The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro Read online

  The Missing Head

  of Damasceno Monteiro

  Antonio Tabucchi

  Translated by

  J. C. PATRICK

  A NEW DIRECTIONS BOOK

  Contents

  Science Fiction

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Note

  Other Titles

  Copyright

  SCIENCE FICTION

  O marciano encontropu-me na rua

  e teve medo de minha impossibilidade humana

  O marciano encontropu-me na rua

  e teve medo de minha impossibilidade humana

  Carlos Drummond de Andrade

  The Martian met me in the street

  and was frightened by the possibility of my being human

  How can a being exist, he wondered, who invests

  the business of existing with so huge a denial of existence?

  One

  MANOLO THE GYPSY OPENED HIS EYES, peered at the dim light creeping through the cracks in his hovel, and got to his feet trying not to make a sound. He had no need to dress because he slept fully clothed, and the orange jacket given him the year before by Agostinho da Silva, known as Franz the German, tamer of toothless lions in the Wonder Circus, now served him for both day and night. In the faint glimmer of dawn he groped around for the battered sandals-cum-slippers that were his only footwear. He found them and slid his feet in. He knew every inch of the hut, and could move about in its murk knowing perfectly well where its few wretched sticks of furniture were. He took a confident step towards the door, and in so doing his right foot clashed against an oil-lamp standing on the floor.

  Damn the woman! exclaimed Manolo between his teeth. He was of course referring to his wife, who the previous evening had insisted on leaving this lamp beside her bed on the pretext that the blackness of night gave her nightmares and she dreamt of her dead. If she kept the flame burning as low as can be, she said, the ghosts of her dead dared not to haunt her, and so she could sleep in peace.

  “And what is El Rey about at this hour of the morning, O afflicted spirit of our Andalusian dead?”

  His wife’s voice was muffled and drowsy, as it is with anyone still half asleep. She always spoke to him in geringonça, a hotchpotch of Romany, Portuguese and Andalusian. And she called him El Rey—the King.

  King of a heap of shit, Manolo felt the urge to answer, but he said nothing. King of a shitheap. To be sure he had once been El Rey, when the gypsies were honored, when his people freely roamed the plains of Andalusia, when they made copper trinkets to sell in the villages and dressed in black and wore fine felt hats, and their knives were not weapons to fight for your life with, but peerless treasures fashioned in chased silver. Yes, those were the days of El Rey. But now? Now that they were forced to wander, now that Spain made their lives impossible, and in Portugal, their place of refuge, things were perhaps even worse, now that they no longer had the means of making trinkets and mantillas, now that they had to shift for themselves as best they could with begging and petty theft, what sort of a fucking king was he, Manolo the Gypsy? King of a shitheap, is what he repeated to himself.

  The Town Council had granted him that litter-strewn patch of land on the outskirts of town, just beyond the last outlying villas, but merely as an act of charity. He would never forget the face of the town clerk who signed the concession, with an air of condescension together with commiseration, for a twelve-month grant of land at peppercorn rent…. and let Manolo remember that. The Council made no commitment to provide commodities of any kind, not so much as water and electricity, and as for shitting they could do it in the woods, after all gypsies were used to that, and they would manure the soil, and they must be careful, because the police were on to their small traffickings, and were keeping their eyes peeled.

  King of a shitheap, thought Manolo, with those pasteboard hovels roofed with galvanized iron, streaming with damp in winter and ovens in summer. The dry, spick and span grottoes of the Granada of his youth no longer existed, this place here was a refugee camp, or worse, a concentration camp, thought Manolo, king of a shitheap.

  “What is El Rey about at this hour of the morning, O afflicted spirit of our Andalusian dead?”

  His wife was now well awake, her eyes wide open. With her grey hair spread over her breast, as she always arranged it for sleep after removing all the hairpins, and that pink nightgown she slept in, she looked like a ghost herself.

  “I’m off to have a piss,” replied Manolo curtly.

  “Best thing for you,” said his wife.

  Manolo shifted his penis inside his underpants, because it was swollen and hard and pressing on his testicles enough to hurt.

  “I’d still be able to finfar,” he said, “I wake up like this every morning, with my mangalho as taut as a rope, yes I’d still be able to finfar.”

  “It’s your bladder,” said his wife, “you’re old, Rey, you think you’re young but you’re old, even older than I.”

  “I’d still be able to finfar,” retorted Manolo, “but I can’t finfar you, your cunt’s full of spiders’ webs.”

  “Then off you go and piss,” said his wife to end the matter.

  Manolo scratched at his head. For some days he had been suffering from a rash that started at the nape of his neck and spread up into his hair, and it itched intolerably.

  “Shall I take Manolito?” he whispered to his wife.

  “Leave the poor child to sleep,” she replied.

  “Manolito likes having a piss with his grand-dad,” claimed Manolo.

  He looked over towards the camp bed on which Manolito was sleeping and felt a surge of tenderness. Manolito was eight years old. He was all that was left to him of his descendants. He did not even look like a gypsy. He had straight black hair, to be sure, like that of a true gypsy, but he also had blue-green eyes, as must have been those of his mother, whom Manolo had never met. His son Paco, his only son, had fathered him on a prostitute from Faro, an English girl he said, who was walking the streets of Gibraltar when Paco had started pimping for her. Then the girl had been packed off to England by the police, and Paco had found himself saddled with the child. He in turn had dumped him on the grandparents, having an important business deal to bring off in Algarve, he was in the cigarette-smuggling racket. But from that bit of business he never returned.

  “He likes seeing the sunrise,” insisted Manolo stubbornly.

  “Let him sleep, poor child,” replied his wife, “it’s scarcely dawn yet, have you no heart?—go and empty your bladder.”

  MANOLO THE GYPSY opened the door of the hut and went out into the morning air. The compound ringed round by the huts was deserted, the whole encampment sleeping. The mongrel cur, which by sheer persistence had got itself adopted by the community, rose from its bed on a sand-heap and bounded up wagging its tail. Manolo clicked his fingers and it stood on its hind legs, wagging its tail even more. With the little dog at his heels Manolo crossed the compound and took the path alongside the pinewood sloping down towards the Douro. It was only a few hectares, grandiloquently entitled “Municipal Park,” and officially publicized blazoned forth as the “green lung” of the town. In fact it was nothing but an abandoned area, with no patrols and no superintendenc
e. Every morning Manolo found the place littered with condoms and syringes which the Council wouldn’t move a finger to clean out.

  He started down the little path hemmed in with dense clumps of broom. It was August, and the broom for some reason was flowering on as if it were springtime. Manolo sniffed at the air with expertise. In the course of his life in the wilds he had learnt to distinguish all the many odors of nature. He counted the broom, lavender, rosemary, and so many others.

  Beneath him, at the foot of the hill, the River Douro glittered in the slanting rays of the sun which was emerging from the hills. Two or three barges were on their way downstream to Oporto. Their sails swollen with wind, they nevertheless appeared motionless on the winding ribbon of the river. Manolo knew they were carrying great casks of wine to the vast wineries of the city, wine that would be matured, bottled, and labeled as “Port,” and make its way all over the world. Manolo felt an enormous yearning for the great world which he had never seen, for distant harbors in foreign climes with cloudy skies, where the mists swirled in as they had in a film he had once seen. But he knew only the blinding white Iberian light of his native Andalusia, and now the dazzle of Portugal, the whitewashed houses, the stray curs, the groves of cork-oaks and the cops who sent him packing wherever he was.

  For his piss he had chosen a massive oak that cast its great shadow over a grassy clearing just on the verge of the pines. Who knows why it gave him a sense of comfort to piss against the trunk of that tree, perhaps because it was very much older than he was, and Manolo liked to think there were living things in the world older than him, even if they were only trees. The fact is that it made him feel at his ease, and filled with peace, in harmony with himself and with the universe. So he walked up to the great trunk and urinated with relief. And at that moment he saw a shoe.

  What particularly caught his eye was that it did not appear to be an old, cast-off shoe, such as was frequently to be found in that area, but a brightly polished shoe which seemed to him to be made of goatskin, pointing upwards as if there were a foot inside it. And it emerged from beneath a bush.

  Manolo approached with caution. Experience told him that it could be a drunkard, or else a delinquent in ambush. He took a look over the tops of the bushes but could see nothing. Then he picked up a stout stick and started to part the bushes this way and that. From the shoe, which turned out to be an ankle-boot, he picked his way to a pair of legs clad in tight-fitting jeans. Manolo's eyes got as far as the waist and there they paused. The belt was made of light-colored leather, with a large silver buckle bearing the image of a horse’s head and the inscription “Texas Ranch.” With difficulty Manolo sought to decipher the words and impress them well on his memory. Then, still parting the bushes with his stick, he continued his inspection. The trunk of the body was dressed in a blue, short-sleeved T-shirt on which was printed a phrase in some foreign language—Stones of Portugal—which Manolo looked at for a long time to impress this also on his memory. Using his stick he continued his inspection with calm and with caution, as if afraid of hurting that body lying belly upwards in the bushes. He reached the neck, at which point he could go no further. Because the body had no head. There was a clean cut which had caused little bleeding, just a few dark clots on which the flies were buzzing. Manolo withdrew his stick and allowed the bushes to cover the pathetic object. A few steps away he sat down with his back against the big oak and set himself to thinking. To assist thought he took out his pipe and filled it with the tobacco from some Definitivos cigarettes, which he picked carefully apart. At one time he liked to smoke shag, but now it was too expensive for him, and he had to fall back on unpicking cigarettes of black tobacco that he bought a few at a time at the shop of a certain Francisco, known as Shittipants, because he walked with his buttocks clenched together as if he were about to shit himself. Manolo filled his pipe, took a few puffs and pondered. He pondered over what he had discovered and decided that there was no need to go back and take a second look. What he had seen was more than enough. And meanwhile time was passing, the cicadas had begun their intolerable chirring and the air around was heavy with the scent of lavender and rosemary. Beneath him stretched the glittering ribbon of the river, a warm, light breeze had sprung up and the shadows of the trees were growing shorter. It occurred to Manolo how lucky it was that he had not brought his grandson. Children ought not to see such horrors, he thought, not even gypsy children. He wondered what time it was and enquired of the sun. Only then did he realize that the shade had shifted, that the sun was shining full on him and he was bathed in sweat. He got wearily to his feet and set off back to the encampment.

  There was a lot of activity in the compound at that hour. The old women were washing the infants in tubs and the young mothers were cooking. People hailed Manolo as he passed but he scarcely noticed them. He entered his hut. His wife was dressing up Manolito in an old Andalusian costume, because the community had decided to send the children to sell flowers in Oporto, and it made more impression if they were decked out in traditional costume.

  “I’ve found a dead man in the pinewood,” said Manolo softly.

  His wife did not catch his meaning. She was combing Manolito’s hair and smarming it with brilliantine.

  “What was that, Rey?” asked the old woman.

  “A corpse, right near the oak.”

  “Let it rot,” replied his wife, “everything around here’s rotten.”

  “There’s no head,” said Manolo, “they’ve cut it clean off, chop!”

  He made a gesture as if chopping his own head off. The old woman stared at him wide-eyed.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Manolo repeated his gesture: chop!

  The old woman straightened up and sent Manolito away. “You must go to the police,” she said firmly.

  Manolo gave her an almost pitying look:

  “EI Rey does not go to the police,” he said with pride, “Manolo of the free gypsies of Spain and Portugal does not enter a police station.”

  “What’s to be done then?” asked the old woman.

  “They will be informed by Senhor Francisco,” replied Manolo. “Shittipants has a telephone and is always on to the police. Let him tell them, since they’re on such friendly terms.”

  The old woman gave him a worried look and said nothing. Manolo stood up and opened the door of the hut. When he was in the doorway, silhouetted against the full light of day, his wife said:

  “You owe him two thousand escudos, Rey, he gave you two bottles of aqua-vitae and put it on your tab.”

  “Who cares about two bottles of giripiti,” replied Manolo. “Let him go fuck himself.”

  Two

  FIRMINO WAS HELD UP AT THE traffic light at Largo do Rato. It was an interminable red light, he knew, and the impatient taxi behind him was practically nudging his back bumper. Firmino knew that one must be very patient about the works undertaken by a Council that promised people a clean and tidy city, and was straining every nerve to make it the venue of the International Exhibition. This would be a world event, declared the posters erected at all the neuralgic points in the traffic, one of those events which would raise Lisbon to the status of a City of the Future. For the moment Firmino knew only what his immediate future was to be, and knew no other. It was to wait for at least five minutes at the light, until the excavator shifted out of the way, and even if the light turned green there was no means of moving, you still had to wait. He therefore resigned himself, lit one of the Multifilter cigarettes sent him by a Swiss friend, tuned the radio in to the program “Our Listeners Ask Us,” just to find out what was going on, and glanced up at the electronic clock at the top of the building opposite. It said two o’clock in the afternoon and gave a temperature reading of one hundred and four degrees. Well after all, it was August.

  Firmino was on his way back from a week’s holiday with his girlfriend in a little village in Alentejo, and bracing days they had been, even if they had found the tides pretty fierce. However, a
s always before, Alentejo had not let him down. They had found farmhouse accommodation right on the coast, the owners were German, only nine rooms, and then there were the pinewoods, the beach to themselves, love-play in the open air and local cooking. He took a look at himself in the rear-view mirror: he had a fine tan, he was feeling in good shape, he didn’t give a damn about the International Exhibition and was keen to get back to his job on the newspaper. Nor was it only keenness, it was sheer necessity. For his holiday he had spent his previous month’s wages down to the last penny.

  The light went green, the bulldozer pulled aside and Firmino moved on. He turned off the square at Rua Alexandre Herculano and then took the Avenida da Liberdade. At the Saldanha he found himself in a bottleneck. There had been an accident in the midstream of traffic and all the cars were edging to squeeze into the side lanes. Firmino selected the lane reserved for buses, hoping there were no traffic police in the immediate vicinity. He had recently done some sums with Catarina and realized that fines accounted for ten per cent of his meager monthly salary. But maybe at two in the afternoon in that heat there wouldn’t be any traffic cops along the avenue. If there were it was just too bad. When he drove past the National Library he could not help slowing up a little to give it a nostalgic glance. He thought of the afternoons spent in the reading room studying the novels of Elio Vittorini and his vague project of writing a critical essay to be called “The Influence of Vittorini on the Post-War Portuguese Novel.” And with that nostalgia came the smell of salt cod frying in the Library’s self-service canteen where he had lunched for weeks on end. Ah, salt cod and Vittorini! But the project had so far remained merely a project. Who knows, maybe he would take it up again when he had a little time to spare.

  He arrived at the Lumiar and skirted the buildings of the Holiday Inn. A horrible monster. Middle-class Americans disembarked there looking for picturesque Old Lisbon and found themselves on the contrary plumb in the middle of a neighborhood ravaged by new buildings plus the flyover to the airport and the outer beltway. Finding a parking space was always a problem. He pulled in facing a block of flats with an electronic gate, doing his best not to obstruct the entrance. His car stuck out a good half-meter, but to hell with it. If they towed it away his fine-quota would go up by at least two per cent, which meant that he would be unable to buy the last volume of the Grande Dizionario della Lingua Italiana, an essential tool for the study of Vittorini. Oh well!