Pereira Declares

  Pereira got up and had a quick bath. He made coffee and ate a salty biscuit. Then he dressed and went into the hall. The editor-in-chief is ringing me back, he told his wife’s photograph, it seems to me he’s beating about the bush and hasn’t yet come to the point, I don’t understand what he’s on about but he ought to come to the point, don’t you think? His wife’s photo smiled its faraway smile and Pereira said: Ah well, never mind, we’ll see what it’s all about, I have nothing to blame myself for, at least as far as the paper is concerned, I do nothing but translate nineteenth-century French stories.

  He sat himself down at the dining-room table and thought he might begin an anniversary article on Rilke. But when it came right down to it he had not the slightest wish to write anything at all about Rilke, that snobbish society-haunting dandy could go to the devil, thought Pereira. He set about translating a few sentences from the Bernanos novel, it was more intricate than he had thought, at least at the beginning, and this was only the first chapter, he hadn’t yet got into the story. At that moment the telephone rang. Good morning again, Dr Pereira, said the dulcet tones of Senhora Filipa, I have the Chief on the line for you. Pereira waited a few seconds and then the voice of the editor-in-chief, measured and grave, intoned: Well, Dr Pereira, where were we? You were telling me that I shut myself up in my office in Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca, sir, said Pereira, but that’s the room where I work, where I edit the culture page, at the head office I wouldn’t know what to do, I don’t know the journalists there, I was a reporter for many years on another paper, but you didn’t want to put me in charge of the newsdesk, you gave me the culture page, with the political journalists I have no contact at all, I don’t know what I’d be coming to head office to do. Have you got that off your chest, Dr Pereira?, asked the editor-in-chief. I’m sorry sir, said Pereira, I didn’t wish to get anything off my chest, I just wanted to explain my position. Very well, said the editor-in-chief, but now I want to ask you a simple question, why do you never feel it necessary to come and talk things over with your Chief? Because you told me that culture is not up your street, sir, replied Pereira. Look here Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, I don’t know if you are hard of hearing or just don’t want to understand, but the fact is I am calling you in to the office, do you get that?, you should be the one to ask for an occasional talk with me, but at this point, seeing that you are so slow on the uptake it is I who am asking for a talk with you. I am at your disposal, said Pereira, completely at your disposal. Good, said the editor-in-chief, then come to my office at five o’clock this evening, so goodbye until then, Dr Pereira.

  Pereira became aware that he was sweating slightly. His shirt was wet under the armpits, so he changed it. He contemplated going to his office and waiting till five o’clock. Then he told himself that there was nothing to do in the office, he would be forced to see Celeste and take the telephone off the hook, it was better to stay at home. He went back to the dining-room table and got on with his translation of Bernanos. It certainly was an intricate novel, and also slow-moving, he wondered what the readers of the Lisboa would think when they read the first chapter. Nevertheless he pushed ahead and translated two pages. At lunchtime he thought of cooking himself something, but there was practically nothing in the store-cupboard. He thought the best thing to do was have a late bite of lunch at the Café Orquídea, he declares, and then go on to the main office. He put on his light summer suit and black tie and left the house. He took the tram to Terreiro do Paço and changed there for Rua Alexandre Herculano. By the time he reached the Café Orquídea it was nearly three and Manuel was clearing the tables. Come on in Dr Pereira, said the waiter cordially, for you there’s always a little something, I take it you haven’t eaten yet, it’s a hard life is a journalist’s. You’re right there, replied Pereira, especially for journalists who don’t know anything because no one ever knows anything in this country, what’s the news? It seems some English ships have been bombed off Barcelona, replied Manuel, and a French passenger ship was tracked all the way to the Dardanelles, it’s the Italian submarines, they’re very hot on submarines are the Italians, it’s their speciality. Pereira ordered a lemonade without sugar and an omelette aux fines herbes. He took a seat near the fan, but that day the fan was off. We’ve switched it off, said Manuel, summer’s over, didn’t you hear the storm last night? No I didn’t, replied Pereira, I never stirred all night, but I personally still find it pretty hot. Manuel switched on the fan and brought him a lemonade. And a drop of wine, Dr Pereira, when will you give me the pleasure of serving you a drop of wine? Wine is bad for my heart, replied Pereira, have you got a morning paper? Manuel brought him a paper. The main headline read: “Sand-Carvings on Carcavelos Beach. Minister of Secretariado Nacional de Propaganda Opens Exhibition of Youthful Artists”. Further down the page was a large photograph of the works of the young beach-artists, with a display of mermaids, boats, ships, whales and so forth. Pereira turned the page. Inside he read: “Gallant Resistance of Portuguese Contingent in Spain”. The sub-head ran: “Our soldiers distinguish themselves in another battle with long-range support from Italian submarines.” Pereira did not feel inclined to read the article and laid the newspaper on a chair. He finished his omelette and had another lemonade without sugar. Then he paid the bill, got up, put on his discarded jacket and set off on foot to the head office of the Lisboa. When he got there it was still only a quarter to five. Pereira went to a café, he declares, and ordered an aqua vitae. It was sure to be bad for his heart, but he thought: What the hell. Then he climbed the stairs of the old building where the Lisboa had its offices and said good afternoon to Senhora Filipa. I’ll go and announce you, said Senhora Filipa. Don’t worry, said Pereira, I’ll see myself in, it’s exactly five o’clock and my appointment is at five. He knocked at the door and heard the editor-in-chief say come in. Pereira buttoned his jacket and entered. The editor-in-chief was looking tanned, very tanned and fit, he had evidently taken plenty of sun in the gardens at the spa. Here I am sir, said Pereira, at your service, tell me all. That’s soon done, Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, it’s that you haven’t been to see me for more than a month. We met at the spa, said Pereira, and you seemed satisfied with the way things were going. Holidays are holidays, snapped the editor-in-chief, we are not here to talk about holidays. Pereira seated himself facing the desk. The editor-in-chief picked up a pencil and started rolling it this way and that on the desk-top. Look here, Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, we have not known each other all that long, only since this newspaper was founded, but I would like to address you in informal fashion if I may. As you wish, replied Pereira. I know you are an experienced journalist, resumed the editor-in-chief, you worked for thirty years as a reporter, you know life and I’m sure you will understand what I am going to say. I’ll do my level best, promised Pereira. Well then, said the editor-in-chief, I really didn’t expect this latest thing. What latest thing?, asked Pereira. That panegyric on France, said the editor-in-chief, has caused a lot of offence in high places. What panegyric on France?, asked Pereira, totally bewildered. Come now Pereira!, exclaimed the editor-in-chief, you published a story by Alphonse Daudet about the Franco-Prussian War which ended with the phrase: “Vive la France!”. But it’s a nineteenth-century story, replied Pereira. A nineteenth-century story it may be, continued the editor-in-chief, but it is nonetheless concerned with a war against Germany, and you cannot be ignorant of the fact, Pereira, that Germany is our ally. Our government has made no alliances, retorted Pereira, at least not officially. Come off it Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, use your nous. If there are no alliances there are at least sympathies, strong sympathies, we think along the same lines as Germany does, in home as in foreign policy, and we are supporting the Spanish nationalists just as the Germans are. But the censors raised no objections, said Pereira stoutly, they passed the story without any trouble. The censors are a bunch of illiterate boobies, said the editor-in-chief, the chief censor is an intelligent man, a friend of mine, but he
cannot personally read the proofs of every newspaper in Portugal, the others are just officials, common-or-garden policemen paid not to let through subversive words such as socialism or communism, they could scarcely be expected to understand a story by Daudet ending with the words “Vive la France!”, it is we who must be vigilant, we who must be cautious, we journalists who are versed in history and culture, we have to keep a watchful eye on ourselves. There’s a watchful eye on me all right, rejoined Pereira, he declares, there’s someone actually keeping me under surveillance. Explain yourself, Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, what do you mean by that? I mean that my office now has a switchboard, said Pereira, I no longer get my telephone calls direct, they all go through Celeste, the caretaker. It’s that way in all newspaper offices, replied the editor-in-chief, if you are out there is always someone to receive your calls and take a message. All right, said Pereira, but the caretaker is a police informer, I’m sure of it. Come off it Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, the police are there to protect us, they watch while we sleep, you ought to be grateful to them. I am grateful to no one and nothing, sir, except my professional ability and the memory of my wife. One must always be grateful for happy memories, murmured the editor-in-chief unctuously, but you, Pereira, must no longer publish the culture page without letting me see it first, this I insist on. But I told you beforehand that it was a patriotic story, argued Pereira, and you encouraged me by saying that in times like these we all need patriotism. The editor-in-chief lit a cigarette and scratched his head. Portuguese patriotism, I don’t know if you follow me Pereira, we need Portuguese patriotism, and you do nothing but publish French stories and the French are not congenial to us, if you follow me, however the fact is this, what our readers need is a good Portuguese cultural page, there are dozens of Portuguese writers to choose from, even nineteenth-century writers, for the next issue choose a story by Eça da Queiroz, who really knew his Portugal, or Camilo Castelo Branco, who was truly romantic and led an adventurous life, always in and out of love and prison, the Lisboa is not a foreign-orientated newspaper, you need to rediscover your roots, Pereira, to return to your native sod, in the words of the critic Borrapotas. Never heard of him, said Pereira. He is a critic and a nationalist, explained the editor-in-chief, who writes for a rival paper and holds the view that Portuguese writers must return to their native sod. I have never left my native sod, said Pereira, I am planted in it like a stake. Quite, quite, conceded the editor-in-chief, but I wish you to consult me before any new undertaking, I don’t know if you grasp my point. I grasp it perfectly, said Pereira, undoing the top button of his jacket. Good, concluded the editor-in-chief, then I think that is all we have to discuss, I would like there to be good relations between us. Quite, echoed Pereira, and took his leave.

  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 declares.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Next day Pereira stayed at home, he declares. 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 declares.

  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 declares, 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, it'
s 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 muerte!, and I can’t write about death, what I love is life, Dr Pereira, and I’d never have managed to write obituaries 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 declares, I can’t stand it any longer myself.