Isabel committed suicide, the bat squeaked, this I’m sure of, she swallowed two bottles of pills, her last meal, Veronal of some kind, I can even describe the scene for you, listen: a modest room, a small pension in Campo de Ourique, a view out the window of the Estrela Basilica, she pulled back the curtains, a brilliant white moon, she covered the lamp with a blue scarf, the room turned pale blue, on the bed was a crocheted blanket, the kind found in provincial hotels, she rang for water. An ancient maid arrived. She was fat and had a visible mustache. Isabel said: I want some water, a big bottle of good water. And the maid returned with a bottle of Luso water. That’s it, Isabel said and laughed, it helps people to pee, I won’t need to pee anymore. It’s good for people to pee, said the maid with some regret, for you, too, Miss, you seem a bit wan, that must be toxins, that must be why you’re so pale, you’ll see, a bottle of Luso water, that’s just what you need to rid yourself of toxins and get some color back in your cheeks, like the color I had at your age, when I didn’t have so much pain from my arthritis. And so Isabel opened the bottle of Luso water and swallowed four or five pills to make herself feel calmer, then she looked out at the Estrela Basilica, which was white as a cookie, no, it was a cookie in the Lisbon sky, so ornate, embroidered like a piece of lace, and she thought: maybe I’ll say a prayer to the Madonna, a prayer I haven’t prayed for a long while. Because a person getting ready for a long trip needs a viaticum, and Isabel needed a viaticum, she needed to talk to someone. But who, on that Lisbon summer night, with the moon so bright and the basilica like a cookie? Who? She asked the Veronal this, and felt calmer. Then she sat down at the small desk beside the washbasin and wrote a letter. It was a letter for me, for her friend Magda. She was saying goodbye and giving an exact account of that night, with no explanation for her reasons. All she said, in an underlined postscript, was that the light was pale blue and that she was looking out at the Estrela Basilica. And that’s how Isabel passed away.
I waited a few seconds. Are you done? I asked. I’m done, the bat squeaked. Listen, Magda, I said, I have no idea why you’re telling me this bullshit – what’s in it for you? What on earth are you saying? she snapped, I know exactly what happened, I’m telling you the absolute truth. All right, I said, now you listen, I’m going to tell you the absolute truth, so listen up, you were a part of the antifascist network and you organized it all, Isabel took too many risks and had to go into hiding, you made sure she disappeared and then spread it around that she’d committed suicide due to romantic troubles, you even went so far as to publish her death notice in the paper and whipped up a story about a Seventh Day Adventist Mass at the Cascais Chapel, only just then, by pure coincidence, Isabel was picked up in a roundup by the secret police during a student protest, she didn’t have any papers and lied about her identity, said her name was Magda, they tossed her in Caxias without even questioning her, back then, interrogations came later, but you know all this better than me, I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath, one day a girl wound up in a cell, she was covered in bruises, and she swallowed glass, that girl, yes, she really did commit suicide, and you organized Isabel’s escape with the help of a prison guard, and that night, you had Isabel board a plane for Macao, right here in Macao, where I happen to be at this very moment.
Silence followed. Then came Magda’s voice in a whisper: how did you manage to figure it out? Easy, I answered, I dug around, did a little investigating. So if you already know everything, she said, why get a hold of me? Because I don’t know everything, I said. I want to know who the Macao priest was that you sent Isabel to. She giggled. Oh, who can remember anymore, she said in a falsetto. Go on and try, I urged her. This waiter’s not coming back, she said, it’s been a half hour since I ordered my agua de cebada. Go on and try, I said, please, for once in your life, would you just show your cards? Sometimes, Magda sighed, telepathy can play such cruel jokes: you never know where you’re coming from in time, where are you coming from in time? Way ahead of you, I answered, a lot of time has passed. Then I don’t know if you’ll find him, she said, if he’s still alive, but his name is Father Domingos, he ran a leper colony on Coloane, that’s where we sent Isabel, I’m not sure what else I can tell you.
I said: so long, Magda. I think the bat waved goodbye with its tiny foot. I turned off the flashlight and left the cave.
From high on the hill, you could see the lights of Macao leading down to Porto Velho. I shut the smaller gate behind me, set the flashlight on the first step, and walked down to the city center. The square was empty. Before me stood São Paulo Cathedral, just the façade, the rest had been destroyed in a fire in the eighteenth century.
I was curious and wanted to look behind the façade, but decided the body also has its rights; the body must be pardoned for its demands, especially when someone’s enjoying an earthly leave.
I looked around for a restaurant. In the farthest corner of the square was a sign in Chinese with neon lettering below in English: Portuguese food. I headed over. The restaurant was called Antigua Lisbon/Modern Macao. It was a real hole-in-the-wall; in a small display case sat a tray with the remnants of some yellowing tripe. There was an enormous ginseng root at the center of the window, and beside it a card in Portuguese that stated: Nós pensamos na sua virilidade: we tend to your virility. I thought I might find something European on the menu. I pushed open the door and stepped inside. The place was empty. An old Chinese woman in a white robe and slippers was hunched over on a stool. She greeted me and got to her feet, I sat down at a nasty-looking table, and she calmly, very calmly, began wiping away all the filth. Eat Cantonese or European? she asked me in Portuguese. She was chewing on something. A piece of bread, maybe, or maybe just her dentures. European, I answered, it depends on what you have. Have watercress soup and goat, she muttered wearily, only things European watercress soup and goat. Then she studied me more closely and made a strange gesture, like some sort of exorcism. What was that? I asked, what does that mean? The old woman pushed her dentures about with her tongue, realigned them, and said: you, soul in pain, full of spirits, must go to forest, ask cleansing of forest genies.
She disappeared into the kitchen and soon returned with both the soup and the goat. The goat had a side dish of pineapple and olives, which looked revolting, but I didn’t make a fuss, just started eating. And it really wasn’t as bad as all that. The old Chinese woman watched me very closely with an inscrutable expression.
Why forest genies? I decided to ask, I’m not generally in the woods, I don’t need any forest genies. Need someone make clean again, the old woman said, look for a person, but you full of spirits, need forest genies, but maybe prefer Catholic priest lives behind Cathedral, that pig. Why do you call him a pig? I asked, is he really a pig? Not know, she answered, but all Catholics pigs, especially priests. But I need some information, I said, then added: and your forest genies can’t give me this information, I’m not in contact with them, maybe the Catholic priest can give me this information.
The old woman chewed on her dentures, and spat on the floor. Not understand, she said. Some information, I said, some information about a person; like you said, I’m looking for someone. The old woman seemed angry, and I started to feel guilty. I couldn’t bear that an old Chinese woman with broken dentures was angry with me, it made me feel guilty. Where come from? the old woman asked. From the Great Dog, I answered. She thought a moment, then said: good, maybe good. And then she went on: but why look for Catholic priest? I finished the last piece of pineapple and wiped my mouth with my napkin. Because need Catholic priest, I said, feeling myself growing irritated as I imitated her, you old biddy, only priest can give information I need.
The old woman took my plate and shuffled into the kitchen. When she returned, she was carrying a bottle of mandarin liqueur, and she poured me a glass and said: you drink, poor thing, you poor christ. Too true, I said, you’ve put your finger on it, old woman, I poor christ, but then you know who Christ was. The old woman turned her dentures over yet
again and placed her hand over her heart. I half Christian half animist, she said, you Christian only, need Catholic priest who stay on square, you go out, shoo, shoo. Do you know this priest’s name? I asked. Priest hear confession and cool off in square, the old Chinese woman answered. Yes, yes, I said, but his name – what’s his name? He no like animists like me, she went on with her own logic, and I no like him. And what does this priest do? I asked. First he heal lepers on Coloane, the old woman said, but now no more lepers, he unemployed and sit on chair in square and cool off.
I drank a glass of that sickeningly sweet mandarin liqueur, paid, and went out to the square.
I walked around the façade of the cathedral and saw the priest. He was sitting on a chair, cooling off. I went over and said good evening. He offered me the small chair he was using as a foot stool.
He was an old, portly priest who looked vaguely oriental, no doubt a mix of Portuguese and Chinese. But his complexion seemed somewhat olive, or perhaps that was the yellowish cast of the neon lights off the façade, which reflected back as violet. His frock was rolled up a bit over his crossed legs, and he wasn’t wearing any pants, so I saw his fleshy, hairless calves.
My son, he said, did you wish to confess? I sat down and replied: maybe it’s a bit too late; by now, I think it’s a bit too late. Puffing on his fat cigar, he said: it’s never too late to confess. But I’ve finished everything I had to finish, I answered, and I have my own little corner in the universe. He took a giant puff on his cigar and blew smoke in my face. He carefully scratched his calves and said: the universe is vast, but you’re here, in this little corner of the world, and it’s never too late, man of mud. I’ve lost all my mud, I explained, I’ve become pure light. He scratched his calves. What do you mean, he murmured. Think of me as a pulsar, I said, I’m not sure I’m being very clear. Is that some kind of forest genie? he asked, are you by any chance an animist? No, I said, you might say what I’m talking about sends bursts of light over every wavelength; you know what, Father, it’s a matter of neutrons. This all reeks of animism, the priest said, so do you want to confess or not?
The situation was growing difficult. But at this point, I was used to encountering difficult situations. I studied him some more, and he suddenly looked younger: the light off the square made his skin seem smooth and unlined. Are you Catholic? he asked. I’m everything you want, I said, I was baptized by Roman Apostolic Christian parents when I was seven days old. The priest puffed on his huge cigar again, and this time he spared me and blew his smoke into the air. He seemed to be thinking. He thought a while, scratched himself, and asked: my son, how long since your last confession? Forever, I replied, forever. He grew meditative. Do you mean to say you’ve never confessed in your entire life? he asked. That’s right, I said, I never confessed in my entire life. And then I added: but I could confess tonight, seeing that tomorrow is my birthday. Tomorrow’s the fall equinox, the priest said, that’s not promising, there’s madness on that day, the tides rise. Sorry, I said, but are you a priest or a fortune-teller? Excuse me, but since I’ve agreed to confess, let me confess, and we’ll be done with it. Confess your sin, my son, he said and scratched at his calves. Listen, Father, I said, could you stop your scratching, your scratching’s interfering with my concentration, not to mention my contrition. You have to say that you repent with all your heart, the priest said. I repent with all my heart, I whispered. Say it again, he told me, I didn’t hear you. I repent with all my heart, I said again, louder. The priest rolled his frock back down. Confess your sins, he said. All right, I said, it’s a long story, so I’ll be brief, because I like the idea of being brief on this night in Macao, on the eve of the fall equinox, so here goes: I too have made the tides rise, that is my sin. That seems a bit vague, my son, the priest replied, you have to be more specific. I wrote books, I whispered, that is my sin. Were they dirty books? the priest asked. What do you mean, dirty? I said, there was nothing dirty, just a sort of arrogance toward reality. The priest puffed on his cigar. Excuse me, Father, I said, but could you stop blowing smoke in my face? It breaks my concentration. He blew his smoke in the air and said: arrogance, according to the precepts of the Mother Church, arrogance is pride, you’re guilty of the sin of pride, but you have to be more specific. You see, I said, at a certain point, I got it into my head that the stories I imagined could recur in reality, and I was writing stories that were evil – that’s the word – and then much to my surprise that evil really did recur in reality, and so, I’ve steered events, this is my pride. And? the priest asked. And what? I asked in turn. And all the other sins you’ve committed in your life, he said, who knows what other sins you must have committed in your life. A bunch, I said, but they don’t matter, they’re just a part of man’s miseries, I don’t give a damn about them, let’s not bother with them. Around here, pardons aren’t just dished out like soup to the poor, the priest said, first you confess, then you’re pardoned, that’s the rule.
I looked at him and started feeling slightly queasy, like I’d been feeling ever since I got down here. Trying to keep calm, I thought it had to be the old Chinese woman’s goat with pineapple. Father, listen, I said, if you don’t give me absolution, so be it, at this point, I really don’t give a damn, but I would like to know one thing: did you take care of lepers on Coloane a long time ago? He stared at me, stunned. Coloane, he said, sure, Coloane, those were wonderful times, there were so many lepers back then. He sighed wistfully. There were so many lepers back then, he went on, but not anymore, in Macao everyone’s well, they’ve all become businessmen, but back then they’d arrive at the clinic with purplish hands, even missing two or three fingers, they depended on us; and to be taken care of and to stay in the clinic, they were only too happy to be baptized, they even abandoned their animism, those were wonderful times. He sighed again and went on: now there aren’t even fishermen left in Macao, they buy their fish in Hong Kong.
I asked him for a cigar, which he gave me. I lit it and said: listen, Father, do you know a Father Domingos? He sighed again and whispered: Father Domingos was a saint. Concerned, I said: what do you mean was? – is he gone? Died six years ago, the priest said, he was a real saint. Please tell me about him, I said. Well, the priest said, finally stubbing his cigar out on the ground, Father Domingos’s real name was Domenico, he came from Italy, from Sicily, before he lived in China, and he managed to get through the communist revolution with some difficulty, then I believe he arrived in Macao during the war, I was just a boy then, and he founded a leprosy clinic on Coloane, I went to lend a hand in the Fifties, I wasn’t a priest yet but I was about to take holy orders. And then? I asked. And then we spent many years together, he said, we had around a hundred patients, but he was busy with various matters, he helped everyone. Everyone? I asked, Isabel, too? He seemed to reflect for a moment. Never met her, he answered. Magda, then, I said, maybe she was named Magda. So which is it, my son, Isabel or Magda? He sounded exasperated. I pulled Tiago’s photo from my pocket, the one with the photo of Isabel; the priest lit a match to see, and also to light another cigar. He studied the photo a bit and then said with confidence: I don’t know her, I don’t know this person. Think hard, I said, her name was Isabel but she might have gone by Magda, she came from Portugal, she was a political refugee. The priest lit another match and went back to studying the photo. Sorry, he said, but I don’t know her, I’ve never seen her. And then he went on: only Father Domingos concerned himself with these things, I just didn’t have the capacity, but my son, why are you looking for her, and to what end, after all this time?
I took a big puff on my cigar and tried not to blow my smoke into his face like he was doing to me. I said, dear Father, it would take too long to tell you the whole story, I asked you to think of me as a pulsar, but I’m also a receiver, because I come from a place where splendor reigns, and I can’t leave this whole area of my life in darkness. What do you mean by splendor? the priest asked. Just splendor, I said. When I was studying at seminary, they tal
ked about the Zohar, the priest said, are you perhaps referring to that? You can think what you want, I answered, but I need to learn more about Isabel, or Magda, if that’s what she went by. The priest apologized and scratched his calves. Be patient, my son, he said, I don’t know if this is just a bad habit or if it’s erysipelas that’s bothering me, anyway, listen, I’m not an animist but I’ve met a lot of them, now you’re forcing me to tell you things I shouldn’t, but if I were you, I’d ask an animist, I don’t like animists, all those spirits, when it comes to spirits, I only believe in one, even if it is a trinity, I learned this in seminary, but they have spirits for everything, a flower, a tree, a person, a picture, and if you show them your photo, they’ll tell you something. All right, I said, but who can I go to? Many years ago, there was a poet here, the priest said, maybe he was an animist, maybe not, anyway, he was in touch with ghosts, too bad you never met him, in my opinion he was crazy, most of all, he smoked opium, he was a very good talker when he smoked opium, like I said, he was a poet, and maybe he could give you some information about that person you’re looking for, also, I think, because he, like you, is from outside of time. And who was this person? I asked. A skeleton of sorts, the priest answered, he had a long beard and always dressed in white and sometimes, when the mood struck him, he’d go out wearing only a sheet. And what was his name? I asked. I don’t know his real name, the priest said, but everyone around here called him The Ghost Who Walks, I think he lived on Avenida da Boa Vista.
I got up to leave. I said: thank you, Father, this conversation has been quite helpful. The square looked surreal, with that pretend façade and the neon lights. It reminded me of when I used to like the old avant-garde movements and imitated surrealism. I really didn’t know anything back then.
For Isabel Page 6