Antonio Tabucchi - Pereira Maintains

Unpublishable, thought Pereira, completely unpublishable. He pulled out the file marked ‘Obituaries’ and inserted the page. He has no idea why he did so, he could have simply chucked the thing away, but instead he filed it. Then, to get over the disgruntlement that had come over him, he decided to leave the office and make his way to the Café Orquídea.

When he reached the café the first thing he saw, Pereira maintains, was Marta’s copper-coloured hair. She was seated at a corner table near the fan, with her back to the door, and wearing the same dress as that evening at the Praça da Alegria, with shoulder-straps crossed at the back. Pereira maintains he thought Marta’s shoulders really lovely, finely moulded, well-proportioned, perfect. He went over to join her. Oh, Dr Pereira, said Marta serenely, I’m here instead of Monteiro Rossi, he couldn’t come today.

Pereira took a seat at the table and asked Marta if she would like an aperitif. Marta said she would very much appreciate a glass of dry port. Pereira called the waiter and ordered two dry ports. He knew he ought not to drink alcohol, but after all he’d be going next day to the thalassotherapeutic clinic to diet for a week. Well? asked Pereira when the waiter had brought their drinks. Well, answered Marta, these are difficult times for all concerned, Monteiro Rossi has left for Alentejo and he’ll be staying there for the time being, it’s best for him to be out of Lisbon for a while. And his cousin? asked Pereira without thinking. Marta gave him a glance and smiled. Yes, I know you’ve been a great help to Monteiro Rossi and his cousin, said Marta, you’ve been really splendid, Dr Pereira, you ought to be one of us. Pereira felt slightly nettled, he maintains, and took off his jacket. Listen Miss Marta, he protested, I am neither one of you nor one of them, I prefer to keep myself to myself, and in any case I don’t know who you and yours are and don’t wish to know, I am a journalist and my job is culture, I have just finished translating a story of Balzac’s and as far as your business is concerned I prefer not to be in the know, I’m not a reporter. Marta took a sip of port and said: We’re not providing fodder for the newspapers, Dr Pereira, that’s what I’d like to get across to you, we are living History. Pereira in turn took a sip of port and replied: Listen Miss Marta, History is a big word, I too have read Vico and Hegel in my time, and History is not the sort of animal you can domesticate. But perhaps you have not read Marx, objected Marta. No I haven’t, said Pereira, and he doesn’t interest me, I’ve had enough of the school of Hegel and let me repeat what I said before, that I think only about myself and culture, and that is my world. An anarcho-individualist? queried Marta, that’s what I’d like to know. And what’s that supposed to mean? demanded Pereira. Oh, said Marta, don’t tell me you don’t know the meaning of anarcho-individualist, Spain is full of them, the anarcho-individualists are getting a lot of attention at the moment and have actually done some heroic things, even if they could do with a bit more discipline, at least that’s what I think. Look Marta, said Pereira, I haven’t come to this café to talk politics, I already told you they leave me cold because I’m chiefly concerned with culture, I had an appointment with Monteiro Rossi and along you come and tell me he’s in Alentejo, what’s he gone to do in Alentejo?

Marta glanced round as if for the waiter. Shall we order something to eat? she asked, I have an appointment at three. Pereira summoned Manuel. They ordered two omelettes aux fines herbes then Pereira repeated: So what has Monteiro Rossi gone to do in Alentejo? He’s accompanying his cousin, replied Marta, his cousin got last-minute orders, it’s mostly Alentejans who are keen to go and fight in Spain, there’s a great democratic tradition in Alentejo, there are also a lot of anarcho-individualists like you, Dr Pereira, there’s plenty to do, and the fact is that Monteiro Rossi has had to take his cousin to Alentejo because that’s where they’re recruiting people. Very well, replied Pereira, I wish him good recruiting. The waiter brought the omelettes and they started in on them. Pereira tied his table-napkin round his neck, took a mouthful of omelette and then said: Look Marta, I’m leaving tomorrow for a thalassotherapeutic clinic near Cascais, I have health problems, tell Monteiro Rossi that his article on D’Annunzio is completely unusable, in any case I’ll give you the number of the clinic where I shall be for a week, the best time to call me is at mealtimes, and now tell me where Monteiro Rossi is. Marta lowered her voice and said: Tonight he’ll be at Portalegre with friends, but I’d rather not give you the address, and in any case it’s very temporary because he sleeps a night here and a night there, he has to keep moving all over Alentejo, it’ll most likely be him who’ll get in touch with you. Very well, said Pereira, handing her a slip of paper, this is my telephone number at the thalassotherapeutic clinic at Parede. I must be off, Dr Pereira, said Marta, please excuse me but I have an appointment and I have to get right across town.

Pereira stood up and said goodbye. Marta put on her Italian straw hat as she walked away. Pereira watched her leave the cafe, he was entranced by that slender silhouette outlined against the sunlight. He felt greatly cheered, almost lighthearted, but has no idea why. Then he beckoned to Manuel who bustled up and asked if he would care for a liqueur. But he was thirsty, the afternoon was a scorcher. He pondered a moment, then said all he wanted was a lemonade. And he ordered it really cold, packed with ice, he maintains.

Next day Pereira rose early, he maintains, drank some coffee, packed a small suitcase and slipped in Alphonse Daudet’s Contes du lundi . He might possibly stay on a few days longer, he thought to himself, and Daudet was an author who would suit the Lisboa down to the ground.

Passing through the hall he paused in front of his wife’s photograph and told it: Yesterday evening I saw Marta, Monteiro Rossi’s fiancee, I have an idea those youngsters are getting themselves into really bad trouble, in fact they’re already in it, in any case it’s none of my business, I need a week of thalassotherapy, Dr Costa has ordered it, and besides, Lisbon is stifling hot and I’ve translated Balzac’s Honorine , I’m leaving this morning, I’m just off to catch a train from Cais de Sodré and I’ll take you with me if you don’t mind. He picked up the photograph and laid it in his suitcase, face upwards, because his wife had all her life had such a need for air and he felt sure her picture also needed plenty of room to breathe. He made his way down to the cathedral square and waited for a taxi to take him to the station. Once there he thought he might have a bite to eat at the British Bar in the Cais de Sodré. He knew it was a place frequented by writers and he hoped to run across someone. In he went and sat down at a corner table. And sure enough there at the next table was Aquilino Ribeiro the novelist lunching with Bernardo Marques, the avant-garde artist who had designed and illustrated the leading Portuguese Modernist reviews. Pereira gave them good day and the two artists nodded in reply. It would be really something to lunch at their table, thought Pereira, to tell them how just yesterday he had received an article slating D’Annunzio and to hear what they had to say about it. But the two men were talking ten to the dozen and Pereira couldn’t pluck up courage to interrupt them. He gathered that Bernardo Marques intended to give up his art work and that the novelist had decided to go and live abroad. Pereira found this disheartening, he maintains, because he wouldn’t have expected a writer of that stamp to go and leave his country in the lurch. While he drank his lemonade and picked away at a plate of winkles, Pereira overheard a few snatches. Paris, said Aquilino Ribeira, the only conceivable place is Paris. Bernardo Marques nodded and said: I’ve had requests for work from several magazines, but I’ve no incentive to go on drawing, this country is bloody awful, it’s better not to let anyone have one’s work. Pereira finished his winkles and lemonade, got to his feet and paused a moment by the table where the two artists sat. Gentlemen, don’t let me interrupt your meal, he said, allow me to introduce myself however, I am Dr Pereira of the culture page of Lisboa , the whole of Portugal is proud to have two such artists as you, we have sore need of you.