“Go on,” said Firmino.
“Too many people here,” replied the youth.
“Let’s find another bench,” suggested Firmino.
“I have to make myself scarce,” insisted the youth.
“Hurry up and tell me the rest then,” begged Firmino.
The young man started off again in a low voice and somethings Firmino understood and some he didn’t. He managed to understand that as soon as they heard a car coming the youth had slipped away into a little room. That it was a patrol of the Gardia Nacional led by the so-called Green Cricket. And that the Green Cricket had seized Damasceno by the throat and slapped his face four or five times, ordering him to go with them, and Damasceno had refused and said he’d give him away and denounce him as a drug dealer, and at that point the two other cops from the patrol had started in on him with their fists, had loaded him into the car and driven off
“I must go,” said the young man nervously, “I must go now.”
“Wait a moment longer please,” begged Firmino.
The young man waited.
“Are you prepared to testify?” asked Firmino cautiously.
The other thought this over.
“I’d like to,” he answered, “but who’d defend a person like me?
“A lawyer,” replied Firmino, “we’ve got a good lawyer.”
And to be more convincing he went on: “Plus the whole of the Portuguese Press, trust the Press.”
The young man turned his head and looked at Firmino for the first time. He had deep, dark eyes and a meek expression.
“Where can I contact you?” asked Firmino.
“Ring the Faisca garage, electrical car repairs,” said the youth, “and ask to speak to Leonel.”
“Leonel who?”
“Leonel Torres,” said the lad, “but I’ve told you those things to get it off my conscience, because I know they’re the ones who killed him, but don’t write that for the moment, later we might come to some agreement.”
He said goodbye and left. Firmino watched him go. He was a little short, with a body too long for his too short legs. Who knows why another Torres came into Firmino’s mind. But that one he’d never met, he had only seen him on a few black-and-white film clips on television. He was a positive beanpole of a Torres, who’d been his father’s idol, Torres who played center forward for Benfica in the 1960s. He couldn’t play football at all, his father told him, but he only had to raise his head and bang! the ball shot into the goal as if by miracle.
Eleven
IT WAS A QUARTER PAST MIDDAY. Better so, thought Firmino, who did not wish to seem anxiously over-punctual. He was walking down Rua das Flores. It was a fine street, both elegant and smacking of the common people. The note of the common people was supplied by the windowboxes blooming with geraniums, which may have been why it was called “The Street of Flowers,” and the elegance by the smart jewelers’ shops, their windows glittering with gems. Firmino had forgotten to bring along his guidebook, which annoyed him not a little. But never mind, he’d read up on it later.
The main door was a massive thing made of studded oak, but it had certainly seen better days. Maybe it dated from the eighteenth century. It was opened wide to allow cars in, for there was parking space at the end of the courtyard. Firmino scanned the brass plates for the name of the lawyer Mello There was a concierge. She sat in a glass box and was knitting. She was a concierge such as may be found in Oporto, or still perhaps even in Paris, but only in a few parts of town. She was fat, with a ballooning bosom, she had a suspicious look, she was neatly dressed after her fashion and wore slippers with pompons.
“I’m looking for Attorney Mello Sequeira,” said Firmino.
“Are you the journalist?” asked the concierge.
Firmino said yes.
“The Attorney is expecting you, ground floor. There are four doors, knock at whichever you like, they’re all his,” said the concierge.
Firmino set off down the corridors of the old palace and knocked at the first door he came to. There was no light in the corridor, the door opened with a click, Firmino entered and closed it behind him. He found himself in a vast apartment with vaulted ceilings, though in semi-darkness. The walls were lined with books, but even the floor was cluttered with books, great tottering piles of them, along with bundles of newspapers and documents of all sorts. Firmino tried to get his eyes used to the semi-darkness. On the other side of the room, ensconced in a sofa, was a man. He was a fat man, indeed obese, of such corpulence that he filled half the sofa. At first glance he looked about sixty, perhaps a bit more. He was bald, clean-shaven, with sagging jowls and fleshy lips. His head was thrown back and he was staring at the ceiling. He really did look like Charles Laughton.
“How d’you do?” said Firmino, “I am the journalist from Lisbon.”
The fat man made a vague gesture towards an armchair and Firmino sat down. On the sofa at the man’s side was the latest edition of Acontecimento.
“Are you the author of this piece of prose?” he asked in a neutral voice.
“Yes,” replied Firmino with some embarrassment, “but it’s not exactly my style, I have to adapt to the style of my newspaper.”
“And may I ask what is your style?” enquired the obese man in the same neutral tone.
“I try to have a style of my own,” said Firmino with mounting embarrassment, “but as you know one’s style is also formed by reading the books of others.”
“What others, for example, if I may make so bold?” asked the obese man.
Firmino didn’t know what to say. Then he replied: “Lukács for example, Geörgy Lukács.”
The fat man gave a gentle cough. He at last removed his gaze from the ceiling and looked at Firmino.
“Interesting,” he said, “why? does Lukács have a style?”
“Well,” said Firmino, “I think so, at least in his own way.”
“And what way that be?” asked the fat man in the same neutral tone.
“Dialectical materialism,” returned Firmino hastily, “let’s say criticism.”
The bloated figure gave another little cough, and Firmino got the feeling that those little coughs were really a kind of stifled laughter.
“Is this because, in your opinion, dialectical materialism is in itself a style?” asked the obese man, still impassive.
Firmino found himself almost at a loss. But he also felt faintly riled. This obese lawyer, unknown to him, was grilling him as if he were sitting for a university exam. Really, it was a bit much!
“What I meant,” he explained, “was that Lukács’s methodology is useful for the studies I am involved in, that is to say a paper I want to write.”
“Have you readHistory and Class Consciousness?” enquired the obese lawyer.
“Of course,” replied Firmino, “it’s a fundamental text.”
“It dates from 1923,” commented the lawyer, “have you any notion of what was going on in Europe around that time?”
“More or less,” said Firmino briefly.
“The Vienna Circle,” murmured the obese man, “Carnap, the fundamentals of formal logic, the impossibility of non-contradiction within a system, trifles of that sort. As for Lukác’s style, seeing that you are concerned with style, the less said the better, don’t you think? Personally I think it the style of a Hungarian peasant best acquainted with horses in the Puszta.”