Dr Cardoso beckoned to the waitress. Let’s have fish this evening, said Dr Cardoso, I would rather you had it grilled or boiled, but you can have it some other way if you like. I had grilled fish for lunch, pleaded Pereira, and plain boiled it really doesn’t appeal to me, it smacks too much of hospitals and I don’t like to think of myself as being in a hospital, I prefer to think I’m in a hotel, what I’d really like would be a sole meunière. Perfect, said Dr Cardoso, sole meunière with buttered carrots, I’ll join you. Then he came right back to the subject and said: What exactly is marginal repentance? Well, your having studied psychology makes it easier for me to talk to you, said Pereira, perhaps I’d do even better to discuss it with my friend Father António, who after all is a priest, but then again he might not understand, because priests are people we have to confess our sins to, and I don’t feel guilty of anything in particular, I just have this desire for repentance, I feel a real yearning for repentance. Maybe you ought to go more deeply into the matter, Dr Pereira, said Dr Cardoso, and if you care to do so with me I am at your service. Well, said Pereira, it’s a strange sort of feeling there on the very edge of myself, and that’s why I call it marginal, the fact is that on the one hand I’m happy to have lived the life I have, happy to have taken my degree at Coimbra, to have married a sick woman who spent her life in and out of sanatoriums, to have been a crime reporter for so many years on a leading paper and finally to have accepted this job of editing the culture page of a second-rate evening paper, and yet at the same time it’s as if I had an urge to repent of my life, if you see what I mean.
Dr Cardoso took a forkful of sole meunière and Pereira followed suit. I would need to know more about these last few months of your life, said Dr Cardoso, perhaps there has been some event. Event in what sense, asked Pereira, how exactly do you mean? Event is a term used in psychoanalysis, said Dr Cardoso, personally I don’t believe all that much in Freud because I’m a syncretist, but I do believe that on this question of the event he is certainly right, and by an event he means something that actually happens in our lives to upset or disturb our convictions and peace of mind, in short an event is something which occurs in our everyday life and has an impact on the life of our psyche, and I am asking you to consider whether there has not recently been such a thing in your own life. Yes, said Pereira, I have met someone, in fact two people, a young man and a girl. Tell me about them, said Dr Cardoso. Well, said Pereira, the fact is that for my culture page I needed advance obituaries of any leading writers who might possibly die, and the person in question had written a thesis on death, it’s true that he copied some of it, but it seemed to me at first that he understood what death is all about, so I took him on as an assistant to do the advance obituaries, and he actually has done me a few, and I’ve paid him out of my own pocket because I haven’t wanted to charge it to the Lisboa, but his stuff is all unpublishable, because that lad has his head full of politics and writes every obituary thinking of nothing but politics, though honestly I think it’s his girl who’s putting these ideas into his head, you know, fascism, socialism, civil war in Spain and things of that sort, and they’re all unpublishable articles as I said, and so far I’ve paid him out of my own pocket. There’s no harm in that, said Dr Cardoso, after all you’re only risking your own cash. That’s not the point, stated Pereira, the fact is that I’ve been stricken with misgiving, what I mean is what if those two youngsters are right? In that case they’re right, said Dr Cardoso gently, but that’s for History to say, not you, Dr Pereira. True enough, said Pereira, but if they were right my life wouldn’t make any sense, it wouldn’t make any sense to have read literature at Coimbra and always thought that literature was the most important thing in the world, there’d be no sense in my editing the culture page of this evening rag where I can’t say what I want to say and have to publish nineteenth-century French stories, in fact nothing would make any sense at all, and this is why I feel I need to repent, just as if I were someone else entirely, and not the Pereira who’s spent all his working life as a journalist, and it’s as if there were something I had to apologize for.
Dr Cardoso beckoned the waitress and ordered two fruit salads, no sugar or ice-cream please. Then: I have a question for you, said Dr Cardoso, and that is, are you acquainted with the médecins-philosophes? No I’m not, admitted Pereira, who are they? The leaders of this school of thought are Théodule Ribot and Pierre Janet, said Dr Cardoso, it was their work I studied in Paris, they are doctors and psychologists, but also philosophers, and they hold a theory I think interesting, the theory of the confederation of souls. Tell me about it, said Pereira. Well, said Dr Cardoso, it means that to believe in a “self” as a distinct entity, quite distinct from the infinite variety of all the other “selves” that we have within us, is a fallacy, the naive illusion of the single unique soul we inherit from Christian tradition, whereas Dr Ribot and Dr Janet see the personality as a confederation of numerous souls, because within us we each have numerous souls, don’t you think, a confederation which agrees to put itself under the government of one ruling ego. Dr Cardoso made a brief pause and then continued: What we think of as ourselves, our inward being, is only an effect, not a cause, and what’s more it is subject to the control of a ruling ego which has imposed its will on the confederation of our souls, so in the case of another ego arising, one stronger and more powerful, this ego overthrows the first ruling ego, takes its place and acquires the chieftainship of the cohort of souls, or rather the confederation, and remains in power until it is in turn overthrown by yet another ruling ego, either by frontal attack or by slow nibbling away. It may be, concluded Dr Cardoso, that after slowly nibbling away in you some ruling ego is gaining the chieftainship of your confederation of souls, Dr Pereira, and there’s nothing you can do about it except perhaps give it a helping hand whenever you get the chance.
Dr Cardoso finished his fruit salad and dabbed his lips on his napkin. So what do you suggest I should do?, asked Pereira. Nothing, replied Dr Cardoso, just wait, perhaps after this slow nibbling away, after all these years you’ve spent in journalism working on crime cases and thinking that literature is all the world to you, there’s a new ruling ego taking over the chieftainship of your confederation of souls, and you must let it come to the surface, there’s really no other way out, you wouldn’t bring it off and you’d only come into conflict with yourself, so if you wish to repent of your life go ahead and repent, and if you wish to tell a priest go ahead and tell him, and in a word, Dr Pereira, if you’re beginning to think that those youngsters are in the right and that your life up to now has been worthless, go ahead and think it, perhaps from now on your life will no longer seem worthless, let yourself be guided by your new ruling ego and don’t go compensating for the pain it gives you by stuffing yourself with grub and lemonade stacked with sugar.
Pereira finished his fruit salad and untied the napkin from round his neck. It’s very interesting, this theory of yours, he said, I’ll think it over, I’d now like a cup of coffee, if that’s all right with you? Coffee induces insomnia, said Dr Cardoso, but if you don’t wish to sleep that’s up to you, the seaweed baths take place twice a day, at nine in the morning and five in the afternoon, I’d like you to be on time tomorrow morning, I’m sure a seaweed bath will do you a lot of good.
Goodnight then, mumbled Pereira. He got up to leave, took a step or two, then turned. Dr Cardoso was smiling at him, and Pereira promised he’d be there on the dot of nine, he declares.
SEVENTEEN
At nine o’clock next morning, Pereira declares, he made his way down the steps to the private beach of the clinic. In the reef bordering the beach two huge pools had been hacked out of the living rock, where the ocean waves washed in at their own sweet will. The pools were full of long fronds of seaweed, plump and glossy, floating on the surface where a number of patients were wallowing about. Beside the pools were two wooden huts, painted blue, evidently the changing-rooms. Pereira spotted Dr Cardoso keeping an eye on the patient
s immersed in the pools and teaching them the right movements to make. Pereira went up and said good morning. He was in fine fettle, he declares, and really felt the urge to get into those pools even though it was pretty chilly there on the rocks and maybe the water temperature was not ideal for a dip. He asked Dr Cardoso for the loan of a costume because, he said apologetically, he had neglected to bring one with him, and asked if possible for an old-fashioned one, of the kind that cover the stomach and part of the chest. Dr Cardoso shook his head. I’m sorry, Dr Pereira, he said, but you’ll have to get over your blushes, the beneficent effects of the seaweed act chiefly by contact with the skin, they have to massage the belly and chest, you’ll have to wear trunks. Pereira resigned himself and went to the changing-hut. He left his trousers and khaki shirt on a peg and emerged again. The air was cool with a vengeance, but bracing. Pereira tested the water with one foot and found it not as icy as he had expected. He got in to the water gingerly, shuddering slightly as those strands of seaweed stuck to him all over. Dr Cardoso came to the edge of the pool and started to give him instructions. Move your arms as if you were doing physical jerks, he said, and massage your stomach and chest with the seaweed. Pereira carried out the instructions to the letter until he found his breath coming short. Whereupon he stopped, stood with the water up to his neck and began to make slow circling movements with his hands. How did you sleep?, asked Dr Cardoso. Very well indeed, replied Pereira, but I read until late, I brought along a book by Alphonse Daudet, do you like Daudet? I know him very little, admitted Dr Cardoso. I’ve been thinking of translating a story from the Contes du lundi, I’d like to publish it in the Lisboa, said Pereira. Tell me the story, said Dr Cardoso. Well, said Pereira, it’s called “La dernière classe”, it’s about the schoolmaster of a French village in Alsace, his pupils are all sons of peasants, poor boys who have to work in the fields so they seldom come to lessons and the teacher is driven to despair. Pereira took a few steps forward so that the water stopped slopping into his mouth, and went on: Finally comes the last day of school, the Franco-Prussian War has just ended, the teacher waits without much hope for some pupil to show up, but who should he see instead but every man-jack in the village, the peasants, the village elders, all coming to pay homage to their French schoolmaster who is going to have to leave them, for they know that next day their school will be occupied by the Germans, so the teacher writes up on the blackboard “Vive la France!” and off he goes, with tears in his eyes, leaving a tumult of emotion behind him in the schoolroom. Pereira peeled two long strands of seaweed off his arms and asked: How does it strike you, Dr Cardoso? Great stuff, replied Dr Cardoso, but I’m not sure that many people in Portugal today will much appreciate reading “Vive la France!”, seeing the times we live in, and I wonder if you’re not making room for your new ruling ego, Dr Pereira, I seem to catch a glimpse of a new ruling ego. Oh come now, Dr Cardoso, said Pereira, this is a nineteenth-century story, it’s ancient history. That’s true, said Dr Cardoso, but none the less it’s an anti-German story, and Germany is above criticism in a country like ours today, have you seen the salute they’ve made compulsory at official functions, they make the stiff-armed salute like the Nazis. That may be so, said Pereira, but the Lisboa is an independent newspaper. Then he asked: Please can I get out now? Another ten minutes, replied Dr Cardoso, now that you’re in you’d better stay in for the full time required by the therapy, and forgive me for asking but exactly what is an independent newspaper these days in Portugal? A newspaper not connected with any political movement, replied Pereira. That’s as may be, said Dr Cardoso, but the editor of your paper, my dear Dr Pereira, is a supporter of the regime, he appears at every official function, and from the way he flings out his arm you’d think he was throwing the javelin. True, conceded Pereira, but he’s not a bad fellow at heart, and as regards the culture page he’s given me a free hand. No skin off his nose, retorted Dr Cardoso, because there’s the state censorship and every day, before your paper appears, the proofs are examined by the censors, and if there’s something they don’t like, don’t you worry, it won’t be printed, they leave blank spaces, I’ve already seen Portuguese papers with huge blank spaces in them, and it makes me very angry and very sad. I know, I know, said Pereira, I’ve seen them too, however it hasn’t yet happened to the Lisboa. But it might happen, said Dr Cardoso almost teasingly, it all depends on the ruling ego that gains the upper hand in your confederation of souls. Then he went on: Do you know what I think, Dr Pereira, if you want to help the ruling ego that’s beginning to peep out perhaps you ought to live somewhere else, leave this country, I think you would have fewer conflicts with yourself, after all there’s nothing to prevent you, you’re a serious professional man, you speak good French, you’re a widower, you have no children, what ties do you have to this country? My whole past life, replied Pereira, my precious memories, and you, Dr Cardoso, why don’t you go back to France?, after all you studied there, you had a French education. It’s by no means out of the question, replied Dr Cardoso, I am in touch with a thalassotherapeutic clinic at Saint-Malo, and might decide to go at any moment. May I get out now?, asked Pereira. How time has passed without our noticing it, said Dr Cardoso, you’ve been under treatment a quarter of an hour longer than necessary, by all means go and get dressed, what would you say to lunching together? With pleasure, said Pereira.
That day Pereira had Dr Cardoso’s company for lunch and on his advice, he declares, ate boiled hake. They talked about literature, Maupassant and Daudet, and about France, what a great country it was. Afterwards Pereira retired to his room and had a short nap, just fifteen minutes, then he lay and watched the strips of light and shadow cast on the ceiling by the shutters. In mid-afternoon he got up, had a shower, put on his black tie and sat down in front of his wife’s photograph. I’ve found an intelligent doctor, he confided to it, his name is Cardoso, he studied in France, he has told me a theory of his about the human soul, or rather, it’s a French philosophical theory, it seems that inside us we have a confederation of souls and every so often a ruling ego comes along and takes over the leadership of the confederation, Dr Cardoso suggests that I’m changing my ruling ego, as snakes change their skins, and that this new ruling ego will change my life, I don’t know how true this is and in fact I’m not all that convinced, but never mind, we must wait and see.
Then he sat down at the table and began translating “La dernière classe” by Daudet. He had brought along his Larousse, which made things easy for him. But he only translated one page, because he didn’t want to rush it, and because that story kept him company. And in fact throughout the week Pereira stayed at the thalassotherapeutic clinic he spent every afternoon translating Daudet’s story, he declares.
It was a wonderful week of therapy, relaxation and dieting, cheered by the presence of Dr Cardoso, with whom he always had lively and interesting talks, especially about literature. A week that slipped by in the twinkling of an eye, on the Saturday the first instalment of Balzac’s Honorine came out in the Lisboa and Dr Cardoso complimented him on it. The editor-in-chief never called him, which meant that all was running smoothly at the paper. There was no sign of Monteiro Rossi either, or of Marta. In his last few days there Pereira scarcely gave them a thought. And when he left the clinic to take the train back to Lisbon he felt a new man, in tip-top form, he had lost four kilos, he declares.
EIGHTEEN
Pereira returned to Lisbon, and the better part of August vanished almost before he could look round, he declares. Piedade, his maid-of-all-work, was not yet back, but in his letter-box he found a card from her, postmarked Setúbal, which read: “Returning mid-September because my sister has to have operation for varicose veins, all the best, Piedade.”