Of what followed Firmino only managed to memorize a phrase or two here and there. He tried to pay as much attention as he could, but his mind, as if out of control, wandered off on its own and dragged him back in time, out of that farce of a courthouse, and without any logical sequence he felt himself now staring at a severed head placed in a dish, now in a gypsy encampment on a suffocating August day, now in a botanical garden gazing at a century-old exotic tree planted by a lieutenant in Napoleon's army. And at that point they were discussing Titânio Silva’s migraines, and of this Firmino managed to take in a few scraps, the exhibiting of a medical certificate attesting to the fact that Sergeant Silva was affected by terrible migraine following the rupture of an eardrum caused by a mine exploding near him in Angola, though he had never claimed a State pension on those grounds, and because of this ailment he had been obliged to go home for an injection of Zomig, leaving the body of Monteiro there on the floor, after which his two deputies began to stammer words to the effect that yes, now they realized, now they understood that they might be accused of the crime of concealment of a corpse, but that evening their minds were far from the Penal Code, and in any case neither of them knew a ruddy thing about the Penal Code, they had just been so thunderstruck, and so damn scared, that they’d removed the body and left it in a public park.
When it came to the cigarette burns found on Monteiro’s body, Titânio Silva took it on himself to reply in person. And while Firmino listened to his words, which were deadened as if by wads of cotton wool yet at the same time sharp, he realized he was beginning to sweat, as if he were on fire within, and all the time the thin lips of Titânio Silva were explaining to the Court with complete aplomb that he had had “No Smoking” notices put up all over the station, because as the scientists tell us and civilized countries have printed by law on every packet of cigarettes, smoking causes cancer. Someone in the courtroom laughed inanely, and curiously enough that laugh struck Firmino as some kind of demented message, he realized that his hand was trembling slightly, but mechanically he wrote down: laughter in court.
And then the Judge, after the intervention of the Public Prosecutor, asked if Counsel wished to make any declaration before pronouncing their addresses to the Court. Counsel for the defense, a pot-bellied bumptious little man, announced that one thing had to be recorded in the acts of the proceedings, a question of principle, yes indeed, of nothing less than principle, his voice was curt and peremptory, Firmino tried to follow what he was saying, but as if his own mental integrity were at stake he felt threatened by those words and only managed to scribble down a few notes that now seemed to him disconnected: heroic conduct in the wars in Africa, bronze medal for military valor, devotion to the flag, lofty patriotism, the defense of true values, the struggle against crime, perfect trust in the State and Nation.
There followed an interval of no more than a few seconds, to Firmino it seemed endless, a sort of limbo during which his memory carried him back to a white house on the shore at Cascais and his father's face, to a blue sea with white-crested waves, to a wooden Pinocchio doll with whom an infant Firmino had his bath in a zinc tub on a terrace. The Judge said: The prosecution has the floor. Don Fernando rose, negligently, put on his gown, carried himself over to beneath the Bench and surveyed the public. His face was a pasty yellow. His pendulous cheeks hung down on either side of his face like the ears of a basset-hound. In his hand was his unlit cigar, and with that cigar he indicated a point in the ceiling as if aiming at someone in particular.
“I will start with a question which I address chiefly to myself,” said Don Fernando. “What does it mean to be against death?”
At that moment Firmino pressed the button on his tape recorder.
THE TRAIN RUMBLED ON through the darkness. Out of the window Firmino saw a cluster of distant lights. Maybe it was Espinho. He’d taken a seat in the restaurant car, which in fact was nothing but a self-service with a couple of tables at one end. Behind the counter stood a waiter, a weary look on his face and a cloth in his hand. He approached Firmino.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t stay here without taking refreshment.” “Bring me whatever you like,” said Firmino, “perhaps a cup of coffee.”
“The machine is switched off sir,” said the waiter.
“In that case a glass of mineral water.”
“I am sorry,” said the waiter, “but I cannot serve you anything because the restaurant is closed.”
“So what’s to be done?” asked Firmino.
“You cannot stay here without ordering something,” repeated the waiter, “but you cannot order anything.”
“I don’t follow the logic,” retorted Firmino.
“It’s Company regulations,” explained the waiter placidly.
“But what do you have to do now?” enquired Firmino tactfully.
“I have to clean up sir,” said the waiter, “I’m supposed to be only a waiter, because that’s what’s written in my contract, but the Company makes me do the cleaning up as well, and my union doesn’t stick up for me.”
“Very well then,” said Firmino, “while you are cleaning up let me sit here, I won't give you any trouble, we can keep each other company.”
The waiter gave a comprehending nod and went off. Firmino fished out his notepad and tape-recorder. He thought about how to write his article about the trial. He hadn’t taken notes, but for the general drift he could trust to his memory. As for Don Fernando’s speech he had it in that little contraption, and even if the recording was defective it could be transcribed with a bit of effort. More lights came into view through the window. La Granja? Dammit, he couldn’t remember whether La Granja came before or after Espinho.
Darkness pressed on the window-panes. He got out his pen and prepared to take shorthand. He thought that one doesn’t realize it at the time, but everything in life can come in useful, even that shorthand course he had taken long ago. He hoped he was still fast enough and pressed the button to start.
The voice seemed to come from far away. The recording was very faulty, the words drifted off into nothing.
“… question I address chiefly to myself: what does it mean to be against death?………………………………………………………………………………
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….
………………………………………………………………………………………….. every man is absolutely indispensable to to all the others and all are absolutely indispensable to each……………………………………………………
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….
……………………………………………… and all are beings in a human sense leading to him, each man is the root of the human essence………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
…………………………………. I repeat, the human essence of man is the point of reference………………………………………………………………………….
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….
…………………………………………………….. the ethical affirmation is originally aimed against the negation of man, therefore the fact of his being against death is a positive thing in man, but since man has no experience of his own death, only that of others, in the light of which he can only imagine and fear his own……………………………………………..
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
…………………………………………………………………….. and it is the ultimate basis and insuperable condition of any humanistic ethic, that is of any…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….”