Pereira Declares Page 2

  Pereira declares 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 declares 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 declares, 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 declares. 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 declares, 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 declares, 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 declares 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 declares. 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 declares 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 declares, 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 declares. 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 declares 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 declares that he felt 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 declares, that he felt a sudden surge of pride. He declares 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 declares 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 declares, 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 declares that he doesn’t know why he said this, perhaps simply because he detested the caretaker and the Salazarist police, but the fact is he saw fit to say it, though it wasn’t to set up some phoney complicity with this young man whom he had only just met; that wasn’t it, but the exact reason Pereira doesn’t know, he declares.

  FIVE

  When Pereira got up next morning, he declares, there ready and waiting for him was a cheese omelette sandwiched between two hunks of bread. It was ten o’clock and his daily, Piedade, came in at eight. She had evidently made it for him to take to the office for lunch, because this woman knew his tastes inside out and Pereira adored cheese omelettes. He drank a cup of coffee, had a bath, put on a jacket but decided not to wear a tie. However, he slipped one in his pocket. Before leaving the flat he paused in front of his wife’s photograph and told it: I’ve come across a lad called Monteiro Rossi and have decided to take him on as an outside contributor and get him to do advance obituaries, at first I thought he was very bright but he now seems to me a trifle dim, he’d be about the age of our son if we’d had a son, there’s even a slight resemblance to me, he has that lock of hair flopping into his eyes, do you remember when I had a lock of hair flopping into mine?, it was in our Coimbra days, well, I don’t know what else to tell you, we’ll just have to wait and see, he’s coming to the office today, he says he’ll bring me an obituary, he has a beautiful girl-friend with copper-coloured hair, called Marta, she’s just a bit too cocksure and talks politics but never mind, we’ll see how it goes.

  He took the tram to Rua Alexandre Herculano, then trudged laboriously on foot up to Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca. When he reached the door he was drenched with sweat, it was a real scorcher. In the hallway as usual he met the caretaker who said: Good morning Dr Pereira. Pereira gave her a nod and climbed the stairs. The minute he entered the office he got down to shirtsleeves and switched on the fan. He couldn’t decide how to spend the time, it was nearly midday. He contemplated eating his omelette sandwich, but it was still early for that. Then he remembered the “Anniversaries” feature and started to write. “Three years ago died the great poet Fernando Pessoa. By education he was English-speaking, but he chose to write in Portuguese because he declared that his motherland was the Portuguese language. He left us many beautiful poems scattered in various magazines and one long poem, Message, which is the history of Portugal as seen by a great artist who loved his country.” He read over what he had written and found it nauseating, yes, nauseating was the word, Pereira declares. So he chucked that page away and wrote: “Fernando Pessoa died three years ago. Very few people, almost no one, even knew he existed. He lived in Portugal as a foreigner and a misfit, perhaps because he was everywhere a misfit. He lived alone, in cheap boarding-houses and rented rooms. He is remembered by his friends, his comrades, those who love poetry.”