Pereira got up and went off without another word. He was worn to a shred, he maintains.
TEN
Next morning Pereira woke at six. He had a cup of black coffee, though he had to press for it, he maintains, because room service only started at seven. Then he went for a walk in the gardens. The baths also opened at seven, and at seven on the dot Pereira was at the gates. Silva wasn’t there, the editor-in-chief wasn’t there, there was practically no one at all and Pereira maintains it was a great relief. He started by drinking two glasses of water tasting of rotten eggs, after which he felt slightly sick and his insides began to churn around. He would have appreciated a nice cool lemonade, because despite the early hour it was already hotting up, but he thought he shouldn’t mix lemonade and sulphur water. Then he went to the bath-houses where they made him strip and put on a white bath-robe. Mud bath or inhalations?, asked the receptionist. Both, replied Pereira. He was ushered into a room containing a marble bathtub full of brownish liquid. Pereira removed his bath-robe and climbed in. The mud was lukewarm and gave him a feeling of well-being. At a certain point an attendant came in and asked him where he needed massage. Pereira told him he didn’t want massage at all, only the bath, and would prefer to be left in peace. When he got out of the tub he had a cool shower, donned the bath-robe again and went next door where there were jets of steam for inhalation. In front of these jets lots of people were already seated, their elbows propped on a marble shelf, breathing in blasts of hot air. Pereira found a free spot and sat down. He breathed deeply for several minutes, and lost himself in his thoughts. These turned to me reason also to his wife’s photograph. It was nearly two days since he had talked to his wife’s photograph and Pereira maintains he regretted not bringing it with him. He got to his feet, went back to the changing-rooms, got dressed, put on his black tie, then left the baths and returned to the hotel. In the restaurant he spied his friend Silva tucking in to croissants and café-au-lait. Fortunately the editor-in-chief was not to be seen. Pereira went up to Silva, bade him good morning, told him he had taken the waters and continued: There’s a train for Lisbon at about midday, I’d be grateful for a lift to the station, if you can’t manage it I’ll take the hotel taxi. What, off already?, exclaimed Silva, I was hoping to spend a couple of days with you. You must forgive me, but I have to be back in town this evening, lied Pereira, I have an important article to write tomorrow, and anyway, you know, I don’t like the idea of leaving the office in the hands of the caretaker, so I’d really rather get back. It’s up to you, replied Silva, I’ll certainly give you a lift.
During the drive they said nothing at all. Pereira maintains that Silva seemed to be in a huff, but he himself did nothing to make things easier. Never mind, he thought, never mind. They reached the station at eleven-fifteen and the train was waiting at the platform. Pereira climbed aboard and waved goodbye through the window. Silva gave him a hearty wave in return and went his way.
Pereira took a seat in a compartment where a woman reading a book was already seated. She was handsome, blonde and chic, with a wooden leg. As she was in a window seat Pereira took a place by the corridor so as not to disturb her. He noticed, however, that she was reading a book by Thomas Mann, and in German at that. This aroused his curiosity, but for the moment he said nothing except good morning Senhora. The train pulled out at eleven-thirty and a few minutes later the waiter came round to take bookings for the dining-car. Pereira booked a place because he felt that his stomach was a little upset, he maintains, and needed something to settle it. It wasn’t a long journey, to be sure, but they would reach Lisbon rather late for lunch, and he had no wish to go searching around for somewhere to eat when he got there, not in that heat.
The lady with the wooden leg also booked for the dining-car. Pereira noticed that she spoke good Portuguese but with a slight foreign accent. This, he maintains, redoubled his curiosity and steeled him to make a suggestion. Senhora, said he, please forgive me, I have no wish to be intrusive, but seeing that we are travelling companions and have both booked for the dining-car I suggest we share a table, we can enjoy a little conversation and perhaps feel less lonely, eating alone is so gloomy, especially on a train, allow me to introduce myself, I am Dr Pereira, editor of the culture page of the Lisboa, an evening paper published in Lisbon. The lady with the wooden leg gave him a broad smile and held out her hand. Very glad to meet you, said she, my name is Ingeborg Delgado, I am German but of Portuguese ancestry, I have come to Portugal to rediscover my roots.
The waiter came by ringing the bell for lunch. Pereira got up and stood aside for Senhora Delgado. He did not presume to offer her his arm, he maintains, because he thought this might be mortifying to a lady with a wooden leg. But Senhora Delgado moved pretty smartly despite her artificial limb, and led the way along the corridor. The dining-car was close to their compartment so luckily their walk was a short one. They chose a table on the left-hand side of the train. Pereira tucked his napkin into the collar of his shirt and immediately felt embarrassed about it. Forgive me, he said, but when I eat I always seem to mess up my shirt, my daily says I’m worse than a child, I hope you don’t think I’m too provincial. Meanwhile outside the train window flowed the gentle landscape of central Portugal, with its green pine-covered hills and dazzling white villages, and now and then the black dot of a peasant working in the vineyards. Do you like Portugal?, asked Pereira. Yes, I do, replied doubt I’ll be staying here long, I have visited my relatives in Coimbra, I have rediscovered my roots, but this is not a country for me or for people of my race, I am awaiting a visa from the American Embassy and soon, I hope, I shall be leaving for the United States. Pereira thought he caught her meaning so he asked: Are you Jewish? Yes, I am Jewish, confirmed Senhora Delgado, and Europe in these times is not a suitable place for people of my race, especially Germany, but even here we are not very popular, I can tell it from the newspapers, perhaps the paper you work for is an exception, even if it seems so Roman Catholic in its views, too much so for non-Catholics like myself. But this is a Catholic country, replied Pereira, and I ought to tell you that I’m a Catholic myself, even if in my own way, unfortunately we did have the Inquisition and that doesn’t do us much credit, but I, for example, don’t believe in the resurrection of the body, I don’t know if that means anything to you? I’ve no idea what it means, said Senhora Delgado, but I’m fairly sure it’s none of my business. I noticed you were reading a book by Thomas Mann, said Pereira, he’s a writer I very much admire. He too is not happy about what’s going on in Germany, said Senhora Delgado, I don’t think he’s happy about it at all. Maybe I’m not happy about what’s going on in Portugal, admitted Pereira. Senhora Delgado took a sip of mineral water and said: Then do something about it. Such as what? asked Pereira. Well, said Senhora Delgado, you’re an intellectual, tell people what’s going on in Europe, tell them your own honest opinion, just get on and do something. There were many things he would have liked to say, Pereira maintains. He would have liked to tell her that his editor-in-chief was a bigwig in the regime, and worse still there was the regime itself, with its police and its censorship, and that everyone in Portugal was gagged, and that no one in short could express his own honest opinion, and that he personally spent his days in a wretched little hole in Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca in the company of an asthmatic fan and under the eye of a caretaker who was probably a police informer. But Pereira said none of this, all he said was: I’ll do my best Senhora Delgado, but it isn’t easy to do one’s best in a country like this for a person like me, you know, I’m not Thomas Mann, I’m only the obscure editor of the culture page of a second-rate evening paper, I write up the anniversaries of famous authors and translate nineteenth-century French stories, and more than that I cannot do. I understand, replied Senhora Delgado, but surely there’s nothing one can’t do if one cares enough. Pereira looked out of the window and sighed. They were nearing Vila Franca, already within sight of the long snaking course of the Tagus. How beautiful it was, this little lan
d of Portugal, blest by the sea and its gentle seaborne climate, but it was all so difficult, thought Pereira. Senhora Delgado, he said, we shall soon be reaching Lisbon, we are at Vila Franca, a town of honest workers, of labouring folk, we in this small country also have our opposition, albeit a silent opposition, perhaps because we have no Thomas Mann, but we do what little we can, and now perhaps we’d better return to our compartment and prepare our bags, I’m truly glad to have met you and had this chat with you, allow me to offer you my arm but don’t think of it as a gesture of assistance, it is only a gesture of chivalry, because you know here in Portugal we are very chivalrous.
Pereira got up and offered his arm to Senhora Delgado. She accepted it with the trace of a smile and rose with some difficulty from the cramped table. Pereira paid the bill and added something for a tip. He left the dining-car with Senhora Delgado on his arm, feeling very gratified and rather troubled, though without knowing why, he maintains.
ELEVEN
Pereira maintains that on reaching the office the following Tuesday he met the caretaker, who handed him an express letter. Celeste passed it over with mocking air and said: I gave your instructions to the postman, but he can’t come back later because he has to do the round of the whole neighbourhood, so he left this express letter with me. Pereira took it, nodded his thanks and looked to see if the sender’s name was on the back. Luckily it wasn’t so Celeste had got nothing for her pains. However he instantly recognized Monteiro Rossi’s blue ink and florid hand. He entered the office and switched on the fan. Then he opened the letter. It read: ‘Dear Dr Pereira, unfortunately I am going through a tricky period. I urgently need to talk to you but I’d rather not come to the office. May I hope to see you at eight-thirty on Tuesday evening at the Café Orquídea?, I would very much like to have supper with you and tell you my problems. Hopefully yours, Monteiro Rossi.’
Pereira maintains that for the ‘Anniversaries’ column he had in mind a short piece on Rilke, who had died in ’Twenty-Six, so it was just twelve years since his death. Also he’d begun translating a story by Balzac. He had chosen Honorine, a story about repentance which he intended to publish in three or four instalments. Pereira does not know why, but he had a feeling this story about repentance might come into someone’s life like a message in a bottle. Because there were so many things to repent of, he maintains, and a story about repentance was certainly called for, and this was the only way he had of sending a message to someone ready and willing to receive it. So he put his Larousse under his arm, switched off the fan and started home.
When his taxi reached the cathedral the heat was appalling. Pereira removed his tie and put it in his pocket. He climbed laboriously up the steep ramp leading to his house, opened the street door and sat down inside on the bottom step. He was panting heavily. He felt in his pocket for the pills the cardiologist had prescribed for his heart and swallowed one dry. He mopped away the sweat, took a moment’s rest in the cool dark hallway, then clambered up to his flat. The caretaker Piedade had left no food for him because she was away with her relatives in Setúbal and would only return in September, like every other year. This depressed him not a little. He didn’t care for being on his own, completely on his own, with no one to look after him. He passed his wife’s photograph and told it: I’ll be back in ten minutes. Then he went through to the bedroom, undressed and turned on the bath. The cardiologist had ordered him not to have his baths too freezing cold, but now he really needed a cold one. So he waited until the bath was full and then got in up to his chin. While he was in the water he spent a long time stroking his paunch. Pereira, he told himself, once upon a time your life was a different kettle of fish. He dried himself, put on his pyjamas, then went through into the hall, stopped before his wife’s photograph and said: This evening I’m seeing Monteiro Rossi, I don’t know why I don’t give him the sack and tell him to go to hell, he’s got problems which he wants to unload on me, I’ve understood that much, what do you think about it, what should I do? His wife’s photograph replied with a faraway smile. Right you are then, said Pereira, I shall now go and have a siesta, and after that I’ll find out what that young fellow wants. And off he went to lie down.
That afternoon, Pereira maintains, he had a dream. It was a beautiful dream about his youth, but he prefers not to relate it, because dreams ought not to be told, he maintains. He will go no farther than to say he was happy, that it was winter and he was on a beach to the north of Coimbra, perhaps at Granja, and that he had with him a person whose identity he does not wish to disclose. Anyway, he awoke in a good mood, put on a short-sleeved shirt, didn’t even pocket a tie, though he did take a light cotton jacket, carrying it over his forearm. The evening was hot, though happily there was a bit of a breeze. At first he considered going all the way to the Café Orquídea on foot, but on second thoughts this seemed folly. However he did walk as far as Terreiro do Paço and the exercise did him good. From there he took a tram to Rua Alexandre Herculano. The Café Orquídea was practically deserted, Monteiro Rossi had not yet arrived because he himself was too early. Pereira sat himself down at a table inside, near the fan, and ordered a lemonade. When the waiter came he asked him: What’s the news Manuel? If you don’t know, Dr Pereira, and you a journalist!, replied the waiter. I’ve been away at Buçaco, at the spa, replied Pereira, I haven’t seen the papers, and anyway you never learn anything from the papers, the best thing is to find out by word of mouth and that’s why I’m asking you, Manuel. Barbarous goings on, Dr Pereira, replied the waiter, barbarous goings on. And he went about his business.
At this point in came Monteiro Rossi. He approached with that sheepish air of his, peering furtively this way and that. Pereira noticed he was wearing a brand-new shirt, blue with a white collar. It flashed upon Pereira that it had been bought with his money, but he had no time to dwell on this fact because Monteiro Rossi spotted him and came on over. They shook hands. Take a seat, said Pereira. Monteiro Rossi took a seat and said nothing. Well now, said Pereira, what would you like to eat?, here they only serve omelettes aux fines herbes and seafood salad. I could really do with a couple of omelettes aux fines herbes, said Monteiro Rossi, I’m afraid you’ll think it’s awfully cheeky of me but I didn’t get any lunch today. Pereira ordered three omelettes aux fines herbes after which he said: Now tell me your problems, seeing that’s how you put it in your letter. Monteiro Rossi pushed back his lock of hair and that gesture had a weird effect on Pereira, he maintains. Well, said Monteiro Rossi lowering his voice, I’m in a pickle, Dr Pereira, and that’s the truth of it. The waiter arrived with the omelettes and Monteiro Rossi changed the subject. Ah, what sweltering weather we’re having, he said. All the while the waiter was serving them they talked about the weather and Pereira told how he had been at the baths at Buçaco, how the climate there was a treat, up there in the hills and with all that greenery in the gardens. Then the waiter left them and Pereira said: Well? Well, I don’t know where to begin, said Monteiro Rossi, I’m in a pickle, that’s the long and the short if it. Pereira took a forkful of omelette and asked: Is it to do with Marta?
Why did Pereira put such a question? Because he really thought that Marta could make trouble for this young man, because he had found her too uppish and sure of herself, because he would have liked things to be otherwise, for the pair of them to be in France or England where uppish, cocksure girls can say whatever they please? This Pereira cannot presume to say, but the fact is he asked: Is it to do with Marta? Partly yes, replied Monteiro Rossi in a low voice, but I can’t blame her, she has her own ideas and they’re as solid as a rock. Well?, queried Pereira. Well, what has happened is that a cousin of mine has arrived, said Monteiro Rossi. That doesn’t sound so awful, replied Pereira, we all have cousins. True enough, said Monteiro Rossi almost in a whisper, but my cousin has come from Spain, he’s in an international brigade, he’s fighting on the republican side, he’s here in Portugal to recruit Portuguese volunteers for this international brigade, I daren’t have him to
stay with me, he has an Argentine passport which you can see is a fake from a mile off, so I’m at my wits’ end where to put him, where to hide him. Pereira felt sweat beginning to trickle down his back, but he kept calm. Well?, he asked, going on with his omelette. So what it needs is you, said Monteiro Rossi, it needs you, Dr Pereira, to help him out, to find him some unobtrusive place to stay, it needn’t be clandestine just as long as it’s somewhere, I can’t keep him at home because the police may be suspicious on account of Marta, I might even be under surveillance. Well?, asked Pereira yet again. Well, no one suspects you, said Monteiro Rossi, he’ll be here for several days, just as long as it takes to make contact with the resistance, then he’ll go back to Spain, please help me Dr Pereira, please find him somewhere to stay.
Pereira Maintains Page 5
