Pereira Maintains

by Antonio Tabucchi

  Pereira finished his omelette, beckoned to the waiter and ordered another lemonade. I am astounded by your impudence, he said, I don’t know if you realize what you are asking of me, and anyway what am I supposed to find? A room to rent, said Monteiro Rossi, a cheap hotel, somewhere they’re not too fussy about documents, you must know places like that, considering all the people you know.

  All the people you know!, thought Pereira. But what if with all the people he knew he still didn’t really know anyone, he knew Father António whom he could scarcely burden with a problem like this, he knew his friend Silva who was away at Coimbra and couldn’t be trusted anyway, and there was the caretaker at Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca who was most probably a police spy. But then he was suddenly reminded of a little doss-house in La Graça, up beyond the Castle, where illicit couples used to go and they never asked for anyone’s documents. Pereira knew of it because his friend Silva had once asked him to book a room in some such unobtrusive place for him to spend a night with a Lisbon lady who couldn’t risk scandal. So he said: I’ll see about it tomorrow morning, but don’t send or bring your cousin to the office, because of the caretaker, bring him round at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning to my home and then stay around yourself, I may need you, I’ll give you the address right away, but no telephone calls if you please.

  Why did Pereira say all this? Because he felt sorry for Monteiro Rossi? Because he had been at the spa and had such a disheartening conversation with his friend Silva? Because on the train he had met Senhora Delgado who had told him that he must do something, be it ever so little? Pereira has no idea, he maintains. He only knows that clearly he had got himself into a fix and needed to talk to someone about it. But this someone was not in the offing so he thought that when he got home he would talk it over with the photograph of his wife. And that, he maintains, is what he did.

  TWELVE

  On the dot of eleven, Pereira maintains, his doorbell rang. He’d got up early, had breakfast, and made a jug of lemonade packed with ice, which now stood on the dining-room table. Monteiro Rossi came in with a furtive air and a muttered good morning. Pereira, slightly perplexed, closed the door and asked if his cousin wasn’t coming after all. Oh yes, he’s here, replied Monteiro Rossi, but he doesn’t like to burst in just like that, he’s sent me on ahead to take a dekko. A dekko at what?, asked Pereira rather huffily, do you think you’re playing at cops and robbers, or did you imagine the police were here waiting for you? Oh it isn’t that, Dr Pereira, apologized Monteiro Rossi, it’s just that my cousin is all on edge, he’s in a difficult position you know, he’s here on a delicate mission, he has an Argentine passport and doesn’t know which way to turn. You told me all that last night, retorted Pereira, and now please call him in, that’s quite enough of this tomfoolery. Monteiro Rossi opened the door and beckoned. Come on in Bruno, he said in Italian, the coast is clear.

  And in there came a skinny little shrimp, with hair cut en brosse, a yellowish moustache and a blue jacket. Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, let me introduce my cousin Bruno Rossi, however as the name on his passport is Bruno Lugones it’d be better to make a point of calling him Lugones. What language can we talk in?, asked Pereira, does your cousin speak Portuguese? No, said Monteiro Rossi, but he speaks Spanish.

  Pereira seated them at the dining-table and helped them to lemonade. This Bruno Rossi said not a word, but darted suspicious glances this way and that. At the distant siren of an ambulance he stiffened and went over to the window. Tell him to relax, Pereira advised Monteiro Rossi, we’re not in Spain here, there’s no civil war on. Bruno Rossi returned to his seat and said: Perdone la molestia pero estoy aquí por la causa republicana. Listen here Senhor Lugones, said Pereira in Portuguese, I will speak slowly so that you can understand me, I am not interested either in the republican or in the monarchist cause, I edit the culture page of an evening paper and such things do not fall within my province. I have found you some out-of-the-way accommodation, more than that I cannot do, and you will kindly take care not to come calling on me because I want nothing to do with either you or your cause. This Bruno Rossi turned to his cousin and said in Italian: He isn’t at all how you described him, I expected to find a comrade. Pereira caught the meaning and said: I am nobody’s comrade, I am a lone wolf and like it, my only comrade is myself, I don’t know if I make myself clear Senhor Lugones, that being the name on your passport. Yes, yes, said Monteiro Rossi almost tripping over his tongue, but the fact is that, well, the fact is we need your help and understanding, because we need money. What exactly do you mean?, asked Pereira. Well, said Monteiro Rossi, my cousin has no money and if we get to the hotel and they want payment in advance we can’t fork out, not for the moment, I’ll put things straight afterwards, or rather Marta will, it’ll only be a loan.

  On hearing this Pereira stood up, he maintains. He apologized, saying: Please excuse me but I need a few moments’ thought, all I ask is a couple of minutes. He left the two of them alone at the dining-table and went through into the hall. Standing before his wife’s photograph he told it: You know, it’s not so much this Lugones who worries me, it’s Marta, in my opinion she’s the one to blame for all this, Marta is Monteiro Rossi’s girl, the one with the copper-coloured hair, I think I mentioned her to you, well, she’s the one who’s getting Monteiro Rossi into a scrape, and he’s allowing himself to be got into a scrape because he’s in love with her, I ought to drop him a word of warning, don’t you think? His wife’s photograph smiled its faraway smile and Pereira thought he’d got its message. He returned to the dining-room and asked Monteiro Rossi: Why Marta?, what’s Marta got to do with it? Oh well, babbled Monteiro Rossi blushing slightly, because Marta has a lot of resources behind her, that’s all. You listen to me carefully, Monteiro Rossi, said Pereira, I can’t help feeling that you’re getting into a scrape all because of a beautiful girl, but anyway I’m not your father and don’t wish to adopt a fatherly air in case you think it patronizing, so there’s only one thing I wish to say to you: take care. Yes, yes, said Monteiro Rossi, I am taking care but what about the loan? We’ll see to that, replied Pereira, but why should it have to come from me of all people? But Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, digging a sheet of paper from his pocket and holding it out to him, I’ve written this article and I’ll write two more next week, I took the liberty of doing an anniversary, I’ve done D’Annunzio, I’ve put my heart into it but my reason as well, as you advised me, and I promise you that the next two will be Catholic writers of the kind you’re so keen on.

  A flush of irritation came over Pereira, he maintains. Now look here, he said, it’s not that I want nothing but Catholic writers, but someone who’s written a thesis on death might give a little more thought to the writers who have dealt with this subject, who are interested in the soul, in short, and instead you bring me an anniversary article on a downright vitalist like D’Annunzio, who may possibly have been a good poet but who frittered his life away in frivolities, and my newspaper doesn’t care for frivolous people, or at least I don’t, do I make myself clear? Perfectly, said Monteiro Rossi, I’ve got the message. Good, said Pereira, then now let’s get along to this hotel, I’ve remembered a cheap hotel in the Graça where they don’t make a lot of fuss, I will pay the advance if they ask for it, however I expect at least two more obituaries from you, Monteiro Rossi, this is your two weeks’ wages. I should tell you, Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, that I did that anniversary article on D’Annunzio because last Saturday I bought the Lisboa and saw there’s a feature called ‘Anniversaries’, it isn’t signed but I imagine you write it yourself, but if you’d like a hand I’d be very willing to give you one, I’d like to work on that sort of feature, there’s a mass of authors I could write about, and what’s more, seeing as how it’s printed anonymously there’d be no risk of getting you into trouble. So you are in trouble are you?, Pereira maintains he said. Well, a little, as you can see, replied Monteiro Rossi, but if you prefer a pseudonym I’ve thought one up, what do you thi
nk of Roxy? That would do fine, said Pereira. He removed the lemonade jug, placed it in the ice-chest, and putting on his jacket: Very well, let’s be on our way, he said.

  They left the flat. In the little square outside the building a soldier was sleeping stretched out on a bench. Pereira admitted that he was in no fit state to make it up the hill on foot, so they waited for a taxi. The sun was implacable, Pereira maintains, and the wind had dropped. A taxi came cruising past and Pereira hailed it. During the ride not a word was spoken. They alighted beside a granite cross towering over a tiny chapel. Pereira entered the hotel, advising Monteiro Rossi to wait outside but taking the bloke Rossi in with him and presenting him to the desk-clerk, a little old man with pebble glasses who was dozing behind the counter. I have here an Argentine friend, said Pereira, he is Señor Bruno Lugones, here’s his passport, he would like to remain incognito, he is here for sentimental reasons. The old man took off his spectacles and leafed through the register. Someone telephoned this morning to make a booking, he said, was that you? It was me, confirmed Pereira. We have a double room without bath, said the old man, I don’t know if that would do for the gentleman. It will do very well, said Pereira. Cash in advance, said the old man, you know how things are. Pereira took out his wallet and produced a couple of banknotes. I’ll pay for three days in advance, he said, and good morning to you. He waved a hand at Bruno Rossi but decided not to shake hands, he didn’t want to seem on such intimate terms. I hope you’ll be comfortable, he said.

  He left the place and crossed the square to where Monteiro Rossi was sitting waiting on the edge of the fountain. Call in at the office tomorrow, he told him, I’ll read your article today, we have things to talk about. Well actually I …, began Monteiro Rossi. Actually what? asked Pereira. Well you know, said Monteiro Rossi, as things stand I thought it would be better for us to meet in some quiet spot, perhaps at your flat. I agree, said Pereira, but not at my flat, enough of that, let us meet at one o’clock tomorrow at the Café Orquídea, would that suit you? Right you are, replied Monteiro Rossi, the Café Orquídea at one o’clock. Pereira shook hands and said: See you tomorrow. Since it was downhill all the way he thought he’d go home on foot. It was a splendid day and luckily a bracing Atlantic breeze had now sprung up. But he felt in no mood to appreciate the weather. He felt uneasy and would have liked to have a talk with someone, perhaps Father António, but Father António spent all day at the bedsides of his sick parishioners. He then bethought himself of having a chat with the photograph of his wife. So taking off his jacket he made his way slowly homewards, he maintains.

  THIRTEEN

  Pereira spent that night on the final stages of translating and editing Balzac’s Honorine. It was a hard job, but in his opinion it read pretty fluently, he maintains. He slept for three hours, from six until nine in the morning, then got up, had a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee and went to the office. The caretaker, whom he met on the stairs, gave him a surly look and a curt nod. He muttered a good morning, went on up to his room, sat down at the desk and dialled the number of Dr Costa, his medical adviser. Hullo, hullo Dr Costa, said Pereira, this is Pereira speaking. How are you feeling?, enquired Dr Costa. I’m awfully short of breath, replied Pereira, I can’t climb stairs and I think I’ve put on several kilos, whenever I go for a stroll my heart starts thumping. I’ll tell you something, Pereira, said Dr Costa, I do a weekly consultancy at a thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede, why don’t you spend a few days there? In a clinic? asked Pereira, why? Because the clinic at Parede has really good medical supervision, and what’s more they use natural remedies for cardiopathic and rheumatic cases, they give seaweed baths and massages and weight-losing treatment, and they have some first-rate French-trained doctors, it would do you good to have a bit of rest and supervision, Pereira, and the Parede clinic is just the place for you, if you like I can book you a room for tomorrow even, a nice cosy little room with a sea-view, a healthy life, seaweed baths, thalassotherapy, and I’ll be in to see you at least once, there are a few tubercular patients but they’re in a separate wing, there’s no danger of infection. Oh don’t imagine I’m worried about tuberculosis, replied Pereira, I spent most of my life with a consumptive and the disease never affected me at all, but that isn’t the problem, the problem is that they’ve put me in charge of the Saturday culture page and I can’t leave the office. Now then Pereira, said Dr Costa, get this straight, Parede is half-way between Lisbon and Cascais, it’s scarcely ten kilometres from here, if you want to write your articles at Parede and send them to Lisbon someone from the clinic comes to town every morning and could deliver them, and in any case your page only comes out once a week so if you prepare a couple of good long articles the page is ready for two Saturdays ahead, and furthermore let me tell you that health is more important than culture. Oh, very well, said Pereira, but two weeks is too long, one week’s rest is enough for me. Better than nothing, conceded Dr Costa. Pereira maintains that he resigned himself to spending a week in the thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede, and authorized Dr Costa to book him a room for the following day, but made a point of specifying that he must first notify his editor-in-chief, as a matter of form. He hung up and began by dialling the number of the printer’s. He said he had a story of Balzac’s ready to set up in either two or three instalments, and that the culture page was therefore in hand for several weeks to come. What about the ‘Anniversaries’ column?, asked the printer. No anniversaries for the moment, said Pereira, and don’t come to fetch the stuff from the office because I shan’t be here this afternoon, I’ll leave it in a sealed envelope at the Café Orquídea, near the kosher butcher. Then he called the exchange and asked the operator to connect him with the spa at Buçaco. He asked to speak to the editor-in-chief of the Lisboa. The editor is in the garden taking the sun, said the hotel clerk, I don’t know if I ought to disturb him. Disturb away, said Pereira, tell him it’s the culture editor on the line. The editor-in-chief came to the telephone and said: Hullo, chief editor here. Good morning sir, said Pereira, I have translated and edited a story by Balzac and there’s enough of it for two or three issues, and I’m calling because I have a mind to go for treatment at the thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede, my heart condition is not improving and my doctor has advised this, do I have your permission? But what about the paper?, asked the editor-in-chief. As I said sir, it is covered for at least two or three weeks, replied Pereira, and anyway I shall be a stone’s throw from Lisbon and will leave you the telephone number of the clinic, and naturally if there’s any trouble I shall hurry back to the office. But what about your assistant?, said the editor-in-chief, could you not leave the assistant in charge? I would prefer not, replied Pereira, he has done me some obituaries but I’m not sure how serviceable they are, if some important writer dies I will look after it myself. Very well, said the editor-in-chief, take your week’s treatment Dr Pereira, after all there’s the assistant editor at the main office and he can deal with any problems that might arise. Pereira said goodbye and asked to be remembered to the gracious lady whose acquaintance he had made. He hung up and glanced at his watch. It was almost time to start for the Café Orquídea, but first he wanted to read that anniversary article on D’Annunzio, which he hadn’t had time for the previous evening. Pereira has kept it by him, so is in a position to produce it as evidence. It reads: ‘Exactly five months ago, at eight in the evening of March 1st 1938, died Gabriele D’Annunzio. At that time this newspaper did not have a culture page, but we are now in a position to speak of him. Was he a great poet, this Gabriele D’Annunzio whose real name incidentally was Rapagnetta? It is hard to give an answer, because we are his contemporaries and his works are still too fresh to us. Perhaps it makes better sense to speak of the figure of the man which intertwines with that of the artist. First and foremost, then, he was a Bard. He was also a lover of luxury, high society, magniloquence, action. He was a great decadent, a despoiler of the laws of morality, a devotee of the morbid and the erotic. From the German philosopher Nie
tzsche he inherited the myth of the superman, but he reduced it to the will to power of would-be aesthetic ideals which he exploited to construct the colourful kaleidoscope of a unique and inimitable career. In the Great War he was an interventionist, an implacable enemy of peace between nations. He achieved provocative feats of arms such as his flight over Vienna in 1918, when he scattered leaflets in Italian all over the city. After the war he organized the occupation of the city of Fiume, from which he was later expelled by Italian troops. Retiring to Gardone, to a villa which he himself named Vittoriale degli Italiani, he there led a dissolute and decadent life, marked by futile love affairs and erotic adventures. Fernando Pessoa nicknamed him Trombone Solo and maybe he had a point. Certainly the voice which comes over to us is not that of a delicate violin, but a brassy blare, a blustering trumpet. A life far from exemplary, a poet high-sounding and grandiose, a man much tarnished and compromised. Not an example to be followed, and it is for this very reason that we recall him here. Signed, Roxy.’

  Unpublishable, thought Pereira, completely unpublishable. He pulled out the file marked ‘Obituaries’ and inserted the page. He has no idea why he did so, he could have simply chucked the thing away, but instead he filed it. Then, to get over the disgruntlement that had come over him, he decided to leave the office and make his way to the Café Orquídea.

  When he reached the café the first thing he saw, Pereira maintains, was Marta’s copper-coloured hair. She was seated at a corner table near the fan, with her back to the door, and wearing the same dress as that evening at the Praça da Alegria, with shoulder-straps crossed at the back. Pereira maintains he thought Marta’s shoulders really lovely, finely moulded, well-proportioned, perfect. He went over to join her. Oh, Dr Pereira, said Marta serenely, I’m here instead of Monteiro Rossi, he couldn’t come today.