TWENTY-THREE
That late August morning Pereira woke at eight, he maintains. Several times during the night he had woken and heard rain pelting down on the palm trees of the barracks over the way. He doesn’t remember dreaming, he’d slept fitfully with a few dreams now and then, presumably, but he doesn’t remember them. Monteiro Rossi was asleep on the living-room sofa, wearing a pair of pyjamas so vast on him they could practically have done him for sheets. He was sleeping all bunched up, as if he was freezing cold, and Pereira spread a rug over him, very gently so as not to wake him. He moved gingerly round the flat for fear of making a noise, brewed himself some coffee, then set off to get supplies at the grocer’s on the corner. He bought four tins of sardines, a dozen eggs, tomatoes, a melon, a loaf, and eight ready-made salt-cod fishcakes. Then he spotted, hanging on a hook, a small smoked ham sprinkled with paprika, and he bought that too. So you’ve decided to stock up your larder, Dr Pereira, commented the grocer. Well yes, replied Pereira, my daily won’t be back until mid-September, she’s with her sister at Setúbal, I have to look after myself and I can’t go shopping every morning. If you want a capable woman to come in and do for you I can recommend one, said the grocer, she lives a little up the hill, near La Graça, she’s got a small child and her husband has left her, she’s a reliable person. No, thank you all the same, Senhor Francisco, replied Pereira, it’s better not, I don’t know how Piedade would take it, there’s a lot of jealousy between these dailies and she might feel ousted, maybe over the winter it might be an idea, but just now I’d better wait until Piedade gets back.
Pereira went home and put his purchases in the ice-chest. Monteiro Rossi was still asleep. Pereira left him a note: ‘There’s ham and eggs or fishcakes to heat up, you heat them in a frying-pan with only a little oil, otherwise they go to a mush, have a good lunch and don’t worry, I’ll be back late afternoon, I’ll speak to Marta, see you later, Pereira.’
He left the house and went to the office. There he found Celeste in her cubbyhole busying herself with a calendar. Good morning Celeste, said Pereira, anything for me? No telephone calls and no post, replied Celeste. Pereira felt relieved, all the better that no one had tried to get in touch with him. He went up to the office and took the telephone off the hook, then reached for the story by Camilo Castelo Branco and prepared it for the press. At about ten o’clock he called the head office and was answered by the dulcet tones of Senhora Filipa. This is Dr Pereira, said Pereira, I would like to speak to the editor-in-chief. Filipa put through the call and the voice of the editor-in-chief said: Hullo. This is Dr Pereira, said Pereira, I just wanted to keep in touch, sir. You do well, said the editor-in-chief, because I tried to get you yesterday but you were not in the office. I wasn’t feeling too well yesterday, lied Pereira, I stayed at home because my heart was playing me up. I quite understand, Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, however I would like to know what your intentions are for the forthcoming culture pages. I am publishing a story by Camilo Castelo Branco, replied Pereira, as you suggested yourself sir, a nineteenth-century Portuguese author should fit the bill, don’t you think? Very much so, replied the editor-in-chief, but I think you should also continue the anniversaries feature. I had thought of doing Rilke, said Pereira, but I left it because I wanted your approval. Rilke, said the editor-in-chief, the name does seem vaguely familiar. Rainer Maria Rilke, explained Pereira, born in Czechoslovakia but to all intents and purposes an Austrian poet, he wrote in German and died in Nineteen Twenty-Six. Look here Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, as I told you before the Lisboa is becoming much too foreign-orientated, why not do an anniversary feature on one of our Portuguese poets, why not do our great Camoens? Camoens? replied Pereira, but Camoens died in Fifteen Eighty, nearly four hundred years ago. True, said the editor-in-chief, but he is always topical, and haven’t you heard that António Ferro, Director of the Secretariado Nacional de Propaganda, in short the Minister of Culture, has had the brilliant idea of celebrating Camoens Day on Portuguese Race Celebration Day, so that we shall celebrate our great epic poet and the Portuguese Race on one and the same day, and an anniversary feature will be just the thing. But sir, Camoens Day is the tenth of June, objected Pereira, what sense does it make to celebrate Camoens Day at the end of August? Ha! but on the tenth of June we didn’t yet have our culture page, argued the editor-in-chief, and you can point out as much in your article, and then you can always simply celebrate Camoens, who is our great national poet, and merely make some reference to Race Celebration Day, the least reference would be enough for our readers to get the message. Please bear with me sir, replied Pereira with some compunction, but I feel I must tell you that originally we were Lusitanians, and then came the Romans and the Celts, and then came the Arabs, so what sort of race are we Portuguese in a position to celebrate? The Portuguese Race, replied the editor-in-chief, and I am sorry to say, Pereira, that I don’t like the tone of your objection, we are Portuguese, we discovered the world, we achieved the greatest feats of navigation the world over, and when we did this, in the sixteenth century, we were already Portuguese, that is what we are and that is what you are to celebrate, Pereira. The editor-in-chief made a pause and then continued: Pereira, last time we talked I addressed you informally and I don’t know why I have gone back to using the formalities. Do as you please sir, replied Pereira, perhaps it’s the telephone that has that effect. You may be right, said the editor-in-chief, however please pay attention to what I say, Pereira, I want the Lisboa to be an ultra-Portuguese paper, not least in its culture page, and if you don’t want to do an anniversary feature for Portuguese Race Celebration Day you must at least do one for Camoens, that will be better than nothing.
Pereira said: Very well, goodbye, and hung up. António Ferro, he thought, that frightful António Ferro, the worst of it was he was a shrewd, intelligent man, and just to think he’d been a friend of Fernando Pessoa’s, ah well, concluded Pereira, it must be admitted that even Pessoa picked himself some pretty queer friends. Pereira then had a shot at an anniversary feature on Camoens and stuck at it until half-past twelve. He then chucked the lot in the wastepaper basket. The devil take Camoens as well, he thought, that great bard who sang the heroism of the Portuguese Race, ha ha some heroism, thought Pereira. He put on his jacket and left the office for the Café Orquídea. There he took his place at the usual table. Manuel came bustling up and Pereira ordered a seafood salad. He ate slowly, very slowly, then went to the telephone. He fished out the scrap of paper with the numbers Monteiro Rossi had given him. The first number rang for a long time but no one answered. He called it again, he had mis-dialled so often in the past. The number rang for a long time but no one answered. Then he tried the other number. A woman’s voice came on the line. Hullo, said Pereira, I would like to speak to Senhora Delaunay. I don’t know anyone of that name, replied the woman’s voice cagily. Good afternoon, repeated Pereira, I’m looking for Senhora Delaunay. Excuse me, but who is calling? asked the voice. Listen madam, said Pereira, I have an urgent message for Lise Delaunay, would you kindly put her on. There is no one here by the name of Lise, said the voice, I think you must have dialled a wrong number, who gave you this number may I ask? It doesn’t matter, replied Pereira, but if I can’t speak to Lise at least put me on to Marta. Marta? said the woman in apparent bewilderment, Marta who? there are so many Martas in this world. Pereira realized he didn’t know Marta’s surname so he simply said: Marta is a thin girl with blonde hair who also answers to the name of Lise Delaunay, I am a friend and have an important message for her. I’m sorry, said the woman but there’s no Marta here and no Lise either, good afternoon. The telephone went click and Pereira was left with the receiver in his hand. He hung up and returned to his table. What can I bring you? asked Manuel, bustling up. Pereira ordered a lemonade with sugar, then asked: Any news of interest? I’ll be finding out at eight o’clock this evening, said Manuel, I have a friend who gets the BBC from London, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow if you like.