The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro

by Antonio Tabucchi

  “And the day before?”

  “At the museum, and later at the cinema, they had a film on that I’d missed in Lisbon,” responded Firmino.

  “And the day before that?” persisted Dona Rosa with a smile.

  “With Don Fernando,” said Firmino, “in the evening he took me out to dine in the country, at a farm of his.”

  “It is no longer his property,” corrected Dona Rosa.

  “So he told me,” replied Firmino.

  “And what did you find to interest you so much in the botanical gardens?” asked Dona Rosa. “I have never been there, I’m so housebound.”

  “A hundred-year-old dragon tree, it’s an enormous tropical palm, there are very few specimens in Portugal, it seems it was planted by Salabert in the nineteenth century.”

  “You know so much, dear boy,” exclaimed Dona Rosa, “but of course in your profession you need a lot of knowledge, tell me then, who was this gentleman with the foreign name who planted this tree?”

  “It’s not that I know all that much,” replied Firmino, “I read it in my guidebook, he was a Frenchman who came to Oporto when Napoleon invaded us, I think he was an officer in the French army, and he it was who founded the botanical gardens here in Oporto.”

  “The French are a cultured people,” said Dona Rosa, “their republican revolution came much earlier than ours did.” “We only became a republic in 1910,” rejoined Firmino, “every country has its own history.”

  “Yesterday on TV I saw a program on the monarchies of Northern Europe,” said Dona Rosa, “they’re on the ball, those people, they have an altogether different style.”

  “They also stood up against the Nazis,” said Firmino.

  Dona Rosa uttered a little cry of surprise.

  “I didn’t know that,” she murmured, “so you can tell they’re on the ball then.”

  Firmino finished his coffee and got up, saying that if she would excuse him he had to go and buy the papers. Dona Rosa, beaming all over her face, pointed to a stack of newspapers on the divan.

  “They’re all here,” she said, “fresh off the press, Francisca went to buy them at eight o’clock, it’s a terrific scandal, the whole press is talking about it, this Titânio is up against it in a big way, if it hadn’t been for you journalists the police would never have gone near the place, so thank God for the Press, say I.”

  “In all modesty, we do what we can,” responded Firmino.

  “Don Fernando telephoned at nine o’clock,” Dona Rosa informed him, “he needs to speak to you, actually he has put everything in my hands, but I think it’s best for you to talk to him first.”

  “I’ll go and see him at once,” said Firmino.

  “I would advise against that,” said Dona Rosa, “Don Fernando can’t receive you today, he’s having one of his crises.”

  “What sort of crises?”

  “Everyone can have their little crises,” replied Dona Rosa gently, “so it’s better not to go disturbing him, but don’t worry, he said he’d call you back and give you instructions, all you need is a little patience.”

  “I’ve got patience enough,” said Firmino, “but I’d have liked a short stroll, perhaps as far as the Café Centrale.”

  “I can see that what you need is a cup of good strong coffee,” said Dona Rosa affectionately, “this stuff Francisca makes in the morning is full of barley, what you need is a good strong espresso so I’ll go and get her to bring you one, meanwhile you stay here and read all the big news about that nightclub, then before long we’ll take a peek at the television, there’s a program on nature, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen it but it fascinates me, it’s presented by a really nice scientist at Lisbon University, and today’s program is all about the chameleon of the Algarve, it seems that the Algarve is one of the few places in Europe where the chameleon has managed to survive, so it says on the TV page.”

  “In my opinion chameleons manage to survive everywhere,” quipped Firmino, “all they have to do is change color.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” laughed Dona Rosa, “and you must know more about that kind of chameleon than I do, what with your work, I scarcely ever leave the house, but believe me even I know a few chameleons, specially in this city.”

  The television screen showed a lagoon with a white beach and humpy sand dunes. Firmino thought it looked like Tavira, and it may indeed have been in those parts. Then the camera swiveled to a hut on the beach, which was a restaurant with a few plastic tables outside it, at which some blond foreigners sat eating clams. The camera zoomed in on a freckly faced girl and the commentator asked her what she thought of the place. She answered in English, and Portuguese subtitles appeared on the screen. She said that beach was an absolute paradise for someone like her, coming from Norway, the fish was fantastic and a whole seafood meal cost the same as two cups of coffee in Norway, but the main reason why she was eating at that shack was Fernando Pessoa, and she pointed to a branch of the pergola which shaded the place. The lens focused on the branch, and there in close-up, dead still but with large eyes darting this way and that, was a giant lizard which looked like part of the branch. It was one of the poor surviving chameleons of the Algarve. The commentator then asked the Norwegian girl why the reptile was called Fernando Pessoa, and she told him she had never read any of that poet’s works but that she knew he was a man of a thousand different masks, and that like the chameleon he camouflaged himself with every sort of disguise, and that was why the owner of the restaurant had made that his signboard. The camera then shifted to a hand-painted sign over the hut, on which were the words: “Chameleon Pessoa.”

  At that moment the telephone rang and Dona Rosa motioned to Firmino to answer it.

  “I have a couple of things to tell you,” came the lawyer’s voice, “have you got pen and paper?”

  “I’ve got my notebook right here,” replied Firmino.

  “They’re contradicting themselves,” said the lawyer, “take notes because this is important. In the first version they denied having taken Damasceno to the police station. Unfortunately for them they were given the lie by the witness, who, get this one, had followed them in his own car. They had previously said they had let Damasceno out of the car along the way, whereas Torres, who had followed them at a discreet distance all the way to Oporto, maintains that with his own eyes he saw Damasceno being beaten up on the way into the station. Now comes a second contradiction: they were forced to admit that they had taken Damasceno to the station for a mere check-up, and that they had detained him only for a short while, the time needed to check his papers and so on, half an hour at the most. Therefore, supposing they got there at about midnight, at around half-past twelve Monteiro would have walked out of there on his own two feet. You follow me?”

  “I follow you,” Firmino assured him.

  “But the fact is that Torres, who seems a tough egg,” continued the lawyer, “states that he stayed there in his car until two o’clock in the morning, and never saw Damasceno Monteiro come out. You follow me?”

  “I follow you,” confirmed Firmino.

  “Therefore,” affirmed the lawyer, “Monteiro was there in the station at least until two o’clock, at which time Torres thought he had better go back and off he went. And it’s at this point that things become more of a muddle, for example, the orderly responsible for registering arrival times, was at that time sleeping like a child with his head on the desk, and there’s also the story of some coffee which the Green Cricket went down to the kitchen to prepare with the help of one of his men. With things of this sort they managed to string together a slightly more convincing yarn, which is the final version, the one the Green Cricket is bound to use at the trial. But it is not up to me to tell you this version.”

  “Who’s going to tell me then?” asked Firmino.

  “You will learn it directly from Titânio Silva,” replied the lawyer. “I am dead sure that this is his final version, and also what he will say at the trial,
but this is a statement which it would be better for you to hear from his own lips.”

  From the receiver came a kind of wheeze followed by a few coughs.

  “I have an attack of asthma,” explained the lawyer with the same wheeze in his voice, “my attacks of asthma are psychosomatic, crickets secrete a fine powder beneath their wings and this brings on an attack.”

  “What must I do?” asked Firmino.

  “I promised to have a talk with you about professional ethics,” replied the lawyer, “so you may consider this telephone call as the first practical lesson. Meanwhile, in your newspaper, stress the contradictions into which these men have fallen, it is a good thing for public opinion to get the idea, and as regards this latest version go and interview the Green Cricket, he will certainly think that by granting an interview he is taking precautions, but we are taking precautions, everyone plays his own game, as in Milligan. Do you follow me?”

  Eighteen

  WE ARE AT THE Antártico, A WELL-KNOWN ice-cream parlor at the mouth of the Douro, overlooking the splendid estuary of the river which traverses the city of Oporto. We have been granted an interview by a personage very much in the public eye, and on whom, according to certain witnesses, grave responsibilities appear to weigh in the matter of the death of Damasceno Monteiro. I refer to Sergeant Titânio Silva of the city Guardia Nacional, of whom we give the following profile in synopsis: fifty-four years of age, native of Felgueiras, of modest social background, enrolled in the National Guard at the age of nineteen, military training at Mafra, cadet in Angola from 1970 to 1973, decorated for valor during his military service in Africa, and for more than ten years, a sergeant at the Guardia Nacional headquarters in Oporto.

  —Sergeant, do you confirm the brief profile we have drawn you? Are you a hero of the Portuguese campaigns in Angola?

  I do not think of myself as a hero, I simply did my duty to my country and to the flag. To tell the truth, when I went to Angola I didn’t even know the geography of the place. Let’s say that it was in our overseas territories that I acquired my sense of patriotism.

  —Would you care to define what you mean by sense of patriotism?

  I mean that I realized I was fighting against people aiming to subvert our culture.

  —What do you mean by the word culture?

  Portuguese culture, of course, because that is what ours is.

  —And by the word subvert?

  I was referring to the blacks who shot at us because ordered to by individuals like Amílcar Cabral. I realized that I was defending territories which had been ours since time immemorial, when Angola had neither culture nor Christianity, both of which were brought there by us.

  —And then, having earned your medal, you came back home and started a career in the Oporto police.

  That is inexact. At first I was posted to the outskirts of Lisbon, and, since we had lost the war, we had to deal with all the jobless refugees returning from Africa, the retornados.

  —We who? Who had lost the war?

  We had, the Portuguese.

  —And how did things go with these people returning from the ex-colonies?

  There were a lot of problems, because they claimed the right to be put up in posh hotels. They even organized demonstrations and threw stones at the police. Instead of staying to defend Angola by force of arms they came to Lisbon and wanted to be kept in the lap of luxury.

  —And what was the next step in your career?

  I was transferred to Oporto. However, in the first place I was posted to Vila Nova de Gaia.

  —And rumor has it that at Gaìa you established certain friendships.

  What do you mean by that?

  —We have heard tell of friendly relations with import-export firms.

  I think these are insinuations on your part. If you wish to make precise accusations then make them outright and I’ll take you to court, because that’s what you journalists deserve, to be hauled into court.

  —Come, sergeant, don’t get all hot under the collar. I’m only speaking of rumors that have come to our ears. All the same we know that you had contacts with Stones of Portugal. Or do you think these also are mere insinuations? I repeat the question: do you or do you not know Stones of Portugal?.

  I know them just as I know all the businesses operating in and around Oporto, and I knew they needed protection.

  —Why? Did it come to your knowledge that they had been threatened?

  Yes and no, even though the owner never explicitly complained of it. All the same we knew they needed surveillance because they imported hi-tech materials, delicate materials worth millions.

  —We are told that along with the hi-tech materials other merchandise arrived clandestinely in those containers. Did you know about this?

  I don’t know what you’re getting at.

  —Drugs. Pure heroin.

  If that had been the case we’d have known. We have first-rate sources of information.

  —In short you had no knowledge that drugs from Hong Kong arrived in the containers shipped to Stones of Portugal?

  No. Ours is a healthy city and doesn’t need drugs. Our favorite thing is tripe.

  —All the same, we read in the nationwide press that here in Oporto there’s a nightclub where they peddle dope, and it appears that you own it.

  I firmly reject that insinuation. If you are referring to ‘Puccini’s Butterfly’ let me tell you that it is frequented by people of class and distinction, and does not belong to me but to my sister-in-law, as duly registered with the proper municipal authorities.

  —However, it is said that you work there.

  I occasionally go and lend a hand with the accounting. I’m good at figures, I’ve done a course in administration.

  —But to return to the Stones of Portugal, it appears that that evening you were in the area on patrol with your squad can you tell us about it?

  We arrived with our headlights dimmed, I don’t recall the exact time but it must have been about midnight, it was only a spot-check.

  —What was the reason for this spot-check?

  I already told you that Stones of Portugal import hi-tech material, just the stuff to attract petty thieves, and our job is to protect it.

  —Go on.

  We parked the cars outside the gates and went in. The office light was on. I went in first and caught Damasceno Monteiro red-handed.

  —Could you clarify that statement?

  He was standing by the desk holding hi-tech material that he had certainly stolen.

  —Only such material and nothing else?

  Only such material.

  —Wasn’t he also carrying some bags full of powder?

  I am a policeman, an official of the State, do you make so bold as to doubt my word?

  —Perish the thought! What happened next?

  We immediately arrested the subject, who thereafter revealed himself to be Monteiro. We ordered him to get into the car and took him to the station.

  —At this point there emerges a contradiction between your two statements. According to our information, in your first statement you declared that you had let him out of the car in the course of the journey.

  Who told you that?

  —Let’s simply say that the offices of the Public Prosecutor are always full of leaks; sometimes a typist, sometimes a switchboard operator, even a simple cleaning woman—but that’s just by the way, the important thing is that in your first statement to the examining magistrate you declared that Damasceno Monteiro had not been taken to the station at all, but had been put out of the car during the journey.

  This is a misunderstanding which I took the trouble to clarify in person. A misunderstanding on the part of a colleague of mine, Officer Ferro.

  —Can you give us a better explanation of this misunderstanding?

  Our patrol was comprised of two cars. Monteiro was put into mine. The other car, driven by a colleague accompanied by Officer Ferro, followed behind. At a certain point we pulled up by t
he curb and Officer Ferro thought he had seen Senhor Monteiro alight from the car. But he was mistaken. I should make it clear that Officer Ferro is a recent recruit, a young fellow, and you know what young men are, and it’s easy to doze off in a car. He was simply mistaken.

  —Nevertheless, in your statement to the examining magistrate you did not immediately question Officer Ferro’s account.

  I questioned it later, when I was able to study his account in detail.

  —Did you not in fact question that account because the witness, Senhor Torres, has sworn that he followed you in his car and with his own eyes saw his friend Damasceno kicked and beaten and dragged into the police station?

  Kicked and beaten?

  —That’s what the witness says.

  My dear sir, we do not kick and beat people! Kindly set it down in black and white in your newspaper: we have all proper respect for the citizens of this country.

  —We place it on record that the conduct of the Guardia Nacional is irreproachable. But would you care to describe what happened that night?

  No trouble. We went up to the first floor, where the offices and detention room are, and set about a preliminary interrogation of the culprit. He appeared to be at the end of his tether, and burst into tears.

  —Did you touch him?

  Explain what you mean.

  —Did you lay hands on him physically?

  We don’t lay hands on anyone, dear sir, because we respect the law and the Constitution, if you want to know. I simply tell you that Monteiro was beside himself and burst into tears. We even tried to comfort him.

  —You tried to comfort him?

  He was a poor devil, a pathetic creature, he cried out for his mother and said his father was an alcoholic. At that time there was only me and Officer Costa, because the other officer had gone to the lavatory, so I told Officer Costa to go downstairs to the kitchenette and brew up some coffee for him, because I really pitied that lad, I really did, so Officer Costa went down and a couple of minutes later he called upstairs and said: sergeant, come down, the machine doesn’t work, the coffee won’t go through. So I went downstairs too.