Pereira Declares

by Antonio Tabucchi

  Darkness had fallen and the candles shed a wan light. I don’t know why I’m doing all this for you Monteiro Rossi, said Pereira. Perhaps it’s because you’re a decent person, replied Monteiro Rossi. That’s too simple, retorted Pereira, the world is full of decent people but they don’t go looking for trouble. Then I don’t know, said Monteiro Rossi, I really can’t imagine. The real problem is that I don’t know either, said Pereira, until a few days ago I kept on asking myself, but maybe it’s better for me to stop asking. He brought cherries in maraschino to the table and Monteiro Rossi helped himself to a whole glassful. Pereira took only one cherry and a drop of juice, because he was afraid of ruining his diet.

  But tell me all about it, said Pereira, what have you been up to all this time in Alentejo? We covered the whole region, replied Monteiro Rossi, stopping in the safe places, the places where there’s most turbulence. Excuse me, put in Pereira, but your cousin scarcely seems a suitable person, I only saw him the once but he seemed to me a little ill-equipped, I’d even say rather slow-witted, and on top of that he doesn’t even speak Portuguese. True, said Monteiro Rossi, but in civilian life he’s a printer, he’s good at handling documents, there’s no one like him for forging a passport. Then he might have done a better job on his own, said Pereira, he had an Argentine passport you could see was a fake from a mile off. He didn’t make that one himself, replied Monteiro Rossi, they gave it him in Spain. And then what?, asked Pereira. Well, replied Monteiro Rossi, we found a safe printer’s in Portalegre and my cousin got to work, we did a first-class job, my cousin made up a whole bunch of passports, a lot of them we managed to distribute but some are left over because we didn’t have time. Monteiro Rossi picked up his bag from an armchair and reached into it. Here’s what I’ve got left over, he said. And he placed a bundle of passports on the table, there must have been a couple of dozen of them. My dear Monteiro Rossi you are mad, said Pereira, you traipse about with those things in your bag as if they were sweeties, if they find you with these documents you’ll be for the high-jump.

  Pereira picked up the passports and said: I’ll see to hiding these. He first thought of putting them in a drawer, but that didn’t seem safe enough. Then he went into the hall and slid them into the bookshelves right behind his wife’s photograph. Please excuse me, said he, addressing the picture, but no one will come looking here, it’s the safest place in the whole house. Then he went back to the living-room and said: Time’s getting on, maybe we’d better go to bed. I’ve got to get in touch with Marta, said Monteiro Rossi, she’ll be worried, she doesn’t know what’s become of me, she might think they’ve arrested me as well. Look here Monteiro Rossi, said Pereira, tomorrow I’ll call Marta myself, but from a public telephone, for this evening the best thing for you is to stop worrying and get to bed, jot me down the number on this pad. I’ll give you two numbers, said Monteiro Rossi, if she doesn’t answer at one she’ll certainly be at the other, and if she doesn’t answer in person ask to speak to Lise Delaunay, that’s what she calls herself now. I know, admitted Pereira, I met her a few days ago, that girl has got as thin as a rake, she’s unrecognizable, this way of life is doing her a bit of no good, Monteiro Rossi, she’s ruining her health, and now off to bed.

  Pereira snuffed out the candles and asked himself why he had got mixed up in this business, why shelter Monteiro Rossi and ring Marta and leave coded messages, why meddle with things that didn’t concern him? Was it perhaps that Marta had got so thin that her shoulder-blades stuck out like the wings of a plucked chicken? Was it that Monteiro Rossi had no mother or father to shelter him? Was it his visit to Parede and Dr Cardoso explaining his theory of the confederation of souls? Pereira did not know, and even today he could not presume to say. He wanted to get to bed because next morning he intended to be up early and make careful arrangements for the day, but before doing so he went into the hall for a brief glance at his wife’s photograph. He said not a word to it, just gave it an affectionate wave of the hand, he declares.

  TWENTY-THREE

  That late August morning Pereira woke at eight, he declares. Several times during the night he had woken and heard rain pelting down on the palm trees of the barracks over the way. He doesn’t remember dreaming, he’d slept fitfully with a few dreams now and then, presumably, but he doesn’t remember them. Monteiro Rossi was asleep on the living-room sofa, wearing a pair of pyjamas so vast on him they could practically have done him for sheets. He was sleeping all bunched up, as if he was freezing cold, and Pereira spread a rug over him, very gently so as not to wake him. He moved gingerly round the flat for fear of making a noise, brewed himself some coffee, then set off to get supplies at the grocer’s on the corner. He bought four tins of sardines, a dozen eggs, tomatoes, a melon, a loaf, and eight ready-made salt-cod fishcakes. Then he spotted, hanging on a hook, a small smoked ham sprinkled with paprika, and he bought that too. So you’ve decided to stock up your larder, Dr Pereira, commented the grocer. Well yes, replied Pereira, my daily won’t be back until mid-September, she’s with her sister at Setúbal, I have to look after myself and I can’t go shopping every morning. If you want a capable woman to come in and do for you I can recommend one, said the grocer, she lives a little up the hill, near La Graça, she’s got a small child and her husband has left her, she’s a reliable person. No, thank you all the same, Senhor Francisco, replied Pereira, it’s better not, I don’t know how Piedade would take it, there’s a lot of jealousy between these dailies and she might feel ousted, maybe over the winter it might be an idea, but just now I’d better wait until Piedade gets back.

  Pereira went home and put his purchases in the ice-chest. Monteiro Rossi was still asleep. Pereira left him a note: “There’s ham and eggs or fishcakes to heat up, you heat them in a frying-pan with only a little oil, otherwise they go to a mush, have a good lunch and don’t worry, I’ll be back late afternoon, I’ll speak to Marta, see you later, Pereira.”

  He left the house and went to the office. There he found Celeste in her cubbyhole busying herself with a calendar. Good morning Celeste, said Pereira, anything for me? No telephone calls and no post, replied Celeste. Pereira felt relieved, all the better that no one had tried to get in touch with him. He went up to the office and took the telephone off the hook, then reached for the story by Camilo Castelo Branco and prepared it for the press. At about ten o’clock he called the head office and was answered by the dulcet tones of Senhora Filipa. This is Dr Pereira, said Pereira, I would like to speak to the editor-in-chief. Filipa put through the call and the voice of the editor-in-chief said: Hullo. This is Dr Pereira, said Pereira, I just wanted to keep in touch, sir. You do well, said the editor-in-chief, because I tried to get you yesterday but you were not in the office. I wasn’t feeling too well yesterday, lied Pereira, I stayed at home because my heart was playing me up. I quite understand, Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, however I would like to know what your intentions are for the forthcoming culture pages. I am publishing a story by Camilo Castelo Branco, replied Pereira, as you suggested yourself sir, a nineteenth-century Portuguese author should fit the bill, don’t you think? Very much so, replied the editor-in-chief, but I think you should also continue the anniversaries feature. I had thought of doing Rilke, said Pereira, but I left it because I wanted your approval. Rilke, said the editor-in-chief, the name does seem vaguely familiar. Rainer Maria Rilke, explained Pereira, born in Czechoslovakia but to all intents and purposes an Austrian poet, he wrote in German and died in Nineteen Twenty-Six. Look here Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, as I told you before the Lisboa is becoming much too foreign-orientated, why not do an anniversary feature on one of our Portuguese poets, why not do our great Camoens? Camoens?, replied Pereira, but Camoens died in Fifteen Eighty, nearly four hundred years ago. True, said the editor-in-chief, but he is always topical, and haven’t you heard that António Ferro, Director of the Secretariado Nacional de Propaganda, in short the Minister of Culture, has had the brilliant idea of celebrating Camoens Day on Portugue
se Race Celebration Day, so that we shall celebrate our great epic poet and the Portuguese Race on one and the same day, and an anniversary feature will be just the thing. But sir, Camoens Day is the tenth of June, objected Pereira, what sense does it make to celebrate Camoens Day at the end of August? Ha! but on the tenth of June we didn’t yet have our culture page, argued the editor-in-chief, and you can point out as much in your article, and then you can always simply celebrate Camoens, who is our great national poet, and merely make some reference to Race Celebration Day, the least reference would be enough for our readers to get the message. Please bear with me sir, replied Pereira with some compunction, but I feel I must tell you that originally we were Lusitanians, and then came the Romans and the Celts, and then came the Arabs, so what sort of race are we Portuguese in a position to celebrate? The Portuguese Race, replied the editor-in-chief, and I am sorry to say, Pereira, that I don’t like the tone of your objection, we are Portuguese, we discovered the world, we achieved the greatest feats of navigation the world over, and when we did this, in the sixteenth century, we were already Portuguese, that is what we are and that is what you are to celebrate, Pereira. The editor-in-chief made a pause and then continued: Pereira, last time we talked I addressed you informally and I don’t know why I have gone back to using the formalities. Do as you please sir, replied Pereira, perhaps it’s the telephone that has that effect. You may be right, said the editor-in-chief, however please pay attention to what I say, Pereira, I want the Lisboa to be an ultra-Portuguese paper, not least in its culture page, and if you don’t want to do an anniversary feature for Portuguese Race Celebration Day you must at least do one for Camoens, that will be better than nothing.

  Pereira said: Very well, goodbye, and hung up. António Ferro, he thought, that frightful António Ferro, the worst of it was he was a shrewd, intelligent man, and just to think he’d been a friend of Fernando Pessoa’s, ah well, concluded Pereira, it must be admitted that even Pessoa picked himself some pretty queer friends. Pereira then had a shot at an anniversary feature on Camoens and stuck at it until half-past twelve. He then chucked the lot in the wastepaper basket. The devil take Camoens as well, he thought, that great bard who sang the heroism of the Portuguese Race, ha ha, some heroism, thought Pereira. He put on his jacket and left the office for the Café Orquídea. There he took his place at the usual table. Manuel came bustling up and Pereira ordered a seafood salad. He ate slowly, very slowly, then went to the telephone. He fished out the scrap of paper with the numbers Monteiro Rossi had given him. The first number rang for a long time but no one answered. He called it again, he had mis-dialled so often in the past. The number rang for a long time but no one answered. Then he tried the other number. A woman’s voice came on the line. Hullo, said Pereira, I would like to speak to Senhora Delaunay. I don’t know anyone of that name, replied the woman’s voice cagily. Good afternoon, repeated Pereira, I’m looking for Senhora Delaunay. Excuse me, but who is calling?, asked the voice. Listen madam, said Pereira, I have an urgent message for Lise Delaunay, would you kindly put her on. There is no one here by the name of Lise, said the voice, I think you must have dialled a wrong number, who gave you this number may I ask? It doesn’t matter, replied Pereira, but if I can’t speak to Lise at least put me on to Marta. Marta?, said the woman in apparent bewilderment, Marta who?, there are so many Martas in this world. Pereira realized he didn’t know Marta’s surname so he simply said: Marta is a thin girl with blonde hair who also answers to the name of Lise Delaunay, I am a friend and have an important message for her. I’m sorry, said the woman but there’s no Marta here and no Lise either, good afternoon. The telephone went click and Pereira was left with the receiver in his hand. He hung up and returned to his table. What can I bring you?, asked Manuel, bustling up. Pereira ordered a lemonade with sugar, then asked: Any news of interest? I’ll be finding out at eight o’clock this evening, said Manuel, I have a friend who gets the BBC from London, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow if you like.

  Pereira drank his lemonade and paid the bill. He left and went back to his office. He found Celeste in her cubbyhole still poring over the calendar. Anything new?, asked Pereira. There was a phone-call for you, said Celeste, it was a woman but she wasn’t too keen on telling her business. Did she leave a name?, asked Pereira. It was a foreign-sounding name, replied Celeste, but it’s slipped my mind. Why didn’t you write it down?, said Pereira reproachfully, you’re supposed to work the switchboard, Celeste, you’re supposed to take messages. I have enough trouble writing Portuguese, replied Celeste, I can do without foreign names, it was a complicated name. Pereira’s heart missed a beat and he asked: And what did this person want, Celeste, what did she say? She said she’d got a message for you and she was looking for a Senhor Rossi, what an odd name, and I said there was no one here by the name of Rossi, this was the editorial office of the culture page of the Lisboa, so I called the head office because I thought I’d find you there, I wanted to inform you, but you weren’t there so I left a message that you were wanted by some foreign lady, a certain Lise, so there!, I’ve remembered it. You told them at the head office that someone was looking for this Senhor Rossi?, asked Pereira. No, Dr Pereira, replied Celeste with a sly wink, I didn’t tell them that, I didn’t see the point, I just said that this Lise was looking for you, so don’t you worry Dr Pereira, if they want you they’ll find you. Pereira glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock, he decided not to go upstairs but said: Listen Celeste, I’m going home because I don’t feel too well, if anyone telephones ask them to call me at home, maybe I won’t come to the office tomorrow so please take in my mail.

  When he got home it was nearly seven. He had dawdled for quite a while at Terreiro do Paço, sitting on a bench and watching the ferries leaving for the other side of the Tagus. It was lovely, that early evening hour, and Pereira felt like making the most of it. He lit a cigar and inhaled deeply. While he was sitting there a tramp came and sat down by him, he had a mouth-organ and played him some old Coimbra songs dear to his heart.

  When Pereira entered the flat he couldn’t find Monteiro Rossi at once and this gave him quite a fright, he declares. But Monteiro Rossi was in the bathroom doing his ablutions. I’m having a shave, Dr Pereira, Monteiro Rossi called out, I’ll be with you in five minutes. Pereira took off his jacket and laid the table. He used the plates from Caldas da Rainha, as on the night before, and on the table he placed two fresh candles bought that morning. Then he went into the kitchen and wondered what he should make for supper. For some reason it occurred to him to try to make an Italian dish, even though he knew nothing about Italian cooking. He thought he’d invent a dish, he declares. He carved a thick slice of ham and chopped it into small cubes, then beat up two eggs, stirred in plenty of grated cheese and tipped in the ham, added oregano and marjoram, mixed everything together thoroughly and then put on a pan of water to boil for the pasta. There’d been some spaghetti in the cupboard for quite some time, and when the water boiled he dumped it in. Monteiro Rossi entered looking as fresh as a rose, Pereira’s khaki shirt enveloping him like a sheet. I thought I’d make an Italian dish, said Pereira, I don’t know if it’s really Italian, perhaps it’s just an invention but at least it’s spaghetti. What a treat, said Monteiro Rossi, I haven’t had spaghetti for ages. Pereira lit the candles and dished up. I tried to ring Marta, he said, but at the first number there was no answer and the second number was answered by a woman who pretended to be slow on the uptake, I even said I wanted to speak to Marta but it was no use, then when I got to my office the caretaker told me that someone had rung me, it was probably Marta looking for you, perhaps rather rash of her, in any case someone now knows I’m in touch with you, I’m afraid this will cause problems. What am I to do?, asked Monteiro Rossi. If you’ve got anywhere safer you’d better go there, replied Pereira, otherwise stay here and we’ll wait and see. He fetched the maraschino cherries and took one without any juice. Monteiro Rossi filled his glass. At that moment came knocking at the door.
Determined blows fit to break the door down. Pereira wondered how they had managed to get in at the street door, and for a second or two was stricken dumb. The knocking came again, more furious still. Who’s there?, called Pereira getting to his feet, what do you want? Open up, police, open up or we’ll shoot the door down! Monteiro Rossi dashed into the next room, all he managed to blurt out was: The passports, Dr Pereira, hide the passports. They’re already safe, Pereira assured him, and made for the hall to open the door. As he passed his wife’s photograph he cast a glance of complicity at that faraway smile. Then he opened the door, he declares.