A flush of irritation came over Pereira, he declares. Now look here, he said, it’s not that I want nothing but Catholic writers, but someone who’s written a thesis on death might give a little more thought to the writers who have dealt with this subject, who are interested in the soul, in short, and instead you bring me an anniversary article on a downright vitalist like D’Annunzio, who may possibly have been a good poet but who frittered his life away in frivolities, and my newspaper doesn’t care for frivolous people, or at least I don’t, do I make myself clear? Perfectly, said Monteiro Rossi, I’ve got the message. Good, said Pereira, then now let’s get along to this hotel, I’ve remembered a cheap hotel in the Graça where they don’t make a lot of fuss, I will pay the advance if they ask for it, however I expect at least two more obituaries from you, Monteiro Rossi, this is your two weeks’ wages. I should tell you, Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, that I did that anniversary article on D’Annunzio because last Saturday I bought the Lisboa and saw there’s a feature called “Anniversaries”, it isn’t signed but I imagine you write it yourself, but if you’d like a hand I’d be very willing to give you one, I’d like to work on that sort of feature, there’s a mass of authors I could write about, and what’s more, seeing as how it’s printed anonymously there’d be no risk of getting you into trouble. So you are in trouble are you?, Pereira declares he said. Well, a little, as you can see, replied Monteiro Rossi, but if you prefer a pseudonym I’ve thought one up, what do you think of Roxy? That would do fine, said Pereira. He removed the lemonade jug, placed it in the ice-chest, and putting on his jacket: Very well, let’s be on our way, he said.
They left the flat. In the little square outside the building a soldier was sleeping stretched out on a bench. Pereira admitted that he was in no fit state to make it up the hill on foot, so they waited for a taxi. The sun was implacable, Pereira declares, and the wind had dropped. A taxi came cruising past and Pereira hailed it. During the ride not a word was spoken. They alighted beside a granite cross towering over a tiny chapel. Pereira entered the hotel, advising Monteiro Rossi to wait outside but taking the bloke Rossi in with him and presenting him to the desk-clerk, a little old man with pebble glasses who was dozing behind the counter. I have here an Argentine friend, said Pereira, he is Señor Bruno Lugones, here’s his passport, he would like to remain incognito, he is here for sentimental reasons. The old man took off his spectacles and leafed through the register. Someone telephoned this morning to make a booking, he said, was that you? It was me, confirmed Pereira. We have a double room without bath, said the old man, I don’t know if that would do for the gentleman. It will do very well, said Pereira. Cash in advance, said the old man, you know how things are. Pereira took out his wallet and produced a couple of banknotes. I’ll pay for three days in advance, he said, and good morning to you. He waved a hand at Bruno Rossi but decided not to shake hands, he didn’t want to seem on such intimate terms. I hope you’ll be comfortable, he said.
He left the place and crossed the square to where Monteiro Rossi was sitting waiting on the edge of the fountain. Call in at the office tomorrow, he told him, I’ll read your article today, we have things to talk about. Well actually I…, began Monteiro Rossi. Actually what?, asked Pereira. Well you know, said Monteiro Rossi, as things stand I thought it would be better for us to meet in some quiet spot, perhaps at your flat. I agree, said Pereira, but not at my flat, enough of that, let us meet at one o’clock tomorrow at the Café Orquídea, would that suit you? Right you are, replied Monteiro Rossi, the Café Orquídea at one o’clock. Pereira shook hands and said: See you tomorrow. Since it was downhill all the way he thought he’d go home on foot. It was a splendid day and luckily a bracing Atlantic breeze had now sprung up. But he felt in no mood to appreciate the weather. He felt uneasy and would have liked to have a talk with someone, perhaps Father António, but Father António spent all day at the bedsides of his sick parishioners. He then bethought himself of having a chat with the photograph of his wife. So taking off his jacket he made his way slowly homewards, he declares.
THIRTEEN
Pereira spent that night on the final stages of translating and editing Balzac’s Honorine. It was a hard job, but in his opinion it read pretty fluently, he declares. He slept for three hours, from six until nine in the morning, then got up, had a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee and went to the office. The caretaker, whom he met on the stairs, gave him a surly look and a curt nod. He muttered a good morning, went on up to his room, sat down at the desk and dialled the number of Dr Costa, his medical adviser. Hullo, hullo Dr Costa, said Pereira, this is Pereira speaking. How are you feeling?, enquired Dr Costa. I’m awfully short of breath, replied Pereira, I can’t climb stairs and I think I’ve put on several kilos, whenever I go for a stroll my heart starts thumping. I’ll tell you something, Pereira, said Dr Costa, I do a weekly consultancy at a thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede, why don’t you spend a few days there? In a clinic? asked Pereira, why? Because the clinic at Parede has really good medical supervision, and what’s more they use natural remedies for cardiopathic and rheumatic cases, they give seaweed baths and massages and weight-losing treatment, and they have some first-rate French-trained doctors, it would do you good to have a bit of rest and supervision, Pereira, and the Parede clinic is just the place for you, if you like I can book you a room for tomorrow even, a nice cosy little room with a sea-view, a healthy life, seaweed baths, thalassotherapy, and I’ll be in to see you at least once, there are a few tubercular patients but they’re in a separate wing, there’s no danger of infection. Oh don’t imagine I’m worried about tuberculosis, replied Pereira, I spent most of my life with a consumptive and the disease never affected me at all, but that isn’t the problem, the problem is that they’ve put me in charge of the Saturday culture page and I can’t leave the office. Now then Pereira, said Dr Costa, get this straight, Parede is half-way between Lisbon and Cascais, it’s scarcely ten kilometres from here, if you want to write your articles at Parede and send them to Lisbon, someone from the clinic comes to town every morning and could deliver them, and in any case your page only comes out once a week so if you prepare a couple of good long articles the page is ready for two Saturdays ahead, and furthermore let me tell you that health is more important than culture. Oh, very well, said Pereira, but two weeks is too long, one week’s rest is enough for me. Better than nothing, conceded Dr Costa. Pereira declares that he resigned himself to spending a week in the thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede, and authorized Dr Costa to book him a room for the following day, but made a point of specifying that he must first notify his editor-in-chief, as a matter of form. He hung up and began by dialling the number of the printer’s. He said he had a story of Balzac’s ready to set up in either two or three instalments, and that the culture page was therefore in hand for several weeks to come. What about the “Anniversaries” column?, asked the printer. No anniversaries for the moment, said Pereira, and don’t come to fetch the stuff from the office because I shan’t be here this afternoon, I’ll leave it in a sealed envelope at the Café Orquídea, near the kosher butcher. Then he called the exchange and asked the operator to connect him with the spa at Buçaco. He asked to speak to the editor-in-chief of the Lisboa. The editor is in the garden taking the sun, said the hotel clerk, I don’t know if I ought to disturb him. Disturb away, said Pereira, tell him it’s the culture editor on the line. The editor-in-chief came to the telephone and said: Hullo, chief editor here. Good morning sir, said Pereira, I have translated and edited a story by Balzac and there’s enough of it for two or three issues, and I’m calling because I have a mind to go for treatment at the thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede, my heart condition is not improving and my doctor has advised this, do I have your permission? But what about the paper?, asked the editor-in-chief. As I said sir, it is covered for at least two or three weeks, replied Pereira, and anyway I shall be a stone’s throw from Lisbon and will leave you the telephone number of the clinic, and naturally if there’s any
trouble I shall hurry back to the office. But what about your assistant?, said the editor-in-chief, could you not leave the assistant in charge? I would prefer not, replied Pereira, he has done me some obituaries but I’m not sure how serviceable they are, if some important writer dies I will look after it myself. Very well, said the editor-in-chief, take your week’s treatment Dr Pereira, after all there’s the assistant editor at the main office and he can deal with any problems that might arise. Pereira said goodbye and asked to be remembered to the gracious lady whose acquaintance he had made. He hung up and glanced at his watch. It was almost time to start for the Café Orquídea, but first he wanted to read that anniversary article on D’Annunzio, which he hadn’t had time for the previous evening. Pereira has kept it by him, so is in a position to produce it as evidence. It reads: “Exactly five months ago, at eight in the evening of March 1st 1938, died Gabriele D’Annunzio. At that time this newspaper did not have a culture page, but we are now in a position to speak of him. Was he a great poet, this Gabriele D’Annunzio whose real name incidentally was Rapagnetta? It is hard to give an answer, because we are his contemporaries and his works are still too fresh to us. Perhaps it makes better sense to speak of the figure of the man which intertwines with that of the artist. First and foremost, then, he was a Bard. He was also a lover of luxury, high society, magniloquence, action. He was a great decadent, a despoiler of the laws of morality, a devotee of the morbid and the erotic. From the German philosopher Nietzsche he inherited the myth of the superman, but he reduced it to the will to power of would-be aesthetic ideals which he exploited to construct the colourful kaleidoscope of a unique and inimitable career. In the Great War he was an interventionist, an implacable enemy of peace between nations. He achieved provocative feats of arms such as his flight over Vienna in 1918, when he scattered leaflets in Italian all over the city. After the war he organized the occupation of the city of Fiume, from which he was later expelled by Italian troops. Retiring to Gardone, to a villa which he himself named Vittoriale degli Italiani, he there led a dissolute and decadent life, marked by futile love affairs and erotic adventures. Fernando Pessoa nicknamed him Trombone Solo and maybe he had a point. Certainly the voice which comes over to us is not that of a delicate violin, but a brassy blare, a blustering trumpet. A life far from exemplary, a poet high-sounding and grandiose, a man much tarnished and compromised. Not an example to be followed, and it is for this very reason that we recall him here. Signed, Roxy.”
Unpublishable, thought Pereira, completely unpublishable. He pulled out the file marked “Obituaries” and inserted the page. He has no idea why he did so, he could have simply chucked the thing away, but instead he filed it. Then, to get over the disgruntlement that had come over him, he decided to leave the office and make his way to the Café Orquídea.
When he reached the café the first thing he saw, Pereira declares, was Marta’s copper-coloured hair. She was seated at a corner table near the fan, with her back to the door, and wearing the same dress as that evening at the Praça da Alegria, with shoulder-straps crossed at the back. Pereira declares he thought Marta’s shoulders really lovely, finely moulded, well-proportioned, perfect. He went over to join her. Oh, Dr Pereira, said Marta serenely, I’m here instead of Monteiro Rossi, he couldn’t come today.
Pereira took a seat at the table and asked Marta if she would like an aperitif. Marta said she would very much appreciate a glass of dry port. Pereira called the waiter and ordered two dry ports. He knew he ought not to drink alcohol, but after all he’d be going next day to the thalassotherapeutic clinic to diet for a week. Well?, asked Pereira when the waiter had brought their drinks. Well, answered Marta, these are difficult times for all concerned, Monteiro Rossi has left for Alentejo and he’ll be staying there for the time being, it’s best for him to be out of Lisbon for a while. And his cousin?, asked Pereira without thinking. Marta gave him a glance and smiled. Yes, I know you’ve been a great help to Monteiro Rossi and his cousin, said Marta, you’ve been really splendid, Dr Pereira, you ought to be one of us. Pereira felt slightly nettled, he declares, and took off his jacket. Listen Miss Marta, he protested, I am neither one of you nor one of them, I prefer to keep myself to myself, and in any case I don’t know who you and yours are and don’t wish to know, I am a journalist and my job is culture, I have just finished translating a story of Balzac’s and as far as your business is concerned I prefer not to be in the know, I’m not a reporter. Marta took a sip of port and said: We’re not providing fodder for the newspapers, Dr Pereira, that’s what I’d like to get across to you, we are living History. Pereira in turn took a sip of port and replied: Listen Miss Marta, History is a big word, I too have read Vico and Hegel in my time, and History is not the sort of animal you can domesticate. But perhaps you have not read Marx, objected Marta. No I haven’t, said Pereira, and he doesn’t interest me, I’ve had enough of the school of Hegel and let me repeat what I said before, that I think only about myself and culture, and that is my world. An anarcho-individualist?, queried Marta, that’s what I’d like to know. And what’s that supposed to mean?, demanded Pereira. Oh, said Marta, don’t tell me you don’t know the meaning of anarcho-individualist, Spain is full of them, the anarcho-individualists are getting a lot of attention at the moment and have actually done some heroic things, even if they could do with a bit more discipline, at least that’s what I think. Look Marta, said Pereira, I haven’t come to this café to talk politics, I already told you they leave me cold because I’m chiefly concerned with culture, I had an appointment with Monteiro Rossi and along you come and tell me he’s in Alentejo, what’s he gone to do in Alentejo?
Marta glanced round as if for the waiter. Shall we order something to eat?, she asked, I have an appointment at three. Pereira summoned Manuel. They ordered two omelettes aux fines herbes then Pereira repeated: So what has Monteiro Rossi gone to do in Alentejo? He’s accompanying his cousin, replied Marta, his cousin got last-minute orders, it’s mostly Alentejans who are keen to go and fight in Spain, there’s a great democratic tradition in Alentejo, there are also a lot of anarcho-individualists like you, Dr Pereira, there’s plenty to do, and the fact is that Monteiro Rossi has had to take his cousin to Alentejo because that’s where they’re recruiting people. Very well, replied Pereira, I wish him good recruiting. The waiter brought the omelettes and they started in on them. Pereira tied his table-napkin round his neck, took a mouthful of omelette and then said: Look Marta, I’m leaving tomorrow for a thalassotherapeutic clinic near Cascais, I have health problems, tell Monteiro Rossi that his article on D’Annunzio is completely unusable, in any case I’ll give you the number of the clinic where I shall be for a week, the best time to call me is at mealtimes, and now tell me where Monteiro Rossi is. Marta lowered her voice and said: Tonight he’ll be at Portalegre with friends, but I’d rather not give you the address, and in any case it’s very temporary because he sleeps a night here and a night there, he has to keep moving all over Alentejo, it’ll most likely be him who’ll get in touch with you. Very well, said Pereira, handing her a slip of paper, this is my telephone number at the thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede. I must be off, Dr Pereira, said Marta, please excuse me but I have an appointment and I have to get right across town.
Pereira stood up and said goodbye. Marta put on her Italian straw hat as she walked away. Pereira watched her leave the café, he was entranced by that slender silhouette outlined against the sunlight. He felt greatly cheered, almost lighthearted, but had no idea why. Then he beckoned to Manuel who bustled up and asked if he would care for a liqueur. But he was thirsty, the afternoon was a scorcher. He pondered a moment, then said all he wanted was a lemonade. And he ordered it really cold, packed with ice, he declares.
FOURTEEN
Next day Pereira rose early, he declares, drank some coffee, packed a small suitcase and slipped in Alphonse Daudet’s Contes du lundi. He might possibly stay on a few days longer, he thought to himself, and Daudet was an author who would suit the Lis
boa down to the ground.
Passing through the hall he paused in front of his wife’s photograph and told it: Yesterday evening I saw Marta, Monteiro Rossi’s fiancee, I have an idea those youngsters are getting themselves into really bad trouble, in fact they’re already in it, in any case it’s none of my business, I need a week of thalassotherapy, Dr Costa has ordered it, and besides, Lisbon is stifling hot and I’ve translated Balzac’s Honorine, I’m leaving this morning, I’m just off to catch a train from Cais de Sodré and I’ll take you with me if you don’t mind. He picked up the photograph and laid it in his suitcase, face upwards, because his wife had all her life had such a need for air and he felt sure her picture also needed plenty of room to breathe. He made his way down to the cathedral square and waited for a taxi to take him to the station. Once there he thought he might have a bite to eat at the British Bar in the Cais de Sodré. He knew it was a place frequented by writers and he hoped to run across someone. In he went and sat down at a corner table. And sure enough there at the next table was Aquilino Ribeiro the novelist lunching with Bernardo Marques, the avant-garde artist who had designed and illustrated the leading Portuguese Modernist reviews. Pereira gave them good day and the two artists nodded in reply. It would be really something to lunch at their table, thought Pereira, to tell them how just yesterday he had received an article slating D’Annunzio and to hear what they had to say about it. But the two men were talking ten to the dozen and Pereira couldn’t pluck up courage to interrupt them. He gathered that Bernardo Marques intended to give up his art work and that the novelist had decided to go and live abroad. Pereira found this disheartening, he declares, because he wouldn’t have expected a writer of that stamp to go and leave his country in the lurch. While he drank his lemonade and picked away at a plate of winkles, Pereira overheard a few snatches. Paris, said Aquilino Ribeira, the only conceivable place is Paris. Bernardo Marques nodded and said: I’ve had requests for work from several magazines, but I’ve no incentive to go on drawing, this country is bloody awful, it’s better not to let anyone have one’s work. Pereira finished his winkles and lemonade, got to his feet and paused a moment by the table where the two artists sat. Gentlemen, don’t let me interrupt your meal, he said, allow me to introduce myself however, I am Dr Pereira of the culture page of Lisboa, the whole of Portugal is proud to have two such artists as you, we have sore need of you.