Firmino had a sudden mental short circuit.
“What’s his name?” he asked.
“What’s that to you?” the old man asked.
In his eyes there was a hint of suspicion.
“Oh, just a question, it isn’t important,” said Firmino in an attempt to pass it off.
“Well, he likes to be called Dakota,” said the old man, “because he’s mad about anything and everything American, and I’ve always called him Dakota, but I don’t know his real name, in fact it doesn’t even appear in the register, as I said he’s a temporary. Excuse me asking, but why are you so keen to know?”
“No particular reason,” replied Firmino, “just a question.”
“Very well then,” concluded the old man, “now you must forgive me but I have to get back to these accounts, this evening I have to get off a fax to Hong Kong, it’s an urgent invoice, if you want further information come back in a week's time, I can’t guarantee that the boss will be here but the secretary will have definitely come back.”
Seven
“HULLO, EDITOR?” said Firmino, “I’m on the trail, I think I’ve found the right track. I’ve traced the corpse’s T-shirt, it comes from an import-export firm in Vila Nova de Gaia, they make T-shirts identical to the one Manolo described to me.”
“Anything else?” asked the Editor impassably.
“They had an errand-boy,” replied Firmino, “a young chap, and he hasn’t turned up for work for the last five days. However, I didn’t manage to find out his name. Shall we print this?”
“Anything else?” insisted the Editor.
“The firm was burgled five days ago, the thieves got away with two high-tech instruments which they then abandoned at the roadside and squashed under the wheels of their car. The firm is Stones of Portugal, import-export, shall we print this?”
There was a brief silence and then the Editor said: “Take it easy. Let’s wait.”
“But this looks like a real scoop,” exclaimed Firmino.
“Consult with Dona Rosa,” ordered the Editor.
“Excuse my asking sir,” said Firmino, “but how come that Dona Rosa is so well informed?”
“Dona Rosa knows the kind of people who can be of use to us,” explained the Editor, “and in fact in a certain sense she’s the queen of Oporto.”
“Sorry, but in what sense?” asked Firmino.
“Doesn’t she strike you as a pretty classy woman?” insisted the Editor.
“Too much so for a pension like this,” replied Firmino.
“Have you ever heard of the Bachus?” asked the Editor.
Firmino said nothing.
“In the old days,” said the Editor, “the Bachus was a legendary bar, frequented by everyone who mattered in Oporto, and even those who didn’t. And late at night, when being stewed to the gills tends to make people sorry for themselves, everyone to some extent had a good cry on the shoulder of the owner. Who was Dona Rosa.”
“And she ended up in this place?” exclaimed Firmino.
“Look here Firmino,” burst out the Editor, “just keep calm and don’t make such a pest of yourself, stick in there for the moment and see how things work out.”
“Yes,” said Firmino, “but it’s Saturday, and this evening I could catch a train and spend Sunday and Monday morning in Lisbon, don’t you think?”
“Forgive me asking, young man, but what would you be doing in Lisbon on Sunday and on Monday morning?”
“That seems obvious,” replied Firmino heatedly. “Sunday I’ll spend with my fiancée because I think I have a right to, and on Monday morning I’ll go to the National Library.”
The Editor’s voice took on a tone of slight irritation.
“Well I’ll accept the excuse of your fiancée, we’ve all of us had a romantic phase in our lives, but just tell me what you’d be doing on Monday morning at the National Library?”
Firmino braced himself to give a plausible explanation. He well knew that with his Editor you needed tact.
“In the manuscript section there’s a letter from Elio Vittorini to a Portuguese writer,” he said, “I was told so by Dr. Luis Braz Ferreira.”
The Editor was silent for a moment then coughed briefly into the mouthpiece.
“And who might this Dr. Luis Braz Ferreira be?”
“He’s a leading expert in manuscripts at the National Library,” replied Firmino.
“Hard cheese,” said the Editor in contemptuous tones. “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Firmino, dumbfounded.
“That it’s his bad luck, his business,” repeated the Editor.
“Excuse me, sir,” insisted Firmino, forcing himself to be polite, “but Dr. Braz Ferreira knows every twentieth-century manuscript in the National Library.”
“Does he know any headless bodies?” asked the Editor.
“They’re not in his field,” said Firmino.
“That’s his bad luck,” concluded the Editor, “I am interested in headless bodies, and at this moment so are you.”
“Yes,” agreed Firmino, “I see that, but you must realize that the letter in question refers to the books of the ‘Três Abelhas’ and, whether it interests you or not, these books were absolutely essential to Portuguese culture in the later 1950s, because they published Americans and they all came through Vittorini, on account of an anthology he had published in Italy, called Americana.”
“Listen young man,” broke in the Editor, “you work for Acontecimento, which means me, and Acontecimento pays your wages. And I want you to stay in Oporto, and above all stay in Dona Rosa’s pension. Don’t go for too many walks and don’t think about the big picture, as for literature, you can devote yourself to it when you get the chance, but for the moment just sit on the sofa and tell jokes to Dona Rosa, and especially listen to hers, they’re some of the best and very clean, so goodbye for now.”
The receiver went click and Firmino cast a disconsolate look at Dona Rosa, who was coming through from the dining-room.
“Why such a gloomy face, young man?” Dona Rosa smiled at him as if she had overheard every word, “don’t take it to heart, that’s the way bosses are, arrogant. I’ve met a lot of overbearing people in the course of my life but one must grin and bear it, one of these days we’ll sit here and I’ll tell you how to deal with overbearing people, but the great thing is to do a good job of work.” Then in motherly fashion she added: “Why don’t you go and have a nap? You’ve got bags under your eyes, your room is cool and the sheets are spodess, I have them changed every three days.”
Firmino went to his room. He fell into a lovely sleep as he had hoped to and dreamt about a beach in Madeira, a blue blue sea, and his fiancée. When he woke it was time for dinner, so he put on a jacket and went downstairs. He was lucky enough to find that dinner that evening was a favorite childhood dish, fried hake. He ate ravenously, waited on hand and foot by the young waitress, a hefty lass with a pronounced mustache. The Italian at the next table tried to start a conversation about cuisine, and described a dish of sweet peppers and anchovies which he said came from Piedmont. Firmino courteously pretended to be interested. At that moment Dona Rosa approached him and bent down to whisper in his ear.
“The head has been found,” she said sweetly.
Firmino was looking at the heads of the hake which were left on his plate.
“Head,” he asked like an idiot, “what head?”
“The head missing-from the corpse,” said Dona Rosa amiably, “but there’s no hurry, first finish eating your dinner, then I’ll tell you all about it and what to do. I’ll expect you in the lounge.”
Firmino was unable to restrain his impatience and rushed after her.