Pereira Maintains

by Antonio Tabucchi

  Father António sat down on a bench in the sacristy and Pereira sat beside him. Listen Father António, said Pereira. I believe in Almighty God, I receive the sacraments, I obey the Ten Commandments and try not to sin, and even if I sometimes don’t go to Mass on Sundays it’s not for lack of faith but just laziness, I think of myself as a good Catholic and have the teachings of the Church at heart, but at the moment I’m a little confused and also, although I’m a journalist, I’m not well informed about what’s going on in the world, and just now I’m very perplexed because it seems there’s a lot of argument about the position of the French Catholic writers with regard to the civil war in Spain, I’d like you to put me in the picture Father António, because you know about things and I’d like to know how to behave so as to avoid falling into heresy. But Pereira, exclaimed Father António, you must be living in another world! Pereira tried to justify himself: Well, the fact is I’ve been a week in Parede and what’s more I haven’t bought a foreign paper all summer, and you can’t learn much from the Portuguese papers, so the only news I get is café gossip.

  Pereira maintains that Father António got to his feet and towered over him with an expression which seemed to him menacingly stern. Pereira, he said, this is a very grave moment and everyone has to make up his own mind, I am a churchman and have to obey my religious superiors, but you are free to make personal decisions, even though you are a Catholic. Then explain me everything, implored Pereira, because I’d like to make my own decisions but I’m not in the know. Father António blew his nose, crossed his hands on his breast and asked: Have you heard of the problem of the Basque clergy? No, I haven’t, admitted Pereira. Well, said Father António, it all began with the Basque clergy, because after the bombing of Guernica the Basque clergy, who are considered quite the most Christian people in Spain, took sides with the Republic. Father António blew his nose as if deeply stirred and continued: In the spring of last year two famous French Catholic writers, Francois Mauriac and Jacques Maritain, published a manifesto in defence of the Basques. Mauriac!, exclaimed Pereira, I said not long ago that we ought to have an obituary ready for Mauriac, he’s worth his salt that man, but Monteiro Rossi didn’t manage to write me one. Who is Monteiro Rossi?, asked Father António. He’s the assistant I’ve taken on, replied Pereira, but he can’t seem to write me obituaries for the Catholic writers who have taken up decent political stances. But why do you want an obituary for him, asked Father António, poor Mauriac, let him live, we need him, why d’you want to kill him off? Oh, that’s not what I meant at all, said Pereira, I hope he lives to be a hundred, but suppose he were to die suddenly, then there’d be at least one paper in Portugal ready to give him his due, and that paper would be the Lisboa, but forgive the interruption Father António, please go on. Well, said Father António, the problem was complicated by the Vatican, which claimed that thousands of the Spanish clergy had been killed by the republicans, that the Basque Catholics were ‘Red Christians’ and deserved to be excommunicated, and sure enough it excommunicated them, and to make matters worse Claudel, the famous Paul Claudel, a Catholic writer himself, wrote an ode ‘Aux Martyrs Espagnols’ as the preface in verse to a swinish propaganda leaflet produced by a Spanish nationalist agent in Paris. Claudel!, exclaimed Pereira, Paul Claudel? Father António blew his nose yet again. The very same, said he, and how would you define Paul Claudel, Pereira? Well, on the spur of the moment I couldn’t presume to say, replied Pereira, he’s a Catholic but he’s taken a different stance, he has made his decisions. On the spur of the moment you couldn’t presume to say, Pereira!, exclaimed Father António in turn, well let me tell you that Claudel is a son of a bitch, that’s what he is, I’m sorry to utter these words in a holy place because what I’d really like to do is shout them from the housetops. What happened next?, enquired Pereira. Then, continued Father António, the hierarchy of the Spanish Church, led by Cardinal Gomá, Archbishop of Toledo, decided to send an open letter to all the bishops in the world, you get that Pereira?, all the bishops in the world, as if all the bishops in the world were damn great Fascists like them, saying that thousands of Christians in Spain had taken up arms of their own accord in defence of the principles of religion. Yes, said Pereira, but what about these Spanish martyrs, all these murdered clergy? Father António was silent for a moment and then said: Martyrs they may possibly be, but the fact remains they were plotting against the Republic, and don’t forget that the Republic was constitutional, it had been elected by the people, Franco has made a coup d’état, he’s a bandit. And Bernanos, asked Pereira, what’s Bernanos got to do with all this?, he’s a Catholic writer too. He’s the only one with first-hand knowledge of Spain, said Father António, from ’Thirty-Four until last year he was in Spain himself, he has written about the massacres by Franco’s troops, the Vatican can’t abide him because they know he’s a genuine witness. You know, Father António, said Pereira, it has occurred to me to publish a chapter or two of the Journal d’un curé de campagne on the culture page of the Lisboa, what do you think? I think it’s a splendid idea, replied Father António, but I don’t know if they’ll let you do it, there’s no love lost for Bernanos in this country, he’s made some pretty harsh comments on the Viriato Battalion, that’s the Portuguese military contingent fighting for Franco in Spain, and now you must excuse me Pereira, I must be off to the hospital, my sick parishioners are expecting me.

  Pereira got up to take his leave. Goodbye Father António, said he, I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time, my next visit I’ll make a proper confession. You don’t need to, replied Father António, first make sure you commit some sin and then come to me, don’t make me waste my time for nothing.

  Pereira left him and clambered breathlessly up the Rua da Imprensa Nacional. When he reached the church of San Mamede he crossed himself, then dropped onto a bench in the little square, stretched out his legs and settled down to enjoy a breath of fresh air. He would have liked a lemonade, and there was a café only a few steps away. But he resisted the temptation. He simply relaxed in the shade, took off his shoes for a while and let the cool air get to his feet. Then he set off slowly for the office revolving many memories. Pereira maintains he thought back on his childhood, a childhood spent at Póvoa do Varzim with his grandparents, a happy childhood, or at least one that seemed happy to him, but he has no wish to speak about his childhood because he maintains it has nothing to do with these events and that late August day when summer was on the wane and his mind in such a whirl.

  On the stairs he met Celeste who greeted him cheerily and said: Good morning Dr Pereira, no post for you this morning or telephone calls either. How d’you mean, telephone calls, exclaimed Pereira, have you been into the office? Of course not, replied the caretaker with an air of triumph, but some workmen from the telephone company came this morning accompanied by an official, they connected your telephone to the porter’s lodge, they said it’s as well to have someone to receive the calls when there’s no one in the office, and they say I’m a trustworthy person. All too trustworthy as far as that lot are concerned, Pereira would dearly like to have retorted, but he said nothing of the kind. All he asked was: And what if I have to make a call myself? You have to go through the switchboard, replied Celeste smugly, from now on I am your switchboard, and you have to ask me to obtain the numbers, and I assure you I’d have preferred not to, Dr Pereira, I work all morning and have to get lunch for four people, because I have four mouths to feed, I do, and apart from the children who get what they get and like it I have a husband who’s very demanding, when he gets back from headquarters at two o’clock he’s as hungry as a hunter and very demanding. I can tell that from the smell of frying always hanging about on the landing, replied Pereira, and left it at that. He went into the office, took the receiver off the hook and reached into his pocket for the sheet of paper Marta had given him the evening before. It was an article written by hand in blue ink, and at the top was printed: ANNIVERSAIES. It read: ‘Eight years ago, in 1930, the grea
t poet Vladimir Mayakovsky died in Moscow. He shot himself after being disappointed in love. He was the son of a forestry inspector. After joining the Bolshevik party at an early age he was three times arrested and was tortured by the Czarist police. A great propagandist for the Russian revolution, he was a member of the Russian Futurist group, who are politically quite distinct from the Italian Futurists. He toured his country on board a locomotive reciting his revolutionary poems in every village along the way. He aroused great enthusiasm among the people. He was an artist, designer, poet and playwright. His work is not translated into Portuguese, but may be obtained in French from the bookshop in Rua do Ouro in Lisbon. He was a friend of the great Eisenstein, with whom he collaborated on a number of films. He left a vast opus of poetry, prose and drama. In him we celebrate a great democrat and a fervent anti-Czarist.’

  Pereira, though it was not particularly hot, felt a ring of sweat forming round his collar. He would have liked to chuck that article straight in the wastepaper basket, it was just too stupid for words. But instead he opened the file of ‘Obituaries’ and slipped it in. Then he put on his jacket and decided it was time to go home, he maintains.

  TWENTY

  That Saturday the translation of Daudet’s ‘The Last Class’ was published in the Lisboa. The censors had authorized the piece without any fuss and Pereira maintains he thought to himself that one actually could write ‘Vive la France!’ after all and that Dr Cardoso had been wrong about that. Once again Pereira did not sign the translation. This was because he didn’t think it proper for the editor of a culture page to sign a translation, he maintains, it would have shown the readers that in fact he wrote the entire page himself, and he didn’t like the idea of that. It was a question of pride, he maintains.

  Pereira read over the story with a glow of satisfaction, it was ten in the morning, it was Sunday, and because he had got up very early he was already in the office, had begun translating the first chapter of the Journal d’un curé de campagne by Bernanos and was working away at it with a will. At that moment the telephone rang. As a rule Pereira took it off the hook, because since it had been connected to the caretaker’s switchboard it gave him a creepy feeling to have his calls coming through her, but that morning he’d forgotten. Hullo Dr Pereira, came the voice of Celeste, there’s a call for you, you’re wanted by the thassalloempyrical clinic in Parede. Thalassotherapeutical, corrected Pereira. Well something of the sort, said the voice of Celeste, do you want to be connected or shall I say you’re not in? Put ’em through, said Pereira. He heard the click of a switch and a voice said: Hullo, Dr Cardoso here, I’d like to speak to Dr Pereira, please. Speaking, replied Pereira, good morning Dr Cardoso, it’s good to hear from you. The pleasure is mine, said Dr Cardoso, how are you Dr Pereira, are you following my diet? I’m doing my best, said Pereira, I’m doing my best but it’s not easy. Now Dr Pereira, said Dr Cardoso, I’m just off to catch the train for Lisbon, I read the Daudet story yesterday, it’s really excellent, I’d like to have a chat about it, how about meeting for lunch? Do you know the Café Orquídea?, asked Pereira, it’s in Rua Alexandre Herculano, just past the kosher butcher. I know it, said Dr Cardoso, what time shall we meet, Dr Pereira? At one, said Pereira, if that suits you. Perfectly, replied Dr Cardoso, one o’clock be it, I’ll see you then. Pereira was certain that Celeste had eavesdropped on every word, but he didn’t much care as he hadn’t said anything to worry about. He went on translating the first chapter of the Bernanos novel and this time, he maintains, he did take the telephone off the hook. He worked until a quarter to one, then donned his jacket, put his tie in his pocket and sallied forth.

  When he entered the Café Orquídea Dr Cardoso had not yet arrived. Pereira had the table near the fan laid for two and made himself comfortable. He was pretty thirsty, so for an aperitif he ordered a lemonade, but without sugar. When the waiter came with the lemonade Pereira asked him: What’s the news, Manuel? Conflicting reports, replied the waiter, it seems that in Spain at the moment there’s rather a stalemate, the nationalists have conquered the north but the republicans are getting the better of it in the centre of the country, it seems the fifteenth international brigade fought bravely at Saragossa, the centre is in republican hands and the Italians fighting for Franco are behaving shamefully. Pereira smiled and asked: Who are you for, Manuel? Sometimes one side and sometimes the other, replied the waiter, because they’re both strong, but I don’t care for this business of our boys of the Viriato Brigade fighting against the republicans, after all we’re a republic ourselves, we kicked out the king in Nineteen Ten, I don’t see what reason we have to go fighting against a republic. No more do I, agreed Pereira.

  At that moment in came Dr Cardoso. Pereira had always seen him in a doctor’s white coat, and seeing him now in everyday clothes he looked younger, Pereira maintains. Dr Cardoso was wearing a striped shirt and light-coloured jacket and seemed to be feeling the heat. They exchanged a friendly smile, shook hands, and Dr Cardoso sat down. Tremendous, Dr Pereira, said he, really tremendous, that really is a beautiful story, I never realized Daudet had such power, I’ve come to offer my congratulations, but it’s a shame you didn’t sign the translation, I’d have liked to see your name at the foot of the page. Pereira patiently explained that the reason was humility, or perhaps you could call it pride, because he didn’t want the readers to tumble to the fact that the whole page was written by the editor himself, he wanted to give the impression that the paper had other contributors, that it was a proper newspaper, in a word he hadn’t signed it for the sake of the Lisboa.

  They ordered two seafood salads. Pereira would have preferred an omelette aux fines herbes, but he didn’t dare order one in front of Dr Cardoso. Perhaps your new ruling ego has scored a point or two, murmured Dr Cardoso. How do you mean?, asked Pereira. I mean that you were capable of writing ‘Vive la France!’, said Dr Cardoso, even though the words were put in someone else’s mouth. It did make me feel good, admitted Pereira. And then, with the air of one with all the facts at his fingertips, he went on: Have you heard that the fifteenth international brigade has the upper hand in central Spain?, it seems it fought heroically at Saragossa. Don’t cherish too many illusions, Dr Pereira, replied Dr Cardoso, Mussolini has sent Franco a whole fleet of submarines and the Germans are backing him with their Air Force, the republicans are not going to make it. But they have the Soviets on their side, objected Pereira, the international brigades, people from all over the world have poured down into Spain to give the republicans a hand. I shouldn’t cherish too many illusions, repeated Dr Cardoso, and incidentally I was meaning to tell you that I’ve reached an agreement with that clinic in Saint-Malo, I’ll be leaving in two weeks’ time. Don’t leave me, Dr Cardoso!, was what Pereira wanted to say, I beg you not to leave me! Instead he said: Don’t leave us, Dr Cardoso, don’t leave our people, this country needs people like you. Unfortunately the truth is that it does not need people like me, replied Dr Cardoso, or at least I don’t need it, I think it better for me to go to France before the disaster strikes. Disaster?, exclaimed Pereira, what disaster? I don’t know, replied Dr Cardoso, but I am living in fear of a disaster, a widespread disaster, but I don’t want to cause you anxiety, Dr Pereira, it may be you are working out your new ruling ego and need peace of mind, however I am leaving no matter what, and now tell me about your young people, how are they doing, the youngsters you met who contribute to your paper? Only one of them works for me, replied Pereira, but he has yet to come up with a publishable article, just imagine that yesterday he sent me one on Mayakovsky, talking up that revolutionary bolshevik, I don’t know why I go on giving him good money for unpublishable articles, maybe because he’s in trouble, in fact I’m certain of that, and his girl’s in trouble too, and I’m the only person they can appeal to. You’re helping them, said Dr Cardoso, I realize that, but helping them less than you’d really like to, perhaps if your new ruling ego comes to the surface you’ll do something more, you must excuse me for being frank with
you, Dr Pereira. Look here, Dr Cardoso, said Pereira, I took on this lad to write anniversaries and advance obituaries and so far he’s sent me nothing but raving revolutionary stuff, as if he didn’t know what kind of country we’re living in, I’ve always given him money out of my own pocket so as not to burden the paper and because it’s better not to involve the editor-in-chief, I’ve taken him under my wing, I hid his cousin, who seemed to me a poor fish and is fighting in the international brigade in Spain, now I’m still sending him money and he’s wandering round in Alentejo, what more can I do? You could go and see him, replied Dr Cardoso simply. Go and see him!, exclaimed Pereira, follow him into Alentejo, follow his secret movements, and anyway, where could I go and see him when I don’t even know where he’s living? His girl will certainly know, said Dr Cardoso, in fact I’m sure his girl knows but doesn’t tell you because she doesn’t have complete faith in you, Dr Pereira, but perhaps you could gain her confidence, be more forthcoming with her, you have a strong super-ego, Dr Pereira, and this super-ego is fighting against your new ruling ego, you are in conflict with yourself in this battle raging in your soul, you must shed your super-ego, you must allow it to go to its doom like the sloughed-off thing it is. But what would be left of me?, quavered Pereira, I am what I am, with my memories, my past life, the memories I have of Coimbra, of my wife, a whole lifetime as a reporter on a great newspaper, what would be left of me? You must work your way through grief, said Dr Cardoso, it’s a Freudian concept, you must forgive me, I am a syncretist so I’ve drawn ideas from here there and everywhere, but what you need to do is slough off grief, you have to say goodbye to your past life, you need to live in the present, a man cannot live as you do, Dr Pereira, thinking only of the past. But what about my memories, cried Pereira, all the things that have happened to me? They would be memories and nothing but memories, replied Dr Cardoso, they would not tyrannize so violently over your present, your life is all backward-looking, for you it’s as if you were in Coimbra thirty years ago with your wife still alive, if you go on this way you’ll become a sort of fetishist of memories, maybe you’ll even start talking to your wife’s photograph. Pereira wiped his mouth with his napkin, lowered his voice and said: Dr Cardoso, I already do. Dr Cardoso smiled. I saw the picture of your wife in your room at the clinic, he said, and I thought: this man converses mentally with his wife’s portrait, he has not yet done his grief-work, that’s exactly what I thought, Dr Pereira. To be perfectly frank it’s not that I converse mentally, confessed Pereira, I talk out loud, I tell it everything that happens to me and it’s as if the picture answered me. These are fantasies dictated by the super-ego, said Dr Cardoso, you should talk to someone real about such things. But I have no one to talk to, confessed Pereira, I live alone, I have a friend who teaches at the University of Coimbra, I went to visit him at the spa at Buçaco and left the very next day because I couldn’t stand him, these dons are all of them in favour of the present regime and he’s no exception, and then there’s my editor-in-chief, but he’s on show at all the official functions with his arm stuck out like a javelin, just imagine me talking to him of all people, and then there’s Celeste, the caretaker at the office, who’s a police spy and is now my switchboard operator into the bargain, and then there’s Monteiro Rossi, but he’s in hiding. He’s the young fellow you met recently, isn’t he?, asked Dr Cardoso. Yes, he’s my assistant, replied Pereira, the one who writes me articles I can’t publish. You should seek him out, said Dr Cardoso, as I said before you should go and seek him out, he’s young, he’s the future, you badly need young company, even if he does write articles which can’t be published in your paper, stop haunting your past and try to drop in on the future. What a splendid way of putting it, said Pereira, to drop in on the future, it would never have occurred to me to put it that way. Pereira ordered a lemonade without sugar and continued: And then there’d be you, Dr Cardoso, I find it easy to talk to you and would like to talk to you again and again, but you’re leaving us, you’re leaving me, you’re leaving me alone here, and I’ll have no one except that photograph of my wife, as you can well understand. Dr Cardoso drank the coffee which Manuel had brought him. We can talk at Saint-Malo if you’ll come and look me up, Dr Pereira, said Dr Cardoso, I’m far from convinced that this is the right country for you, it’s too full of memories, try to toss your super-ego out of the window and make room for your new ruling ego, maybe then we’ll be able to meet again and you’ll be a new man.