How many letters are there in the Latin alphabet?, asked my father’s voice. I looked carefully and there in the half-light was my father. He was standing at the far end of the room, leaning on the dresser, watching me mischievously. He was in his sailor’s uniform, he looked about twenty-something, but he was definitely my father, there was no mistake about that. Dad, I said, what are you doing here in the Pensão Isadora, dressed as a sailor? What are you doing here?, he responded, it’s 1932, I’m doing my military service and my ship got into Lisbon today, it’s called the Filiberto, it’s a frigate. But why are you talking to me in Portuguese, Dad?, I said, and why when you appear to me do you always ask me absurd questions?, it’s as though you were putting me through an exam, last month you turned up to ask me when my mother was born, I can never remember dates, I get confused, I’m useless with numbers, Dad, but you’re always tormenting me with these questions. He said, I just want to see if you’re a good son, that’s all, that’s why I keep asking you questions, to see if you’re a good son. My Father as a Young Man took off his sailor’s hat and smoothed back his hair. He was good-looking, my Father as a Young Man, he had an honest face and lovely blonde hair. Look Dad, I said, to tell the truth, I don’t like these questions, these exams, you’ve got to stop appearing to me like this, whenever you fancy it, you’ve got to stop bothering me. Hang on a minute, he said, I’m here because I want to know something, I want to know how my life will end and you’re the only one who can know that, you’re living in the present, I want to know everything today, Sunday, 30th July 1932. What good will it do you to know?, I said, it won’t do you any good at all, life is whatever it’s going to be, there’s nothing you can do about it, let it be, Dad. No, no, said my Father as a Young Man, I’ll forget it the moment I leave the Pensão Isadora, there’s a girl waiting for me in Rua da Moeda, as soon as I leave here, I’ll forget everything, but I need to know now, that’s why I keep bothering you. All right, Dad, if that’s what you want, I said, your life ends badly, with cancer of the larynx, which is odd because you never smoked, but anyway, that’s how it is, you’re going to get cancer, and the surgeon who operates on you is the director of the clinic, a famous otolaryngologist, now there’s a word!, but in my opinion, the only thing the guy knows about is tonsils, I don’t think he understands a thing about cancer. And then?, asked my Father as a Young Man. And then you stay in the hospital for a month, I spend the nights with you because the nurses in the famous professor’s clinic have other things to do, if you ring the bell no one comes and they leave you there choking like a dog, so I have to be there at your bedside and work the disgusting machine that extracts the blood from your throat, and a month later, the day before you’re due to leave hospital, the doctors introduce a small tube through your nose down into your stomach so that they can feed you and they say: Everything’s fine now, the patient can go home, but everything isn’t fine, I go out for a coffee and when I come back to your room I find you dying, your face is all swollen and purple, you can’t breathe, you’ve got palpitations. What’s wrong with my father?, I ask the doctor on duty, a crafty so-and-so. Your father’s having a heart attack, he says. Then I want a cardiologist, I say, because I don’t believe you. The cardiologist arrives, gives you an electrocardiogram and says: The patient has nothing wrong with his heart but there is something wrong with his lungs, he needs an X-ray. And then I pick you up from the bed in my arms, because the nurses at the famous professor’s clinic have other things to do, and I call an ambulance and we go in the ambulance to the X-ray clinic, on my responsibility, because the sly doctor on duty says that you can only leave if I take full responsibility, so I do and the radiologist, after the X-ray, says: A tube has perforated your father’s oesophagus, pierced the mediastinum and entered the lung, now you need a specialist in pulmonary diseases with a scalpel, if not, your father will die. You see, Dad, when those eminent doctors introduced the tube into your stomach, they perforated first your oesophagus and then your lung, I took you away because I had no faith in them or in their competence; the specialist, whom I called at once, made an incision in your back with a scalpel, the air was expelled and the lung deflated, they put you in intensive care, that place where all the patients lie there naked connected up by tubes on all sides, and after two weeks you recovered, I should say that during all the time you were there, the famous doctor who had first operated on you never once came to see you, the bastard. And then?, asked my Father as a Young Man, what happened to me then? Well, Dad, I said, then I found a really good surgeon, a friend of mine who works in a big hospital, he performed the anastomosis on you, I mean the reconstruction of your perforated oesophagus, and after that you lived for another three years, three nice, peaceful years, eating normally, but then your illness reappeared, this time the disease had spread, and you died. How?, asked my Father as a Young Man, I want to know how, if it was a painful death or if it was peaceful, how was it?, I want to know. You just burned out like a candle, Dad, I said, one day you lay down and you said: I’m tired and I’m not hungry, and you never got up or ate anything again, apart from the soup that Mum used to make for you, I’d come and visit you every day, and you went on like that for a month, you were little more than a skeleton by then but you weren’t in any pain, and when you died, you waved to me before going into the dark.
My Father as a Young Man smiled and smoothed back his hair. But there’s another story you should tell me, he said, you haven’t finished yet. There’s nothing else, I said. Don’t be obtuse, he said, I want to know if you were a good son, how you behaved towards the doctor who operated on me. Look, Dad, I said, I don’t know if I did the right thing, maybe I should have done things differently, I should have just punched the guy, that would have been a braver solution, but I didn’t, that’s why I’m left with this feeling of guilt, instead of smashing his face in, I wrote a story about the conversation I’d had with him and he brought a case against me, alleging it was false, I couldn’t prove to the judge that what I’d said was true and I lost the case. Were you found guilty?, my Father as a Young Man asked. It’s not final yet, I said, I appealed and the trial is still going on, but I wish I’d done it differently, I wish I’d punched him, that would have been honourable, radical, in the old tradition. Don’t be hard on yourself, son, said my Father as a Young Man, you did the best thing, it’s better to use the pen than brute force, it’s a more elegant way of delivering a punch. It’s nice of you to comfort me, Dad, I said, because I don’t feel satisfied with myself. That’s why I’m here in this room, said my Father as a Young Man, because I wanted to reassure you, to reassure us both, now that you’ve told me everything, I feel more at peace. I hope so, Dad, I hope you don’t come back again the way you have done recently, it’s frightening, it was becoming unbearable. There’s one thing you should know, said my Father as a Young Man, I didn’t choose to appear in this room, it was your will that called me here, because it was you who wanted me in your dream, and now I only have time to say goodbye, goodbye my son, the maid is just about to knock on the door, I have to leave.
I heard the knocking on the door and opened my eyes, Viriata came in and said: Good afternoon, you’ve slept for exactly an hour and a half, I’m very punctual as you see, I hope you’ve had a good rest. She placed my trousers and my shirt on the edge of the bed and asked: Are you staying here tonight? No, Viriata, I said, I have to leave, I want to go for a walk. In this heat?, asked Viriata, alarmed. It’s not a long walk, I said, and I might take the tram, I’ve got the whole afternoon ahead of me and I want to visit a painting. Visit a painting?, said Viriata, what a weird idea. I never really understood what the painting meant, you see, perhaps today I’ll understand it better, who knows, today’s a very special day. If you don’t mind, then, I’ll come with you to the tram stop, said Viriata, I’d like to go for a walk too. With the greatest of pleasure, Viriata, I said, but first hand me the wallet that’s in my trouser pocket. Viriata understood at once, raised her hands and exclaimed: Certainly n
ot, I don’t want a tip, you’ve been very kind to me and kindness is the best gift you can give to someone you don’t know.
V
YOUR PINEAPPLE SUMOL, the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art said in a bored voice, placing the glass on my table. The garden’s lovely, I said, just to say something, it’s beautifully cool even on a hot day like today, it was a good idea to open a café here, the museum really needed one, in my day there wasn’t anything. Right, the Barman said in the same bored tone, we serve alcoholic drinks and everything, but unfortunately the customers drink nothing but Sumol and lemonade. I need a Sumol to help my digestion, I said, I had a rather heavy lunch today, it still hasn’t gone down. Alcohol’s the best thing for that, said the Barman, it’s alcohol that aids digestion, you’re a foreigner you should know that. Why should a foreigner know about that?, I asked. Because abroad they know everything, he said implacably, the problem in this country is that people don’t know anything, they’re ignorant, they don’t travel enough. Would you like to sit down?, I asked, offering him a chair. The Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art looked around. All right, he said, seeing as no one’s here I can rest my legs a bit, I’ve been on my feet since this morning. He sat down, crossed his legs and took out a cigarette. And what about you, have you travelled a lot?, I asked him, picking up the conversation again. I lived in France, he replied, I worked there for a long time, I lived really well in Paris, but last year I decided to come back and now here I am serving lemonades, I should be working in one of those posh bars in Cascais, the sort of bars where the English and the French go to drink, but I couldn’t get a job there, it’s almost impossible to get a job in Cascais and Estoril, and I’ll tell you something else, there are guys working as barmen there who can’t tell a Bourbon from a Macieira brandy, it’s pathetic. Don’t you like serving people lemonade?, I asked. Well, he said, the thing is I’m a barman by profession, I mean a real barman, the sort who mixes cocktails and long drinks, I’m wasted here, I used to work at Harry’s Bar in Paris, perhaps you know it. No, I don’t, I said. It’s in Rue Daunau, he said, near the Opera, if you’re ever passing, pop in and ask for Daniel, you can mention my name, he’s the best barman in the world, he taught me everything I know, he’s getting on a bit now but he’s still the best, just order an “Alexander” and you’ll see what I mean. The Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and sighed. Quite a change as you can see, he said, now here I am serving nothing but lemonade, do you know, in Harry’s Bar we had a hundred and sixty different types of whisky, do you see what I mean?, Harry’s Bar is like the quartier général of all the English and Americans living in Paris, people who really know how to drink, not like the Portuguese who just drink fruit juice. Rather shamefacedly I finished my Sumol and said: I don’t agree, I think the Portuguese can drink with the best of them. Wine maybe, said the Barman, as far as wine’s concerned you’re quite right, I wouldn’t disagree with you there, but you see they drink almost nothing else. They drink grappa, I said, they don’t hold back when it comes to that. I know, said the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art resignedly, but they don’t like cocktails, they haven’t a clue about them. So why did you come back?, I said, you could have stayed in Paris. I had to, he sighed again, my mother-in-law got ill, she had a stroke, she was living on her own in Benfica and my wife wanted to take care of her, besides, my wife never really liked France, she missed things like chouriço sausage and sardines, my wife’s terribly Portuguese, poor woman, but she’s a good sort, so what else could I do, and here I am serving people lemonade. The Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art looked at my empty glass and winked at me. Have you digested your meal now?, he asked. Yes, I think so, I said, Sumol is wonderful for the digestion, especially pineapple Sumol. Then perhaps I can recommend you one of my own concoctions, said the Barman, it’s a cocktail I invented when I came to work here, you won’t believe who drank it here yesterday, go on, have a guess. I’ve no idea, I said, not an inkling. You really don’t know who was here yesterday?, asked the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art, disappointed, it was even in the newspapers, 0 Públicos colour supplement gave it a big photo spread, I’m in one of the photos. I didn’t buy the morning papers, I said, I’m sorry, I only bought A Bola. A Bola!, he exclaimed scornfully, you should buy 0 Público, it’s more like a French newspaper. I know, I said, but unfortunately I only bought A Bola. Oh well, said the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art, but look, try and guess. Guess what, I asked. Guess who was here yesterday, he said. I don’t know, I said, I haven’t a clue. The President of the Republic! exclaimed the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art proudly, the President of the Republic was here in person, he came with a foreign guest who’s on an official visit to Portugal, the prime minister of some Asian country, and they came to visit the museum. The Barman slapped me on the back as if we were old friends. Well, he said, I’m not one to boast, but what do you think he said to me?, he said: Good afternoon, Senhor Manuel, can you imagine, he called me by my name, Senhor Manuel. They have a very efficient information service, I said, and before making any visit, they find out about things like that, they know everything. No, that’s not what happened at all, sir, objected the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art, not at all, the fact is that the President of the Republic was once in Harry’s Bar, years ago now, when he was in exile in Paris, and he simply remembered my name, he’s got a remarkable memory, our president. Really extraordinary, I said, but then that’s a fundamental quality in a good politician, a memory like an elephant. The Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art went on: he said, how are you, Senhor Manuel?, don’t you think that’s amazing? I do, I said, and how did you respond? I shook him by the hand, the Barman said, and I mixed him a good cocktail, because I know he likes a drink, he’s a remarkable man, our President, but he likes his food, he enjoys eating and drinking, and so I mixed him a really good drink, the very drink I was recommending to you, wouldn’t you like to try it, now that your stomach’s settled down a bit? I might, I said, what is it? Look, he said, it isn’t exactly a cocktail and it isn’t exactly a long drink, let’s just say it’s something in between, it’s a drink I invented, it’s called “Janelas Verdes’ Dream”, after the street the museum’s in. Very appropriate, I said, but what’s it made of? Look, my friend, said the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art confidentially, I don’t usually reveal the ingredients of any of my creations, they’re a professional secret, but you’re a foreigner and so I’ll tell you, it’s three parts vodka to one part lemon juice plus a spoonful of crème de menthe, you put all the ingredients in a shaker with three ice cubes, shake it hard until your arm aches and remove the ice before serving, the vodka and the lemon juice blend perfectly and the crème de menthe gives both the smell and the green colour you need for the name, do you get it?, verde as in Janelas Verdes, the colour’s absolutely essential. All right, I said, I will try a “Janelas Verdes’ Dream”, you’ve convinced me. An excellent choice, exclaimed the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art, I’ll tell you something else, the lemon juice quenches your thirst, the alcohol gives you energy, which you need on a hot day like today, and the peppermint refreshes your insides, an excellent choice. He jumped up and went over to the bar. I looked at the clock and realised it was getting late, I wouldn’t have time to see my painting. The Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art returned with my “Janelas Verdes’ Dream” and placed the glass on the table with a look of triumph. I raised the glass to my lips and thought that, however ghastly it turned out to be, I couldn’t back down, I had to show I was a man, but it wasn’t ghastly at all, in fact I smacked my lips and said: It’s really good. The Barman sat down again and said: It is, isn’t it? It is, I said, it really is. And then I went on: Look, my friend, could you do me a favour?, do you know the museum guards? Every one of them, he said unhesitatingly, they’re all friends of mine. Well, look, I said, my problem is this, I came here to see a painting, but I’ve only just realised that the museum’s about to close, I really need to s
ee this painting, but ten minutes won’t be enough, I need at least an hour, could you ask the guard who’s in charge of that room if I could stay on for an hour? I can try, said the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art with a conspiratorial look, the staff don’t leave until an hour after closing time anyway, because of the cleaners, you might be able to stay on for a while. Then he lowered his voice, as if what he was asking were a secret: Which painting is it? The Temptation of St Anthony, I said. Haven’t you ever seen it?, he asked. Dozens of times, I said. Then why do you want to see it again, if you’ve already seen it?, he asked. It’s just a whim, I said, let’s just call it a whim. That’s fine, he said, I understand all about whims, anything to do with whims or alcohol, I’m your man. I asked: Do you think a tip would help to persuade the attendant? No, I think that might be a bit out of order, he said.
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