yes infamy…………………………………………………………………………………..
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
………. and I will attempt to explain what I mean by infamy…………………………………………………………………………………………………”
Firmino pressed the STOP button.
“After this the recording is even more of a washout,” he said, “but I assure you that from here on the lawyer’s speech was something to send shivers down your spine, I should have taken it down in shorthand at the time, but I’m not fast enough, and in any case I put my faith in this contraption.”
“That’s a shame,” said the waiter, “what happened next?”
“We come to his winding up,” said Firmino, “in which he recalled the Salsedo case.”
“What was that?” asked the waiter.
“I didn’t know either,” replied Firmino, “but it was some thing that happened in the United States, during the 1930s, I think, Salsedo was an anarchist who was pushed out of a police station window and the police made it out to be suicide, the case was revealed to the world by a lawyer who I think was called Galleani, and that was the end of the speech, but as you can hear there’s nothing left on the tape.”
The waiter got to his feet.
“In a while we’ll be arriving at Lisbon,” he said, “I must go and get my things together.”
“Make me out a bill,” said Firmino, “I’m paying for both of us.”
“That’s impossible,” objected the waiter, “I’d have to ring it up on the cash register, which also registers the time, and that would show that you’ve eaten at a time when one can’t eat.”
“I don’t follow the logic,” replied Firmino.
“Four scrambled eggs won’t ruin the Company,” said the waiter, “and it was nice to have someone to chat to, the journey seemed shorter, I’m only sorry about your recording, goodbye now.”
Firmino replaced the tape-recorder in his case and glanced through the notepad left open on the table. It was blank. The only thing he had managed to scribble down was the sentence. He re-read it.
“This Court, in virtue of the powers conferred on it by Law, having duly examined the evidence and heard the accused and Counsel for the defense and prosecution, condemns officers Costa and Ferro to two years of imprisonment for the charge of concealment of a corpse and failure to report aggravated by the fact that these offenses were committed by public officials in the exercise of their duties. However, the Court grants probation. It finds Sergeant Silva guilty of negligence in having left the station during duty hours, and suspends him from service for six months. It finds him not guilty of murder.”
The first lights of the outskirts began to twinkle through the carriage window. Firmino picked up his case and went out into the corridor. Not a soul in sight. He glanced at his watch. The train was on the dot.
Twenty-One
FIRMINO STEPPED OUT OF THE Faculty of Letters and halted at the top of the steps to scan the parking lot for Catarina. April was glittering in all its glory. Firmino looked at the trees in the large square of this university town bursting with early spring foliage.
He took off his jacket, it was almost hot enough to be summer. Then he spotted her car and started down the steps brandishing a sheet of paper.
“You can start packing,” was his triumphant cry, “we’re off!”
Catarina threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“When do we start?”
“At once. In theory even tomorrow.”
“For a whole year?”
“The whole year’s grant went to the chap who was in a class by himself,” said Firmino, “but they’ve given me six months, which is better than nothing, don’t you think?”
He rolled down the car window and murmured dreamily. “L’Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Elysées, the Musée d’Orsay, the Bibliothèque Nationale, the Latin Quarter — six months in the ‘Ville Lumière’—don’t you think we should celebrate?”
“Yes, let’s celebrate,” replied Catarina, “but are you sure the money will be enough for two?”
“The monthly grant comes to quite a bit,” replied Firmino, “of course Paris is a fiercely expensive city, but I also have the right to substantial meal tickets at the students’ canteen, it won’t be a life of luxury but we’ll get by.”
Catarina edged her way in to the traffic in Campo Grande.
“Where shall we go to celebrate?” she asked.
“Maybe at ‘Tony das Bifes,’” suggested Firmino, “however first go round the roundabout and take me to the office, I want to settle things at once with the Editor, and in any case it’s still only midday.”
THE SWITCHBOARD LADY IN HER wheelchair was already having her meal out of a small tinfoil dish and reading a weekly magazine she was particularly fond of.
“There you are, reading all our trade rivals,” teased Firmino in passing.
That morning the editorial staff was present in full strength. Firmino led Catarina through the maze of desks, gave Silva an amiable “Good morning, Monsieur Huppert”, rapped twice on the Editor’s glass door, and breezed right in.
“My fiancée,” announced Firmino.
“How d’you do,” murmured the Editor.
They sat themselves down on those agonizing white metal chairs which the Modernist architect had scattered everywhere. As usual the fug in the Editor’s office was unfit to breathe.
“I have a little matter I wish to discuss with you, sir,” said Firmino, not quite knowing how to begin. But then he charged in with: “I want to ask for six months’ leave.”
The Editor lit a cigarette, gave Firmino a blank look and said: “Explain yourself better.” Firmino set out to explain everything as best he could: the scholarship he had won, the chance of research work in Paris under a professor at the Sorbonne, and of course he would give up his salary, but if he left the paper he would be without social security, he didn’t ask the paper to pay his monthly installments, he’d do that out of his own pocket, it was just that he didn’t want to find himself in the position of being unemployed, because as the Editor very well knew, here in Portugal the unemployed were fobbed off with about enough to starve a stray dog, and in any case in six months’ time he’d be back at work again, cross his heart he would.
“Six months is a long time,” muttered the Editor, “and who knows how many cases will come our way in the next six months?”
“Think of it this way,” replied Firmino, “summer is on the doorstep, the holidays will soon be starting and people will be off to the seaside, it seems that people kill each other less in summertime, I’ve read it in some statistic or other, and maybe the job of special correspondent could be taken over by Senhor Silva, he’s really been panting for it.”
The Editor said nothing. He appeared to be thinking it over. Meanwhile Firmino had a sudden inspiration.
“Hey, I could send you reports from Paris, that’s a city with a mass of crimes passionels, it’s not every paper that can afford a special correspondent in Paris, and you’d have one free of charge. Just think how posh it would sound: from our special correspondent in Paris.”
“That might be a solution,” replied the Editor, “but I have to give it some thought, we’ll discuss the matter calmly tomorrow, and in the meanwhile let me think it over.”
Firmino got up to go. Catarina got up with him.
“Ah, one moment,” said the Editor, “there’s a telegram for you, arrived yesterday.”
He handed over the telegram and Firmino opened it. It read: “Must speak to you urgently Stop Expect you tomorrow in my library Stop Useless telephone me Stop Best wishes Fernando de Mello Sequeira.”