Pereira got up to take his leave. Goodbye, Father António, said he, I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time, my next visit I’ll make a proper confession. You don’t need to, replied Father António, first make sure you commit some sin and then come to me, don’t make me waste my time for nothing.
Pereira left him and clambered breathlessly up the Rua da Imprensa Nacional. When he reached the church of San Mamede he crossed himself, then dropped onto a bench in the little square, stretched out his legs and settled down to enjoy a breath of fresh air. He would have liked a lemonade, and there was a café only a few steps away. But he resisted the temptation. He simply relaxed in the shade, took off his shoes for a while and let the cool air get to his feet. Then he set off slowly for the office, revolving many memories. Pereira declares he thought back on his childhood, a childhood spent at Póvoa do Varzim with his grandparents, a happy childhood, or at least one that seemed happy to him, but he has no wish to speak about his childhood because he declares it has nothing to do with these events and that late August day when summer was on the wane and his mind in such a whirl.
On the stairs he met Celeste who greeted him cheerily and said: Good morning Dr Pereira, no post for you this morning or telephone calls either. How d’you mean, telephone calls, exclaimed Pereira, have you been into the office? Of course not, replied the caretaker with an air of triumph, but some workmen from the telephone company came this morning accompanied by an official, they connected your telephone to the porter’s lodge, they said it’s as well to have someone to receive the calls when there’s no one in the office, and they say I’m a trustworthy person. All too trustworthy as far as that lot are concerned, Pereira would dearly like to have retorted, but he said nothing of the kind. All he asked was: And what if I have to make a call myself? You have to go through the switchboard, replied Celeste smugly, from now on I am your switchboard, and you have to ask me to obtain the numbers, and I assure you I’d have preferred not to, Dr Pereira, I work all morning and have to get lunch for four people, because I have four mouths to feed, I do, and apart from the children who get what they get and like it I have a husband who’s very demanding, when he gets back from headquarters at two o’clock he’s as hungry as a hunter and very demanding. I can tell that from the smell of frying always hanging about on the landing, replied Pereira, and left it at that. He went into the office, took the receiver off the hook and reached into his pocket for the sheet of paper Marta had given him the evening before. It was an article written by hand in blue ink, and at the top was printed: ANNIVERSARIES. It read: “Eight years ago, in 1930, the great poet Vladimir Mayakovsky died in Moscow. He shot himself after being disappointed in love. He was the son of a forestry inspector. After joining the Bolshevik party at an early age he was three times arrested and was tortured by the Czarist police. A great propagandist for the Russian revolution, he was a member of the Russian Futurist group, who are politically quite distinct from the Italian Futurists. He toured his country on board a locomotive reciting his revolutionary poems in every village along the way. He aroused great enthusiasm among the people. He was an artist, designer, poet and playwright. His work is not translated into Portuguese, but may be obtained in French from the bookshop in Rua do Ouro in Lisbon. He was a friend of the great Eisenstein, with whom he collaborated on a number of films. He left a vast opus of poetry, prose and drama. In him we celebrate a great democrat and a fervent anti-Czarist.”
Pereira, though it was not particularly hot, felt a ring of sweat forming round his collar. He would have liked to chuck that article straight in the wastepaper basket, it was just too stupid for words. But instead he opened the file of “Obituaries” and slipped it in. Then he put on his jacket and decided it was time to go home, he declares.
TWENTY
That Saturday the translation of Daudet’s “The Last Class” was published in the Lisboa. The censors had authorized the piece without any fuss and Pereira declares he thought to himself that one actually could write “Vïve la France!” after all and that Dr Cardoso had been wrong about that. Once again Pereira did not sign the translation. This was because he didn’t think it proper for the editor of a culture page to sign a translation, he declares, it would have shown the readers that in fact he wrote the entire page himself, and he didn’t like the idea of that. It was a question of pride, he declares.
Pereira read over the story with a glow of satisfaction, it was ten in the morning, it was Sunday, and because he had got up very early he was already in the office, had begun translating the first chapter of the Journal d’un cure de campagne by Bernanos and was working away at it with a will. At that moment the telephone rang. As a rule Pereira took it off the hook, because since it had been connected to the caretaker’s switchboard it gave him a creepy feeling to have his calls coming through her, but that morning he’d forgotten. Hullo Dr Pereira, came the voice of Celeste, there’s a call for you, you’re wanted by the thassalloempyrical clinic in Parede. Thalassotherapeutical, corrected Pereira. Well something of the sort, said the voice of Celeste, do you want to be connected or shall I say you’re not in? Put ’em through, said Pereira. He heard the click of a switch and a voice said: Hullo, Dr Cardoso here, I’d like to speak to Dr Pereira, please. Speaking, replied Pereira, good morning Dr Cardoso, it’s good to hear from you. The pleasure is mine, said Dr Cardoso, how are you Dr Pereira, are you following my diet? I’m doing my best, said Pereira, I’m doing my best but it’s not easy. Now Dr Pereira, said Dr Cardoso, I’m just off to catch the train for Lisbon, I read the Daudet story yesterday, it’s really excellent, I’d like to have a chat about it, how about meeting for lunch? Do you know the Café Orquídea?, asked Pereira, it’s in Rua Alexandre Herculano, just past the kosher butcher. I know it, said Dr Cardoso, what time shall we meet, Dr Pereira? At one, said Pereira, if that suits you. Perfectly, replied Dr Cardoso, one o’clock be it, I’ll see you then. Pereira was certain that Celeste had eavesdropped on every word, but he didn’t much care as he hadn’t said anything to worry about. He went on translating the first chapter of the Bernanos novel and this time, he declares, he did take the telephone off the hook. He worked until a quarter to one, then donned his jacket, put his tie in his pocket and sallied forth.
When he entered the Café Orquídea Dr Cardoso had not yet arrived. Pereira had the table near the fan laid for two and made himself comfortable. He was pretty thirsty, so for an aperitif he ordered a lemonade, but without sugar. When the waiter came with the lemonade Pereira asked him: What’s the news, Manuel? Conflicting reports, replied the waiter, it seems that in Spain at the moment there’s rather a stalemate, the nationalists have conquered the north but the republicans are getting the better of it in the centre of the country, it seems the fifteenth international brigade fought bravely at Saragossa, the centre is in republican hands and the Italians fighting for Franco are behaving shamefully. Pereira smiled and asked: Who are you for, Manuel? Sometimes one side and sometimes the other, replied the waiter, because they’re both strong, but I don’t care for this business of our boys of the Viriato Brigade fighting against the republicans, after all we’re a republic ourselves, we kicked out the king in Nineteen Ten, I don’t see what reason we have to go fighting against a republic. No more do I, agreed Pereira.
At that moment in came Dr Cardoso. Pereira had always seen him in a doctor’s white coat, and seeing him now in everyday clothes he looked younger, Pereira declares. Dr Cardoso was wearing a striped shirt and light-coloured jacket and seemed to be feeling the heat. They exchanged a friendly smile, shook hands, and Dr Cardoso sat down. Tremendous, Dr Pereira, said he, really tremendous, that really is a beautiful story, I never realized Daudet had such power, I’ve come to offer my congratulations, but it’s a shame you didn’t sign the translation, I’d have liked to see your name at the foot of the page. Pereira patiently explained that the reason was humility, or perhaps you could call it pride, because he didn’t want the readers to tumble to the fact that the whole page was
written by the editor himself, he wanted to give the impression that the paper had other contributors, that it was a proper newspaper, in a word he hadn’t signed it for the sake of the Lisboa.
They ordered two seafood salads. Pereira would have preferred an omelette aux fines herbes, but he didn’t dare order one in front of Dr Cardoso. Perhaps your new ruling ego has scored a point or two, murmured Dr Cardoso. How do you mean?, asked Pereira. I mean that you were capable of writing “Vive la France!”, said Dr Cardoso, even though the words were put in someone else’s mouth. It did make me feel good, admitted Pereira. And then, with the air of one with all the facts at his fingertips, he went on: Have you heard that the fifteenth international brigade has the upper hand in central Spain?, it seems it fought heroically at Saragossa. Don’t cherish too many illusions, Dr Pereira, replied Dr Cardoso, Mussolini has sent Franco a whole fleet of submarines and the Germans are backing him with their Air Force, the republicans are not going to make it. But they have the Soviets on their side, objected Pereira, the international brigades, people from all over the world have poured down into Spain to give the republicans a hand. I shouldn’t cherish too many illusions, repeated Dr Cardoso, and incidentally I was meaning to tell you that I’ve reached an agreement with that clinic in Saint-Malo, I’ll be leaving in two weeks’ time. Don’t leave me, Dr Cardoso!, was what Pereira wanted to say, I beg you not to leave me! Instead he said: Don’t leave us, Dr Cardoso, don’t leave our people, this country needs people like you. Unfortunately the truth is that it does not need people like me, replied Dr Cardoso, or at least I don’t need it, I think it better for me to go to France before the disaster strikes. Disaster?, exclaimed Pereira, what disaster? I don’t know, replied Dr Cardoso, but I am living in fear of a disaster, a widespread disaster, but I don’t want to cause you anxiety, Dr Pereira, it may be you are working out your new ruling ego and need peace of mind, however I am leaving no matter what, and now tell me about your young people, how are they doing, the youngsters you met who contribute to your paper? Only one of them works for me, replied Pereira, but he has yet to come up with a publishable article, just imagine that yesterday he sent me one on Mayakovsky, talking up that revolutionary bolshevik, I don’t know why I go on giving him good money for unpublishable articles, maybe because he’s in trouble, in fact I’m certain of that, and his girl’s in trouble too, and I’m the only person they can appeal to. You’re helping them, said Dr Cardoso, I realize that, but helping them less than you’d really like to, perhaps if your new ruling ego comes to the surface you’ll do something more, you must excuse me for being frank with you, Dr Pereira. Look here, Dr Cardoso, said Pereira, I took on this lad to write anniversaries and advance obituaries and so far he’s sent me nothing but raving revolutionary stuff, as if he didn’t know what kind of country we’re living in, I’ve always given him money out of my own pocket so as not to burden the paper and because it’s better not to involve the editor-in-chief, I’ve taken him under my wing, I hid his cousin, who seemed to me a poor fish and is fighting in the international brigade in Spain, now I’m still sending him money and he’s wandering round in Alentejo, what more can I do? You could go and see him, replied Dr Cardoso simply. Go and see him!, exclaimed Pereira, follow him into Alentejo, follow his secret movements, and anyway, where could I go and see him when I don’t even know where he’s living? His girl will certainly know, said Dr Cardoso, in fact I’m sure his girl knows but doesn’t tell you because she doesn’t have complete faith in you, Dr Pereira, but perhaps you could gain her confidence, be more forthcoming with her, you have a strong super-ego, Dr Pereira, and this super-ego is fighting against your new ruling ego, you are in conflict with yourself in this battle raging in your soul, you must shed your super-ego, you must allow it to go to its doom like the sloughed-off thing it is. But what would be left of me?, quavered Pereira, I am what I am, with my memories, my past life, the memories I have of Coimbra, of my wife, a whole lifetime as a reporter on a great newspaper, what would be left of me? You must work your way through grief, said Dr Cardoso, it’s a Freudian concept, you must forgive me, I am a syncretist so I’ve drawn ideas from here there and everywhere, but what you need to do is slough off grief, you have to say goodbye to your past life, you need to live in the present, a man cannot live as you do, Dr Pereira, thinking only of the past. But what about my memories, cried Pereira, all the things that have happened to me? They would be memories and nothing but memories, replied Dr Cardoso, they would not tyrannize so violently over your present, your life is all backward-looking, for you it’s as if you were in Coimbra thirty years ago with your wife still alive, if you go on this way you’ll become a sort of fetishist of memories, maybe you’ll even start talking to your wife’s photograph. Pereira wiped his mouth with his napkin, lowered his voice and said: Dr Cardoso, I already do. Dr Cardoso smiled. I saw the picture of your wife in your room at the clinic, he said, and I thought: this man converses mentally with his wife’s portrait, he has not yet done his grief-work, that’s exactly what I thought, Dr Pereira. To be perfectly frank it’s not that I converse mentally, confessed Pereira, I talk out loud, I tell it everything that happens to me and it’s as if the picture answered me. These are fantasies dictated by the super-ego, said Dr Cardoso, you should talk to someone real about such things. But I have no one to talk to, confessed Pereira, I live alone, I have a friend who teaches at the University of Coimbra, I went to visit him at the spa at Buçaco and left the very next day because I couldn’t stand him, these dons are all of them in favour of the present regime and he’s no exception, and then there’s my editor-in-chief, but he’s on show at all the official functions with his arm stuck out like a javelin, just imagine me talking to him of all people, and then there’s Celeste, the caretaker at the office, who’s a police spy and is now my switchboard operator into the bargain, and then there’s Monteiro Rossi, but he’s in hiding. He’s the young fellow you met recently, isn’t he?, asked Dr Cardoso. Yes, he’s my assistant, replied Pereira, the one who writes me articles I can’t publish. You should seek him out, said Dr Cardoso, as I said before you should go and seek him out, he’s young, he’s the future, you badly need young company, even if he does write articles which can’t be published in your paper, stop haunting your past and try to drop in on the future. What a splendid way of putting it, said Pereira, to drop in on the future, it would never have occurred to me to put it that way. Pereira ordered a lemonade without sugar and continued: And then there’d be you, Dr Cardoso, I find it easy to talk to you and would like to talk to you again and again, but you’re leaving us, you’re leaving me, you’re leaving me alone here, and I’ll have no one except that photograph of my wife, as you can well understand. Dr Cardoso drank the coffee which Manuel had brought him. We can talk at Saint-Malo if you’ll come and look me up, Dr Pereira, said Dr Cardoso, I’m far from convinced that this is the right country for you, it’s too full of memories, try to toss your super-ego out of the window and make room for your new ruling ego, maybe then we’ll be able to meet again and you’ll be a new man.
Dr Cardoso insisted on paying for lunch and Pereira was only too glad to accept, he declares, because what with those two big banknotes he’d handed over to Marta the evening before his wallet wasn’t exactly flush. Dr Cardoso stood up and said: Goodbye for now, Dr Pereira, I hope to see you in France or some other country in this great wide world, and don’t forget, make room for your new ruling ego, let it come into being, it needs to be born, it needs to assert itself.
Pereira also got to his feet to say goodbye. He watched the other go off and he felt a pang of loss, he declares, as if that parting were something irremediable. He pondered on the week he had spent at the thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede, on his conversations with Dr Cardoso, on his own loneliness. And when Dr Cardoso passed through the door and disappeared into the street he felt alone, really and truly alone, and it dawned on him that when one is really and truly alone, that is the moment to come to terms with the ruling ego
striving to assert itself over one’s cohorts of souls. But in spite of this thought he did not feel reassured. On the contrary he felt this deep yearning, for exactly what he cannot presume to say, but it was a profound yearning for a life that was past and for one in the future, Pereira declares.
TWENTY-ONE
The next morning, he declares, Pereira was awakened by the telephone. He was still in the middle of a dream which he seemed to have been dreaming all night, a very long happy dream which he does not think it proper to reveal because it has nothing to do with these events.
Pereira instantly recognized the voice of Senhora Filipa, the editor-in-chief’s secretary. Good morning Dr Pereira, said Filipa in dulcet tones, I’ll put you through to the Chief. Pereira rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up on the edge of the bed. Good morning Dr Pereira, said the well-known voice, this is your editor-in-chief speaking. Good morning sir, replied Pereira, did you have a good holiday? Excellent, excellent, replied the editor-in-chief, the spa at Buçaco is truly magnificent, but I think I have already told you that, we have spoken since then if I am not mistaken. Ah, yes, of course, said Pereira, we spoke when the Balzac story came out, I do apologize but I’ve only just woken up and I haven’t got my ideas straight yet. That can happen to any of us, said the editor-in-chief somewhat tartly, and I imagine it can happen even to you, Dr Pereira. It can indeed, agreed Pereira, it happens mostly first thing in the morning because I have sudden fluctuations of blood pressure. Stabilize them with a little salt, advised the editor-in-chief, a little salt under the tongue will stabilize your blood pressure, but I have not called you to talk about your blood pressure, Dr Pereira, the fact is that you never come into the head office, that’s the problem, you stay shut up in that room in Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca and never come and discuss anything with me, you don’t tell me your plans, you do everything off your own bat. Forgive me for saying so, sir, said Pereira, but the fact is you gave me carte blanche, you said the culture page was my responsibility, I mean you actually instructed me to do everything off my own bat. That’s all very well, continued the editor-in-chief, but don’t you think that every now and then you ought to confer with me? It would be a good thing for me too, agreed Pereira, because the fact is I’m all on my own on the culture page, far more than I like, but you told me you didn’t want anything to do with the culture page. What about your assistant, asked the editor-in-chief, didn’t you tell me you had taken on an assistant? Yes, replied Pereira, but his articles are still somewhat unpolished, and anyway no interesting writer has died, and he’s a young chap and asked to go on holiday, I suppose he’s off at the sea, I haven’t seen him for nearly a month. Sack him, Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, what are you doing with an assistant who can’t write articles and goes off on holiday? Let’s give him one more chance, replied Pereira, after all he has to learn the job, he’s just an inexperienced youngster, he has to start at the bottom and work up. At that moment the dulcet tones of Senhora Filipa interrupted the conversation. Excuse me sir, but there’s a call for you from the Ministry, it seems urgent. Very well, Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, I shall have a call put through to you in about twenty minutes, meanwhile for goodness’ sake wake up properly and dissolve a little salt under your tongue. I’ll call you back if you like, said Pereira. No, said the editor-in-chief, I do not wish to be hurried, you will hear from me when I am ready, goodbye.