FOUR
The girl who turned up had an Italian straw hat on. She was really beautiful, Pereira maintains, her complexion fresh, her eyes green, her arms shapely. She was wearing a dress with straps crossing at the back that showed off her softly moulded shoulders.
This is Marta, said Monteiro Rossi, Marta let me introduce Dr Pereira of the Lisboa who has engaged me this evening, from now on I’m a journalist, so you see I’ve found a job. And she said: How d’you do, I’m Marta. Then, turning to Monteiro Rossi, she said: Heaven knows why I’ve come to a do of this sort, but since I’m here why don’t you take me for a dance, you numskull, the music’s nice and it’s a marvellous evening.
Pereira sat on alone at the table, ordered another lemonade and drank it in small sips as he watched the young pair dancing slowly cheek to cheek. Pereira maintains that it made him think once again of his own past life, of the children he had never had, but on this subject he has no wish to make further statements. When the dance ended the young people took their places at the table and Marta said rather casually: You know, I bought the Lisboa today, it’s a pity it doesn’t mention the carter the police have murdered in Alentejo, all it talks about is an American yacht, not a very interesting piece of news in my view. And Pereira, guilt-struck for no good reason, replied: The editor-in-chief is on holiday taking the waters, I am only responsible for the culture page because, you know, from next week on the Lisboa is going to have a culture page and I am in charge of it.
Marta took off her hat and laid it on the table. From beneath it cascaded a mass of rich brown hair with reddish lights in it, Pereira maintains. She looked a year or two older than her companion, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven, so he asked her: What do you do in life? I write business letters for an import-export firm, replied Marta, I only work in the mornings, so in the afternoons I have time to read, go for walks and sometimes meet Monteiro Rossi. Pereira maintains he found it odd that she called the young man by his surname, Monteiro Rossi, as if they were no more than colleagues, but he made no comment and changed the subject: I thought perhaps you belonged to the Salazarist Youth, he said, just for something to say. And what about you? countered Marta. Oh, said Pereira, my youth has been over for quite a while, and as for politics, apart from the fact that they don’t much interest me I don’t like fanatical people, it seems to me that the world is full of fanatics. It’s important to distinguish between fanaticism and faith, replied Marta, otherwise we couldn’t have ideals, such as that men are free and equal, and even brothers, I’m sorry if I’m really only trotting out the message of the French Revolution, do you believe in the French Revolution? Theoretically yes, answered Pereira, and then regretted having said theoretically, because what he had wanted to say was: Substantially yes. But he had more or less conveyed his meaning. And at that point the two little old men with viola and guitar struck up with a waltz and Marta said: Dr Pereira, I’d like to dance this waltz with you. Pereira rose to his feet, he maintains, gave her his arm and led her onto the dance-floor. And he danced that waltz almost in rapture, as if his paunch and all his fat had vanished by magic. And during the dance he looked up at the sky above the coloured lights of Praça da Alegria, and he felt infinitely small and at one with the universe. In some nondescript square somewhere in the universe, he thought, there’s a fat elderly man dancing with a young girl and meanwhile the stars are circling, the universe is in motion, and maybe someone is watching us from an everlasting observatory. When they returned to their table: Oh why have I no children? thought Pereira, he maintains. He ordered another lemonade, thinking it would do him good because during the afternoon, with that atrocious heat, he’d had trouble with his insides. And meanwhile Marta chattered on as relaxed as you please, and said: Monteiro Rossi has told me about your schemes for the paper, I think they’re good, there must be dozens of writers who ought to be kicking the bucket, luckily that insufferable Rapagnetta who called himself D’Annunzio kicked it a few months ago, but there’s also that pious fraud Claudel whom we’ve had quite enough of don’t you think? and I’m sure your paper which appears to have Catholic leanings would willingly give him some space, and then there’s that scoundrel Marinetti, a nasty piece of work, who after singing the praises of guns and war has gone over to Mussolini’s blackshirts, it’s about time he was on his way too. Pereira maintains that he broke out in a slight sweat and whispered: Young lady, lower your voice, I don’t know if you realize exactly what kind of a place we’re in. At which Marta put her hat back on and said: Well, I’m fed up with it anyway, it’s giving me the jitters, in a minute they’ll be striking up with military marches, I’d better leave you with Monteiro Rossi, I’m sure you have things to discuss so I’ll walk down to the river, I need a breath of fresh air, so goodnight.
Pereira maintains that he felt a sense of relief. He finished his lemonade and was tempted to have another but couldn’t make up his mind because he didn’t know how much longer Monteiro Rossi wanted to stay on, so he asked: What do you say to another round? Monteiro Rossi accepted and said he had the whole evening free and would like to talk about literature as he had very few opportunities to do so, he usually discussed philosophy, he only knew people exclusively concerned with philosophy. And at this point Pereira was reminded of an oft-repeated saying of an uncle of his, an unsuccessful writer, so he quoted it. He said: Philosophy appears to concern itself only with the truth, but perhaps expresses only fantasies, while literature appears to concern itself only with fantasies, but perhaps it expresses the truth. Monteiro Rossi grinned and said he thought this defined the two disciplines to a T. So Pereira asked him: What do you think of Bernanos? Monteiro Rossi appeared slightly at a loss at first and asked: The Catholic writer, you mean? Pereira nodded and Monteiro Rossi said gently: You know, Dr Pereira, as I told you on the telephone I don’t give a great deal of thought to death, or Catholicism either for that matter, because my father as I said was a naval engineer, a practical man who believed in progress and technology, and brought me up on those lines, although he was Italian I feel that he brought me up more in the English style, with a pragmatical view of life; I love literature but perhaps our tastes don’t coincide, at least as regards certain writers, but I do seriously need work and am willing to write advance obituaries for all the writers you ask for, or rather your paper does. It was then, Pereira maintains, that he felt a sudden surge of pride. He maintains it irked him that this young man should be giving him a lecture on professional ethics, and in a word he found it a sight too cheeky. He decided to adopt a haughty tone himself, and said: I don’t answer to my editor-in-chief for my decisions on literature, I am the editor of the culture page and I choose the writers who interest me, I have made up my mind to give you the job and also to give you a free hand; I would have liked Bernanos and Mauriac because I admire their work, but at this point I leave the decision up to you to do as you think fit. Pereira maintains that he instantly regretted having committed himself to such an extent, he risked trouble with the editor-in-chief by giving a free hand to this youngster whom he scarcely knew and who had openly admitted having copied his degree thesis. For a moment he felt trapped, he realized he had placed himself in a foolish situation. But luckily Monteiro Rossi resumed the conversation and began to talk about Bernanos, whose work he apparently knew quite well. He said: Bernanos has guts, he isn’t afraid to speak about the depths of his soul. At the sound of that word, soul, Pereira took heart again, he maintains, as if raised from a sickbed by some healing balm, and this caused him to ask somewhat fat-headedly: Do you believe in the resurrection of the body? I’ve never given it a thought, replied Monteiro Rossi, it’s not a problem that interests me, I assure you it simply isn’t a problem that interests me, but I could come to the office tomorrow, I could even do you an advance obituary of Bernanos but frankly I’d rather write a memorial piece on Lorca. Very well, said Pereira, I am the whole editorial staff and you will find me at number sixty-six Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca, near Rua Alexandre Herculano and just a step along from the kosher butcher, if you meet the caretaker on the stairs don’t take fright, she’s a harridan, just tell her you have an appointment with Dr Pereira and don’t get chatting with her, she’s probably a police informer.