Pereira Maintains Read online

  Pereira maintains 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 maintains.

  FIVE

  When Pereira got up next morning, he maintains, 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 girlfriend 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 maintains. 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.’

  He reached for his omelette sandwich and took a bite. At that very moment he heard a knock at the door, so he hid the omelette sandwich away in a drawer, wiped his mouth on a sheet of flimsy paper and said: Come in. It was Monteiro Rossi. Good morning Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, I’m sorry I’m a bit early but I’ve brought you something, in fact last night when I got home I had an inspiration, and anyway I thought there was a chance of something to eat here at the Lisboa. Pereira patiently explained that that room was not the Lisboa itself but a separate office for the culture page, and that he, Pereira, was the whole office staff, he thought he had already made this clear, it was simply a room with a desk and a fan, because the Lisboa was only a minor evening paper. Monteiro Rossi sat himself down and pulled out a sheet of paper folded in four. Pereira took it and read it. Unpublishable, Pereira maintains, a completely unpublishable article. It described the death of Lorca, and began as follows: ‘Two years ago, in obscure circumstances, we lost the great Spanish poet Federico García Lorca. He was assassinated, and suspicion rests on his political opponents. The whole world is still wondering how such an act of barbarism could have been perpetrated.’

  Pereira looked up from the page and said: My dear Monteiro Rossi, you tell an excellent yarn but my paper is not the proper place for yarns, in newspapers we have to write things that correspond to the truth or at least resemble the truth, it is not up to you to say how a writer died, for what reasons and in what circumstances, you must simply state that he is dead and then go on to speak of his work, of his novels and poems, because when you write an obituary you are essentially making a critical assessment, a portrait of the man and his work, what you have written is absolutely unusable, Lorca’s death is still wrapped in mystery and what if things didn’t happen as you say they did?

  Monteiro Rossi protested that Pereira had not finished reading the article, that further on it dealt with the work, the figure and stature of Lorca as man and artist. Pereira read doggedly on. Dangerous, he maintains, the article was dangerous. It spoke of the hidden depths of Spain, of the rigidly Catholic Spain which Lorca had made the target of his shafts in The House of Bernarda Alba, it told of the ‘Barraca’, the travelling theatre which Lorca brought to the people. At which point there was a long panegyric on the Spanish working classes and their longing for culture and drama which Lorca had satisfied. Pereira raised his head from the article, he maintains, smoothed back his hair, turned back his cuffs and said: My dear Monteiro Rossi, permit me to be frank with you, your article is unpublishable, completely unpublishable. I cannot publish it, no newspaper in Portugal could publish it, and no Italian paper either, seeing as how Italy is the land of your ancestors, so there are two possibilities: you are either irresponsible or a troublemaker, and journalism nowadays in Portugal has no place for either irresponsibility or troublemaking, and that’s that.

  Pereira maintains that as he was saying this he felt a trickle of sweat running down his spine. Why was he sweating? Heaven knows. Pereira is unable to say exactly why. Perhaps because the heat was terrific, no doubt of that, and the fan was too feeble to cool even that poky room. But maybe also because his heart was touched by the sight of that youngster looking at him with an air of amazement and disappointment, who even before he finished speaking had begun to gnaw at his fingernails. So he couldn’t bring himself to say: Well hard luck, it was a try but it hasn’t come off, that will be all, thank you. Instead he sat for a while with folded arms looking at Monteiro Rossi until Monteiro Rossi said: I’ll rewrite it, I’ll rewrite it by tomorrow. At which Pereira plucked up the courage to say: Oh no, that’s enough about Lorca if you please, there are too many things about his life and death that won’t do for a paper like the Lisboa, I don’t know whether you are aware of it, my dear Monteiro Rossi, but at this moment there’s a civil war raging in Spain, and the Portuguese authorities think along the same lines as General Francisco Franco and for them Lorca was a traitor, yes, traitor is the very word.

  Monteiro Rossi got to his feet as if the word struck the fear of God into him, backed towards the door, stopped, came a step forward and said: But I thought I’d found a job. Pereira did not answer, he felt a trickle of sweat running down his spine. Then what must I do? muttered Monteiro Rossi on a note of entreaty. Pereira got up in turn, he maintains, and went and stood by the fan. He said nothing for a minute or two, waiting for the cool air to dry his shirt. You must write me an obituary of Mauriac, he said, or of Bernanos, whichever you prefer, do I make myself clear? But I worked all night, stammered Monteiro Rossi, I expected to be paid, I’m not asking much after all, just enough for a meal today. Pereira would have liked to remind him that the evening before he had advanced him the money for a new pair of trousers, and clearly he could not spend all day every day giving him money, he wasn’t his father. He would have liked to be firm and tough. Instead he said: If your problem is a meal, all right I can treat you to lunch, I haven’t eaten yet either and I’m quite hungry, I wouldn’t say no to a nice grilled fish or a wiener schnitzel, how about you?

  Why did Pereira suggest such a thing? Because he lived alone and that room was
a torment to him, because he was genuinely hungry, or because his thoughts were running on the photograph of his wife, or for some other reason? This, he maintains, he cannot presume to say.

  SIX

  Be that as it may Pereira invited him to lunch, he maintains, and chose a restaurant in the Praça do Rossio. He thought it would suit them down to the ground because after all they were both intellectuals and that café-restaurant was the great meeting-place of writers, the ’Twenties had been its golden age, the avant-garde magazines were virtually produced at its tables, and in a word anyone who was anyone used to go there and maybe some still did.

  They made their way down the Avenida da Liberdade in silence and reached the Praça do Rossio. Pereira chose a table inside, because outside under the awning it was like an oven. He looked about him but saw not a single writer, he maintains. The writers must all be on holiday, he remarked to break the silence, off at the sea perhaps or in the country, there’s no one left in town but us. Perhaps they’ve simply stayed at home, replied Monteiro Rossi, they can’t be too keen on going places, not in times like these. Pereira felt a pang of melancholy, he maintains, as he weighed those words. He realized that they were indeed alone, that there was no one about to share their anxieties with, in the restaurant there were only two ladies in little hats and a group of four shady-looking characters in a corner. Pereira chose a table rather on its own, tucked his napkin into his collar as usual, and ordered white wine. I’m feeling like an aperitif, he explained to Monteiro Rossi, I don’t drink alcohol as a rule but just now I need an aperitif. Monteiro Rossi ordered draught beer and Pereira asked: Don’t you like white wine? I prefer beer, replied Monteiro Rossi, it’s cooler and lighter and anyway I don’t know one wine from another. That’s a pity, said Pereira, if you aim to become a good critic you must refine your tastes, you must cultivate them and learn about wine and food and the world at large. Then he added: And literature. And at that point Monteiro Rossi murmured: I have something to confess to you but I’m too scared. Tell me all the same, said Pereira, I’ll pretend I haven’t understood. Later, said Monteiro Rossi.

  Pereira ordered a grilled bream, he maintains, and Monteiro Rossi asked for gazpacho followed by seafood risotto. The risotto arrived in an enormous terracotta terrine and Monteiro Rossi ate enough for three people, he polished off the lot Pereira maintains, and it was a simply enormous helping. He then pushed back his lock of hair and said: I wouldn’t mind an ice-cream or even just a lemon sherbet. Pereira made a mental calculation of how much the meal was going to cost him and concluded that a fair part of his weekly wage would go to that restaurant where he had banked on finding half the writers in Lisbon and instead had found only two old ladies in little hats and four shady characters at a corner table. He started sweating again, untucked the napkin from his collar, ordered a glass of iced mineral water and a coffee, then looked Monteiro Rossi in the eye and said: Now spit out what you wanted to confess before lunch. Pereira maintains that Monteiro Rossi lofted his gaze to the ceiling, then lowered it but avoided his eye, then coughed and blushed like a child and said: I feel a little embarrassed, I’m awfully sorry. There’s nothing in the world to be ashamed of, said Pereira, provided you haven’t stolen anything or dishonoured your father and mother. Monteiro Rossi pressed his table-napkin to his lips as if he hoped the words wouldn’t come out, pushed back the lock of hair from his forehead and said: I don’t know how to put it, I know you demand professionalism and that I should use my reason, but the fact is that I preferred to follow other criteria. Explain yourself more clearly, urged Pereira. Well, Monteiro Rossi hummed and hawed, well, the fact is the heart has its reasons that the reason knows nothing about, and I obeyed the reasons of the heart, perhaps I shouldn’t have, perhaps I didn’t even want to, but I couldn’t help myself, I swear to you that I would have been quite capable of writing an obituary of Lorca by the light of reason alone, but I couldn’t help myself. He wiped his mouth with the napkin again and added: What’s more I’m in love with Marta. What’s that got to do with it?, objected Pereira. I don’t know, replied Monteiro Rossi, perhaps nothing, but it’s reasons of the heart again, don’t you think?, it’s a problem too in its way. The problem is that you oughtn’t to get involved with problems bigger than you are, Pereira wanted to say. The problem is that the whole world is a problem and it certainly won’t be solved by you or me, Pereira wanted to say. The problem is that you’re young, too young, you could easily be my son, Pereira wanted to say, but I don’t approve of your making me a father to you, I’m not here to sort out your conflicts. The problem is that between us there must be a correct professional relationship, Pereira wanted to say, and you must learn to write properly, because otherwise, if you’re going to base your writing on the reasons of the heart, you’ll run up against some thumping great obstacles I can assure you.

  But he said nothing of all this. He lit a cigar, wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, undid the top button of his shirt and said: Yes, the reasons of the heart are the ones that matter most, we must always follow the reasons of the heart, it doesn’t say this in the Ten Commandments, it’s me saying it, all the same you must keep your eyes open, the heart is all very well, I agree, but keep your eyes open my dear Monteiro Rossi, and that brings our little luncheon to a close, don’t telephone me for the next two or three days, I want to leave you plenty of time to think things over and write something good, and when I say good I mean good, you can call me at the office next Saturday, about midday.

  Pereira got up and held out his hand and said: Until then. Why had he said all that when he wanted to say quite the opposite, when he ought to have ticked him off and perhaps even sacked him? Pereira cannot presume to say. Perhaps because the restaurant was so empty, because he hadn’t seen a single writer, because he felt lonely there in town and needed a comforter and a friend? Maybe for these reasons and for others again which he is unable to explain. It’s hard to know for sure, when one is dealing with the reasons of the heart, Pereira maintains.

  SEVEN

  Arriving at the office on the following Friday, with a package containing his omelette sandwich, Pereira maintains he saw an envelope peeping out of the Lisboa letter-box. He fished it out and put it in his pocket. On the first-floor landing he met the caretaker who said: Good morning Dr Pereira, there’s a letter for you, it’s an express delivery, the postman brought it at nine o’clock and I had to sign for it. Pereira muttered a thank you between his teeth and went on up the stairs. I took the responsibility on myself, continued the caretaker, but I don’t want any trouble, seeing that the sender’s name isn’t on it. Pereira descended three steps, he maintains, and looked her straight in the face. Look here Celeste, said Pereira, you are the caretaker and that’s all well and good, you are paid to be caretaker and receive your wages from the tenants of this building, and one of these tenants is my newspaper, but you have the bad habit of poking your nose into matters that are none of your business, so next time an express letter arrives for me kindly don’t sign for it, don’t even look at it, but ask the postman to come back later and deliver it to me personally. The caretaker was sweeping the landing, and now leant her broom against the wall and put her hands on her hips. Dr Pereira, said she, you think you can address me in that tone because I’m just a humble caretaker, but let me tell you I have friends in high places, people who can protect me from your bad manners. So I imagine, indeed I’m sure of it, Pereira maintains he replied, that’s precisely what I object to, and now good day to you.