Pereira got up to take his leave. Goodbye Father António, said he, I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time, my next visit I’ll make a proper confession. You don’t need to, replied Father António, first make sure you commit some sin and then come to me, don’t make me waste my time for nothing.
Pereira left him and clambered breathlessly up the Rua da Imprensa Nacional. When he reached the church of San Mamede he crossed himself, then dropped onto a bench in the little square, stretched out his legs and settled down to enjoy a breath of fresh air. He would have liked a lemonade, and there was a café only a few steps away. But he resisted the temptation. He simply relaxed in the shade, took off his shoes for a while and let the cool air get to his feet. Then he set off slowly for the office revolving many memories. Pereira maintains he thought back on his childhood, a childhood spent at Póvoa do Varzim with his grandparents, a happy childhood, or at least one that seemed happy to him, but he has no wish to speak about his childhood because he maintains it has nothing to do with these events and that late August day when summer was on the wane and his mind in such a whirl.
On the stairs he met Celeste who greeted him cheerily and said: Good morning Dr Pereira, no post for you this morning or telephone calls either. How d’you mean, telephone calls, exclaimed Pereira, have you been into the office? Of course not, replied the caretaker with an air of triumph, but some workmen from the telephone company came this morning accompanied by an official, they connected your telephone to the porter’s lodge, they said it’s as well to have someone to receive the calls when there’s no one in the office, and they say I’m a trustworthy person. All too trustworthy as far as that lot are concerned, Pereira would dearly like to have retorted, but he said nothing of the kind. All he asked was: And what if I have to make a call myself? You have to go through the switchboard, replied Celeste smugly, from now on I am your switchboard, and you have to ask me to obtain the numbers, and I assure you I’d have preferred not to, Dr Pereira, I work all morning and have to get lunch for four people, because I have four mouths to feed, I do, and apart from the children who get what they get and like it I have a husband who’s very demanding, when he gets back from headquarters at two o’clock he’s as hungry as a hunter and very demanding. I can tell that from the smell of frying always hanging about on the landing, replied Pereira, and left it at that. He went into the office, took the receiver off the hook and reached into his pocket for the sheet of paper Marta had given him the evening before. It was an article written by hand in blue ink, and at the top was printed: ANNIVERSAIES. It read: ‘Eight years ago, in 1930, the great poet Vladimir Mayakovsky died in Moscow. He shot himself after being disappointed in love. He was the son of a forestry inspector. After joining the Bolshevik party at an early age he was three times arrested and was tortured by the Czarist police. A great propagandist for the Russian revolution, he was a member of the Russian Futurist group, who are politically quite distinct from the Italian Futurists. He toured his country on board a locomotive reciting his revolutionary poems in every village along the way. He aroused great enthusiasm among the people. He was an artist, designer, poet and playwright. His work is not translated into Portuguese, but may be obtained in French from the bookshop in Rua do Ouro in Lisbon. He was a friend of the great Eisenstein, with whom he collaborated on a number of films. He left a vast opus of poetry, prose and drama. In him we celebrate a great democrat and a fervent anti-Czarist.’
Pereira, though it was not particularly hot, felt a ring of sweat forming round his collar. He would have liked to chuck that article straight in the wastepaper basket, it was just too stupid for words. But instead he opened the file of ‘Obituaries’ and slipped it in. Then he put on his jacket and decided it was time to go home, he maintains.
TWENTY
That Saturday the translation of Daudet’s ‘The Last Class’ was published in the Lisboa. The censors had authorized the piece without any fuss and Pereira maintains he thought to himself that one actually could write ‘Vive la France!’ after all and that Dr Cardoso had been wrong about that. Once again Pereira did not sign the translation. This was because he didn’t think it proper for the editor of a culture page to sign a translation, he maintains, it would have shown the readers that in fact he wrote the entire page himself, and he didn’t like the idea of that. It was a question of pride, he maintains.
Pereira read over the story with a glow of satisfaction, it was ten in the morning, it was Sunday, and because he had got up very early he was already in the office, had begun translating the first chapter of the Journal d’un curé de campagne by Bernanos and was working away at it with a will. At that moment the telephone rang. As a rule Pereira took it off the hook, because since it had been connected to the caretaker’s switchboard it gave him a creepy feeling to have his calls coming through her, but that morning he’d forgotten. Hullo Dr Pereira, came the voice of Celeste, there’s a call for you, you’re wanted by the thassalloempyrical clinic in Parede. Thalassotherapeutical, corrected Pereira. Well something of the sort, said the voice of Celeste, do you want to be connected or shall I say you’re not in? Put ’em through, said Pereira. He heard the click of a switch and a voice said: Hullo, Dr Cardoso here, I’d like to speak to Dr Pereira, please. Speaking, replied Pereira, good morning Dr Cardoso, it’s good to hear from you. The pleasure is mine, said Dr Cardoso, how are you Dr Pereira, are you following my diet? I’m doing my best, said Pereira, I’m doing my best but it’s not easy. Now Dr Pereira, said Dr Cardoso, I’m just off to catch the train for Lisbon, I read the Daudet story yesterday, it’s really excellent, I’d like to have a chat about it, how about meeting for lunch? Do you know the Café Orquídea? asked Pereira, it’s in Rua Alexandre Herculano, just past the kosher butcher. I know it, said Dr Cardoso, what time shall we meet, Dr Pereira? At one, said Pereira, if that suits you. Perfectly, replied Dr Cardoso, one o’clock be it, I’ll see you then. Pereira was certain that Celeste had eavesdropped on every word, but he didn’t much care as he hadn’t said anything to worry about. He went on translating the first chapter of the Bernanos novel and this time, he maintains, he did take the telephone off the hook. He worked until a quarter to one, then donned his jacket, put his tie in his pocket and sallied forth.