He reached for his omelette sandwich and took a bite. At that very moment he heard a knock at the door, so he hid the omelette sandwich away in a drawer, wiped his mouth on a sheet of flimsy and said: Come in. It was Monteiro Rossi. Good morning Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, I’m sorry I’m a bit early but I’ve brought you something, in fact last night when I got home I had an inspiration, and anyway I thought there was a chance of something to eat here at the Lisboa. Pereira patiently explained that that room was not the Lisboa itself but a separate office for the culture page, and that he, Pereira, was the whole office staff, he thought he had already made this clear, it was simply a room with a desk and a fan, because the Lisboa was only a minor evening paper. Monteiro Rossi sat himself down and pulled out a sheet of paper folded in four. Pereira took it and read it. Unpublishable, Pereira declares, a completely unpublishable article. It described the death of Lorca, and began as follows: “Two years ago, in obscure circumstances, we lost the great Spanish poet Federico García Lorca. He was assassinated, and suspicion rests on his political opponents. The whole world is still wondering how such an act of barbarism could have been perpetrated.”
Pereira looked up from the page and said: My dear Monteiro Rossi, you tell an excellent yarn but my paper is not the proper place for yarns, in newspapers we have to write things that correspond to the truth or at least resemble the truth, it is not up to you to say how a writer died, for what reasons and in what circumstances, you must simply state that he is dead and then go on to speak of his work, of his novels and poems, because when you write an obituary you are essentially making a critical assessment, a portrait of the man and his work, what you have written is absolutely unusable, Lorca’s death is still wrapped in mystery and what if things didn’t happen as you say they did?
Monteiro Rossi protested that Pereira had not finished reading the article, that further on it dealt with the work, the figure and stature of Lorca as man and artist. Pereira read doggedly on. Dangerous, he declares, the article was dangerous. It spoke of the hidden depths of Spain, of the rigidly Catholic Spain which Lorca had made the target of his shafts in The House of Bernarda Alba, it told of the “Barraca”, the travelling theatre which Lorca brought to the people. At which point there was a long panegyric on the Spanish working classes and their longing for culture and drama which Lorca had satisfied. Pereira raised his head from the article, he declares, smoothed back his hair, turned back his cuffs and said: My dear Monteiro Rossi, permit me to be frank with you, your article is unpublishable, completely unpublishable. I cannot publish it, no newspaper in Portugal could publish it, and no Italian paper either, seeing as how Italy is the land of your ancestors, so there are two possibilities: you are either irresponsible or a troublemaker, and journalism nowadays in Portugal has no place for either irresponsibility or troublemaking, and that’s that.
Pereira declares that as he was saying this he felt a trickle of sweat running down his spine. Why was he sweating? Heaven knows. Pereira is unable to say exactly why. Perhaps because the heat was terrific, no doubt of that, and the fan was too feeble to cool even that poky room. But maybe also because his heart was touched by the sight of that youngster looking at him with an air of amazement and disappointment, who even before he finished speaking had begun to gnaw at his fingernails. So he couldn’t bring himself to say: Well hard luck, it was a try but it hasn’t come off, that will be all, thank you. Instead he sat for a while with folded arms looking at Monteiro Rossi until Monteiro Rossi said: I’ll rewrite it, I’ll rewrite it by tomorrow. At which Pereira plucked up the courage to say: Oh no, that’s enough about Lorca if you please, there are too many things about his life and death that won’t do for a paper like the Lisboa, I don’t know whether you are aware of it, my dear Monteiro Rossi, but at this moment there’s a civil war raging in Spain, and the Portuguese authorities think along the same lines as General Francisco Franco and for them Lorca was a traitor, yes, traitor is the very word.
Monteiro Rossi got to his feet as if the word struck the fear of God into him, backed towards the door, stopped, came a step forward and said: But I thought I’d found a job. Pereira did not answer, he felt a trickle of sweat running down his spine. Then what must I do? muttered Monteiro Rossi on a note of entreaty. Pereira got up in turn, he declares, and went and stood by the fan. He said nothing for a minute or two, waiting for the cool air to dry his shirt. You must write me an obituary of Mauriac, he said, or of Bernanos, whichever you prefer, do I make myself clear? But I worked all night, stammered Monteiro Rossi, I expected to be paid, I’m not asking much after all, just enough for a meal today. Pereira would have liked to remind him that the evening before he had advanced him the money for a new pair of trousers, and clearly he could not spend all day every day giving him money, he wasn’t his father. He would have liked to be firm and tough. Instead he said: If your problem is a meal, all right I can treat you to lunch, I haven’t eaten yet either and I’m quite hungry, I wouldn’t say no to a nice grilled fish or a wiener schnitzel, how about you?
Why did Pereira suggest such a thing? Because he lived alone and that room was a torment to him, because he was genuinely hungry, or because his thoughts were running on the photograph of his wife, or for some other reason? This, he declares, he cannot presume to say.
SIX
Be that as it may Pereira invited him to lunch, he declares, and chose a restaurant in the Praça do Rossio. He thought it would suit them down to the ground because after all they were both intellectuals and that café-restaurant was the great meeting-place of writers, the ’Twenties had been its golden age, the avant-garde magazines were virtually produced at its tables, and in a word anyone who was anyone used to go there and maybe some still did.
They made their way down the Avenida da Liberdade in silence and reached the Praça do Rossio. Pereira chose a table inside, because outside under the awning it was like an oven. He looked about him but saw not a single writer, he declares. The writers must all be on holiday, he remarked to break the silence, off at the sea perhaps or in the country, there’s no one left in town but us. Perhaps they’ve simply stayed at home, replied Monteiro Rossi, they can’t be too keen on going places, not in times like these. Pereira felt a pang of melancholy, he declares, as he weighed those words. He realized that they were indeed alone, that there was no one about to share their anxieties with, in the restaurant there were only two ladies in little hats and a group of four shady-looking characters in a corner. Pereira chose a table rather on its own, tucked his napkin into his collar as usual, and ordered white wine. I’m feeling like an aperitif, he explained to Monteiro Rossi, I don’t drink alcohol as a rule but just now I need an aperitif. Monteiro Rossi ordered draught beer and Pereira asked: Don’t you like white wine? I prefer beer, replied Monteiro Rossi, it’s cooler and lighter and anyway I don’t know one wine from another. That’s a pity, said Pereira, if you aim to become a good critic you must refine your tastes, you must cultivate them and learn about wine and food and the world at large. Then he added: And literature. And at that point Monteiro Rossi murmured: I have something to confess to you but I’m too scared. Tell me all the same, said Pereira, I’ll pretend I haven’t understood. Later, said Monteiro Rossi.
Pereira ordered a grilled bream, he declares, and Monteiro Rossi asked for gazpacho followed by seafood risotto. The risotto arrived in an enormous terracotta terrine and Monteiro Rossi ate enough for three people, he polished off the lot, Pereira declares, and it was a simply enormous helping. He then pushed back his lock of hair and said: I wouldn’t mind an ice-cream or even just a lemon sherbet. Pereira made a mental calculation of how much the meal was going to cost him and concluded that a fair part of his weekly wage would go to that restaurant where he had banked on finding half the writers in Lisbon and instead had found only two old ladies in little hats and four shady characters at a corner table. He started sweating again, untucked the napkin from his collar, ordered a glass of iced mineral water and a coffee, then looked
Monteiro Rossi in the eye and said: Now spit out what you wanted to confess before lunch. Pereira declares that Monteiro Rossi lofted his gaze to the ceiling, then lowered it but avoided his eye, then coughed and blushed like a child and said: I feel a little embarrassed, I’m awfully sorry. There’s nothing in the world to be ashamed of, said Pereira, provided you haven’t stolen anything or dishonoured your father and mother. Monteiro Rossi pressed his table-napkin to his lips as if he hoped the words wouldn’t come out, pushed back the lock of hair from his forehead and said: I don’t know how to put it, I know you demand professionalism and that I should use my reason, but the fact is that I preferred to follow other criteria. Explain yourself more clearly, urged Pereira. Well, Monteiro Rossi hemmed and hawed, well, the fact is the heart has its reasons that the reason knows nothing about, and I obeyed the reasons of the heart, perhaps I shouldn’t have, perhaps I didn’t even want to, but I couldn’t help myself, I swear to you that I would have been quite capable of writing an obituary of Lorca by the light of reason alone, but I couldn’t help myself. He wiped his mouth with the napkin again and added: What’s more I’m in love with Marta. What’s that got to do with it?, objected Pereira. I don’t know, replied Monteiro Rossi, perhaps nothing, but it’s reasons of the heart again, don’t you think?, it’s a problem too in its way. The problem is that you oughtn’t to get involved with problems bigger than you are, Pereira wanted to say. The problem is that the whole world is a problem and it certainly won’t be solved by you or me, Pereira wanted to say. The problem is that you’re young, too young, you could easily be my son, Pereira wanted to say, but I don’t approve of your making me a father to you, I’m not here to sort out your conflicts. The problem is that between us there must be a correct professional relationship, Pereira wanted to say, and you must learn to write properly, because otherwise, if you’re going to base your writing on the reasons of the heart, you’ll run up against some thumping great obstacles I can assure you.
But he said nothing of all this. He lit a cigar, wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, undid the top button of his shirt and said: Yes, the reasons of the heart are the ones that matter most, we must always follow the reasons of the heart, it doesn’t say this in the Ten Commandments, it’s me saying it, all the same you must keep your eyes open, the heart is all very well, I agree, but keep your eyes open, my dear Monteiro Rossi, and that brings our little luncheon to a close, don’t telephone me for the next two or three days, I want to leave you plenty of time to think things over and write something good, and when I say good I mean good, you can call me at the office next Saturday, about midday.
Pereira got up and held out his hand and said: Until then. Why had he said all that when he wanted to say quite the opposite, when he ought to have ticked him off and perhaps even sacked him? Pereira cannot presume to say. Perhaps because the restaurant was so empty, because he hadn’t seen a single writer, because he felt lonely there in town and needed a comforter and a friend? Maybe for these reasons and for others again which he is unable to explain. It’s hard to know for sure, when one is dealing with the reasons of the heart, Pereira declares.
SEVEN
Arriving at the office on the following Friday, with a package containing his omelette sandwich, Pereira declares he saw an envelope peeping out of the Lisboa letter-box. He fished it out and put it in his pocket. On the first-floor landing he met the caretaker who said: Good morning Dr Pereira, there’s a letter for you, it’s an express delivery, the postman brought it at nine o’clock and I had to sign for it. Pereira muttered a thank you between his teeth and went on up the stairs. I took the responsibility on myself, continued the caretaker, but I don’t want any trouble, seeing that the sender’s name isn’t on it. Pereira descended three steps, he declares, and looked her straight in the face. Look here Celeste, said Pereira, you are the caretaker and that’s all well and good, you are paid to be caretaker and receive your wages from the tenants of this building, and one of these tenants is my newspaper, but you have the bad habit of poking your nose into matters that are none of your business, so next time an express letter arrives for me kindly don’t sign for it, don’t even look at it, but ask the postman to come back later and deliver it to me personally. The caretaker was sweeping the landing, and now leant her broom against the wall and put her hands on her hips. Dr Pereira, said she, you think you can address me in that tone because I’m just a humble caretaker, but let me tell you I have friends in high places, people who can protect me from your bad manners. So I imagine, indeed I’m sure of it, Pereira declares he replied, that’s precisely what I object to, and now good day to you.
By the time he opened the office door Pereira was bathed in sweat and felt weak at the knees. He switched on the fan and sat down at his desk. He dumped his omelette sandwich on a sheet of typing paper and took the letter from his pocket. The envelope was addressed to Dr Pereira, Lisboa, Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca 66, Lisbon. The handwriting was stylish and in blue ink. Pereira placed the letter beside the omelette sandwich and lit a cigar. The cardiologist had forbidden him to smoke, but just now he really needed a couple of puffs, then perhaps he’d stub it out. He thought he would open the letter later, because his first task was to prepare the culture page for tomorrow. He considered revising the article he had written on Pessoa for the “Anniversaries” column, but then decided it was all right as it was. So he began to read over the Maupassant story he had translated, in case there were any corrections to be made. He found none. The story read perfectly and Pereira gave himself a pat on the back. It really perked him up a bit, he declares. Then from his jacket pocket he took a portrait of Maupassant he had come across in a magazine in the City Library. It was a pencil drawing by an unknown French artist, which showed Maupassant wearing an air of desperation, with beard unkempt and eyes staring into space, and Pereira felt it would suit the story perfectly. After all it was a tale of love and death, it cried out for a portrait with intimations of tragedy. Now what he needed was an insert to appear in bold in the centre of the article, with the basic biographical facts about Maupassant. Pereira opened the Larousse he kept on his desk and began to copy. He wrote: “Guy de Maupassant, 1850-1893. In common with his brother Hervé he inherited from his father a disease of venereal origin, which led him to madness and an early death. At the age of twenty he fought in the Franco-Prussian War, and thereafter worked at the Ministry for the Navy. A writer of great talent and satirical vision, in his tales he describes the shortcomings and cowardice of a certain stratum of French society. He also wrote very successful novels such as Bel-Ami and the fantasy-novel Le Horla. Struck down by insanity he was admitted to Dr Blanche’s clinic, where he died penniless and derelict.”
He took three or four mouthfuls of his omelette sandwich. The rest he threw into the wastepaper basket because he didn’t feel hungry, it was too hot, he declares. Then he opened the letter. It was an article typed on flimsy paper, and the title read: Death of Filippo Tommaso Marinetti. Pereira felt his heart sink because without looking at the next page he knew the writer was Monteiro Rossi and realized at once that the article was no use to him, that it was an unusable article, he could have done with an obituary for Bernanos or Mauriac, who probably believed in the resurrection of the body, but this was an obituary for Filippo Tommaso Marinetti who believed in war, and Pereira set himself to read it. Truly it was an article to dump straight in the rubbish, but Pereira did not dump it, God knows why he kept it but he did, and for this reason he is able to produce it as evidence. It began as follows: “With Marinetti dies a man of violence, for violence was his muse. He began his career in 1909 with the publication of a Futurist Manifesto in a Paris newspaper, a manifesto in which he idealized war and violence. An enemy of democracy, bellicose and militaristic, he went on to sing the praises of war in a long eccentric poem entitled Zang Tumb Tumb, an onomatopoeic description of the Italian colonialist wars in Africa. His colonialist beliefs also led him to acclaim the Italian invasion of Libya. Among his writings i
s another nauseating manifesto: War: the World’s Only Hygiene. His photographs show a man striking arrogant poses, with curled moustaches and an academician’s cloak covered with medals. The Italian Fascists conferred a great many on him because Marinetti was among their most ardent supporters. With him dies a truly ugly customer, a warmonger…”
Pereira gave up on the typed section and turned to the letter, for the article was accompanied by a handwritten letter. It read: “Dear Dr Pereira, I have followed the reasons of the heart, but it’s not my fault. In any case you told me yourself that the reasons of the heart are the most important. I don’t know if this is a publishable obituary, and who knows, Marinetti may live for another twenty years. Anyway, if you could let me have something in the way of cash I would be grateful. I can’t come to the office for the moment for motives I won’t explain now. If you would care to send me a small sum at your discretion, perhaps you could put it in an envelope and address it to me at Box 202, Central Post Office, Lisbon. I’ll be giving you a call soon. With best wishes, Yours, Monteiro Rossi.”
Pereira placed the obituary and the letter in a file on which he wrote: “Obituaries”. Then he numbered the pages of the Maupassant story, gathered up his papers from the desk, put on his jacket and went to deliver the material to the printer’s. He was sweating, he felt uneasy, and he hoped not to meet the caretaker on the way out, he declares.
Pereira Declares Page 3