Pereira Maintains

by Antonio Tabucchi

  Dr Cardoso insisted on paying for lunch and Pereira was only too glad to accept, he maintains, because what with those two big banknotes he’d handed over to Marta the evening before his wallet wasn’t exactly flush. Dr Cardoso stood up and said: Goodbye for now, Dr Pereira, I hope to see you in France or some other country in this great wide world, and don’t forget, make room for your new ruling ego, let it come into being, it needs to be born, it needs to assert itself.

  Pereira also got to his feet to say goodbye. He watched the other go off and he felt a pang of loss, he maintains, as if that parting were something irremediable. He pondered on the week he had spent at the thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede, on his conversations with Dr Cardoso, on his own loneliness. And when Dr Cardoso passed through the door and disappeared into the street he felt alone, really and truly alone, and it dawned on him that when one is really and truly alone, that is the moment to come to terms with the ruling ego striving to assert itself over one’s cohorts of souls. But in spite of this thought he did not feel reassured. On the contrary he felt this deep yearning, for exactly what he cannot presume to say, but it was a profound yearning for a life that was past and for one in the future, Pereira maintains.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The next morning, he declared, Pereira was awakened by the telephone. He was still in the middle of a dream which he seemed to have been dreaming all night, a very long happy dream which he does not think it proper to reveal because it has nothing to do with these events.

  Pereira instantly recognized the voice of Senhora Filipa, the editor-in-chief’s secretary. Good morning Dr Pereira, said Filipa in dulcet tones, I’ll put you through to the Chief. Pereira rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up on the edge of the bed. Good morning Dr Pereira, said the well-known voice, this is your editor-in-chief speaking. Good morning sir, replied Pereira, did you have a good holiday? Excellent, excellent, replied the editor-in-chief, the spa at Buçaco is truly magnificent, but I think I have already told you that, we have spoken since then if I am not mistaken. Ah, yes, of course, said Pereira, we spoke when the Balzac story came out, I do apologize but I’ve only just woken up and I haven’t got my ideas straight yet. That can happen to any of us, said the editor-in-chief somewhat tartly, and I imagine it can happen even to you, Dr Pereira. It can indeed, agreed Pereira, it happens mostly first thing in the morning because I have sudden fluctuations of blood pressure. Stabilize them with a little salt, advised the editor-in-chief, a little salt under the tongue will stabilize your blood pressure, but I have not called you to talk about your blood pressure, Dr Pereira, the fact is that you never come into the head office, that’s the problem, you stay shut up in that room in Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca and never come and discuss anything with me, you don’t tell me your plans, you do everything off your own bat. Forgive me for saying so sir, said Pereira, but the fact is you gave me carte blanche, you said the culture page was my responsibility, I mean you actually instructed me to do everything off my own bat. That’s all very well, continued the editor-in-chief, but don’t you think that every now and then you ought to confer with me? It would be a good thing for me too, agreed Pereira, because the fact is I’m all on my own on the culture page, far more than I like, but you told me you didn’t want anything to do with the culture page. What about your assistant, asked the editor-in-chief, didn’t you tell me you had taken on an assistant? Yes, replied Pereira, but his articles are still somewhat unpolished, and anyway no interesting writer has died, and he’s a young chap and asked to go on holiday, I suppose he’s off at the sea, I haven’t seen him for nearly a month. Sack him, Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, what are you doing with an assistant who can’t write articles and goes off on holiday? Let’s give him one more chance, replied Pereira, after all he has to learn the job, he’s just an inexperienced youngster, he has to start at the bottom and work up. At that moment the dulcet tones of Senhora Filipa interrupted the conversation. Excuse me sir, but there’s a call for you from the Ministry, it seems urgent. Very well, Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, I shall have a call put through to you in about twenty minutes, meanwhile for goodness’ sake wake up properly and dissolve a little salt under your tongue. I’ll call you back if you like, said Pereira. No, said the editor-in-chief, I do not wish to be hurried, you will hear from me when I am ready, goodbye.

  Pereira got up and had a quick bath. He made coffee and ate a salty biscuit. Then he dressed and went into the hall. The editor-in-chief is ringing me back, he told his wife’s photograph, it seems to me he’s beating about the bush and hasn’t yet come to the point, I don’t understand what he’s on about but he ought to come to the point, don’t you think? His wife’s photo smiled its faraway smile and Pereira said: Ah well, never mind, we’ll see what it’s all about, I have nothing to blame myself for, at least as far as the paper is concerned, I do nothing but translate nineteenth-century French stories.

  He sat himself down at the dining-room table and thought he might begin an anniversary article on Rilke. But when it came right down to it he had not the slightest wish to write anything at all about Rilke, that snobbish society-haunting dandy could go to the devil, thought Pereira. He set about translating a few sentences from the Bernanos novel, it was more intricate than he had thought, at least at the beginning, and this was only the first chapter, he hadn’t yet got into the story. At that moment the telephone rang. Good morning again, Dr Pereira, said the dulcet tones of Senhora Filipa, I have the Chief on the line for you. Pereira waited a few seconds and then the voice of the editor-in-chief, measured and grave, intoned: Well, Dr Pereira, where were we? You were telling me that I shut myself up in my office in Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca, sir, said Pereira, but that’s the room where I work, where I edit the culture page, at the head office I wouldn’t know what to do, I don’t know the journalists there, I was a reporter for many years on another paper, but you didn’t want to put me in charge of the newsdesk, you gave me the culture page, with the political journalists I have no contact at all, I don’t know what I’d be coming to head office to do. Have you got that off your chest, Dr Pereira?, asked the editor-in-chief. I’m sorry sir, said Pereira, I didn’t wish to get anything off my chest, I just wanted to explain my position. Very well, said the editor-in-chief, but now I want to ask you a simple question, why do you never feel it necessary to come and talk things over with your Chief? Because you told me that culture is not up your street, sir, replied Pereira. Look here Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, I don’t know if you are hard of hearing or just don’t want to understand, but the fact is I am calling you in to the office, do you get that?, you should be the one to ask for an occasional talk with me, but at this point, seeing that you are so slow on the uptake it is I who am asking for a talk with you. I am at your disposal, said Pereira, completely at your disposal. Good, said the editor-in-chief, then come to my office at five o’clock this evening, so goodbye until then, Dr Pereira.

  Pereira became aware that he was sweating slightly. His shirt was wet under the armpits, so he changed it. He contemplated going to his office and waiting till five o’clock. Then he told himself that there was nothing to do in the office, he would be forced to see Celeste and take the telephone off the hook, it was better to stay at home. He went back to the dining-room table and got on with his translation of Bernanos. It certainly was an intricate novel, and also slowmoving, he wondered what the readers of the Lisboa would think when they read the first chapter. Nevertheless he pushed ahead and translated two pages. At lunchtime he thought of cooking himself something, but there was practically nothing in the store-cupboard. He thought the best thing to do was have a late bite of lunch at the Café Orquídea, he maintains, and then go on to the main office. He put on his light summer suit and black tie and left the house. He took the tram to Terreiro do Paço and changed there for Rua Alexandre Herculano. By the time he reached the Café Orquídea it was nearly three and Manuel was clearing the tables. Come on in Dr Pereira, said the waiter cordially, for y
ou there’s always a little something, I take it you haven’t eaten yet, it’s a hard life is a journalist’s. You’re right there, replied Pereira, especially for journalists who don’t know anything because no one ever knows anything in this country, what’s the news? It seems some English ships have been bombed off Barcelona, replied Manuel, and a French passenger ship was tracked all the way to the Dardanelles, it’s the Italian submarines, they’re very hot on submarines are the Italians, it’s their speciality. Pereira ordered a lemonade without sugar and an omelette aux fines herbes. He took a seat near the fan, but that day the fan was off. We’ve switched it off, said Manuel, summer’s over, didn’t you hear the storm last night? No I didn’t, replied Pereira, I never stirred all night, but I personally still find it pretty hot. Manuel switched on the fan and brought him a lemonade. And a drop of wine, Dr Pereira, when will you give me the pleasure of serving you a drop of wine? Wine is bad for my heart, replied Pereira, have you got a morning paper? Manuel brought him a paper. The main headline read: ‘Sand-Carvings on Carcavelos Beach. Minister of Secretariado Nacional de Propaganda Opens Exhibition of Youthful Artists’. Further down the page was a large photograph of the works of the young beach-artists, with a display of mermaids, boats, ships, whales and so forth. Pereira turned the page. Inside he read: ‘Gallant Resistance of Portuguese Contingent in Spain’. The sub-head ran:‘Our soldiers distinguish themselves in another battle with long-range support from Italian submarines.’ Pereira did not feel inclined to read the article and laid the newspaper on a chair. He finished his omelette and had another lemonade without sugar. Then he paid the bill, got up, put on his discarded jacket and set off on foot to the head office of the Lisboa. When he got there it was still only a quarter to five. Pereira went to a café, he maintains, and ordered an aqua vitae. It was sure to be bad for his heart, but he thought: What the hell. Then he climbed the stairs of the old building where the Lisboa had its offices and said good afternoon to Senhora Filipa. I’ll go and announce you, said Senhora Filipa. Don’t worry, said Pereira, I’ll see myself in, it’s exactly five o’clock and my appointment is at five. He knocked at the door and heard the editor-in-chief say come in. Pereira buttoned his jacket and entered. The editor-in-chief was looking tanned, very tanned and fit, he had evidently taken plenty of sun in the gardens at the spa. Here I am sir, said Pereira, at your service, tell me all. That’s soon done, Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, it’s that you haven’t been to see me for more than a month. We met at the spa, said Pereira, and you seemed satisfied with the way things were going. Holidays are holidays, snapped the editor-in-chief, we are not here to talk about holidays. Pereira seated himself facing the desk. The editor-in-chief picked up a pencil and started rolling it this way and that on the desk-top. Look here, Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, we have not known each other all that long, only since this newspaper was founded, but I would like to address you in informal fashion if I may. As you wish, replied Pereira. I know you are an experienced journalist, resumed the editor-in-chief, you worked for thirty years as a reporter, you know life and I’m sure you will understand what I am going to say. I’ll do my level best, promised Pereira. Well then, said the editor-in-chief, I really didn’t expect this latest thing. What latest thing?, asked Pereira. That panegyric on France, said the editor-in-chief, has caused a lot of offence in high places. What panegyric on France?, asked Pereira, totally bewildered. Come now Pereira!, exclaimed the editor-in-chief, you published a story by Alphonse Daudet about the Franco-Prussian War which ended with the phrase: ‘Vive la France!’. But it’s a nineteenth-century story, replied Pereira. A nineteenth-century story it may be, continued the editor-in-chief, but it is nonetheless concerned with a war against Germany, and you cannot be ignorant of the fact, Pereira, that Germany is our ally. Our government has made no alliances, retorted Pereira, at least not officially. Come off it Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, use your nous. If there are no alliances there are at least sympathies, strong sympathies, we think along the same lines as Germany does, in home as in foreign policy, and we are supporting the Spanish nationalists just as the Germans are. But the censors raised no objections, said Pereira stoutly, they passed the story without any trouble. The censors are a bunch of illiterate boobies, said the editor-in-chief, the chief censor is an intelligent man, a friend of mine, but he cannot personally read the proofs of every newspaper in Portugal, the others are just officials, common-or-garden policemen paid not to let through subversive words such as socialism or communism, they could scarcely be expected to understand a story by Daudet ending with the words ‘Vive la France!’, it is we who must be vigilant, we who must be cautious, we journalists who are versed in history and culture, we have to keep a watchful eye on ourselves. There’s a watchful eye on me all right, rejoined Pereira, he maintains, there’s someone actually keeping me under surveillance. Explain yourself, Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, what do you mean by that? I mean that my office now has a switchboard, said Pereira, I no longer get my telephone calls direct, they all go through Celeste, the caretaker. It’s that way in all newspaper offices, replied the editor-in-chief, if you are out there is always someone to receive your calls and take a message. All right, said Pereira, but the caretaker is a police informer, I’m sure of it. Come off it Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, the police are there to protect us, they watch while we sleep, you ought to be grateful to them. I am grateful to no one and nothing, sir, except my professional ability and the memory of my wife. One must always be grateful for happy memories, murmured the editor-in-chief unctuously, but you, Pereira, must no longer publish the culture page without letting me see it first, this I insist on. But I told you beforehand that it was a patriotic story, argued Pereira, and you encouraged me by saying that in times like these we all need patriotism. The editor-in-chief lit a cigarette and scratched his head. Portuguese patriotism, I don’t know if you follow me Pereira, we need Portuguese patriotism, and you do nothing but publish French stories and the French are not congenial to us, if you follow me, however the fact is this, what our readers need is a good Portuguese cultural page, there are dozens of Portuguese writers to choose from, even nineteenth-century writers, for the next issue choose a story by Eça da Queiroz, who really knew his Portugal, or Camilo Castelo Branco, who was truly romantic and led an adventurous life, always in and out of love and prison, the Lisboa is not a foreign-orientated newspaper, you need to rediscover your roots, Pereira, to return to your native sod, in the words of the critic Borrapotas. Never heard of him, said Pereira. He is a critic and a nationalist, explained the editor-in-chief, who writes for a rival paper and holds the view that Portuguese writers must return to their native sod. I have never left my native sod, said Pereira, I am planted in it like a stake. Quite, quite, conceded the editor-in-chief, but I wish you to consult me before any new undertaking, I don’t know if you grasp my point. I grasp it perfectly, said Pereira, undoing the top button of his jacket. Good, concluded the editor-in-chief, then I think that is all we have to discuss, I would like there to be good relations between us. Quite, echoed Pereira, and took his leave.