Pereira maintains that for some time past he had been in the habit of talking to this photo of his wife. He told it what he had done during the day, confided his thoughts to it, asked it for advice. It seems that I’m living in another world, said Pereira to the photograph, even Father António told me so, the problem is that all I do is think about death, it seems to me that the whole world is dead or on the point of death. And then Pereira thought about the child they hadn’t had. He had longed for one, but he couldn’t ask so much of that frail suffering woman who spent sleepless nights and long stretches in the sanatorium. And this grieved him. For if he’d had a son, a grown-up son to sit at table with and talk to, he would not have needed to talk to that picture taken on a trip so long ago he could scarcely remember it. And he said: Well, never mind, which was how he always took leave of his wife’s photograph. Then he went into the kitchen, sat down at the table and took the cover off the pan with the fried chop in it. The chop was cold, but he couldn’t be bothered to heat it up. He always ate it as it was, as the caretaker had left it for him: cold. He made quick work of it, went to the bathroom, washed under his arms, put on a clean shirt, a black tie and a dab of the Spanish scent remaining in a flask he had bought in Madrid in Nineteen Twenty-Seven. Then he put on a grey jacket and left the flat to make his way to Praça da Alegria. It was already nine o’clock, Pereira maintains.
THREE
Pereira maintains that the city seemed entirely in the hands of the police that evening. He ran into them everywhere. He took a taxi as far as Terreiro do Paço and there under the colonnade were truckloads of police armed with carbines. Perhaps they were controlling the strategic points of the city in fear of demonstrations or unruly crowds. He would have liked to walk the rest of the way, the cardiologist had told him he ought to take exercise, but he quailed at the thought of passing right under the noses of those sinister militiamen, so he caught the tram which ran the length of Rua dos Fanqueiros and stopped in Praça da Figuera. Here he alighted and found more police, he maintains. This time he was forced to walk past squads of them, and it made him feel pretty uncomfortable. On his way by he heard an officer say to his men: Just remember lads, there could be a Bolshie round every corner, so keep your eyes peeled.
Pereira looked this way and that, as if the advice had been directed at him, but saw no reason to keep his eyes peeled. Avenida da Liberdade was perfectly tranquil, the ice-cream kiosk was open and there were people at the tables enjoying the cool. He strolled peacefully along the central pavement and at this point, he maintains, he first heard the music. The gentle, melancholy guitar music of Coimbra, and it seemed to him odd, that conjunction of music and armed militiamen. It seemed to be coming from Praça da Alegria, and so it proved to be, because the nearer he got the louder grew the music.
In Praça da Alegria there was no sense of being in a besieged city, Pereira maintains, because he saw no police at all, only a night watchman who appeared to be drunk, dozing on a bench. The whole place was decorated with paper festoons and coloured light bulbs, green and yellow, hanging on wires strung from window to window. There were a number of tables out in the open and several couples dancing. Then he noticed a banner stretched between two trees, and written on it in enormous letters: LONG LIVE FRANCISCO FRANCO. And beneath this, in smaller letters: LONG LIVE OUR PORTUGUESE TROOPS IN SPAIN.
Pereira maintains that only then did he realize this was a Salazarist festival, and that was why it had no need to be picketed by troops. And only then did he notice that a lot of people were wearing the green shirt and the scarf knotted round their necks. He hung back in terror, and several different things flashed into his mind at once. It occurred to him that perhaps Monteiro Rossi was one of them, he thought of the Alentejan carter who had shed his blood all over his melons, he tried to imagine what Father António would have said had he seen him there. He thought of all this and flopped down on the bench where the night watchman was dozing, and let himself drift along with his thoughts. Or rather, he let himself drift with the music, because the music, in spite of all, was a pleasure to him. The players were two little old men, one on the viola and the other on the guitar, and they played the heartrending old melodies of the Coimbra of his youth, when he was a student and thought of life as a long radiant future. In those days he too used to play the viola at student parties, he had a trim figure and was athletic and had the girls falling in love with him. Any number of beautiful girls had been mad about him. But he had fallen for a frail, pallid little thing who wrote poetry and had frequent headaches. Then his thoughts turned to other things in his life, but these Pereira has no wish to mention, because he maintains they belong to him and him alone and have nothing to do with that evening and that festival where he had fetched up all unsuspecting. And then, Pereira maintains, at a certain point he saw a tall slim young man in a light-coloured shirt get up from a table and station himself between the two musicians. And for some reason his heart stood still, maybe because in that young man he seemed to recognize himself, he seemed to rediscover himself as he was in his Coimbra days, because the young man was in some way like him, not in feature but in the way he moved, and something about the hair too, the way a lock flopped onto his forehead. And the young man started singing an Italian song, O sole mio, of which Pereira did not understand the words, but it was a song full of passion and vitality, limpid and beautiful, and the only words he understood were ‘O sole mio’ and nothing more, and all the while the young man was singing the sea-breeze was rising again from the Atlantic and the evening was cool, and everything seemed to him lovely, his past life of which he declines to speak, and Lisbon, and the vault of the sky above the coloured lights, and he felt a great nostalgia, did Pereira, but he declines to say for what. However, Pereira realized that the young man singing was the person he had spoken to on the telephone that afternoon, so when the song was over he got up from the bench, because his curiosity was stronger than his misgivings, and made his way to the table and said to the young man: Mr Monteiro Rossi, I presume. Monteiro Rossi tried to rise to his feet, bumped against the table, and the tankard of beer in front of him toppled over, sousing his pristine white trousers from top to bottom. I do apologize, mumbled Pereira. No, it was my clumsiness, said the young man, it often happens to me, you must be Dr Pereira of the Lisboa, please take a seat. And he held out his hand.
Pereira maintains that he sat down at the table feeling ill at ease. He thought to himself that this was not the place for him at all, that it was absurd to meet a stranger at this nationalist festival, that Father António would not have approved of his conduct, and that he wished he were already on his way home to talk to his wife’s picture and ask its forgiveness. These thoughts nerved him to put a direct question, simply to start the ball rolling, and without much weighing his words he said to Monteiro Rossi: This is a Salazarist Youth festival, are you a member of the Salazarist Youth?
Monteiro Rossi brushed back his lock of hair and replied: I am a graduate in philosophy, my interests are philosophy and literature, but what has your question got to do with the Lisboa? It has this to do with it, replied Pereira, that we are a free and independent newspaper and don’t wish to meddle in politics.
Meanwhile the two old musicians had struck up again, and from their melancholy strings they elicited a song in praise of Franco, but at that point Pereira, despite his uneasiness, realized he had let himself in for it and it was his business to take the initiative. And strangely enough he felt up to doing so, felt he had the situation in hand, simply because he was Dr Pereira of the Lisboa and the young man facing him was hanging on his lips. So he said: I read your article on death and found it very interesting. Yes, I did write a thesis on death, replied Monteiro Rossi, but let me say at once that it’s not all my own work,the passage they printed in the magazine was copied, I must confess, partly from Feuerbach and partly from a French spiritualist, and not even my own professor tumbled to it, teachers are more ignorant than people realize, you know. Pereira main
tains that he thought twice about putting the question he’d been preparing all evening, but eventually he made up his mind, not without first ordering something to drink from the young green-shirted waiter in attendance. Forgive me, he said to Monteiro Rossi, but I never touch alcohol, only lemonade, so I’ll have a lemonade. And while sipping his lemonade he asked in a low voice, as if someone might overhear and reprove him for it: But are you, please forgive me but, well, what I want to ask is, are you interested in death?
Monteiro Rossi gave a broad grin, and this, Pereira maintains, disconcerted him. What an idea, Dr Pereira, exclaimed Monteiro Rossi heartily, what I’m interested in is life. Then, more quietly: Listen, Dr Pereira, I’ve had quite enough of death, two years ago my mother died, she was Portuguese and a teacher and she died suddenly from an aneurism in the brain, that’s a complicated way of saying a burst blood vessel, in short she died of a stroke, and last year my father died, he was Italian, a naval engineer at the Lisbon dockyard, and he left me a little something but I’ve already run through that, I have a grandmother still alive in Italy but I haven’t seen her since I was twelve and I don’t fancy going to Italy, the situation there seems even worse than ours, and I’m fed up with death, Dr Pereira, you must excuse me for being frank with you but in any case why this question?
Pereira took a sip of his lemonade, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said: Simply because in a newspaper one has to have memorial articles on dead writers or an obituary every time an important writer dies, and an obituary can’t be written at the drop of a hat, one has to have it ready beforehand, and I’m looking for someone to write advance obituaries on the great writers of our times, imagine if Mauriac were to die tomorrow how do you think I’d manage?
Monteiro Rossi ordered another beer, Pereira maintains. Since he’d arrived the young man had drunk at least three and at that point, in Pereira’s opinion, he ought to be already rather tight, or at least slightly tipsy. Monteiro Rossi swept back his lock of hair and said: Dr Pereira, I am a good linguist and I know the work of modern writers; what I love is life, but if you want me to write about death and you pay me for it, as they’ve paid me this evening to sing a Neapolitan song, then I can do it, for the day after tomorrow I’ll write you a funeral oration for García Lorca, what d’you think of Lorca?, after all he created the avant-garde in Spain just as here in Portugal Pessoa created our modernist movement, and what’s more he was an all-round artist, he was a poet, a musician and a painter too.
Pereira said Lorca didn’t seem to him the ideal choice, he maintains, but he could certainly give it a try, as long as he dealt with Lorca tactfully and with due caution, referring exclusively to his personality as an artist and without touching on other aspects which in view of the current situation might pose problems. And then, without batting an eyelid, Monteiro Rossi said: Look here, excuse my mentioning it, I’ll do you this article on Lorca but d’you think you could give me something in advance?, I’ll have to buy some new trousers, these are terribly stained, and tomorrow I’m going out with a girl I knew at university who’s on her way here now, she’s a good chum of mine and I’m very fond of her, I’d like to take her to the cinema.
FOUR
The girl who turned up had an Italian straw hat on. She was really beautiful, Pereira maintains, her complexion fresh, her eyes green, her arms shapely. She was wearing a dress with straps crossing at the back that showed off her softly moulded shoulders.
This is Marta, said Monteiro Rossi, Marta let me introduce Dr Pereira of the Lisboa who has engaged me this evening, from now on I’m a journalist, so you see I’ve found a job. And she said: How d’you do, I’m Marta. Then, turning to Monteiro Rossi, she said: Heaven knows why I’ve come to a do of this sort, but since I’m here why don’t you take me for a dance, you numskull, the music’s nice and it’s a marvellous evening.
Pereira sat on alone at the table, ordered another lemonade and drank it in small sips as he watched the young pair dancing slowly cheek to cheek. Pereira maintains that it made him think once again of his own past life, of the children he had never had, but on this subject he has no wish to make further statements. When the dance ended the young people took their places at the table and Marta said rather casually: You know, I bought the Lisboa today, it’s a pity it doesn’t mention the carter the police have murdered in Alentejo, all it talks about is an American yacht, not a very interesting piece of news in my view. And Pereira, guilt-struck for no good reason, replied: The editor-in-chief is on holiday taking the waters, I am only responsible for the culture page because, you know, from next week on the Lisboa is going to have a culture page and I am in charge of it.
Marta took off her hat and laid it on the table. From beneath it cascaded a mass of rich brown hair with reddish lights in it, Pereira maintains. She looked a year or two older than her companion, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven, so he asked her: What do you do in life? I write business letters for an import-export firm, replied Marta, I only work in the mornings, so in the afternoons I have time to read, go for walks and sometimes meet Monteiro Rossi. Pereira maintains he found it odd that she called the young man by his surname, Monteiro Rossi, as if they were no more than colleagues, but he made no comment and changed the subject: I thought perhaps you belonged to the Salazarist Youth, he said, just for something to say. And what about you? countered Marta. Oh, said Pereira, my youth has been over for quite a while, and as for politics, apart from the fact that they don’t much interest me I don’t like fanatical people, it seems to me that the world is full of fanatics. It’s important to distinguish between fanaticism and faith, replied Marta, otherwise we couldn’t have ideals, such as that men are free and equal, and even brothers, I’m sorry if I’m really only trotting out the message of the French Revolution, do you believe in the French Revolution? Theoretically yes, answered Pereira, and then regretted having said theoretically, because what he had wanted to say was: Substantially yes. But he had more or less conveyed his meaning. And at that point the two little old men with viola and guitar struck up with a waltz and Marta said: Dr Pereira, I’d like to dance this waltz with you. Pereira rose to his feet, he maintains, gave her his arm and led her onto the dance-floor. And he danced that waltz almost in rapture, as if his paunch and all his fat had vanished by magic. And during the dance he looked up at the sky above the coloured lights of Praça da Alegria, and he felt infinitely small and at one with the universe. In some nondescript square somewhere in the universe, he thought, there’s a fat elderly man dancing with a young girl and meanwhile the stars are circling, the universe is in motion, and maybe someone is watching us from an everlasting observatory. When they returned to their table: Oh why have I no children? thought Pereira, he maintains. He ordered another lemonade, thinking it would do him good because during the afternoon, with that atrocious heat, he’d had trouble with his insides. And meanwhile Marta chattered on as relaxed as you please, and said: Monteiro Rossi has told me about your schemes for the paper, I think they’re good, there must be dozens of writers who ought to be kicking the bucket, luckily that insufferable Rapagnetta who called himself D’Annunzio kicked it a few months ago, but there’s also that pious fraud Claudel whom we’ve had quite enough of don’t you think?, and I’m sure your paper which appears to have Catholic leanings would willingly give him some space, and then there’s that scoundrel Marinetti, a nasty piece of work, who after singing the praises of guns and war has gone over to Mussolini’s blackshirts, it’s about time he was on his way too. Pereira maintains that he broke out in a slight sweat and whispered: Young lady, lower your voice, I don’t know if you realize exactly what kind of a place we’re in. At which Marta put her hat back on and said: Well, I’m fed up with it anyway, it’s giving me the jitters, in a minute they’ll be striking up with military marches, I’d better leave you with Monteiro Rossi, I’m sure you have things to discuss so I’ll walk down to the river, I need a breath of fresh air, so goodnight.
Pereira maintains that he fel
t a sense of relief. He finished his lemonade and was tempted to have another but couldn’t make up his mind because he didn’t know how much longer Monteiro Rossi wanted to stay on, so he asked: What do you say to another round? Monteiro Rossi accepted and said he had the whole evening free and would like to talk about literature as he had very few opportunities to do so, he usually discussed philosophy, he only knew people exclusively concerned with philosophy. And at this point Pereira was reminded of an oft-repeated saying of an uncle of his, an unsuccessful writer, so he quoted it. He said: Philosophy appears to concern itself only with the truth, but perhaps expresses only fantasies, while literature appears to concern itself only with fantasies, but perhaps it expresses the truth. Monteiro Rossi grinned and said he thought this defined the two disciplines to a T. So Pereira asked him: What do you think of Bernanos? Monteiro Rossi appeared slightly at a loss at first and asked: The Catholic writer, you mean? Pereira nodded and Monteiro Rossi said gently: You know, Dr Pereira, as I told you on the telephone I don’t give a great deal of thought to death, or Catholicism either for that matter, because my father as I said was a naval engineer, a practical man who believed in progress and technology, and brought me up on those lines, although he was Italian I feel that he brought me up more in the English style, with a pragmatical view of life; I love literature but perhaps our tastes don’t coincide, at least as regards certain writers, but I do seriously need work and am willing to write advance obituaries for all the writers you ask for, or rather your paper does. It was then, Pereira maintains, that he felt a sudden surge of pride. He maintains it irked him that this young man should be giving him a lecture on professional ethics, and in a word he found it a sight too cheeky. He decided to adopt a haughty tone himself, and said: I don’t answer to my editor-in-chief for my decisions on literature, I am the editor of the culture page and I choose the writers who interest me, I have made up my mind to give you the job and also to give you a free hand; I would have liked Bernanos and Mauriac because I admire their work, but at this point I leave the decision up to you to do as you think fit. Pereira maintains that he instantly regretted having committed himself to such an extent, he risked trouble with the editor-in-chief by giving a free hand to this youngster whom he scarcely knew and who had openly admitted having copied his degree thesis. For a moment he felt trapped, he realized he had placed himself in a foolish situation. But luckily Monteiro Rossi resumed the conversation and began to talk about Bernanos, whose work he apparently knew quite well. He said: Bernanos has guts, he isn’t afraid to speak about the depths of his soul. At the sound of that word, soul, Pereira took heart again, he maintains, as if raised from a sickbed by some healing balm, and this caused him to ask somewhat fat-headedly: Do you believe in the resurrection of the body? I’ve never given it a thought, replied Monteiro Rossi, it’s not a problem that interests me, I assure you it simply isn’t a problem that interests me, but I could come to the office tomorrow, I could even do you an advance obituary of Bernanos but frankly I’d rather write a memorial piece on Lorca. Very well, said Pereira, I am the whole editorial staff and you will find me at number sixty-six Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca, near Rua Alexandre Herculano and just a step along from the kosher butcher, if you meet the caretaker on the stairs don’t take fright, she’s a harridan, just tell her you have an appointment with Dr Pereira and don’t get chatting with her, she’s probably a police informer.
Pereira Maintains Page 2
