Requiem

by Antonio Tabucchi

  We had reached the restaurant. Senhor Casimiro was leaning in the doorway, a white apron covering his enormous belly. Good afternoon, Senhor Casimiro, Tadeus said in greeting, I’ve got a surprise for you, do you recognise this man?, you don’t remember him, eh? Well he’s an old friend come back from the void on this blazing hot day, he’s come to see me again before I go to the devil once and for all, and I’ve invited him to eat sarrabulho. Senhor Casimiro solicitously opened the door for us and let us pass. An excellent idea, excellent, he exclaimed, waddling after us into the large empty room, where would you like to sit?, today you have the whole restaurant at your disposal. Tadeus chose a table in a corner, beneath the fan. Senhor Casimiro’s restaurant was lovely. The floor was laid with black and white slabs of marble, the walls lined with blue and white tiles from the early part of the century. In the opposite corner of the room, near the kitchen, was a parrot on a perch, who every now and then let out a cry: Just as well! Senhor Casimiro arrived bearing bread, butter and olives. With sarrabulbo you really ought to drink red wine, he said, but I don’t know if your friend would like that, I have a Reguengos in the cellar that I can heartily recommend. The Reguengos is fine by me, said Tadeus. I nodded and sighed: All right, but it’ll finish me off.

  The sarrabulho was served in an earthenware dish, the traditional type, terracotta with yellow flowers painted on it in relief. At first glance, it looked revolting. In the middle of the dish were the potatoes, roasted in fat, surrounded by chunks of pork and tripe. The whole thing was drenched in a brown sauce that was probably made from wine or cooked blood, I hadn’t the slightest idea which. It’s the first time I’ve ever eaten anything like this, I said, I’ve been coming to Portugal for years and years, I’ve travelled the country from north to south and I’ve never felt brave enough to eat this, today will be the death of me, I’ll get food poisoning. You won’t regret it, Tadeus said, serving me, eat up, my fearful friend, and stop talking nonsense. I stuck a fork into a bit of pork, almost closing my eyes to do so, and raised it to my lips. It was delicious, it had the subtlest of flavours. Tadeus saw this and looked delighted, his eyes shining. It’s wonderful, I said, you’re right, it’s one of the most delicious things I’ve eaten in my whole life. Just as well! croaked the parrot. I second the parrot, said Tadeus, and poured me a glass of Reguengos. We ate in silence. Now, my fearful friend, said Tadeus, why have you come? I’ve already told you, I replied, because of that note you’ll write to me before you die, because I’m obsessed by those words, Tadeus, and I want to live in peace, I want you to rest in peace too, I want peace for all of us, Tadeus, that’s why I’m here, but I’m here too because of another idea that obsesses me, because of Isabel, but I’ll tell you about that later. All right, said Tadeus, and he made a sign to Senhor Casimiro. Senhor Casimiro must call his wife, said Tadeus, we must offer her our congratulations. Senhor Casimiro disappeared into the kitchen and shortly afterwards a woman in a white overall came out. She was plump and had a faint moustache. Did you enjoy it?, she asked, looking embarrassed. We adored it, said Tadeus, my friend says it’s the best thing he’s eaten in his entire life. He looked at me and said: Tell her, my friend. I told Senhor Casimiro’s Wife and she looked even more embarrassed. They’re just simple dishes, she said, things people in my village used to cook, it was my mother who taught me. Simple my eye, replied Tadeus, don’t talk nonsense, Casimira, there’s nothing simple about this, it’s a work of art. Senhor Tadeus will have his little joke, said Senhor Casimiro’s Wife, and I’ve already told you not to call me Casimira, my name’s Maria da Conceição. But Casimiro’s wife should be called Casimira, said Tadeus, I’m sorry Casimira, but that’s decided, and now explain to this young man how you make sarrabulho à moda do Douro, so that he can return to his own country and make it at home, because where he lives they only ever eat spaghetti. Really?, asked Senhor Casimiro’s Wife. Absolutely, said Tadeus, they eat nothing but spaghetti. No, no, said Senhor Casimiro’s Wife, even more embarrassed, I didn’t mean that, I meant does your friend really want to know how to make sarrabulbo. Of course I do, I said, I’d love to know the recipe, if you don’t mind telling me that is. First, you’ll have to forgive me, sir, said Senhor Casimiro’s Wife, because where I come from, the real sarrabulho is served with polenta, but I didn’t have any maize flour today so I used potatoes, but anyway I’ll tell you the ingredients for a real sarrabulho, I never measure anything, I do everything by eye, anyway, you need loin of pork, fat, lard, pig’s liver, tripe, a bowl of cooked blood, a whole bulb of garlic, a glass of white wine, an onion, oil, salt, pepper and cumin. Sit down, Casimira, said Tadeus, and have a little glass of this Reguengos de Monsaraz, it’ll help you to explain even better. Senhor Casimiro’s Wife thanked Tadeus, sat down and accepted the glass of wine he offered her. Right, said Senhor Casimiro’s Wife, if you want to make a good sarrabulho you have to prepare the meat the night before, cut the pork into cubes and marinate it with the chopped garlic, wine, salt, pepper and cumin, by the next day the meat will be really tender and will smell delicious, next you take an earthenware dish and add the chopped up fat from the folhos, that’s what the fat joining the intestines together is called, and let it melt over a low flame, brown the cubed pork in the lard over a high flame and then leave to cook slowly. When the meat is almost done, pour over the marinade from the night before and let it boil off. Meanwhile, cut up the tripe and the liver and fry it all in the lard until it’s nicely browned. Then fry the chopped onion in the oil and add it to the bowl of cooked blood. Then mix everything together in the earthenware dish and the sarrabulho is ready, flavour with more cumin if you want and serve with potatoes, polenta or rice, as I said I prefer polenta because that’s how they serve it where I come from, but that’s entirely up to you.

  Senhor Casimiro’s Wife gave an exhausted sigh and placed a hand on her heaving bosom. And there you are, she said, after that your stomach does all the work, you just have to eat it up. Bravo! exclaimed Tadeus, applauding, do you know what that’s called, Casimira?, it’s called a first-class lesson in material culture, I’ve always preferred the material to the imaginary, or rather, I’ve always preferred to inflame the imagination with the material, the imagination should be handled with care, even the collective imagination, someone should have told Herr Jung that food always comes before the imagination. I don’t understand a word you’re saying, said Senhor Casimiro’s confused Wife, I haven’t studied like you have, I was brought up in a village and never got beyond primary school. It’s very simple, Casimira, said Tadeus, all I mean is that I’m a materialist, but entirely non-dialectic, which is what distinguishes me from the Marxists, the fact that I’m not a dialectical materialist. You’re certainly “dialectical”, replied Senhor Casimiro’s Wife shyly, you always have been, ever since I’ve known you. That’s a good one, laughed Tadeus, slapping his knee with the palm of his hand, Casimira deserves another glass of Reguengos for that! No, said Senhor Casimiro’s Wife, you don’t want to get me drunk, do you? That’s precisely what you should do, said Tadeus, I bet you’ve never been drunk in your life, have you? You ought to drink half a bottle of Reguengos before going to bed with Senhor Casimiro, you’d be in seventh heaven, you and your husband. Senhor Casimiro’s Wife lowered her eyes and blushed. Look, Senhor Tadeus, she said, it doesn’t matter to me if you choose to make fun of me, you’re an educated man and I’m just an ignorant woman, but making indecent remarks is another matter altogether, if you don’t treat me with more respect I’ll tell my husband. Senhor Casimiro doesn’t mind, replied Tadeus, he’s just a dirty old man, come on now, don’t be angry, Casimira, have another little drink and then bring us the dessert or whatever you’ve prepared today, we have absolute confidence in your desserts.

  Tadeus lit a cigar and offered me one. No thanks, I said, it’s too strong for me. Come on, my fearful friend, he said, try it, you need a cigar after sarrabulho. We smoked in silence. The parrot seemed to have gone to sleep on its perch, all you could hear was the
buzz of the fan. Look Tadeus, I said, why did Isabel kill herself? That’s what I want to know. Tadeus inhaled the smoke and blew it out into the air again. Why don’t you ask her?, he said, since you’re asking me you might just as well ask her. I don’t know if I’ll be able to find her on this Sunday in July, I said, I found you because a gypsy woman helped me, but how can I find Isabel again? I can help you, said Tadeus, it might be easier than you think. Just tell me, I said, were you the one who persuaded her to have an abortion?

  Senhor Casimiro arrived with the dessert. It was a plate of yellow cakes in the form of little boats. They’re papos de anjos de Mirandela, said Senhor Casimiro proudly, egg yolks and fruit syrup, it’s all authentic, I don’t like to boast but there isn’t a restaurant in Lisbon where you can eat papos de anjos like these. Senhor Casimiro scuttled back to the kitchen and Tadeus picked up one of the cakes. What did you want, my friend?, he said in reply to my previous question, did you want a little bastard child with two fathers? I didn’t know about your affair with Isabel, I said, I only found out about it much later, you deceived me, Tadeus. And then I asked: Was it yours or mine? I don’t know, he said, whoever’s it was, it wouldn’t have been happy. That’s what you think, I replied, but I think it had the right to live. Oh yes, said Tadeus, and make four people unhappy: me, you, him and Isabel. She wasn’t happy anyway, I insisted, it was because of all that that she got depressed, and it was because of the depression that she committed suicide, and that’s what I want to know, if her wise counsellor was you. I’ve already told you, she’s the one you should ask, Tadeus said defensively, I don’t know, I swear, I don’t know anything. You were the wise counsellor, I said, I see that now. That has nothing to do with her death, said Tadeus, if you want to know why she killed herself, you have to ask her. Where can I find her?, I asked. I don’t know, he said, you choose a place, here or there, it makes no difference to her. In the Casa do Alentejo, I said, on Rua das Portas do Santo Antão, what do you think? Splendid, he said ironically, I’m sure it’s a place she would love to have visited, I doubt she’s ever set foot there before, but why not? Right, I said, at nine o’clock tonight, you can tell her I’ll be waiting for her at nine o’clock tonight at the Casa do Alentejo. Let’s have some coffee, said Tadeus, what I need is a coffee and a grappa. But Senhor Casimiro was already on his way with two coffees and a bottle of grappa, an old earthenware bottle. Senhor Casimiro, said Tadeus, put it all on my bill. Oh, no you don’t, I cried, lunch is on me. Senhor Casimiro pretended he hadn’t heard me and walked off. Don’t make a fuss, said Tadeus paternally, you haven’t got much money on you, you left Azeitão with hardly anything, you were sitting under a mulberry tree reading and you didn’t have much money in your wallet, I know all about it, you’ve got the whole day ahead of you in Lisbon and you need to hang on to your cash, look, don’t make a fuss. We got up and went over to the door. Senhor Casimiro and his wife leaned over the low kitchen door to say goodbye. Listen, Tadeus, I said, I need to lie down for an hour or two, I’m taking some pills that make me drowsy and this lunch you bought me is making me feel even drowsier, if I don’t sleep for an hour I’ll flake out on the floor. What are you taking?, he asked. It’s a French drug made from amineptine, I said, it calms you down in the morning and gives you a feeling of well-being, but later on it makes you sluggish. All those drugs for the soul are junk, said Tadeus, you heal the soul through the stomach. Maybe, I said, you’re lucky to be so certain about things, I’m not certain about anything. Why don’t you sleep at my house?, asked Tadeus, there’s a comfortable bed for you in the guestroom. Thanks, but I’d rather not, I replied, this is the last time I’ll see you, but look, I really don’t have much money, I can’t afford a hotel, I need a cheap boarding house, one of those places where you can rent a room for an hour or two, you must know of somewhere, perhaps you can help. That’s easy, he said, go to the Pensão Isadora, it’s immediately behind Praça da Ribeira, mention my name and ask for Isadora, she’ll give you a room, you can catch the tram that goes to Cais do Sodré, it should be here any minute.

  The tram stop was right opposite the restaurant and we waited behind the glass door out of the heat. We heard the tram coming as it rounded the bend, the noise of its wheels reaching us in the silence of the city. Now are you sure you don’t want to sleep at my house?, Tadeus asked again. I’m sure, I replied, goodbye Tadeus, rest in peace, I doubt we’ll ever see each other again. Just as well!, cried the parrot. I opened the door, crossed the road and boarded the tram.

  * * *

  * Barcelos and Caldas are two towns in north and central Portugal respectively, both famous for their ceramics.

  IV

  IT WAS AN OLD BUILDING, faded pink, with rickety wooden shutters. The guesthouse stood between a junk shop and a shipping company and on the glass door, which stood ajar, was written: Pensão Isadora. I pushed open the door and went in. Behind the counter, sitting in a wicker armchair, was a man, apparently asleep. He had the Correio da Manhã draped over his face and was snoring. I went over to him and coughed discreetly, but the man didn’t move. Then I said: Good afternoon, and the man very slowly removed the newspaper from his face and looked at me. He was about sixty-five years old, possibly more, with a gaunt face and a thin moustache. Are you the owner?, I asked. The owner isn’t here, he said in an Alentejo accent, he died a year ago, I’m the porter. I reached for my wallet, took out my identity card, placed it on the counter and asked: Do you need any identification? The Porter of the Pensão Isadora gave my identity card a questioning glance and then looked at me distrustfully. Identification?, he said, what for? I don’t know, I said, I thought it was the custom. Look, my friend, he said, are you trying to irritate me? I don’t want to irritate anyone, I replied patiently, I’m just showing you my identity card. The Porter of the Pensão Isadora got up from his chair and calmly, very calmly, picked up the card. Let’s see, he murmured, you’re Italian, five foot eight inches tall, you’ve got blue eyes and brown hair, fascinating. He dropped my identity card on the counter and said: Delighted to have met you but, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go to the lavatory, unfortunately I have problems with my prostate. He disappeared behind the grimy curtain and left me standing there; I put away my identity card and strolled round the small hallway, looking at the pictures hanging on the walls. The first was a photographic view of the Basilica in Fátima taken from a helicopter, a photograph from the fifties, perhaps, you could see the great square and an enormous queue of people going into the church. Underneath was written: Faith knows no frontiers. The second picture was a photograph of a simple farmhouse, also dating from the fifties to judge by the colours, and beneath that was written: The birthplace of His Excellency the President. The third picture was of a naked woman with blonde hair, who was clutching a teddy bear, this had nothing written underneath it. My inspection was interrupted by a voice from behind the curtain. Are you still there?, asked the Porter of the Pensão Isadora. Of course I’m still here, I said. I turned towards the counter and attempted a smile, but the man wasn’t smiling. What do you want?, he asked wearily. I want a room, I said, I thought that was obvious. A room?, he repeated, what for? A room to sleep in, I said, I need to sleep. The Porter of the Pensão Isadora stroked his thin moustache, put on a grave face, scratched his bottom and said: This is a serious guesthouse, my friend, we don’t take single people here, do I make myself clear? No, you don’t, I said stubbornly, explain it to me again. We only take couples, said the Porter of the Pensão Isadora, we don’t want any peeping Toms or perverts here. Fine, I said, if that’s the problem, look, I’ve already said that all I want to do is sleep, I need to lie down for a couple of hours on a bed, a nice clean bed. Then why don’t you find a decent hotel?, he said, not without a certain logic. Listen, I said, it would take too long to explain, but the fact is that I have to spend the whole day in Lisbon and I haven’t got much money, as I told you before, I just want to sleep for a couple of hours, I had a heavy lunch and if I don’t have a nap
I’ll have indigestion all afternoon, I just need to sleep, I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. The Porter of the Pensão Isadora seemed unconvinced. He stroked his moustache again and asked me: But what made you come here? I saw that I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him, so I said: Is Isadora in? I’d like to talk to her, tell her a friend of hers sent me. The Porter of the Pensão Isadora went to the stairs and shouted: Isadora, come down here, there’s a guy wants to talk to you! I heard heavy footsteps along the corridor above and Isadora appeared on the stairs. She was an old prostitute, now retired, who had taken on a rather respectable air, a pair of spectacles hung about her neck on a chain and she wore a scarlet blouse. With all the aplomb of a headmistress, Isadora advanced down the stairs towards me. I do apologise, she said, our porter can be a little rude at times but, you know, with the things that go on nowadays, you can’t be too careful, but if you wanted to speak to me, you should have said so at once. Tadeus sent me, I said, I’m a friend of his, he sends his best regards, look, I just wanted a room to rest in for a couple of hours and a nice clean bed, I just wanted to have a nap, I had lunch with Tadeus, we ate sarrabulho, and I’m dead on my feet, plus I didn’t sleep last night because the farm dog kept barking, and I have to meet someone at midnight on the Cais de Alcântara. My dear boy, said Isadora, you should have said so right away, I’ll get a nice cool room ready for you with a clean bed, but why doesn’t Tadeus call round any more, damn him? I don’t know, I said, I expect he’s got problems. Isadora rang the bell on the counter, at the same time calling out: Viriata! Viriata! Then she turned to me again and said: You can have number fifteen, my dear, it’s on the first floor, right next to the bathroom, Viriata’s just going to make up the bed. Do you need my identity card?, I asked. Certainly not, she said. I went up the stairs and into room fifteen. It was a spacious room, with a large double bed and was furnished with the sort of furniture you find in the provinces: a dresser with capacious drawers, a mirrored wardrobe, a few dark chairs. In one corner, near the window, was a washstand made out of wrought iron with a jug of water on it. I laid my jacket and my spare Lacoste shirt on the dresser and waited for the maid. After a while there was a knock on the door and I said: Come in. Good afternoon, said the woman, I’m Viriata. She was a plump young woman, with a very curly perm and a country face. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five but she looked forty. I’m from the Alentejo, she said smiling, we nearly all are here, apart from one little girl called Mercedes, who’s Spanish, but now she only works here every other day, otherwise she works in Praça da Alegria, she wants to be a jazz singer. She began putting the clean sheets on the bed and said: I’d like to be a singer too, but I’ve never studied music, Mercedes did, she went to a posh school in Mérida, she comes from a good family. And you, I asked, didn’t you study anything? Me, no, she said, I only learned how to read and write, my mother died when I was eight and my father was a pig, always drunk, do you like the Alentejo? Very much, I said, do you know, this very morning I was in the Alentejo, in Azeitão. Oh, she said, Azeitão isn’t the real Alentejo, it’s practically in Lisbon, to really get the feel of the Alentejo you have to visit Beja and Serpa, I’m from Serpa, when I was a little girl I used to keep sheep near the walls of Serpa and on Christmas Eve, the shepherds used to get together in their houses and sing old folk songs, it was so nice, only the men sang, the women just listened and cooked, we used to eat mìgas, açorda and sargalheta, the sort of food you don’t get in Lisbon any more, Lisbon’s gone all posh now, do you know, yesterday I went to have lunch in a little restaurant just next door here, nothing special but the fish is good, I ordered sole and the waiter said to me: Grilled or with bananas? With bananas?, I said, what do you mean, with bananas? It’s Brazilian-style, the waiter said to me, and if you didn’t know before, now you do. I know, I said, the world’s gone mad, with all these peculiar fads, it’s a complete mess really. Viriata finished making the bed and folded down the sheet for me. Right, she said, the bed’s ready, would you like some company? No thanks, Viriata, I said, I just want to sleep for an hour and a half, I don’t need any company. I’m very clean and quiet, Viriata said, even if you want to sleep I won’t bother you, I’ll just lie next to you really still. Thanks again, I said, but I prefer to sleep alone. How about if I scratched your back?, said Viriata, wouldn’t you like to go to sleep with someone scratching your back? I smiled and said: Viriata, thank you, you’re a lovely girl, but I don’t need anyone to scratch my back, I just want to lie quietly for an hour and a half, I’m sorry, Viriata, but it’s not a very good day for me to have my back scratched, but listen, can you come and wake me up in an hour and a half, don’t forget now and I’ll give you a big tip. Viriata left silently. I lowered the blinds. The room was cool, the bed clean, I calmly got undressed, hung my trousers over the back of a chair, took off the gypsy woman’s Lacoste shirt and slid naked into bed, it was good to be there, the pillow was soft. I stretched out my legs and closed my eyes.