wiped his paint-stained hands on his butcher’s apron, we live in a world of hooligans, it was the hooligans. Have you called the police?, asked Pereira. You must be joking, replied David, you must be joking. And he went on covering the scrawlings with white paint. Pereira walked on to the Café Orquídea and took a seat inside, next to the fan. He ordered a lemonade and took off his jacket. Have you heard what’s going on, Dr Pereira?, asked Manuel. Pereira’s eyes widened and he asked: The kosher butcher? Kosher butcher my foot, Manuel flung back over his shoulder, that’s the least of it.
Pereira ordered an omelette aux fines herbes and lingered over it. The Lisboa came out at five o’clock and he wouldn’t see it because he’d be on the train to Coimbra by then. Perhaps he could send for a morning paper, but he doubted if the Portuguese papers reported the event the waiter was referring to. Rumours simply spread, news travelled by word of mouth, all you could do was ask around in the cafés, listen to gossip, it was the only way of keeping in touch with things, other than buying some foreign paper from the newsagent in Rua do Ouro, but the foreign papers, if they arrived at all, were three or four days old, so it was useless to go hunting for a foreign paper, the best thing was to ask. But Pereira had no wish to ask anyone anything, he simply wanted to get away to the spa, enjoy a day or two of peace and quiet, talk to his friend Professor Silva and not think about all the evil in the world. He ordered another lemonade, asked for his bill, left the cafe and went to the central post office where he sent two telegrams, one to the hotel at the spa to book a room and the other to his friend Silva: ‘ARRIVE COIMBRA BY EVENING TRAIN STOP IF YOU CAN MEET ME WITH CAR WOULD BE GRATEFUL STOP AFFECTIONATELY PEREIRA.’
Then he went home to pack a suitcase. He thought he would leave buying his ticket until he got to the station, he had all the time in the world, he maintains.
NINE
When Pereira’s train drew in to Coimbra a magnificent sunset was outspread over the city, he maintains. He looked around but saw no sign of his friend Silva on the platform. He supposed the telegram had not arrived or else Silva had left the spa. But on reaching the booking-hall he saw his friend seated on a bench smoking a cigarette. He was delighted and hurried to meet him. He hadn’t seen him for quite a while. Silva gave him a hug and took his suitcase. They left the station and walked to the car. Silva had a black Chevrolet with shining chrome, roomy and comfortable.
The road to the spa led through a countryside of lush green hills and was just one bend after another. Pereira wound the window down, he was beginning to feel a little queasy and the fresh air did him good, he maintains. They talked very little during the journey. How are you getting along?, asked Silva. So so, replied Pereira. Still living alone?, asked Silva. Yes, alone, replied Pereira. I think it’s bad for you, said Silva, you ought to find a woman who’d keep you company and jolly your life up a bit, I realize you’re still very attached to the memory of your wife, but you can’t spend the rest of your life nurturing memories. I’m old, replied Pereira, I’m fat and I’ve got heart trouble. You’re not old at all, said Silva, you’re the same age as I am, and after all you could go on a diet, treat yourself to a holiday, take more care of your health. Humph, replied Pereira.
Pereira maintains that the hotel at the spa was a wonder, a shining white mansion set amid spacious gardens. He went up to his room and changed. He donned a light-coloured suit and a black tie. Silva was waiting for him in the lobby sipping an aperitif. Pereira asked if he had seen his editor-in-chief. Silva answered with a wink. He dines every evening with a middle-aged blonde, he replied, she’s a guest in the hotel, he appears to have found himself some company. Just as well, said Pereira, it’ll let me off having to discuss business.
They entered the restaurant, a nineteeth-century chamber with a ceiling festooned with painted flowers. The editor-in-chief was dining at a centre table in the company of a lady in an evening gown. When he looked up and saw Pereira an expression of complete incredulity spread over his face and he beckoned to him. Pereira crossed the room towards him while Silva made his way to another table. Good evening Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, it comes as a surprise to see you here, have you left the office to its own devices? The culture page came out today, said Pereira, I don’t know whether you’ve seen it yet, possibly the paper hasn’t reached Coimbra, there’s a Maupassant story and a feature called ‘Anniversaries’ which I’ve started on my own initiative, and in any case I’m only staying here a few days, on Wednesday I shall be back in Lisbon to get the culture page together for next Saturday. My apologies dear lady, said the editor-in-chief addressing his companion, allow me to introduce Dr Pereira, a member of my staff. Then he added: Senhora Maria do Vale Santares. Pereira inclined his head briefly. There’s something I wanted to tell you sir, he said, provided you have no objection I have decided to engage an assistant to give me a hand purely with advance obituaries of great writers who might die at any moment. Dr Pereira!, exclaimed the editor-in-chief, here I am dining with a gracious, sensitive lady with whom I am conversing about choses amusantes, and you come and interrupt us with talk about people who might die at any moment, it seems to me rather less than tactful on your part. I’m very sorry sir, Pereira maintains he said, I didn’t intend to talk shop, but on the culture page one needs to foresee the death of great artists, and if one of them dies unexpectedly it’s a real problem to compose an obituary overnight, and what’s more you’ll remember that three years ago when T.E. Lawrence died not a single Portuguese paper got anything out on time, they all came out with their obituaries a week late, and if we want to be an up-to-date paper we must keep abreast of things. The editor-in-chief slowly chewed his way through a mouthful of something and said: Very well, very well Dr Pereira, after all I did give you a free hand as regards the culture page, I only want to know whether this assistant is going to cost us much and whether he is a trustworthy person. Oh as far as that’s concerned, replied Pereira, he strikes me as an undemanding person, he’s a modest young man, and what’s more he graduated from Lisbon University with a thesis on death, so he knows about death. The editor-in-chief raised a hand to cut him short, took a sip of wine and said: Come now, Dr Pereira, stop talking about death if you don’t mind or you will ruin our dinner, as for the culture page you may do as you see fit, I have confidence in you, you were a reporter for thirty years after all, and now good evening and enjoy your meal.
Pereira moved over to his table and took a seat opposite his friend. Silva asked if he would like a glass of white wine but he shook his head. He called the waiter and ordered a lemonade. Wine isn’t good for me, he explained, the cardiologist told me so. Silva ordered trout with almonds and Pereira ordered a fillet steak à la Stroganoff with a poached egg on top. They started eating in silence, then after a while Pereira asked Silva what he thought about all this. All this what?, asked Silva. What’s going on in Europe, said Pereira. Oh don’t bother your head, replied Silva, we’re not in Europe here, we’re in Portugal. Pereira maintains he couldn’t let the matter rest: Yes, but you read the papers and listen to the wireless, he insisted, you know what’s going on in Germany and Italy, they’re fanatics, they’re out to put the world to fire and sword. Don’t bother your head, replied Silva, they’re miles away. True enough, said Pereira, but Spain isn’t miles away, it’s right next door, and you know what’s going on in Spain, it’s a bloodbath, despite the fact that there was a legally elected government, it’s all the fault of one bigot of a general. Even Spain is miles away, said Silva, we’re in Portugal here. That may be so, said Pereira, but even here things a
ren’t too rosy, the police have things all their own way, they’re killing people, they ransack people’s houses, there’s censorship, I tell you this is an authoritarian state, the people count for nothing, public opinion counts for nothing. Silva gave him a steady look and laid down his fork. Listen to me Pereira, said Silva, do you still believe in public opinion?, well let me tell you public opinion is a gimmick thought up by the English and Americans, it’s them who are shitting us up with this public opinion rot, if you’ll excuse my language, we’ve never had their political system, we don’t have their traditions, we don’t even know what trade unions are, we’re a southern people, Pereira, and we obey whoever shouts the loudest and gives the orders. We’re not a southern people, objected Pereira, we have Celtic blood in us. But we live in the South, said Silva, the climate here doesn’t encourage us to have political opinions, laisser faire, laisser passer, that’s the way we’re made, and now listen to me and I’ll tell you something else, I teach literature and I know a thing or two about literature, I’m compiling a critical edition of our troubadours, the Cantigas de amigo, surely you remember them from university, in any case the young men went off to the wars and the women stayed at home and wept, and the troubadours recorded their laments, because everyone had to do what the king commanded don’t you see?, the big chief gave the orders, we’ve always needed a big chief, and we still need one today. But I’m a journalist, said Pereira. So what?, said Silva. So, said Pereira, I must be free to keep people properly informed. I don’t see the connection, said Silva, you don’t write political stuff, your business is the culture page. Now it was Pereira’s turn to lay down his fork and prop his elbows on the table. Listen to me old man, said he, just imagine if Marinetti died tomorrow, you’ve heard of Marinetti? Vaguely, said Silva. Well then, said Pereira, Marinetti’s a swine, he started his career by singing the praises of war, he’s set himself up as a champion of bloodshed, he’s a terrorist, he hailed Mussolini’s march on Rome, Marinetti is a swine and it’s my duty to say so. Then go and live in England, said Silva, there you can say whatever you like, you’ll have a mass of readers. Pereira finished his last mouthful of steak. I’m going to bed, he said, England’s too far away. Don’t you want any dessert?, asked Silva, I rather fancy a slice of cake. Sweet things are bad for me, said Pereira, the cardiologist told me so, and what’s more I’m tired from the journey, but thank you for coming to fetch me from the station, good night, see you tomorrow.