The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro

by Antonio Tabucchi

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  ............................... his implacable pages, Diskurs über den Freitod, tell us that abhorrence of life is the basic prerequisite for a voluntary death, though not only his book but the story of his life is essential to our understanding ..................................................................................

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  ................................. Jean Améry, a Mittel-European Jew, was born in Vienna, took refuge in Belgium in the late 1930s, was deported by the Germans in 1940, escaped from the concentration camp of Gurs and joined the Belgian Resistance, arrested by the Nazis again in 1943, tortured by the Gestapo and sent to Auschwitz, he survived ......................................................................................................................................

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  ......................................... but what is the meaning of survival? ............................................................................................................................

  .............................. I ask myself ...............................................................

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  ........................... devoting himself with great finesse to literature he wrote in both German and French, I recall for example his studies on Flaubert and two novels ........................................................................

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  ................................................................................ but can writing save one from an irreparable humiliation? ....................................................

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  ................................... he finally committed suicide in Salzburg in 1978 .................................................................................................................

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  ................................. and I therefore assert that if Damasceno Monteiro laid violent hands upon himself, because my profound doubts in the matter cannot be confirmed by any witness, even though we have to strain all reason to credit this version of the facts ..................................................................................................................

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  ..... his desperate act would have been forced upon him, as the result of the tortures he had undergone, as shown by the results of the autopsy .....................................................................................................

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  ...................... I assert that the person responsible is Sergeant Titânio Silva .........................................................................................................

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  ...... the methods worthy of the Inquisition employed in his headquarters ...........................................................................................

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  ............................. do my opinions strike you as Quixotic? In that case allow me one last literary quotation, in saying that for all essential questions, by which I mean those for which people risk death, or which strengthen the will to live, there are only two ways of thought, that of Don Quixote and that of Monsieur La Palisse ............................

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  ................. they would have us believe that Damasceno Monteiro died on account of a cup of coffee ...................................................................

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  ............................... but this insulting idiocy, worthy indeed of Monsieur La Palisse, which we have heard in the laughable testimony of the accused, stops nothing short of infamy, .......................................

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  yes infamy, ...............................................................................................

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  .......... and I will attempt to explain what I mean by infamy ...............................................................................................................”

  Firmino pressed the STOP button.

  “After this the recording is even more of a washout,” he said, “but I assure you that from here on the lawyer’s speech was something to send shivers down your spine, I should have taken it down in shorthand at the time, but I’m not fast enough, and in any case I put my faith in this contraption.”

  “That’s a shame,” said the waiter, “what happened next?”

  “We come to his winding up,” said Firmino, “in which he recalled the Salsedo case.”

  “What was that?” asked the waiter.

  “I didn’t know either,” replied Firmino, “but it was some thing that happened in the United States, during the 1930s, I think, Salsedo was an anarchist who was pushed out of a police station window and the police made it out to be suicide, the case was revealed to the world by a lawyer who I think was called Galleani, and that was the end of the speech, but as you can hear there’s nothing left on the tape.”

  The waiter got to his feet.

  “In a while we’ll be arriving at Lisbon,” he said, “I must go and get my things together.”

  “Make me out a bill,” said Firmino, “I’m paying for both of us.”

  “That’s impossible,” objected the waiter, “I’d have to ring it up on the cash register, which also registers the time, and that would show that you’ve eaten at a time when one can’t eat.”

  “I don’t follow the logic,” replied Firmino.

  “Four scrambled eggs won’t ruin the Company,” said the waiter, “and it was nice to have someone to chat to, the journey seemed shorter, I’m only sorry about your recording, goodbye now.”

  Firmino replaced the tape-recorder in his case and glanced through the notepad left open on the table. It was blank. The only thing he had managed to scribble down was the sentence. He re-read it.

  “This Court, in virtue of the powers conferred on it by Law, having duly examined the evidence and heard the accused and Counsel for the defense and prosecution, condemns officers Costa and Ferro to two years of imprisonment for the charge of concealment of a corpse and failure to report aggravated by the fact that these offenses were committed by public officials in the exercise of their duties. However, the Court grants probation. It finds Sergeant Silva guilty of negligence in having left the station during duty hours, and suspends him from service for six months. It finds him not guilty of murder.”

  The first lights of the outskirts began to twinkle through the carriage window. Firmino picked up his case and
went out into the corridor. Not a soul in sight. He glanced at his watch. The train was on the dot.

  Twenty-One

  FIRMINO STEPPED OUT OF THE Faculty of Letters and halted at the top of the steps to scan the parking lot for Catarina. April was glittering in all its glory. Firmino looked at the trees in the large square of this university town bursting with early spring foliage.

  He took off his jacket, it was almost hot enough to be summer. Then he spotted her car and started down the steps brandishing a sheet of paper.

  “You can start packing,” was his triumphant cry, “we’re off!”

  Catarina threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “When do we start?”

  “At once. In theory even tomorrow.”

  “For a whole year?”

  “The whole year’s grant went to the chap who was in a class by himself,” said Firmino, “but they’ve given me six months, which is better than nothing, don’t you think?”

  He rolled down the car window and murmured dreamily. “L’Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Elysées, the Musée d’Orsay, the Bibliothèque Nationale, the Latin Quarter—six months in the ‘Ville Lumière’—don’t you think we should celebrate?”

  “Yes, let’s celebrate,” replied Catarina, “but are you sure the money will be enough for two?”

  “The monthly grant comes to quite a bit,” replied Firmino, “of course Paris is a fiercely expensive city, but I also have the right to substantial meal tickets at the students’ canteen, it won’t be a life of luxury but we’ll get by.”

  Catarina edged her way in to the traffic in Campo Grande.

  “Where shall we go to celebrate?” she asked.

  “Maybe at ‘Tony das Bifes,’” suggested Firmino, “however first go round the roundabout and take me to the office, I want to settle things at once with the Editor, and in any case it’s still only midday.”

  THE SWITCHBOARD LADY IN HER wheelchair was already having her meal out of a small tinfoil dish and reading a weekly magazine she was particularly fond of.

  “There you are, reading all our trade rivals,” teased Firmino in passing.

  That morning the editorial staff was present in full strength. Firmino led Catarina through the maze of desks, gave Silva an amiable “Good morning, Monsieur Huppert”, rapped twice on the Editor’s glass door, and breezed right in.

  “My fiancée,” announced Firmino.

  “How d’you do,” murmured the Editor.

  They sat themselves down on those agonizing white metal chairs which the Modernist architect had scattered everywhere. As usual the fug in the Editor’s office was unfit to breathe.

  “I have a little matter I wish to discuss with you, sir,” said Firmino, not quite knowing how to begin. But then he charged in with: “I want to ask for six months’ leave.”

  The Editor lit a cigarette, gave Firmino a blank look and said: “Explain yourself better.” Firmino set out to explain everything as best he could: the scholarship he had won, the chance of research work in Paris under a professor at the Sorbonne, and of course he would give up his salary, but if he left the paper he would be without social security, he didn’t ask the paper to pay his monthly installments, he’d do that out of his own pocket, it was just that he didn’t want to find himself in the position of being unemployed, because as the Editor very well knew, here in Portugal the unemployed were fobbed off with about enough to starve a stray dog, and in any case in six months’ time he’d be back at work again, cross his heart he would.

  “Six months is a long time,” muttered the Editor, “and who knows how many cases will come our way in the next six months?”

  “Think of it this way,” replied Firmino, “summer is on the doorstep, the holidays will soon be starting and people will be off to the seaside, it seems that people kill each other less in summertime, I’ve read it in some statistic or other, and maybe the job of special correspondent could be taken over by Senhor Silva, he’s really been panting for it.”

  The Editor said nothing. He appeared to be thinking it over. Meanwhile Firmino had a sudden inspiration.

  “Hey, I could send you reports from Paris, that’s a city with a mass of crimes passionels, it’s not every paper that can afford a special correspondent in Paris, and you’d have one free of charge. Just think how posh it would sound: from our special correspondent in Paris.”

  “That might be a solution,” replied the Editor, “but I have to give it some thought, we’ll discuss the matter calmly tomorrow, and in the meanwhile let me think it over.”

  Firmino got up to go. Catarina got up with him.

  “Ah, one moment,” said the Editor, “there’s a telegram for you, arrived yesterday.”

  He handed over the telegram and Firmino opened it. It read: “Must speak to you urgently Stop Expect you tomorrow in my library Stop Useless telephone me Stop Best wishes Fernando de Mello Sequeira.”

  Firmino read the telegram and gave Catarina a worried look. She returned it with a questioning air. Firmino read the telegram out loud.

  “What does he want me for?” he asked.

  Neither of them had anything to say.

  “What shall I do?” asked Firmino, turning to Catarina.

  “I think you ought to go.”

  “You really do?” insisted Firmino.

  “Why not? After all,” smiled Catarina, “Oporto isn’t the end of the world.”

  “What about our celebration at ‘Tony dos Bifes’?” asked Firmino.

  “We can put that off until tomorrow,” answered Catarina, “let’s just have a snack at the ‘Versailles’ and then I’ll take you to the station. It’s ages since I’ve been to the ‘Versailles.’”

  HOW DIFFERENT IS A CITY seen in the broad light of day and in blazing sunshine. Firmino cast his mind back to the last time he had seen that city, that misty December day when everything had seemed so dreary and dreadful. But now Oporto wore a gladsome look, lively, animated and the potted flowers on the sills of Rua das Flores were all in bloom.

  Firmino pressed the bell and the door clicked open. He found Don Fernando sprawled on the sofa under the bookshelves. He was in a dressing gown, as if he had only just got out of bed, but wore a silk scarf round his neck.

  “Good evening, young man,” he said vaguely, “thank you for coming, make yourself at home.”

  Firmino sat down.

  “You wanted to see me urgently,” he said, “what’s it all about?”

  “We’ll discuss that later,” said Don Fernando, “first tell me about yourself and your fiancée, how is she, have they taken her on at the library?”

  “Not yet,” replied Firmino.

  “And your thesis on the post-war novel in Portugal?”

  “I’ve written it,” said Firmino, “but it’s not very long, just a brief essay of twenty-odd pages.”

  “Still on your beloved Lukács?” enquired Don Fernando.

  “I’ve adjusted my sights a little,” explained Firmino, “I concentrated on a single novel and incorporated other methods.”

  “Tell me all,” said the lawyer.

  “Newspaper weather reports as a metaphor of prohibition in a 1960s Portuguese novel, that’s what I’ve called my dissertation.”

  “And a very fine title too,” said the lawyer approvingly. “And on whose method do you base it?”

  “Mostly on Lotman, as regards decoding the secret message,” explained Firmino, “but I’ve kept in Lukács as far as politics are concerned.”

  “An interesting mélange,” said the lawyer, “I should like to read it, perhaps you might send me a copy. Anything else to tell me?”

  “On the basis of this work I put in for a scholarship to go to Paris, and I won it,” Firmino admitted with some measure of pride. “I have a really good research project under way.”

  “Very interesting,” said the lawyer, “and what’s your project about?”

  “Censorship in literature,” said Firmino.

  “Is that
the case!” exclaimed the lawyer, “I offer my congratulations. And when do you hope to leave?”

  “The sooner the better,” replied Firmino, “the grant starts the moment the candidate accepts, and I signed the acceptance form this morning.”

  “I see,” said the lawyer, “in that case I may have brought you here to no purpose, I didn’t bargain on an event so gratifying yet so demanding on you.”

  “Why to no purpose?” enquired Firmino.

  “I had need of your help.”

  Don Fernando got up and made his way to the desk. There he selected a cigar and inhaled its odor for a long time without making up his mind to light it, then he flopped down on the sofa again, threw his head back and gazed at the ceiling.

  “I’m asking for a retrial,” he said.

  Firmino stared at him in astonishment.

  “But it’s too late now,” he said, “you didn’t appeal within the legal time-limit.”

  “That is true,” admitted the lawyer, “at that time it seemed useless.”

  “And the case has been closed,” Firmino pointed out.

  “True, it has been closed,” said the lawyer. “And I shall have it reopened.”

  “On what grounds?” asked Firmino.

  Don Fernando said nothing, but pulled himself upright, and without getting up opened a small buffet beside the sofa, extracting a bottle and two glasses.

  “It’s not an exceptional port,” he said, “but it has its dignity.”

  He poured out the wine and at last made up his mind to light the cigar.

  “I have an eyewitness,” he said almost in a whisper, “and the things he witnessed justify me in asking for a retrial.”

  “An eyewitness?” repeated Firmino, “but how do you mean?

  “An eyewitness to the murder of Damasceno Monteiro,” replied Don Fernando.

  “Who is it?”

  “The name is Wanda,” said the lawyer, “a person I happen to know.”

  “Wanda who?”