Pereira settled back into his flat. Luckily the weather had changed and it wasn’t all that hot. In the evening a stiffish Atlantic breeze would spring up, so he had to wear a jacket. When he went back to the office he found few changes. The caretaker was no longer huffy with him, in fact she was a good deal more friendly, but a horrible stench of frying still hung about on the landing. There wasn’t much in the way of post: the electricity bill, which he forwarded to the main office, and a letter postmarked Chaves, from a lady in her fifties who wrote children’s stories and was hereby submitting one to the Lisboa. It was a tale of elves and fairies which had nothing whatever to do with Portugal and which the author must have filched from some Irish story. Pereira wrote her a courteous answer suggesting that she should base her work on Portuguese folklore, because, he told her, the Lisboa was addressed to Portuguese, not to English-speaking readers. Towards the end of the month a letter arrived from Spain. It was addressed to Monteiro Rossi, and the envelope read: Señor Monteiro Rossi, c/o Dr Pereira, Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca 66, Lisboa, Portugal. Pereira was tempted to open it. He had practically forgotten Monteiro Rossi, or at least so he thought, and he found it beyond belief that the young man should have told anyone to address a letter to him c/o the culture page of the Lisboa. However, he put it unopened into the “Obituaries” file. He then had lunch at the Café Orquídea, though he didn’t order omelettes aux fines herbes, because Dr Cardoso had forbidden them, and he no longer drank lemonade. Instead he ate seafood salad and drank mineral water. Balzac’s Honorine had been published in its entirety and had been a great success with the readers. Pereira declares that he even received two telegrams, one from Tavira and the other from Estremoz, the first saying that it was a really marvellous story and the other that repentance is a thing we all ought to think about, and both of them ending with the words: Thank you. It occurred to Pereira that perhaps someone had received the message in the bottle, and he set about preparing the final draft of Daudet’s “La dernière classe”. The editor-in-chief called him one morning to congratulate him on the Balzac story, saying that the head office had been simply inundated with compliments. Pereira had a feeling that the editor-in-chief would never receive the message in the bottle, and he chortled to himself. That message was really and truly a coded message, and only people who had ears to hear could receive it. The editor-in-chief did not have ears to hear and could not receive it. So now, Dr Pereira, asked the editor-in-chief, what have you got up your sleeve for us? I have just finished translating a story by Daudet, replied Pereira, I hope it will be suitable. I trust it isn’t L’Arlésienne, said the editor-in-chief, glad to be able to show off one of his few scraps of literary knowledge, that story is a trifle osé, and I don’t think it would go down well with our readers. Pereira simply said: No, it’s a tale from the Contes du lundi, it’s called “The Last Class”, I wonder if you know it, it’s a story about love of one’s country. I don’t know it, replied the editor-in-chief, but if it’s a patriotic story that’s all to the good, we all need patriotism in this day and age, patriotism is just the ticket. Pereira said goodbye and rang off. He had scarcely gathered up the typescript to take it to the printer’s when the telephone rang again. Pereira was at the door already with his jacket on. Hullo, said a woman’s voice, good morning Dr Pereira, this is Marta, I would like to see you. Pereira’s heart missed a beat and then he asked: How are you, Marta, and how is Monteiro Rossi? I’ll tell you in due course, Dr Pereira, said Marta, where can I meet you this evening? Pereira considered for a moment and was on the point of telling her to come to his flat, then thought better of it and answered: At the Café Orquídea at half-past eight. All right, said Marta, I’ve cut my hair short and bleached it, I’ll see you at the Café Orquídea at half-past eight, however Monteiro Rossi is well and is sending you an article.
Leaving the office to go to the printer’s Pereira felt uneasy, he declares. He thought of going back to the office and waiting there until it was time for dinner, but he then realized what he absolutely must do was go home and have a cold bath. He therefore took a taxi and made the cabbie drive all the way up the steep slope to his house. Taximen usually refused to go up that ramp because it was hard to turn at the top, so Pereira had to promise a tip, he was quite worn out, he declares. He entered his flat and the first thing he did was run a cold bath. He lay in it and gently massaged his paunch as Dr Cardoso had taught him to. Then he put on his bath robe, went into the hall and addressed his wife’s portrait. Marta is on the scene again, he informed it, she tells me she’s cut her hair short and bleached it, I don’t know why, and she’s bringing me an article by Monteiro Rossi, but Monteiro Rossi is evidently still off on business of his own, those kids worry me but never mind, I’ll tell you how things go by and by.
At eight thirty-five, Pereira declares, he entered the Café Orquídea. The only reason he recognized Marta in the skinny little shrimp with cropped hair sitting near the fan was that she was wearing the same dress as ever, otherwise he would never have taken her for the same girl. She seemed another person, did Marta, with that cropped bleached hair and the fringe and the wisps curving forward over her ears, giving her a tomboy, rather foreign look, rather French, perhaps. What’s more, she must have lost at least ten kilos. Of her shoulders, which Pereira remembered as so soft and shapely, there now remained two bony shoulder-blades that stuck out like the wings of a plucked chicken. Pereira sat down opposite her and said: Good evening Marta, what on earth has happened to you? I decided to change my appearance, replied Marta, in certain circumstances it’s necessary and in my case it became essential to make myself a different person.
Heaven knows why it occurred to Pereira to ask her a certain question. He cannot begin to say why he did it. Perhaps because she was too blonde and too unnatural and he could hardly recognize her as the girl he had known, perhaps because every so often she gave a furtive glance around as if expecting someone or afraid of something, but the fact is that he asked her: Is your name still Marta? To you I am Marta, of course, replied Marta, but I have a French passport, my name is Lise Delaunay, I am a painter by profession and am in Portugal to paint watercolour landscapes, though the real reason is simply travel.
Pereira felt a terrific urge to order an omelette aux fines herbes and a glass of lemonade, he declares. What would you say to a couple of omelettes aux fines herbes?, he asked Marta. With pleasure, replied Marta, but first I’d really like a glass of dry port. So would I, said Pereira, and ordered two dry ports. I sense trouble, said Pereira, you’re in the soup Marta, you might as well admit it. I don’t deny it, answered Marta, but it’s the kind of trouble I like, I feel in my element, after all it’s the life I’ve chosen. Pereira shrugged his shoulders. Just as long as you’re happy, he said, and Monteiro Rossi, he’s in trouble too I imagine, because he hasn’t been in touch, what’s happening to him? I can tell you about myself but not about Monteiro Rossi, said Marta, I can answer only for myself, he hasn’t been in touch with you so far because he’s been in difficulties, he’ll still be out of Lisbon for a while, he’s on the move in Alentejo, his problems may be bigger than mine, in any case he’s short of money into the bargain and that’s why he’s sent you this article, he says it’s an anniversary article, you can give me the money if you like and I’ll see that he gets it.
Pereira would have liked to say: Don’t speak to me of those articles of his, obituaries or anniversaries it makes no difference, all I do is pay Monteiro Rossi out of my own pocket, I still don’t know why I don’t sack him, I offered him a job as a journalist, I gave him a chance of a career. But he uttered not a word of all this. Instead he took out his wallet and extracted two banknotes. Give him this from me, he said, and now let’s have the article. Marta took a sheet of paper from her handbag and handed it over. See here Marta, said Pereira, I’d like you to know there are certain things you can count on me for, even if I’d prefer to steer clear of your problems, as you know I don’t concern myself with politics, however if you hea
r from Monteiro Rossi tell him to get in touch, perhaps I can be of some help to him too in my way. You are a great help to all of us, Dr Pereira, said Marta, we of the cause will not forget it. They finished their omelettes and Marta said she had to be off. Pereira wished her luck and she slipped nimbly away between the tables. Pereira stayed on and ordered another lemonade. He would have liked to talk all this over with Father António or Dr Cardoso, but Father António was certainly asleep at that time of night and Dr Cardoso was away there at Parede. He drank his lemonade and called for the bill. What’s the latest news?, he asked the waiter when he came to the table. Barbarous goings on, replied Manuel, barbarous goings on, Dr Pereira. Pereira put a hand on his arm. What do you mean by barbarous?, he asked. Haven’t you heard what’s happening in Spain?, replied the waiter. No, I haven’t, said Pereira. It seems there’s some great French writer who’s denounced Franco’s repression in Spain, said Manuel, and it’s created an awful fuss with the Vatican. What’s the name of this French writer?, asked Pereira. Hmmm, replied Manuel, it’s slipped my mind for the moment, he’s a writer you’d know for certain, the name’s Bernan, Bernadette, something of the sort. Bernanos, exclaimed Pereira, he’s called Bernanos! That’s it, replied Manuel, that’s the name. He’s a great Catholic writer, said Pereira with pride, I knew he’d take a stand, he’s a man of the highest moral principles. And it occurred to him that perhaps he might publish a couple of chapters of the Journal d’un curé de campagne, which had never been translated into Portuguese.
He bade Manuel goodnight and left him a handsome tip. He would have liked to have a talk with Father António, but Father António was assuredly asleep by that time of night, he got up at six every morning to say Mass in the Church of the Mercês, Pereira declares.
NINETEEN
The next morning, Pereira declares, he got up at the crack of dawn and went to pay a call on Father António. He came upon him in his sacristy, just as he was about to disrobe. The sacristy was wonderfully cool, and the walls were covered with religious pictures and ex-votos.
Good morning Father António, said Pereira, here I am at last. Pereira, exclaimed Father António, I haven’t seen you for ages, wherever have you been hiding yourself? I’ve been at Parede, explained Pereira, I spent a week at Parede. At Parede!, exclaimed Father António, and what were you doing at Parede? I was at a thalassotherapeutic clinic, replied Pereira, taking seaweed baths and nature cures. Father António asked him to help him remove his stole and said: You certainly get some queer ideas. I’ve lost four kilos, said Pereira, and I met a doctor who told me an interesting theory about the soul. Is that why you’ve come?, asked Father António. Partly, admitted Pereira, but I also wanted to talk about other things. Then talk away, said Father António. Well, began Pereira, it’s a theory advanced by two French philosophers who are also psychologists, they hold that we do not have a single soul but a confederation of souls guided by a ruling ego, and every now and then this ruling ego changes, so that although we establish a norm it isn’t a stable norm, but a variable one. Listen here, Pereira, said Father António, I’m a Franciscan, I’m a simple person, but it seems to me you’re becoming a heretic, the human soul is one and indivisible, and it was given us by God. Very well, replied Pereira, but if instead of soul, as the French philosophers have it, we use the word personality, there’s an end of heresy, and I’m convinced that we don’t have a single personality, but a lot of personalities living together under the leadership of a ruling ego. That sounds to me a dangerously insidious theory, objected Father António, the personality depends on the soul, and the soul is one and indivisible, what you’re saying smacks of heresy. All the same I feel a changed person from what I was a few months ago, said Pereira, I think things I would never have thought and do things I would never have done. Something must have happened in your life, said Father António. I’ve met two people, said Pereira, a young man and a girl, and maybe meeting them has changed me. It could be, replied Father António, other people influence us, it can happen. I really don’t see how they can influence me, said Pereira, they’re just two benighted romantics without a future, if anything I ought to influence them, I’m the one who supports them, in fact the young man practically lives at my expense, I do nothing but give him money out of my own pocket, I’ve taken him on as my assistant but he doesn’t write a single article I can publish, I say Father António, do you think I ought to make a proper confession? Have you committed any sins of the flesh?, asked Father António. The only flesh I know is the flesh I lug around with me, replied Pereira. Then come, Pereira, don’t waste my time, because to hear a confession I have to concentrate and I don’t want to tire myself out, in a little while I have to visit my sick parishioners, let’s by all means talk of this and that and your affairs in general, but not under confession, just as friends.
Father António sat down on a bench in the sacristy and Pereira sat beside him. Listen Father António, said Pereira, I believe in Almighty God, I receive the sacraments, I obey the Ten Commandments and try not to sin, and even if I sometimes don’t go to Mass on Sundays it’s not for lack of faith but just laziness, I think of myself as a good Catholic and have the teachings of the Church at heart, but at the moment I’m a little confused and also, although I’m a journalist, I’m not well informed about what’s going on in the world, and just now I’m very perplexed because it seems there’s a lot of argument about the position of the French Catholic writers with regard to the civil war in Spain, I’d like you to put me in the picture, Father António, because you know about things and I’d like to know how to behave so as to avoid falling into heresy. But Pereira, exclaimed Father António, you must be living in another world! Pereira tried to justify himself: Well, the fact is I’ve been a week in Parede and what’s more I haven’t bought a foreign paper all summer, and you can’t learn much from the Portuguese papers, so the only news I get is café gossip.
Pereira declares that Father António got to his feet and towered over him with an expression which seemed to him menacingly stern. Pereira, he said, this is a very grave moment and everyone has to make up his own mind, I am a churchman and have to obey my religious superiors, but you are free to make personal decisions, even though you are a Catholic. Then explain me everything, implored Pereira, because I’d like to make my own decisions but I’m not in the know. Father António blew his nose, crossed his hands on his breast and asked: Have you heard of the problem of the Basque clergy? No, I haven’t, admitted Pereira. Well, said Father António, it all began with the Basque clergy, because after the bombing of Guernica the Basque clergy, who are considered quite the most Christian people in Spain, took sides with the Republic. Father António blew his nose as if deeply stirred and continued: In the spring of last year two famous French Catholic writers, François Mauriac and Jacques Maritain, published a manifesto in defence of the Basques. Mauriac!, exclaimed Pereira, I said not long ago that we ought to have an obituary ready for Mauriac, he’s worth his salt that man, but Monteiro Rossi didn’t manage to write me one. Who is Monteiro Rossi?, asked Father António. He’s the assistant I’ve taken on, replied Pereira, but he can’t seem to write me obituaries for the Catholic writers who have taken up decent political stances. But why do you want an obituary for him, asked Father António, poor Mauriac, let him live, we need him, why d’you want to kill him off? Oh, that’s not what I meant at all, said Pereira, I hope he lives to be a hundred, but suppose he were to die suddenly, then there’d be at least one paper in Portugal ready to give him his due, and that paper would be the Lisboa, but forgive the interruption Father António, please go on. Well, said Father António, the problem was complicated by the Vatican, which claimed that thousands of the Spanish clergy had been killed by the republicans, that the Basque Catholics were “Red Christians” and deserved to be excommunicated, and sure enough it excommunicated them, and to make matters worse Claudel, the famous Paul Claudel, a Catholic writer himself, wrote an ode, “Aux Martyrs Espagnols” as the preface in verse to
a swinish propaganda leaflet produced by a Spanish nationalist agent in Paris. Claudel!, exclaimed Pereira, Paul Claudel? Father António blew his nose yet again. The very same, said he, and how would you define Paul Claudel, Pereira? Well, on the spur of the moment I couldn’t presume to say, replied Pereira, he’s a Catholic but he’s taken a different stance, he has made his decisions. On the spur of the moment you couldn’t presume to say, Pereira!, exclaimed Father António in turn, well let me tell you that Claudel is a son of a bitch, that’s what he is, I’m sorry to utter these words in a holy place because what I’d really like do is shout them from the housetops. What happened next?, enquired Pereira. Then, continued Father António, the hierarchy of the Spanish Church, led by Cardinal Gomá, Archbishop of Toledo, decided to send an open letter to all the bishops in the world, you get that Pereira?, all the bishops in the world, as if all the bishops in the world were damn great Fascists like them, saying that thousands of Christians in Spain had taken up arms of their own accord in defence of the principles of religion. Yes, said Pereira, but what about these Spanish martyrs, all these murdered clergy? Father António was silent for a moment and then said: Martyrs they may possibly be, but the fact remains they were plotting against the Republic, and don’t forget that the Republic was constitutional, it had been elected by the people. Franco has made a coup d’état, he’s a bandit. And Bernanos, asked Pereira, what’s Bernanos got to do with all this?, he’s a Catholic writer too. He’s the only one with first-hand knowledge of Spain, said Father António, from ‘Thirty-Four until last year he was in Spain himself, he has written about the massacres by Franco’s troops, the Vatican can’t abide him because they know he’s a genuine witness. You know, Father António, said Pereira, it has occurred to me to publish a chapter or two of the Journal d’un curé de campagne on the culture page of the Lisboa, what do you think? I think it’s a splendid idea, replied Father António, but I don’t know if they’ll let you do it, there’s no love lost for Bernanos in this country, he’s made some pretty harsh comments on the Viriato Battalion, that’s the Portuguese military contingent fighting for Franco in Spain, and now you must excuse me Pereira, I must be off to the hospital, my sick parishioners are expecting me.