Pereira Declares

by Antonio Tabucchi

  EIGHT

  That Saturday morning, on the dot of midday, Pereira declares, the telephone rang. Pereira had not brought his omelette sandwich to the office that day, partly because he was trying to skip a meal every now and again as the cardiologist had advised him, and partly because even if he failed to stave off the pangs of hunger he could always get an omelette at the Café Orquídea.

  Good morning Dr Pereira, said the voice of Monteiro Rossi, this is Monteiro Rossi speaking. I was expecting a call from you, said Pereira, where are you? I am out of town, said Monteiro Rossi. Excuse me, insisted Pereira, but out of town where? Out of town, replied Monteiro Rossi. Pereira declares he was slightly nettled by such a stiff, uninformative response. From Monteiro Rossi he would have liked more cordiality, even gratitude, but he restrained his vexation and said: I have sent a sum of money to your post office box. Thank you, said Monteiro Rossi, I’ll go and pick it up. And he volunteered nothing more. So Pereira asked him: When do you intend to call in at the office?, perhaps it would be a good thing to have a tête-à-tête. I’ve no idea when I’ll be able to call on you, replied Monteiro Rossi, to tell the truth I was just writing a note to fix a meeting somewhere, if possible not in the office. It was then that Pereira realized something was up, he declares, and lowering his voice, as if someone else might be listening in, he asked: Are you in trouble? Monteiro Rossi did not answer and Pereira thought he hadn’t heard. Are you in trouble?, repeated Pereira. In a way, yes, said the voice of Monteiro Rossi, but it’s not something to talk about over the telephone, I’ll write you a note to fix a meeting for the middle of next week, the fact is I need you, Dr Pereira, I need your help, but I’ll tell you about it when I see you, and now you must excuse me, I’m calling from somewhere very inconvenient and I have to hang up, forgive me, Dr Pereira, we’ll talk about it when we meet, goodbye for now.

  The telephone went click and Pereira hung up in turn. He felt apprehensive, he declares. He considered what was best to do and made his decisions. First of all he would have a lemonade at the Café Orquídea and stay on there for an omelette. Then, in the afternoon, he would take a train to Coimbra and find his way from there to the baths at Buçaco. He would be sure to meet his editor-in-chief, that was inevitable, and Pereira had no wish to get into conversation with him, but he had a good excuse for not spending any time with him because his friend Silva was also at the spa for his holidays and had often invited him to join him there. Silva was an old college friend at Coimbra now teaching literature at the university, a cultured and sensible man, a level-headed bachelor, it would be a pleasure to spend two or three days in his company. And in addition he would drink the health-giving waters of the spa, stroll in the gardens and perhaps take a few inhalations, because his breathing was terribly laboured, he was often forced to breathe through his mouth, especially when climbing stairs.

  He pinned a note to the door: “Back mid-week, Pereira”. Luckily he did not meet the caretaker and this was some comfort to him. He went out into the blinding midday light and made for the Café Orquídea. As he passed the kosher butcher he noticed a small gathering outside it, so he stopped. He saw that the window was smashed and the shopfront covered with scrawls which the butcher was busy covering with white paint. He edged his way through the crowd and went up to the butcher, whom he knew well, young Mayer, he had also known his father well, old Mayer, with whom he had many a time partaken of a lemonade at one of the cafés down by the river. Then old Mayer had died and left the shop to his son David, a hulking youngster with quite a paunch in spite of his youth and a jovial air about him. David, asked Pereira, what’s happened here? You can see for yourself, replied David as he wiped his paint-stained hands on his butcher’s apron, we live in a world of hooligans, it was the hooligans. Have you called the police?, asked Pereira. You must be joking, replied David, you must be joking. And he went on covering the scrawlings with white paint. Pereira walked on to the Café Orquídea and took a seat inside, next to the fan. He ordered a lemonade and took off his jacket. Have you heard what’s going on, Dr Pereira?, asked Manuel. Pereira’s eyes widened and he asked: The kosher butcher? Kosher butcher my foot, Manuel flung back over his shoulder, that’s the least of it.

  Pereira ordered an omelette aux fines herbes and lingered over it. The Lisboa came out at five o’clock and he wouldn’t see it because he’d be on the train to Coimbra by then. Perhaps he could send for a morning paper, but he doubted if the Portuguese papers reported the event the waiter was referring to. Rumours simply spread, news travelled by word of mouth, all you could do was ask around in the cafés, listen to gossip, it was the only way of keeping in touch with things, other than buying some foreign paper from the newsagent in Rua do Ouro, but the foreign papers, if they arrived at all, were three or four days old, so it was useless to go hunting for a foreign paper, the best thing was to ask. But Pereira had no wish to ask anyone anything, he simply wanted to get away to the spa, enjoy a day or two of peace and quiet, talk to his friend Professor Silva and not think about all the evil in the world. He ordered another lemonade, asked for his bill, left the café and went to the central post office where he sent two telegrams, one to the hotel at the spa to book a room and the other to his friend Silva: “ARRIVE COIMBRA BY EVENING TRAIN STOP IF YOU CAN MEET ME WITH CAR WOULD BE GRATEFUL STOP AFFECTIONATELY PEREIRA.”

  Then he went home to pack a suitcase. He thought he would leave buying his ticket until he got to the station, he had all the time in the world, he declares.

  NINE

  When Pereira’s train drew in to Coimbra a magnificent sunset was outspread over the city, he declares. He looked around but saw no sign of his friend Silva on the platform. He supposed the telegram had not arrived or else Silva had left the spa. But on reaching the booking-hall he saw his friend seated on a bench smoking a cigarette. He was delighted and hurried to meet him. He hadn’t seen him for quite a while. Silva gave him a hug and took his suitcase. They left the station and walked to the car. Silva had a black Chevrolet with shining chrome, roomy and comfortable.

  The road to the spa led through a countryside of lush green hills and was just one bend after another. Pereira wound the window down, he was beginning to feel a little queasy and the fresh air did him good, he declares. They talked very little during the journey. How are you getting along?, asked Silva. So so, replied Pereira. Still living alone?, asked Silva. Yes, alone, replied Pereira. I think it’s bad for you, said Silva, you ought to find a woman who’d keep you company and jolly your life up a bit, I realize you’re still very attached to the memory of your wife, but you can’t spend the rest of your life nurturing memories. I’m old, replied Pereira, I’m fat and I’ve got heart trouble. You’re not old at all, said Silva, you’re the same age as I am, and after all you could go on a diet, treat yourself to a holiday, take more care of your health. Humph, replied Pereira.

  Pereira declares that the hotel at the spa was a wonder, a shining white mansion set amid spacious gardens. He went up to his room and changed. He donned a light-coloured suit and a black tie. Silva was waiting for him in the lobby sipping an aperitif. Pereira asked if he had seen his editor-in-chief. Silva answered with a wink. He dines every evening with a middle-aged blonde, he replied, she’s a guest in the hotel, he appears to have found himself some company. Just as well, said Pereira, it’ll let me off having to discuss business.

  They entered the restaurant, a nineteeth-century chamber with a ceiling festooned with painted flowers. The editor-in-chief was dining at a centre table in the company of a lady in an evening gown. When he looked up and saw Pereira an expression of complete incredulity spread over his face and he beckoned to him. Pereira crossed the room towards him while Silva made his way to another table. Good evening Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, it comes as a surprise to see you here, have you left the office to its own devices? The culture page came out today, said Pereira, I don’t know whether you’ve seen it yet, possibly the paper hasn’t reached Coimbra, there’s a Maupassa
nt story and a feature called “Anniversaries” which I’ve started on my own initiative, and in any case I’m only staying here a few days, on Wednesday I shall be back in Lisbon to get the culture page together for next Saturday. My apologies dear lady, said the editor-in-chief addressing his companion, allow me to introduce Dr Pereira, a member of my staff. Then he added: Senhora Maria do Vale Santares. Pereira inclined his head briefly. There’s something I wanted to tell you sir, he said, provided you have no objection, I have decided to engage an assistant to give me a hand purely with advance obituaries of great writers who might die at any moment. Dr Pereira!, exclaimed the editor-in-chief, here I am dining with a gracious, sensitive lady with whom I am conversing about choses amusantes, and you come and interrupt us with talk about people who might die at any moment, it seems to me rather less than tactful on your part. I’m very sorry sir, Pereira declares he said, I didn’t intend to talk shop, but on the culture page one needs to foresee the death of great artists, and if one of them dies unexpectedly it’s a real problem to compose an obituary overnight, and what’s more you’ll remember that three years ago when T.E. Lawrence died not a single Portuguese paper got anything out on time, they all came out with their obituaries a week late, and if we want to be an up-to-date paper we must keep abreast of things. The editor-in-chief slowly chewed his way through a mouthful of something and said: Very well, very well, Dr Pereira, after all I did give you a free hand as regards the culture page, I only want to know whether this assistant is going to cost us much and whether he is a trustworthy person. Oh as far as that’s concerned, replied Pereira, he strikes me as an undemanding person, he’s a modest young man, and what’s more he graduated from Lisbon University with a thesis on death, so he knows about death. The editor-in-chief raised a hand to cut him short, took a sip of wine and said: Come now, Dr Pereira, stop talking about death if you don’t mind or you will ruin our dinner, as for the culture page you may do as you see fit, I have confidence in you, you were a reporter for thirty years after all, and now good evening and enjoy your meal.

  Pereira moved over to his table and took a seat opposite his friend. Silva asked if he would like a glass of white wine but he shook his head. He called the waiter and ordered a lemonade. Wine isn’t good for me, he explained, the cardiologist told me so. Silva ordered trout with almonds and Pereira ordered a fillet steak à la Stroganoff with a poached egg on top. They started eating in silence, then after a while Pereira asked Silva what he thought about all this. All this what?, asked Silva. What’s going on in Europe, said Pereira. Oh don’t bother your head, replied Silva, we’re not in Europe here, we’re in Portugal. Pereira declares he couldn’t let the matter rest: Yes, but you read the papers and listen to the wireless, he insisted, you know what’s going on in Germany and Italy, they’re fanatics, they’re out to put the world to fire and sword. Don’t bother your head, replied Silva, they’re miles away. True enough, said Pereira, but Spain isn’t miles away, it’s right next door, and you know what’s going on in Spain, it’s a bloodbath, despite the fact that there was a legally elected government, it’s all the fault of one bigot of a general. Even Spain is miles away, said Silva, we’re in Portugal here. That may be so, said Pereira, but even here things aren’t too rosy, the police have things all their own way, they’re killing people, they ransack people’s houses, there’s censorship, I tell you this is an authoritarian state, the people count for nothing, public opinion counts for nothing. Silva gave him a steady look and laid down his fork. Listen to me Pereira, said Silva, do you still believe in public opinion?, well let me tell you public opinion is a gimmick thought up by the English and Americans, it’s them who are shitting us up with this public opinion rot, if you’ll excuse my language, we’ve never had their political system, we don’t have their traditions, we don’t even know what trade unions are, we’re a southern people, Pereira, and we obey whoever shouts the loudest and gives the orders. We’re not a southern people, objected Pereira, we have Celtic blood in us. But we live in the South, said Silva, the climate here doesn’t encourage us to have political opinions, laissez faire, laissez passer, that’s the way we’re made, and now listen to me and I’ll tell you something else, I teach literature and I know a thing or two about literature, I’m compiling a critical edition of our troubadours, the Cantigas de amigo, surely you remember them from university, in any case the young men went off to the wars and the women stayed at home and wept, and the troubadours recorded their laments, because everyone had to do what the king commanded, don’t you see?, the big chief gave the orders, we’ve always needed a big chief, and we still need one today. But I’m a journalist, said Pereira. So what?, said Silva. So, said Pereira, I must be free to keep people properly informed. I don’t see the connection, said Silva, you don’t write political stuff, your business is the culture page. Now it was Pereira’s turn to lay down his fork and prop his elbows on the table. Listen to me old man, said he, just imagine if Marinetti died tomorrow, you’ve heard of Marinetti? Vaguely, said Silva. Well then, said Pereira, Marinetti’s a swine, he started his career by singing the praises of war, he’s set himself up as a champion of bloodshed, he’s a terrorist, he hailed Mussolini’s march on Rome, Marinetti is a swine and it’s my duty to say so. Then go and live in England, said Silva, there you can say whatever you like, you’ll have a mass of readers. Pereira finished his last mouthful of steak. I’m going to bed, he said, England’s too far away. Don’t you want any dessert?, asked Silva, I rather fancy a slice of cake. Sweet things are bad for me, said Pereira, the cardiologist told me so, and what’s more I’m tired from the journey, but thank you for coming to fetch me from the station, good night, see you tomorrow.

  Pereira got up and went off without another word. He was worn to a shred, he declares.

  TEN

  Next morning Pereira woke at six. He had a cup of black coffee, though he had to press for it, he declares, because room service only started at seven. Then he went for a walk in the gardens. The baths also opened at seven, and at seven on the dot Pereira was at the gates. Silva wasn’t there, the editor-in-chief wasn’t there, there was practically no one at all and Pereira declares it was a great relief. He started by drinking two glasses of water tasting of rotten eggs, after which he felt slightly sick and his insides began to churn around. He would have appreciated a nice cool lemonade, because despite the early hour it was already hotting up, but he thought he shouldn’t mix lemonade and sulphur water. Then he went to the bath-houses where they made him strip and put on a white bath-robe. Mud bath or inhalations?, asked the receptionist. Both, replied Pereira. He was ushered into a room containing a marble bathtub full of brownish liquid. Pereira removed his bath-robe and climbed in. The mud was lukewarm and gave him a feeling of well-being. At a certain point an attendant came in and asked him where he needed massage. Pereira told him he didn’t want massage at all, only the bath, and would prefer to be left in peace. When he got out of the tub he had a cool shower, donned the bath-robe again and went next door where there were jets of steam for inhalation. In front of these jets lots of people were already seated, their elbows propped on a marble shelf, breathing in blasts of hot air. Pereira found a free spot and sat down. He breathed deeply for several minutes, and lost himself in his thoughts. These turned to Monteiro Rossi, and for some reason also to his wife’s photograph. It was nearly two days since he had talked to his wife’s photograph and Pereira declares he regretted not bringing it with him. He got to his feet, went back to the changing-rooms, got dressed, put on his black tie, then left the baths and returned to the hotel. In the restaurant he spied his friend Silva tucking in to croissants and café-au-lait. Fortunately the editor-in-chief was not to be seen. Pereira went up to Silva, bade him good morning, told him he had taken the waters and continued: There’s a train for Lisbon at about midday, I’d be grateful for a lift to the station, if you can’t manage it I’ll take the hotel taxi. What, off already?, exclaimed Silva, I was hoping to spend a couple of days with you. Y
ou must forgive me, but I have to be back in town this evening, lied Pereira, I have an important article to write tomorrow, and anyway, you know, I don’t like the idea of leaving the office in the hands of the caretaker, so I’d really rather get back. It’s up to you, replied Silva, I’ll certainly give you a lift.

  During the drive they said nothing at all. Pereira declares that Silva seemed to be in a huff, but he himself did nothing to make things easier. Never mind, he thought, never mind. They reached the station at eleven-fifteen and the train was waiting at the platform. Pereira climbed aboard and waved goodbye through the window. Silva gave him a hearty wave in return and went his way.

  Pereira took a seat in a compartment where a woman reading a book was already seated. She was handsome, blonde and chic, with a wooden leg. As she was in a window seat Pereira took a place by the corridor so as not to disturb her. He noticed, however, that she was reading a book by Thomas Mann, and in German at that. This aroused his curiosity, but for the moment he said nothing except good morning Senhora. The train pulled out at eleven-thirty and a few minutes later the waiter came round to take bookings for the dining-car. Pereira booked a place because he felt that his stomach was a little upset, he declares, and needed something to settle it. It wasn’t a long journey, to be sure, but they would reach Lisbon rather late for lunch, and he had no wish to go searching around for somewhere to eat when he got there, not in that heat.

  The lady with the wooden leg also booked for the dining-car. Pereira noticed that she spoke good Portuguese but with a slight foreign accent. This, he declares, redoubled his curiosity and steeled him to make a suggestion. Senhora, said he, please forgive me, I have no wish to be intrusive, but seeing that we are travelling companions and have both booked for the dining-car I suggest we share a table, we can enjoy a little conversation and perhaps feel less lonely, eating alone is so gloomy, especially on a train, allow me to introduce myself, I am Dr Pereira, editor of the culture page of the Lisboa, an evening paper published in Lisbon. The lady with the wooden leg gave him a broad smile and held out her hand. Very glad to meet you, said she, my name is Ingeborg Delgado, I am German but of Portuguese ancestry, I have come to Portugal to rediscover my roots.