Because of course that’s what Tiago said: he was a democrat and he wanted to know who this man was. That’s what he really must have said that night, of course he hadn’t talked about any seabass, because there wasn’t any seabass, right then, except in the mind of the one imagining how that night must have gone. That night, instead, there was only darkness by the Jardim do Príncipe Real, and the four of them, terrified, frozen, facing a pistol pointed at them out a car widow. Even the rest of the neon GUITARRA DOURADA sign was out now, the waiter in his white apron stood in the doorway, looked around, and of course, he saw a stopped car, headlights off, and four people with their hands up, so he quickly lowered the restaurant’s rolling shutter, and stayed in there, lights out.
At this point, however, along with them, there’s a fish. Even if that night there wasn’t, now, in this conjured night, it’s right there, and Joana takes it in her arms, seems to cradle it, and she looks around, bewildered, and Tiago is telling her: what are you doing? – put it down, leave it in the gutter, can’t you see that fish is diseased?
Joana knelt by the gutter and picked up her purse that the hand had dropped out the window; a hand now gripping a letter: here’s a little secret, right, princess? came the voice. Probably, Joana stifled a sob, or a moan, and tried to speak but couldn’t, so Tiago spoke for her: that’s a letter from her fiancé – you have no right to touch it. Ah, said the voice, now isn’t that interesting. The hand tore open the envelope, took out the letter, and the voice, in that darkness, as if guided by the eyes of a cat, read: dearest Joana, the paperwork’s almost all ready now, I think we can get married in a month, in December. The voice interrupted the letter, laughing: oh, isn’t that romantic. You have no right to read that letter, Tiago said and walked up to the window. And then the fat hand holding the letter and gun sprang forward, incredibly agile, flying, and the gun barrel struck Tiago in the mouth, there was the sound of teeth breaking, Tiago buckled over, spitting teeth and blood, the car door opened and a man stepped out, a wide-brimmed hat covering his face, and he said: secret police – get your identity papers out. He turned to Tiago, his pistol put away now, his hands in his pockets and his face down, like he was studying his prisoners’ shoes, but he turned to Tiago, because he repeated: your identity papers, you little faggoty democrat; and Tiago, his handkerchief in his mouth to staunch the blood, tried to mumble but it came out more of a wheeze, and then he shook his head no, clutching his chin in both hands, for the pain of course, and perhaps, just then, Tadeus came down the stairs and stood in the entranceway to the building.
So the one imagining what must have gone on that night saw Tadeus in the entranceway, just then, while Tiago was spitting and wheezing into a handkerchief, unable to talk, looking like he was done for. But how strange: the one thinking all this couldn’t help but imagine Tadeus behind the curtains, up there on the third floor, crouched in the darkness of his room. So why didn’t he come down sooner? he asked himself in his imagination; why did he wait for things to come to this? But there was no point in dwelling on such things: Tadeus was there now, that’s what mattered, he’d come down, he was there, he’d opened the door and said in a loud, clear voice: this gentleman is an acquaintance of mine – I can vouch for him.
What happened next? It was difficult to put into words, for the one who was thinking that night. His imagination, at that point, was suffering from something like paralysis or lack of sleep: the events were in suspension, immobile, as were all the characters in that scene. And up to then he’d been there, attentive, but now his eyes turned away, like something had dragged his body away, a blast even stronger than that terrible icy wind, dropping him onto a park bench in the Príncipe Real garden, beside tufts of papyrus sprouting up along the pond: and at that distance, he couldn’t figure out who moved, who spoke, who decided, who wanted to go with Tiago, who had to collect his documents left in his car, on Rua Sampaio Pina, right in front of Joana’s building, maybe twenty blocks away, not even a kilometer as the crow flies, if you thought about it. Maybe Tadeus said he wanted to go with Tiago, and the others, too, all of them, sure, that must be how it went. But the man was shrewd and cruel and probably said: you, poet, just stay in your little apartment, with all your little books and poems. That must be what he said. And he probably told Luisa: make yourself scarce, little lady – get home. And why he only ordered Michel and Joana to get in with Tiago remains a mystery; he certainly wasn’t concerned that Michel was a foreigner, because if he really thought this through, he’d have realized this wasn’t an episode that should be known abroad, with the publicity the foreign press could give to the matter. Anyway, Tadeus went back inside and stood there, in the light, leaning on the doorjamb; Luisa stepped onto the street and hurried off toward the river, while Tiago, Michel, and Joana got into the car, and they all sped away; and the one imagining what happened that night kept imagining their departure from a park bench, and just then he noticed the car was a black Mercedes, an older model, decent but a bit out of style, the kind chauffeurs normally drive, with an old lady in the back.
But right after, he was with them. He was there now, too, between Joana and Michel, and Tiago sat up front, handkerchief pressed to his mouth, and the man was racing along, hugging the curves, or on the tight curves, jumping the sidewalk. Maybe he was drunk or on drugs, to tear along like that – but maybe not – maybe it was just another expression of his savagery, his disdain for life.
Here was the church of São Mamede, and the homes around Rato Square, where they drove down the wrong side of the street, and then the arches of Amoreiras Park, and further on the Ritz, with two doormen in green livery, ghostlike, and the Ritz seemed deserted too, the lights off in the grand salons. And finally, Rua Sampaio Pina. But then, almost like he knew his three prisoners were breathing a sigh of relief, the man braked sharply, veered to the sidewalk, and said: first political lesson – love your own country. He’d pulled his pistol out of his pocket now, and was rubbing it along his pants. You know what that means, boys and girls? he said, you don’t know – you don’t know anything. And Tadeus answered: I know as much as you, maybe more, I’ve known this country for fifty years, so spare me your lessons. His voice was low, restrained, and furious; he was the one who spoke, because he was in that car, too, how could he not have thought this, the one imagining what went on that night: would Tadeus ever let those three kids leave on their own with that loathsome fellow? No, of course Tadeus insisted on going too, maybe he’d stood in front of the car with his arms outstretched, a touch dramatic, absurd under these circumstances, and said firmly: I’m going with them.
And so the one imagining what happened that night had to imagine that scene again, and in the darkness of Rua Pedro Quinto, the last restaurant’s lit signs going out, he saw Tadeus in front of that black Mercedes, blinded by the headlights, glowing, ghostly; and then he saw them silently climb into the car, all four of them, the three young people and Tadeus; but he, the one imagining watching, had now been carried off by a gust of wind, onto a park bench in Jardim do Príncipe Real, and at that distance, couldn’t possibly tell where they were sitting in the car.
Don’t play the hero now, the man said, my job is handing out life lessons, and if you’ve already memorized the lesson, then run through it again, it’ll always do you some good. That’s what he said, and he seemed calmer, less hysterical, and he’d spoken politely to Tadeus, and at that point the gun was in his pocket, and he told Tiago to go get his identity papers, because he clearly knew Tiago’s car.
Tiago returned and said: here. The man studied the papers carefully, handed them back, and everything seemed to be over now. So, goodnight, kids, Tadeus said; he clearly couldn’t bear anymore, he was exhausted, his presence was no longer needed: he walked off, hands in his pockets, almost cocky, at least in the view of the one imagining how that night must have gone. And when Tadeus was faraway, on the corner of Rodrigo da Fonseca, right in front of the kosher butcher’s, the man pul
led out his pistol again and said: all of you, back in the car. They got in, the three of them squeezed onto the backseat, and the man, standing outside, said: now, listen up, because the political lesson starts now: love your own country. And you know what it takes to love your own country? No, you don’t, because you’re three dirty communists, or democrats, whatever, same thing. All right, I’ll tell you what it takes. It takes hatred. Hatred, to defend our civilization and our race. And you know how to tell a true civilization, a true race? When it dominates another race. And so forthwith, if you’ll allow me such an old-fashioned word, forthwith: to dominate another race, first they have to be dominated sexually, yours truly, a full-blown Portuguese citizen in the service of Luanda and Lorenço Marques in the years of our Lord 1964–1968. Like so, my dear little fuckers, with this cock. And as he spoke, he undid his trousers, took out his organ, waved it around, and urinated into the night. Then he redid his trousers and said: I defended our race with this cock, raped the little daughters of those MPLA sonsofbitches waiting to ambush our heroic soldiers who’d left hearth and home to go out and defend those Zulu villages from communism. And I thoroughly raped them, as one must, and they were all of an uncertain age, but take my word for it, all less than thirteen, because by thirteen, Black girls are already grown women. And after I’d thoroughly enjoyed them, with this friend of mine, my pistol that I named Maria de Lourdes – because she’s always protected me – with my pistol-friend, I finished the job, testing out the backsides of those little whores, meaning, I shoved my gun up each little ass, and how they squirmed, oh, you should’ve seen it, and me, bang bang, two shots, just two, just to puncture their intestines, and after this in-depth treatment, you should’ve seen how much their fathers talked, they even denounced their brothers, they spilled their guts after they got their little girls back with two bullets in their tummy, because those militants had plenty of daughters, that’s right, plenty, Blacks have loads of kids, but lucky us, we also have loads of bullets.
That’s when Joana got out of the car, staggered to a tree and bent over double, like she might vomit, and they heard her moan, then laugh, almost hysterical or having some kind of fit, and then the other two ran out to help her, and the Mercedes was already faraway, silent, they saw its brake lights at the Parque Eduardo VII intersection, and Michel and Tiago said: Joanna, let’s get you home. But she said no, she wanted to collect herself, take in the cool night air, she didn’t want to go home and see her family right now, no thanks, she didn’t want them to walk her home and leave her at her door, she just felt like being alone. So the other two left, together, heads down, like they were guilty, but guilty of what, then, and as they turned to wave goodbye, they saw that on her face, she wore a strange, disturbing smile.
* * *
—
This story should end right here, when everyone walked off, going their separate ways, into the night: gone, the people that grim night had drawn together into a singular fate; gone, that car and its obscene occupant; and gone, even the night, once at its peak, now yielding to the break of day. But right then, the one imagining how that night must have gone felt an undefinable yearning, a sense of torment, as if that cycle had to end, break apart, or find a crease where it might hide, and hide as well what it had triggered in someone else’s soul. And then, out of temptation, out of pure temptation, the one imagining that night let his imagination follow Joana as she walked down the street, because Joana didn’t go home, she started down toward Braancamp, and he followed her as she crossed Alexandre Herculano, Joana walking slowly, unhurried, as if there were no escape; he watched her walk along that last stretch of Rodrigo da Fonseca with its jacaranda trees, turn onto Rua de São Mamede, take Rua da Escola Politécnica, and then Rua Dom Pedro Quinto, click click, her heels on the pavement, there was absolutely no one out that cold night in 1969, Joana arrived at Tadeus’s building and there in the entranceway, leaning against the doorjamb, was Tadeus, who didn’t speak, just smiled as if to say: I’ve been expecting you, I knew you’d come, that you wouldn’t be able to resist. And then she nodded, as though admitting she’d come because she had to, because you can’t resist the things you have to do; she stooped in the gutter by the sidewalk and took the gasping seabass in her arms and told Tadeus: we can’t let this poor animal die, we have to bring it inside, get it some water, and he silently stepped aside for her. And while Tadeus was shutting the door, the one imagining that night imagined, oddly, that they went up the stairs astride that dying fish: and, funny, that seabass, with exhausted flicks of its tail, climbed the spiral stairs, once, twice, three times, until it entered a vortex that was escaping the building, passing through walls and time; willful, oily, dying, but untiring: forward, seabass, year after year, life passing, years and years, leading finally, one day, up to him; the one who was now imagining that night from so many years before. Up to him, and where?
Translated by Elizabeth Harris
Message from the Shadows
In these latitudes night falls suddenly, hard upon a fleeting dusk that lasts but an instant, then the dark. I must live only in that brief space of time, the rest of the day I don’t exist. Or rather, I am here, but it’s as if I weren’t, because I’m elsewhere, in every place on earth, on the waters, in the wind that swells the sails of ships, in the travelers who cross the plain, in the city squares with their merchants and their voices and the anonymous flow of the crowd. It’s difficult to say what my shadow world is made of and what it means. It’s like a dream you know you are dreaming, that’s where its truth lies: in its being real beyond the real. Its structure is that of the iris, or rather of fleeting gradations, already gone while still there, like time in our lives. I have been granted the chance to go back over it, that time no longer mine, which once was ours; it runs swiftly inside my eyes; so fast that I make out places and landscapes where we lived together, moments we shared, even our conversations of long ago, do you remember? We would talk about parks in Madrid, about a fisherman’s house where we would have liked to live, about windmills and the rocky cliffs falling sheer into the sea one winter night when we ate bread soup, and of the chapel with the fishermen’s votive offerings: madonnas with the faces of local women and castaways like puppets who save themselves from the waves by holding on to a beam of sunlight pouring down from the heavens. But all this flickers by inside my eyes and although I can decipher it and do so with minute exactness, it’s so fast in its inexorable passage that it becomes just a color: the mauve of morning in the highlands, the saffron of the fields, the indigo of a September night with the moon hung on the tree in the clearing outside the old house, the strong smell of the earth and your left breast that I loved more than the right, and life was there, calmed and measured out by the cricket who lived nearby, and that was the best night of all nights, liquid as the pulp of an apricot.
In the time of this infinitesimal infinite, which is the space between my now and our then, I wave you goodbye and I whistle “Yesterday” and “Guaglione.” I’ve laid my pullover on the seat next to mine, the way I used to when we went to the cinema and I waited for you to come back with the peanuts.
Translated by Tim Parks
The Woman of Porto Pim
A Story
I sing every evening, because that’s what I’m paid to do, but the songs you heard were pesinhos and sapateiras for the tourists and for those Americans over there laughing at the back. They’ll get up and stagger off soon. My real songs are chamaritas, just four of them, because I don’t have a big repertoire and then I’m getting on, and I smoke a lot, my voice is hoarse. I have to wear this balandrau, the traditional old Azores costume, because Americans like things to be picturesque, then they go back to Texas and say how they went to a tavern on a godforsaken island where there was an old man dressed in an ancient cloak singing his people’s folksongs. They want the viola de arame, which has this proud, melancholy sound, and I sing them sugary modinhas, with the same rhyme all the time,
but it doesn’t matter because they don’t understand, and then as you can see, they’re drinking gin and tonics. But what about you, though, what are you after, coming here every evening? You’re curious and you’re looking for something different, because this is the second time you’ve offered me a drink, you order cheiro wine as if you were one of us, you’re a foreigner and you pretend to speak like us, but you don’t drink much and then you don’t say anything either, you wait for me to speak. You said you were a writer, and that maybe your job was something like mine. All books are stupid, there’s never much truth in them, still I’ve read a lot over the last thirty years, I haven’t had much else to do, Italian books too, all in translation of course. The one I liked most was called Canaviais no vento, by someone called Deledda, do you know it? And then you’re young and you have an eye for the women, I saw the way you were looking at that beautiful woman with the long neck, you’ve been watching her all evening, I don’t know if she’s your girlfriend, she was looking at you too, and maybe you’ll find it strange but all this has reawakened something in me, it must be because I’ve had too much to drink. I’ve always done things to excess in life, a road that leads to perdition, but if you’re born like that you can’t do anything about it.
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