Pereira took a seat at the table and asked Marta if she would like an aperitif. Marta said she would very much appreciate a glass of dry port. Pereira called the waiter and ordered two dry ports. He knew he ought not to drink alcohol, but after all he’d be going next day to the thalassotherapeutic clinic to diet for a week. Well?, asked Pereira when the waiter had brought their drinks. Well, answered Marta, these are difficult times for all concerned, Monteiro Rossi has left for Alentejo and he’ll be staying there for the time being, it’s best for him to be out of Lisbon for a while. And his cousin?, asked Pereira without thinking. Marta gave him a glance and smiled. Yes, I know you’ve been a great help to Monteiro Rossi and his cousin, said Marta, you’ve been really splendid, Dr Pereira, you ought to be one of us. Pereira felt slightly nettled, he maintains, and took off his jacket. Listen Miss Marta, he protested, I am neither one of you nor one of them, I prefer to keep myself to myself, and in any case I don’t know who you and yours are and don’t wish to know, I am a journalist and my job is culture, I have just finished translating a story of Balzac’s and as far as your business is concerned I prefer not to be in the know, I’m not a reporter. Marta took a sip of port and said: We’re not providing fodder for the newspapers, Dr Pereira, that’s what I’d like to get across to you, we are living History. Pereira in turn took a sip of port and replied: Listen Miss Marta, History is a big word, I too have read Vico and Hegel in my time, and History is not the sort of animal you can domesticate. But perhaps you have not read Marx, objected Marta. No I haven’t, said Pereira, and he doesn’t interest me, I’ve had enough of the school of Hegel and let me repeat what I said before, that I think only about myself and culture, and that is my world. An anarcho-individualist?, queried Marta, that’s what I’d like to know. And what’s that supposed to mean?, demanded Pereira. Oh, said Marta, don’t tell me you don’t know the meaning of anarcho-individualist, Spain is full of them, the anarcho-individualists are getting a lot of attention at the moment and have actually done some heroic things, even if they could do with a bit more discipline, at least that’s what I think. Look Marta, said Pereira, I haven’t come to this café to talk politics, I already told you they leave me cold because I’m chiefly concerned with culture, I had an appointment with Monteiro Rossi and along you come and tell me he’s in Alentejo, what’s he gone to do in Alentejo?
Marta glanced round as if for the waiter. Shall we order something to eat?, she asked, I have an appointment at three. Pereira summoned Manuel. They ordered two omelettes aux fines herbes then Pereira repeated: So what has Monteiro Rossi gone to do in Alentejo? He’s accompanying his cousin, replied Marta, his cousin got last-minute orders, it’s mostly Alentejans who are keen to go and fight in Spain, there’s a great democratic tradition in Alentejo, there are also a lot of anarcho-individualists like you, Dr Pereira, there’s plenty to do, and the fact is that Monteiro Rossi has had to take his cousin to Alentejo because that’s where they’re recruiting people. Very well, replied Pereira, I wish him good recruiting. The waiter brought the omelettes and they started in on them. Pereira tied his table-napkin round his neck, took a mouthful of omelette and then said: Look Marta, I’m leaving tomorrow for a thalassotherapeutic clinic near Cascais, I have health problems, tell Monteiro Rossi that his article on D’Annunzio is completely unusable, in any case I’ll give you the number of the clinic where I shall be for a week, the best time to call me is at mealtimes, and now tell me where Monteiro Rossi is. Marta lowered her voice and said: Tonight he’ll be at Portalegre with friends, but I’d rather not give you the address, and in any case it’s very temporary because he sleeps a night here and a night there, he has to keep moving all over Alentejo, it’ll most likely be him who’ll get in touch with you. Very well, said Pereira, handing her a slip of paper, this is my telephone number at the thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede. I must be off, Dr Pereira, said Marta, please excuse me but I have an appointment and I have to get right across town.
Pereira stood up and said goodbye. Marta put on her Italian straw hat as she walked away. Pereira watched her leave the cafe, he was entranced by that slender silhouette outlined against the sunlight. He felt greatly cheered, almost lighthearted, but has no idea why. Then he beckoned to Manuel who bustled up and asked if he would care for a liqueur. But he was thirsty, the afternoon was a scorcher. He pondered a moment, then said all he wanted was a lemonade. And he ordered it really cold, packed with ice, he maintains.
FOURTEEN
Next day Pereira rose early, he maintains, drank some coffee, packed a small suitcase and slipped in Alphonse Daudet’s Contes du lundi. He might possibly stay on a few days longer, he thought to himself, and Daudet was an author who would suit the Lisboa down to the ground.
Passing through the hall he paused in front of his wife’s photograph and told it: Yesterday evening I saw Marta, Monteiro Rossi’s fiancee, I have an idea those youngsters are getting themselves into really bad trouble, in fact they’re already in it, in any case it’s none of my business, I need a week of thalassotherapy, Dr Costa has ordered it, and besides, Lisbon is stifling hot and I’ve translated Balzac’s Honorine, I’m leaving this morning, I’m just off to catch a train from Cais de Sodré and I’ll take you with me if you don’t mind. He picked up the photograph and laid it in his suitcase, face upwards, because his wife had all her life had such a need for air and he felt sure her picture also needed plenty of room to breathe. He made his way down to the cathedral square and waited for a taxi to take him to the station. Once there he thought he might have a bite to eat at the British Bar in the Cais de Sodré. He knew it was a place frequented by writers and he hoped to run across someone. In he went and sat down at a corner table. And sure enough there at the next table was Aquilino Ribeiro the novelist lunching with Bernardo Marques, the avant-garde artist who had designed and illustrated the leading Portuguese Modernist reviews. Pereira gave them good day and the two artists nodded in reply. It would be really something to lunch at their table, thought Pereira, to tell them how just yesterday he had received an article slating D’Annunzio and to hear what they had to say about it. But the two men were talking ten to the dozen and Pereira couldn’t pluck up courage to interrupt them. He gathered that Bernardo Marques intended to give up his art work and that the novelist had decided to go and live abroad. Pereira found this disheartening, he maintains, because he wouldn’t have expected a writer of that stamp to go and leave his country in the lurch. While he drank his lemonade and picked away at a plate of winkles, Pereira overheard a few snatches. Paris, said Aquilino Ribeira, the only conceivable place is Paris. Bernardo Marques nodded and said: I’ve had requests for work from several magazines, but I’ve no incentive to go on drawing, this country is bloody awful, it’s better not to let anyone have one’s work. Pereira finished his winkles and lemonade, got to his feet and paused a moment by the table where the two artists sat. Gentlemen, don’t let me interrupt your meal, he said, allow me to introduce myself however, I am Dr Pereira of the culture page of Lisboa, the whole of Portugal is proud to have two such artists as you, we have sore need of you.
Then he went out into the blinding midday light and stepped across to the station. He bought a ticket to Parede and asked how long it took to get there. The clerk said no time at all sir and he felt thankful. It was the train for Estoril, used chiefly by holiday-makers. Pereira decided to sit on the left-hand side of the train because he wanted to look at the sea. The carriage was practically empty at that time of day so Pereira could sit anywhere he liked. He lowered the blind a little because his window faced south and the sun was in his eyes. And he sat looking out at the sea. His thoughts turned to his past life, but he has no wish to talk about that, he maintains. He prefers simply to say that the sea was calm and there were bathers on the beach. Pereira thought how long it was since he had last swum in the sea, it seemed centuries ago. He remembered his days at Coimbra, when he used to haunt the beaches near Oporto, Granja for example, or Espinho, where they had a casino and
a club. The sea was freezing cold on those northerly beaches, but he was quite capable of swimming all morning long, while his fellow undergraduates, chilled to the marrow, waited for him on the beach. Eventually they would all get dressed, put on smart jackets and go to the club to play billiards. People would stare at them as they came in and the head waiter would greet them crying: Here come our students from Coimbra! And he would give them the best billiard table.
Pereira came out of his reverie when they were drawing level with Santo Amaro. The beach was a splendid curve dotted with blue-and-white-striped canvas bathing-huts. The train came to a halt and Pereira was seized with the notion of getting out and having a swim, he could always go on by the next train. The impulse was too strong for him. Pereira cannot presume to say why he felt it, perhaps it was because he had been thinking of his Coimbra days and swimming at Granja. So he left the train, carrying his little suitcase, and went down through the tunnel leading to the beach. On reaching the sand he took off his shoes and socks and continued barefoot, his case in one hand and his shoes in the other. He spotted the bathing-attendant at once, a bronzed young man keeping an eye on the bathers while lolling in a deck-chair. Pereira told him he wanted to hire a bathing-suit and a changing-hut. The attendant sneakily looked him up and down and murmured: I don’t know that we have a costume your size, but I’ll give you the key of the deposit and cabin number one, which is the roomiest. He then enquired in a tone which to Pereira sounded like a snub: Would you be wanting a rubber ring as well? I’m a very good swimmer, replied Pereira, perhaps a lot better than you are yourself so don’t worry. He took the keys of the deposit and the cabin and went off. In the deposit he found a bit of everything: buoys, inflatable rings, a fishing-net festooned with corks, and bathing-suits. He rummaged among the latter to see if there was an old-fashioned, one-piece costume that would cover his paunch. Luckily he found one and tried it on. It was woollen and on the tight side, but the best of the bunch. His suitcase and clothes he dumped in the changing-hut and then walked down the beach. At the water’s edge were a number of young men playing ball and Pereira gave them a wide berth. He entered the water slowly, by degrees, allowing its coolness to envelop him little by little. Then, when the water was up to his belly-button, in he plunged and began to swim a slow, measured crawl. He swam a long way, right out to the line of buoys. As soon as he caught hold of a safety-buoy he realized he was completely winded, and that his heart was thumping madly. I’m crazy, he thought, I haven’t swum for half a lifetime and here I go throwing myself into the water like an athlete. He clung to the buoy and rested awhile, then turned onto his back and floated. The sky above him was so blue it was wounding to the eyes. Pereira got his breath back and returned with slow strokes leisurely to shore. As he passed the bathing-attendant it occurred to him he might get a bit of his own back. Maybe you noticed I didn’t need a ring, he said, but can you tell me the time of the next train for Estoril? The attendant consulted his watch. In fifteen minutes, he replied. Fine, said Pereira, in that case I’ll go and dress and you come along to the hut to be paid because I haven’t much time. He dressed, came out, combed what little hair he had left with a pocket comb he kept in his wallet, and paid the attendant. Goodbye, he said, and I advise you to keep an eye on those lads playing ball, in my opinion they’re a nuisance to the other bathers and can’t swim anyway.
He hurried through the tunnel and sat down on a stone bench under the awning. He heard the train approaching and glanced at his watch. It occurred to him that it was pretty late, at the thalassotherapeutic clinic they had probably expected him for lunch, and they eat early in such places. Never mind, he thought. He had a healthy glow, he felt fresh and relaxed as the train drew in to the platform, and anyway, he maintains, he was in no hurry to get to the thalassotherapeutic clinic, he would be staying there at least a week.
When he arrived at Parede it was almost half-past two. He hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take him to the thalassotherapeutic clinic. The one for tuberculars? asked the driver. I don’t know, said Pereira, but it’s on the sea. Then it’s only just down the road, said the driver, you’d just as well walk there. Look here, said Pereira, it’s very hot and I’m tired and I’ll give you a good tip.
The thalassotherapeutic clinic was a pink building surrounded by a large garden full of palm trees. It was perched high on the rocks with a flight of steps leading from it to the road and continuing on down to the beach. Pereira toiled up the steps and entered the lobby. There he was received by a fat, white-coated lady with a florid complexion. I am Dr Pereira, said Pereira, I believe my doctor, Dr Costa, has telephoned to book a room for me. Oh, Dr Pereira, said the white-coated lady, why are you so late, we were expecting you for lunch, have you had any? To tell the truth all I’ve had is some winkles at the station, confessed Pereira, and I feel quite peckish. Then come along with me, said the white-coated lady, the restaurant is closed but Maria das Dores is still on duty and she’ll make you a snack. She piloted him as far as the dining-room, a vast apartment with great windows overlooking the sea. It was completely deserted. Pereira sat down at a table and along came a heavily mustachioed woman in an apron. I am Maria das Dores, said the woman, I’m the cook here, I can do you a little grilled something. A sole, replied Pereira, many thanks. At the same time he ordered a lemonade and soon began to sip it with relish. He removed his jacket and spread the table-napkin over his shirt. Maria das Dores arrived with a grilled fish. We’re out of sole, she said, but I’ve done you a bream. Pereira set to with gusto. The seaweed baths are at five o’clock, said the cook, but if you don’t feel up to it and want to have a snooze you can start tomorrow, your doctor is Dr Cardoso, he’ll visit you in your room at six. Perfect, said Pereira, I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit.
He went up to his room, number twenty-two, and found his suitcase already there. He closed the shutters, brushed his teeth and slipped between the sheets in his birthday-suit. A fine fresh breeze off the Atlantic was filtering through the slats of the shutters and stirring the curtains. Pereira fell asleep almost at once. And he dreamt a lovely dream, a dream of his youth. He was at the beach at Granja, swimming in an ocean for all the world like a swimming-pool, and on the edge of the pool was a pale-skinned girl, waiting for him and clasping a towel in her arms. Then he swam back, but the dream went on, it was really a beautiful dream. But Pereira prefers not to say how it went on because his dream has nothing to do with these events, he maintains.
FIFTEEN
At half-past six Pereira heard a knock at the door, though he was awake in any case, he maintains, and was gazing up at the ceiling, at the strips of light and shadow cast by the shutters, thinking of Balzac’s Honorine, and of repentance. And he felt he had something to repent of but he didn’t know what. He had a sudden longing to talk to Father António, because to him he’d have been able to confide that he wanted to repent but didn’t know what he had to repent of, he only felt a yearning for repentance as such, surely that’s what he meant, or perhaps (who knows?) he simply liked the idea of repentance.
Who is it?, called Pereira. It’s time for your constitutional, came a nurse’s voice from outside the door, Dr Cardoso is waiting for you in the lobby. Pereira had not the slightest desire to take a constitutional, he maintains, but he got up all the same, opened his case, put on some cotton trousers, a roomy khaki shirt, and a pair of espadrilles. He took his wife’s photograph, propped it up on the table and told it: Well, here I am at the thalassotherapeutic clinic, but if I get bored I’ll leave, luckily I brought a book by Alphonse Daudet so I can do some translations for the paper, our favourite of Daudet’s was ‘Le petit Chose’, d’you remember?, we read it at Coimbra and we both found it really touching, it’s a story of childhood, and perhaps we were thinking of a child that never came our way, well never mind, anyway I’ve brought the Contes du lundi, I think that one of those stories would do very well for the Lisboa, but you must excuse me now, I have to go, it seems there’s a doctor waiting to
see me, we’ll soon find out what this thalassotherapy is all about, so I’ll see you later.
On reaching the lobby he saw a white-coated figure looking out at the sea. Pereira went up to him. He was a man between thirty-five and forty, with blue eyes and a little blond beard. Good evening, said the doctor with an unassuming smile, I am Dr Cardoso, you must be Dr Pereira, it’s time for the patients to go for their walk along the beach, but if you prefer we can stay and talk here or in the garden. Pereira replied that he didn’t much care for a walk on the beach, he said he’d already been on the beach that day, and gave him an account of his swim at Santo Amaro. Oh, that’s really good news, said Dr Cardoso, I thought I had a more difficult case on my hands, but I see that you are still drawn to outdoor life. Perhaps it’s truer to say that I’m drawn to memories, said Pereira. How do you mean?, asked Dr Cardoso. I’ll explain in due course, said Pereira, not now, perhaps tomorrow.
They went out into the garden. Shall we take a stroll?, suggested Dr Cardoso, it would do you good and me as well. Beyond the palm trees in the garden, which grew amid rocks and sand, there was a fine greensward dotted with trees. Dr Cardoso, who seemed in a chatty mood, led the way there. You’ve been placed under my care during your stay, said the doctor, so I need to talk to you, to learn about your way of life, you must have no secrets from me. Ask me anything you like, said Pereira readily. Dr Cardoso plucked a blade of grass and started chewing on it. Let’s start with your eating habits, he said, what are they? First thing in the morning I have coffee, replied Pereira, then I have lunch and supper like everyone else, that’s all there is to it. But what dietary regimen do you maintain, asked Dr Cardoso, I mean what do you usually eat? Omelettes, Pereira would have liked to answer, I eat almost nothing but omelettes, because my caretaker makes me omelette sandwiches and because all they serve at the Café Orquídea is omelettes aux fines herbes. But he was too ashamed, and gave a quite different answer. A varied diet, said he, fish, meat, vegetables. I’m a fairly frugal eater and arrange these matters rationally. And when did you first begin to suffer from obesity?, asked Dr Cardoso. Some years ago, replied Pereira, after my wife died. And what about sweets, asked Dr Cardoso, do you eat a lot of sweet things? Never touch them, replied Pereira, I don’t like them, I only drink lemonade. What sort of lemonade?, asked Dr Cardoso. Freshly squeezed lemon juice, said Pereira, I like it, I find it refreshing and I really feel that it does my insides good, because I often have trouble with my insides. How many glasses a day?, asked Dr Cardoso. Pereira reflected a moment. It depends on the day, he replied, these hot summer days, for example, ten or a dozen. Ten or a dozen lemonades a day!, exclaimed Dr Cardoso, my dear Dr Pereira that seems to me madness, and tell me, do you take sugar in it? Masses of sugar, said Pereira, half a glass of lemon juice and half of sugar. Dr Cardoso spat the blade of grass from the tip of his tongue, raised a stern hand and pronounced: From today on no more lemonades, you will drink mineral water instead, preferably not effervescent, but if you prefer it bubbly that is also acceptable. There was a bench under the cedar trees and Pereira sat himself down on it, obliging Dr Cardoso to do likewise. I’m sure you’ll forgive me, Dr Pereira, said Dr Cardoso, but now I have to ask an intimate question: What about sexual activity? Pereira lofted his gaze to the treetops and said: What exactly do you mean? Women, explained Dr Cardoso, do you sleep with women, do you have a regular sex life? Look here doctor, said Pereira, I’m a widower, I’m no longer young and I have an exacting job, I have neither the time nor the inclination to go chasing after women. Not even from time to time?, asked Dr Cardoso, I mean not even a chance affair, some complaisant lady every so often? Not even that, said Pereira, pulling out a cigar and asking permission to smoke. Dr Cardoso nodded. It’s not good for your heart, he said, but if you must you must. It’s because your questions embarrass me, confessed Pereira. Well here comes another embarrassing question, said Dr Cardoso, do you have wet dreams? I don’t understand the question, said Pereira. What I mean, said Dr Cardoso, is do you have erotic dreams that lead to orgasm, do you have erotic dreams at all, what do you dream about? Listen doctor, replied Pereira, my father taught me that our dreams are the most private and personal thing we have and we should never reveal them to anyone. But you’re here for treatment and I’m your doctor, objected Dr Cardoso, your psyche is part and parcel with your body and I absolutely must know what you dream about. I often dream of Granja, confessed Pereira. Is that a woman?, asked Dr Cardoso. It’s a place, said Pereira, it’s a beach near Oporto, I used to go there as a young man when I was a student at Coimbra, and there was also Espinho, a classy beach with a swimming-pool and casino, I often used to have a swim there and then a game of billiards, there was a first-rate billiard-room, and that’s where I and my fiancee whom I later married used to go, she was a sick woman though she didn’t know it yet, she just suffered from bad headaches, that was a wonderful time in my life, and maybe I dream about it because it gives me pleasure to dream about it. Very good, said Dr Cardoso, that’ll do for today, though I’d very much like to join you for dinner if I may, it’ll give us a chance to chat of this and that, I’m very fond of literature and I’ve noticed that your paper gives a lot of space to French writers of the last century, and I studied in Paris, you know, I’m French-trained, and this evening I’ll outline the programme for tomorrow, we’ll meet in the restaurant at eight o’clock.
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