That day Pereira had Dr Cardoso’s company for lunch and on his advice, he maintains, ate boiled hake. They talked about literature, Maupassant and Daudet, and about France, what a great country it was. Afterwards Pereira retired to his room and had a short nap, just fifteen minutes, then he lay and watched the strips of light and shadow cast on the ceiling by the shutters. In mid-afternoon he got up, had a shower, put on his black tie and sat down in front of his wife’s photograph. I’ve found an intelligent doctor, he confided to it, his name is Cardoso, he studied in France, he has told me a theory of his about the human soul, or rather, it’s a French philosophical theory, it seems that inside us we have a confederation of souls and every so often a ruling ego comes along and takes over the leadership of the confederation, Dr Cardoso suggests that I’m changing my ruling ego, as snakes change their skins, and that this new ruling ego will change my life, I don’t know how true this is and in fact I’m not all that convinced, but never mind, we must wait and see.
Then he sat down at the table and began translating ‘La dernière classe’ by Daudet. He had brought along his Larousse, which made things easy for him. But he only translated one page, because he didn’t want to rush it, and because that story kept him company. And in fact throughout the week Pereira stayed at the thalassotherapeutic clinic he spent every afternoon translating Daudet’s story, he maintains.
It was a wonderful week of therapy, relaxation and dieting, cheered by the presence of Dr Cardoso, with whom he always had lively and interesting talks, especially about literature. A week that slipped by in the twinkling of an eye, on the Saturday the first instalment of Balzac’s Honorine came out in the Lisboa and Dr Cardoso complimented him on it. The editor-in-chief never called him, which meant that all was running smoothly at the paper. There was no sign of Monteiro Rossi either, or of Marta. In his last few days there Pereira scarcely gave them a thought. And when he left the clinic to take the train back to Lisbon he felt a new man, in tip-top form, he had lost four kilos, he maintains.
EIGHTEEN
Pereira returned to Lisbon, and the better part of August vanished almost before he could look round, he maintains. Piedade, his maid-of-all-work, was not yet back, but in his letter-box he found a card from her, postmarked Setúbal, which read: ‘Returning mid-September because my sister has to have operation for varicose veins, all the best, Piedade.’
Pereira settled back into his flat. Luckily the weather had changed and it wasn’t all that hot. In the evening a stiffish Atlantic breeze would spring up, so he had to wear a jacket. When he went back to the office he found few changes. The caretaker was no longer huffy with him, in fact she was a good deal more friendly, but a horrible stench of frying still hung about on the landing. There wasn’t much in the way of post: the electricity bill, which he forwarded to the main office, and a letter postmarked Chaves, from a lady in her fifties who wrote children’s stories and was hereby submitting one to the Lisboa. Itwas a tale of elves and fairies which had nothing whatever to do with Portugal and which the author must have filched from some Irish story. Pereira wrote her a courteous answer suggesting that she should base her work on Portuguese folklore, because, he told her, the Lisboa was addressed to Portuguese, not to English-speaking readers. Towards the end of the month a letter arrived from Spain. It was addressed to Monteiro Rossi, and the envelope read: Señor Monteiro Rossi, c/o Dr Pereira, Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca 66, Lisboa, Portugal. Pereira was tempted to open it. He had practically forgotten Monteiro Rossi, or at least so he thought, and he found it beyond belief that the young man should have told anyone to address a letter to him c/o the culture page of the Lisboa. However, he put it unopened into the ‘Obituaries’ file. He then had lunch at the Café Orquídea, though he didn’t order omelettes aux fines herbes, because Dr Cardoso had forbidden them, and he no longer drank lemonade. Instead he ate seafood salad and drank mineral water. Balzac’s Honorine had been published in its entirety and had been a great success with the readers. Pereira maintains that he even received two telegrams, one from Tavira and the other from Estremoz, the first saying that it was a really marvellous story and the other that repentance is a thing we all ought to think about, and both of them ending with the words: Thank you. It occurred to Pereira that perhaps someone had received the message in the bottle, and he set about preparing the final draft of Daudet’s ‘La dernière classe’. The editor-in-chief called him one morning to congratulate him on the Balzac story, saying that the head office had been simply inundated with compliments. Pereira had a feeling that the editor-in-chief would never receive the message in the bottle, and he chortled to himself. That message was really and truly a coded message, and only people who had ears to hear could receive it. The editor-in-chief did not have ears to hear and could not receive it. So now, Dr Pereira, asked the editor-in-chief, what have you got up your sleeve for us? I have just finished translating a story by Daudet, replied Pereira, I hope it will be suitable. I trust it isn’t L’Arlésienne, said the editor-in-chief, glad to be able to show off one of his few scraps of literary knowledge, that story is a trifle osé, and I don’t think it would go down well with our readers. Pereira simply said: No, it’s a tale from the Contes du lundi, it’s called ‘The Last Class’, I wonder if you know it, it’s a story about love of one’s country. I don’t know it, replied the editor-in-chief, but if it’s a patriotic story that’s all to the good, we all need patriotism in this day and age, patriotism is just the ticket. Pereira said goodbye and rang off. He had scarcely gathered up the typescript to take it to the printer’s when the telephone rang again. Pereira was at the door already with his jacket on. Hullo, said a woman’s voice, good morning Dr Pereira, this is Marta, I would like to see you. Pereira’s heart missed a beat and then he asked: How are you Marta, and how is Monteiro Rossi? I’ll tell you in due course Dr Pereira, said Marta, where can I meet you this evening? Pereira considered for a moment and was on the point of telling her to come to his flat, then thought better of it and answered: At the Café Orquídea at half-past eight. All right, said Marta, I’ve cut my hair short and bleached it, I’ll see you at the Café Orquídea at half-past eight, however Monteiro Rossi is well and is sending you an article.