When he reached the street a strong wind was swaying the tree-tops. Pereira started out on foot, then stopped to wait for a cruising taxi. At first he thought he would have some supper at the Café Orquídea, then changed his mind and came to the conclusion that it would be wiser to have a café-au-lait at home. But unfortunately no taxis came cruising past, he had to wait a good half-hour, he maintains.
TWENTY-TWO
Next day Pereira stayed at home, he maintains. He got up late, breakfasted, and put aside the novel by Bernanos, as now there was no chance it would be published in the Lisboa. He hunted through his bookshelves and found the complete works of Camilo Castelo Branco. He picked on a story at random and started in to read. He found it oppressively dull, it had none of the lightness and irony of the French writers, it was a gloomy, nostalgic tale full of problems and fraught with tragedy. Pereira soon tired of it. He had an urge to talk to his wife’s photograph, but he postponed the conversation until later. He made himself an omelette without fines herbes, ate every scrap of it and went to take a nap. He fell asleep at once and had a beautiful dream. Then he got up, settled himself in an armchair and gazed out of the window. From the windows of his flat he had a view of the palm trees in front of the barracks over the way and every so often he heard a bugle call. Pereira couldn’t decipher the bugle calls because he had never done military service, for him they were nonsense messages. He just gazed at the palm fronds tossing in the wind and thought of his childhood. He spent a large part of the afternoon like this, thinking of his childhood, but it is something Pereira has no wish to talk about, as it has nothing to do with these events, he maintains.
At about four o’clock he heard the doorbell ring. Pereira tried to shake off his drowsiness but did not stir. He found it odd that anyone should be ringing the bell, he thought vaguely it might be Piedade back from Setúbal, perhaps her sister had been operated on sooner than expected. The bell rang again, insistently, twice, two long peals. Pereira got up and pulled a lever to unlatch the street door. He stayed on the landing, heard the door very quietly close and footsteps hastening up the staircase. When the figure reached the landing Pereira couldn’t make out who it was, the stairwell was so dark and his sight not as good as it used to be.
Hullo Dr Pereira, said a voice which Pereira did recognize, hullo it’s me, may I come in? It was Monteiro Rossi. Pereira let him in and closed the door at once. Monteiro Rossi stopped in the hall, he was carrying a small bag and wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Forgive me, Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, later on I’ll explain everything, is there anyone in the building? The caretaker is at Setúbal, said Pereira, the tenants on the floor above have left the flat empty, they’ve moved to Oporto. Do you think anyone can have seen me? panted Monteiro Rossi. He was sweating and stammering slightly. I shouldn’t think so, said Pereira, but what are you doing here, where have you come from? I’ll explain everything later, Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, for the moment what I need is a shower and a clean shirt, I’m dead beat. Pereira showed him to the bathroom and gave him a clean shirt, his own khaki shirt. It’ll be on the big side, he said, but never mind. While Monteiro Rossi was in the bathroom Pereira went and stood in the hall looking at his wife’s photograph. He would have liked to tell it lots of things, he maintains, that Monteiro Rossi had suddenly turned up, for example, and other things besides. Instead he said nothing, he postponed the conversation until later and returned to the living-room. Monteiro Rossi came in absolutely swamped in Pereira’s outsize shirt. Thank you Dr Pereira, he said, I’m dead beat, there’s lots I want to tell you but I’m absolutely dead beat, maybe what I need is a nap. Pereira took him into the bedroom and spread a cotton blanket over the sheets. Lie down here, he said, and take off your shoes, don’t go to sleep with shoes on because your body won’t relax, and don’t worry, I’ll wake you later. Monteiro Rossi lay down and Pereira closed the door and returned to the living-room. He pushed aside the stories of Camilo Castelo Branco, reopened Bernanos and set about translating the rest of the chapter. If he couldn’t publish it in the Lisboa well never mind, he thought, maybe he could publish it in book form, at least the Portuguese would then have one good book to read, a serious, moral book, one that dealt with fundamental problems, a book that would do a power of good to the consciences of its readers, thought Pereira.
At eight o’clock Monteiro Rossi was still sleeping. Pereira went into the kitchen, beat up four eggs, added a spoonful of Dijon mustard and a pinch each of oregano and marjoram. He wanted to make a good omelette aux fines herbes, very likely Monteiro Rossi was as hungry as a hunter, he thought. He laid the table for two, spreading out a white cloth and using the plates made in Caldas da Rainha which Silva had given him for a wedding present and fixing candles in the two candlesticks. Then he went to wake Monteiro Rossi, but he crept in on tiptoe because he really felt it was a shame to wake him. The lad was sprawled on the bed with one arm outflung. Pereira called his name, but Monteiro Rossi didn’t stir. So Pereira shook him by the arm and said: Monteiro Rossi, it’s time for supper, if you go on sleeping now you won’t sleep tonight, you’d do better to come and have a bite to eat. Monteiro Rossi leapt from the bed, obviously terrified. No need to get the wind up, Pereira said, its Dr Pereira, you’re quite safe here. They went into the dining-room and Pereira lit the candles. While he was cooking the omelette he offered Monteiro Rossi some tinned paté which he’d discovered in the store-cupboard, and from the kitchen he called: What’s been going on then, Monteiro Rossi? Thank you, was Monteiro Rossi’s reply, thank you for your hospitality Dr Pereira, and thanks also for the money you sent me, Marta got it through to me. Pereira brought the omelette to the table and tied his napkin round his neck. Well then, Monteiro Rossi, he said, what’s going on? Monteiro Rossi fell on the food as though he hadn’t eaten for a week. Steady on, you’ll choke, said Pereira, eat more slowly, and anyway there’s cheese to follow, and now tell me everything. Monteiro Rossi swallowed his mouthful and said: My cousin has been arrested. Where? asked Pereira, at the hotel I found for him? No, no, replied Monteiro Rossi, he was arrested in Alentejo while trying to recruit Alentejans, I only escaped by miracle. And what now? asked Pereira. Now I’m on the run, Dr Pereira, replied Monteiro Rossi, I suppose they’re hunting for me all over Portugal, I caught a bus yesterday evening and got as far as Barreiro, then I took a ferry, and from Cais de Sodré I’ve slogged it on foot because I didn’t have the money for the fare. Does anyone know you’re here? asked Pereira. No one at all, replied Monteiro Rossi, not even Marta, in fact I want to get in touch with her, I want at least Marta to know I’m in a safe place, because you won’t turn me out, will you Dr Pereira? You can stay as long as you like, replied Pereira, or at least until mid-September when Piedade gets back, Piedade is the caretaker here and also my daily, she’s a trustworthy woman but she’s a caretaker, and caretakers natter to other caretakers, your presence would not pass unobserved. Right ho, said Monteiro Rossi, between now and the fifteenth of September I’ll surely find somewhere else to go, maybe I’ll get on to Marta at once. Look here Monteiro Rossi, said Pereira, let Marta be for now, as long as you’re in my house don’t get in touch with anyone, just stay put and rest. And how are things going for you, Dr Pereira, asked Monteiro Rossi, still busy with obituaries and anniversaries? Partly, replied Pereira, however the articles you have written are all unpublishable, I’ve put them in a file in the office, I don’t know why I don’t throw them away. It’s time I owned up to something, murmured Monteiro Rossi, I’m sorry I’ve taken so long about it, but those articles are not all my own work. How do you mean? asked Pereira. Well Dr Pereira, the truth is that Marta gave me a lot of help with them, she wrote them partly herself, the basic ideas are hers. How extremely improper, said Pereira. Oh, replied Monteiro Rossi, I wouldn’t go that far, but Dr Pereira have you heard the Spanish nationalist slogan? their slogan is viva la muertel, and I can’t write about death, what I love is life, Dr Pereira, and I’d never have managed to write obituaries on my own, to talk about death, I’m really not able to talk about it. All in all I’m with you there, said Pereira, so he maintains, I can’t stand it any longer myself.