He left the article with Senhor Pedro and made it to the door. He felt like a wet rag and his insides were churning madly. It occurred to him to stop for a sandwich at the cafe at the corner, but in the end he only ordered a lemonade. Then he took a taxi as far as the cathedral. He entered the flat warily, afraid that someone might be lying in wait for him. But there was no one there, only an enormous silence. He went into the bedroom and gazed a moment at the sheet that covered Monteiro Rossi. Then he fetched a small suitcase, packed the absolute minimum and the file of obituaries, went to the bookshelves and began to hunt through Monteiro Rossi’s passports. Eventually he came across one that suited him. It was a French passport, a good piece of work, the photograph was of a fat man with bags under his eyes, and the age was about right. His name was Baudin, François Baudin. It sounded a pretty good name to Pereira. He slipped the passport into the suitcase and picked up the picture of his wife. I’m taking you with me, he told it, you’d much better come with me. He packed it face up, so that she could breathe freely. Then he took a look around and glanced at his watch.
Better be getting along, the Lisboa would be out any moment and there was no time to lose, Pereira maintains.
By the Same Author
Also by Antonio Tabucchi
The Edge of the Horizon
Indian Nocturne
Letter from Casablanca
Little Misunderstandings of No Importance
The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro
Requiem: A Hallucination
It’s Getting Later All the Time