“On the front page we’re putting the full-face shot,” replied the Editor, “on the two inner pages the right and left profiles, and on the back page a postcard view of Oporto showing the Douro and the Iron Bridge, in color of course.”
Firmino went up to his room. He had a shower, shaved, and put on a pair of cotton trousers and a red Lacoste T-shirt, a present from his fiancée. He gulped down a cup of coffee and went out into the street. It was Sunday, the city was practically deserted. People were still sleeping, and later on would be going to the sea. He had an urge to go there himself, even if he had no swimming trunks with him, but just to get a breath of fresh air. Then he changed his mind. He had his guidebook with him and decided to explore the city, for example the markets, the working-class parts which he didn’t know. Going down the steep alleyways of the lower town he came across a bustle of activity he had not suspected. Truly Oporto kept up certain traditions which Lisbon had by now lost, such as fishwives, even on a Sunday, carrying baskets of fish on their heads, and then the “calls” of the street trades, which took him back to his childhood: the ocarinas of the knife-grinders, the croaking bugles of the vegetable sellers. He crossed Praça da Alegria, which was as lively as its name implied. There he found a little market of green-painted stalls where all manner of things were sold: second-hand clothes, flowers, legumes, traditional wooden toys and handmade crockery. He bought a small terracotta dish on which an artless hand had painted the tower of the Clérigos. He was sure his fiancée would like it. He came to Largo do Padrao, which was a market without really being one, in that the farmers and fishermen had simply set up improvised shops in the doorways and on the pavements of Rua de Santo Ildefonso. He arrived at the Fontainhas, where he found a small flea-market. Many of the stalls were closed, because Saturday was the big day there, but a certain amount of business was done even on Sunday morning. He paused by a stall selling exotic cage-birds. On the cages were strips of paper which indicated the name of the bird and the place of origin. Most of them came from Brazil or Madeira. Firmino thought of Madeira, and how lovely it would be to spend a dream-holiday there, as promised by the advertisements for Air Portugal. Next there was a second-hand book stall, and Firmino began to browse. He came across an old book about how a city, a century ago, communicated with the world. He cast an eye at the chapter on the newspapers and advertising of the period. He discovered that at the beginning of the nineteenth century there was a paper called O Artilheiro in which the following fascinating announcement appeared: “Persons wishing to dispatch packages to Lisbon or Coimbra by means of our horses may deposit the merchandise at the post station opposite the Tobacco Factory.” The next page was devoted to a paper called O Periódico dos Pobres, The Paupers’ Journal, in which the ads of the tripe-vendors appeared free of charge, the sale of tripe being regarded as a public service. Firmino was overcome by a wave of affection for this city towards which, when he didn’t know it at all, he had felt a certain hostility. He came to the conclusion that we are all subject to prejudice, and that unwittingly he had suffered a lapse in dialectics, that fundamental dialectic so dear to the heart of Lukács.
He glanced at his watch and thought about going to get something to eat, it was lunchtime, and he followed his nose to the Café Àncora. The place was crowded, even the restaurant part, but Firmino found a table and sat down. Almost at once the friendly waiter arrived.
“Did you find the gypsy?” he asked with a smile.
Firmino nodded.
“Later on, with your permission,” said the waiter, “we’ll talk about them, the gypsies, I mean. Meanwhile if you want a quick dish freshly prepared today, I recommend the octopus salad with oil, lemon and parsley.”
Firmino agreed, and a minute later the waiter arrived with his order.
“Do you mind if I sit down for a moment?” he asked.
Firmino invited him to do so.
“Excuse my asking,” said the waiter politely, “may I ask what job you do?”
“I’m a journalist,” replied Firmino.
“Wow!” exclaimed the waiter, “in that case you can help us. Where, in Lisbon?”
“Yes, in Lisbon,” confirmed Firmino.
“We’re getting a movement going in favor of the gypsies of Portugal,” whispered the waiter, “I don’t know whether you’ve seen the racist demonstrations there have been in a number of towns around here?”
“I’ve heard about them,” said Firmino.
“People don’t want the gypsies,” said the waiter, “in one town they’ve even beaten them up, it’s an outbreak of racism. I don’t know for sure which political parties are inciting people against them though it’s not hard to imagine, and we don’t want Portugal to become a racist country, it’s always been a tolerant country, I am a member of an association called Citizens’ Rights and we are collecting signatures, would you care to sign?
“Willingly,” replied Firmino.
From his pocket the waiter produced a sheet full of signatures headed “Citizens’ Rights.”
“I ought not to have you sign in the restaurant,” he said, “because collecting signatures is forbidden in public places, we have special centers dotted all over town, but as the boss isn’t looking, right, if you just sign here, with your particulars and the number of some official document.”
Firmino wrote his name, the number of his identity card, and under the heading “profession” wrote: journalist.
“Will you give us a write-up in your paper?” asked the waiter.
“I can’t promise,” said Firmino, “at the moment I’m busy with another matter.”
“There are some ugly things happening in Oporto,” observed the waiter.
Just then a newsboy entered the café, a kid carrying a bundle of newspapers, and as he did the rounds of the tables he repeated: “The great Oporto mystery, the missing head discovered.”
Firmino bought Acontecimento. He gave it a quick glance, folded it neatly in four because he felt embarrassed. He put it in his pocket and left. He thought he had better be getting back to Dona Rosa’s.
DONA ROSA, SEATED on the sofa in the sitting-room, had a copy of Acontecimento open before her. She lowered the paper and looked up at Firmino.
“What a horrible business,” she murmured, “the poor soul. And poor you,” she added, “having to face such horrors at your age.”
“That’s life,” sighed Firmino, taking a seat beside her.
“The pretenders to the throne are a good deal better off,” observed Dona Rosa, “in Vultos there’s a feature on a splendid reception given in Madrid, everybody is so elegant.”
Just then the telephone rang and she went off to answer it. Firmino watched. Dona Rosa gave a nod, beckoning twice with her forefinger.
“Hullo,” said Firmino.
“Have you something to write with?” asked a voice.
Firmino instantly recognized the voice which had called him before.
“I’ve got something to write with,” he said.
“Don’t interrupt me,” said the voice.
“I’m not interrupting you,” Firmino assured him.
“The head is that of Damasceno Monteiro,” said the voice, “twenty-eight years old, he worked as errand-boy at the Stones of Portugal, he lived in Rua dos Canastreiros, it’s up to you to find the number, it’s in the Ribeira, opposite a fountain, you must inform the family, I can’t do it for reasons I won’t go into, goodbye.”
Firmino hung up and at once dialed the number of the paper, giving a glance at the notes on his pad. He asked for the Editor but the switchboard operator put him through to Senhor Silva.
“Hullo, Huppert here,” said Silva.
“This is Firmino,” said Firmino.
“Enjoying the tripe?” asked Silva in sarcastic tones.
“Listen Silva,” said Firmino, stressing the name, “why don’t you go fuck yourself?”
There was a silence at the other end, then Silva asked indignantly: “What did you say?”
“You heard,” replied Firmino, “now pass me the Editor.”
After a bit of electronic music on came the Editor’s voice.
“He’s called Damasceno Monteiro,” said Firmino, “twenty-eight years old, worked as errand-boy at the Stones of Portugal in Vila Nova de Gaia, I’ll go and inform his family, they live in the Ribeira, and after that I’ll go to the morgue.”
“It’s now four o’clock,” said the Editor quite casually, “if you can manage to get me a report by nine tomorrow morning we’ll come out with another special edition, today’s sold out in an hour, and just think, today’s Sunday and lots of the kiosks are closed.”
“I’ll try,” said Firmino without conviction.
“You better had,” declared the Editor, “and make sure there’s lots of colorful detail, plenty of drama and pathos, like a good slushy photo-romance.”
“That’s not my style,” replied Firmino.
“Find another style,” retorted the Editor, “a style Acontecimento needs. And another thing, mind it’s a long piece, really good and long.”
Nine
THE SCENE OF THIS SAD, MYSTERIOUS and, may we add, bloodcurdling story is the smiling and industrious city of Oporto. Strange but true: Oporto, our very Portuguese Oporto, that gentle city cradled by tender-hearted hills and traversed by the placid waters of the Douro, on which since time immemorial have sailed those unique Rabelos laden with oaken barrels, bearing to the cellars of the city the precious nectar which, carefully bottled and elegantly labeled, will make its way to the furthest corners of the earth, enhancing the imperishable fame of one of the most highly prized wines on the face of the globe.
And readers of our newspaper know that this sad, mysterious and blood-curdling story relates to nothing less than a decapitated corpse: the pathetic mortal remains of a person unknown, horribly mutilated, abandoned by the murderer (or murderers) in a patch of waste land on the edge of the city, like a worn-out shoe or an old tin pan.
This, alas, is the turn things seem to be taking these days in this country of ours. A country which has only recently recovered democracy and has been accepted into the European Community along with the most civilized and progressive nations of the Old Continent. A country of honest and industrious folk, who return home of an evening weary from a hard day’s work and shudder as they read of the murky deeds which the free and democratic press, such as this newspaper, is unfortunately bound to report to them, even if with aching heart.
And it is indeed with aching heart, and in great perturbation of mind, that your special correspondent in Oporto is obliged by his professional ethics to tell you the sad, murky and blood-curdling story which he himself has lived through at first hand. A story which begins in one of the many hotels in this city, where your correspondent receives an anonymous telephone call. For like all journalists engaged on difficult cases he receives dozens of anonymous calls. He answers the telephone with all the skepticism of an old and experienced journalist, fully prepared for some mythomaniac intent on telling him that a certain councilor is corrupt or that the wife of the chairman of a certain sporting club is going to bed with a bullfighter.
But not this time: the voice is crisp and almost authoritarian, with a strong northern accent: a young voice, which might well be full of self-confidence if it were not speaking in an undertone. It tells your correspondent: the head is that of Damasceno Monteiro as errand-boy for the firm of Stones of Portugal, his home is in the Ribeira, Rua dos Canastreiros, I don’t know the number because there is no number on the building, it is opposite a fountain, you must inform the family because I can’t do it for reasons I wont go into, goodbye. Your correspondent is left speechless. He, an experienced, fifty year-old journalist who in the course of his life has witnessed the most appalling situations, must now take on the tragic, and at the same time Christian, task of bearing the mournful news to the victim's family. What to do? Your correspondent is fraught with misgivings, but he does not admit defeat. He knows that his profession calls even for such missions as these, painful but unavoidable. He goes down into the street, he hails a taxi and tells the driver to take him to Rua dos Canastreiros, in the Ribeira.
And here opens another scene, very different from the smiling and industrious city of Oporto, one for which the pen of the present writer is utterly inadequate, for to describe it one would need to be a sociologist, an anthropologist, which your correspondent obviously is not. This Ribeira, the slummiest part of the city, once the glorious Ribeira, seat of the artisans, the coopers, the humble folk of centuries past, lying on the banks of the Douro; this Ribeira which some superficial guidebooks for tourists attempt to pass off as the most picturesque corner of Oporto; in fact and in truth, is this Ribeira? Your correspondent has no wish to indulge in cheap rhetoric, he has no wish to fall back on illustrious literary allusions, he suspends judgment. He confines himself to describing the home, if such it may be called, of the victim's family, a dwelling like many others in the Ribeira. The hallway serves also as a kitchen, one wretched gas ring and one faucet. A cardboard partition separates the hallway from the cubicle which is the bedroom of Damasceno Monteiro’s parents. Damasceno’s building, and can be entered only by bending low. You find a mattress, a Mexican-type blanket, and on the wall a poster of a Dakota Indian. The lavatory is out in the yard, and is used by everyone in the building.
Your correspondent, the bearer of these terrible tidings, managed to blurt out that he was a journalist from Lisbon who was engaged on the case of the decapitated corpse. He was received by the victim’s mother, a woman some fifty years of age with the air of an invalid. She told him that until last month she was earning a little money by doing washing for a few families in Oporto, but that now she had been forced to give up working because she was suffering from internal hemorrhaging, the doctor had diagnosed a fibroma and she had put herself in the hands of a healer in the Ribeira who made decoctions. But the decoctions had done her no good, in fact her hemorrhaging had increased: now she had to go to hospital, but for the moment there was no free bed so she had to wait. Her husband, Senhor Domingos, was once a basket-maker, but ever since he had stopped working he’d begun to spend every evening in some low dive. Now he was taking “Antabuse” because he was alcoholic. But as he was taking “Antabuse” on doctor’s orders, and at the same time drinking cheap brandy, there were times when he was drunk and vomited all day long. That was him vomiting in the bedroom right now. Damasceno was their only son, said the mother, Senhora Maria de Lourdes. They also had a daughter of twenty-one who had gone off to Brussels to work as a waitress in a bar, but they had had no news of her for quite a while.
Your correspondent then had to inform the poor stunned woman that her son’s head was to be found in the morgue at the Institute of Forensic Medicine, and that she would be obliged to make a formal identification. The luckless mother dashed into the bedroom and returned a moment later wearing high-heeled black sandals and a fringed shawl. She said these had been a present from the singer at a nightclub in Oporto, the “Borboleta Nocturna,” where her son Damasceno used to go to do small electrician's jobs, adding that these were the only decent things she had to wear.
When, after searching in vain for some means of transport, your correspondent and the poor unhappy mother arrived at the Institute of Forensic Medicine, the doctor had just removed his rubber gloves and was eating a sandwich. He was a young, friendly doctor, with a sportive air. He asked if we had come for the identification and added that he was in a hurry because that evening there was an “Invictos” roller-skate hockey-match and he was playing goalie for the “Invictos.” He then took us into the adjoining room and…
And now I come to something I shall refrain from describing to my readers, but which they will certainly be able to imagine, and that is the reaction of the poor wretched mother. A stifled cry: Damasceno!, my Damasceno! A kind of sob, a dry rattle in the throat, a thud on the floor the poor woman collapsed before we could come to her aid. The head
, that gruesome head, was set erect on a slab of marble like an Amazonian fetish. It was cut off at the neck cleanly and precisely, as if the job had been done with an electric saw. The face was bloated and purple, because it had probably been in the river for several days, but its physiognomy was recognizable: it was that of a young man of strong and regular features in which one could still discern some measure of homespun nobility: the raven-black hair, the well-chiseled nose, the firm jaw. —Damasceno Monteiro
Dona Rosa raised her eyes from the paper, looked at Firmino and said: “You sent shivers up my spine it’s so true to life and at the same time written so stylishly.”
“It’s not exactly my own style,” Firmino tried to explain. But he was interrupted.
“But your Editor thinks the world of it,” exclaimed Dona Rosa, “he says the special edition sold like hot cakes.”
“Umphh,” commented Firmino.
“It was brave of you,” said Dona Rosa with admiration, “that’s what I like, a paper with some guts, not like that rag Vultos that only talks about smart parties.”
“My Editor tells me that our paper is going to support the Monteiro family by instituting civil proceedings in the case, and we shall need a lawyer,” said Firmino. “The trouble is that we’re not rolling in money, we shall need a lawyer who’ll go easy on the fees, and he suggests I should ask you, Dona Rosa, because he says you will certainly know of a lawyer for our case.”
“Of course I know one,” Dona Rosa assured him, “when do you want to meet him?”
“Tomorrow would be fine,” said Firmino.
“What time?”
“I don’t know exactly,” pondered Firmino, “perhaps at lunchtime, I could call on him and invite him out to lunch, but who do you have in mind?”
Dona Rosa smiled and took a deep breath.
“Fernando Diogo Maria de Jesus de Mello Sequeira,” she said.
The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro Page 6