Antonio Tabucchi - Pereira Maintains

At eight thirty-five, Pereira maintains, he entered the Café Orquídea. The only reason he recognized Marta in the skinny little shrimp with cropped hair sitting near the fan was that she was wearing the same dress as ever, otherwise he would never have taken her for the same girl. She seemed another person, did Marta, with that cropped bleached hair and the fringe and the wisps curving forward over her ears, giving her a tomboy, rather foreign look, rather French, perhaps. What’s more she must have lost at least ten kilos. Of her shoulders, which Pereira remembered as so soft and shapely, there now remained two bony shoulder-blades that stuck out like the wings of a plucked chicken. Pereira sat down opposite her and said: Good evening Marta, what on earth has happened to you? I decided to change my appearance, replied Marta, in certain circumstances it’s necessary and in my case it became essential to make myself a different person.

Heaven knows why it occurred to Pereira to ask her a certain question. He cannot begin to say why he did it. Perhaps because she was too blonde and too unnatural and he could hardly recognize her as the girl he had known, perhaps because every so often she gave a furtive glance around as if expecting someone or afraid of something, but the fact is that he asked her: Is your name still Marta? To you I am Marta, of course, replied Marta, but I have a French passport, my name is Lise Delaunay, I am a painter by profession and am in Portugal to paint watercolour landscapes, though the real reason is simply travel.

Pereira felt a terrific urge to order an omelette aux fines herbes and a glass of lemonade, he maintains. What would you say to a couple of omelettes aux fines herbes ? he asked Marta. With pleasure, replied Marta, but first I’d really like a glass of dry port. So would I, said Pereira, and ordered two dry ports. I scent trouble, said Pereira, you’re in the soup Marta, you might as well admit it. I don’t deny it, answered Marta, but it’s the kind of trouble I like, I feel in my element, after all it’s the life I’ve chosen. Pereira shrugged his shoulders. Just as long as you’re happy, he said, and Monteiro Rossi, he’s in trouble too I imagine, because he hasn’t been in touch, what’s happening to him? I can tell you about myself but not about Monteiro Rossi, said Marta, I can answer only for myself, he hasn’t been in touch with you so far because he’s been in difficulties, he’ll still be out of Lisbon for a while, he’s on the move in Alentejo, his problems may be bigger than mine, in any case he’s short of money into the bargain and that’s why he’s sent you this article, he says it’s an anniversary article, you can give me the money if you like and I’ll see that he gets it.

Pereira would have liked to say: Don’t speak to me of those articles of his, obituaries or anniversaries it makes no difference, all I do is pay Monteiro Rossi out of my own pocket, I still don’t know why I don’t sack him, I offered him a job as a journalist, I gave him a chance of a career. But he uttered not a word of all this. Instead he took out his wallet and extracted two banknotes. Give him this from me, he said, and now let’s have the article. Marta took a sheet of paper from her handbag and handed it over. See here Marta, said Pereira, I’d like you to know there are certain things you can count on me for, even if I’d prefer to steer clear of your problems, as you know I don’t concern myself with politics, however if you hear from Monteiro Rossi tell him to get in touch, perhaps I can be of some help to him too in my way. You are a great help to all of us, Dr Pereira, said Marta, we of the cause will not forget it. They finished their omelettes and Marta said she had to be off. Pereira wished her luck and she slipped nimbly away between the tables. Pereira stayed on and ordered another lemonade. He would have liked to talk all this over with Father António or Dr Cardoso, but Father António was certainly asleep at that time of night and Dr Cardoso was away there at Parede. He drank his lemonade and called for the bill. What’s the latest news? he asked the waiter when he came to the table. Barbarous goings on, replied Manuel, barbarous goings on, Dr Pereira. Pereira put a hand on his arm. What do you mean by barbarous? he asked. Haven’t you heard what’s happening in Spain? replied the waiter. No, I haven’t, said Pereira. It seems there’s some great French writer who’s denounced Franco’s repression in Spain, said Manuel, and it’s created an awful fuss with the Vatican. What’s the name of this French writer? asked Pereira. Hmmm, replied Manuel, it’s slipped my mind for the moment, he’s a writer you’d know for certain, the name’s Bernan, Bernadette, something of the sort. Bernanos, exclaimed Pereira, he’s called Bernanos! That’s it, replied Manuel, that’s the name. He’s a great Catholic writer, said Pereira with pride, I knew he’d take a stand, he’s a man of the highest moral principles. And it occurred to him that perhaps he might publish a couple of chapters of the Journal d’un curé de campagne , which had never been translated into Portuguese.

He bade Manuel goodnight and left him a handsome tip. He would have liked to have a talk with Father António, but Father António was assuredly asleep by that time of night, he got up at six every morning to say Mass in the Church of the Mercês, Pereira maintains.

The next morning, Pereira maintains, he got up at the crack of dawn and went to pay a call on Father António. He came upon him in his sacristy, just as he was about to disrobe. The sacristy was wonderfully cool, and the walls were covered with religious pictures and ex-votos.

Good morning Father António, said Pereira, here I am at last. Pereira, exclaimed Father António, I haven’t seen you for ages, wherever have you been hiding yourself? I’ve been at Parede, explained Pereira, I spent a week at Parede. At Parede! exclaimed Father António, and what were you doing at Parede? I was at a thalassotherapeutic clinic, replied Pereira, taking seaweed baths and nature cures. Father António asked him to help him remove his stole and said: You certainly get some queer ideas. I’ve lost four kilos, said Pereira, and I met a doctor who told me an interesting theory about the soul. Is that why you’ve come? asked Father António. Partly, admitted Pereira, but I also wanted to talk about other things. Then talk away, said Father António. Well, began Pereira, it’s a theory advanced by two French philosophers who are also psychologists, they hold that we do not have a single soul but a confederation of souls guided by a ruling ego, and every now and then this ruling ego changes, so that although we establish a norm it isn’t a stable norm, but a variable one. Listen here, Pereira, said Father António, I’m a Franciscan, I’m a simple person, but it seems to me you’re becoming a heretic, the human soul is one and indivisible, and it was given us by God. Very well, replied Pereira, but if instead of soul, as the French philosophers have it, we use the word personality, there’s an end of heresy, and I’m convinced that we don’t have a single personality, but a lot of personalities living together under the leadership of a ruling ego. That sounds to me a dangerously insidious theory, objected Father António, the personality depends on the soul, and the soul is one and indivisible, what you’re saying smacks of heresy. All the same I feel a changed person from what I was a few months ago, said Pereira, I think things I would never have thought and do things I would never have done. Something must have happened in your life, said Father António. I’ve met two people, said Pereira, a young man and a girl, and maybe meeting them has changed me. It could be, replied Father António, other people influence us, it can happen. I really don’t see how they can influence me, said Pereira, they’re just two benighted romantics without a future, if anything I ought to influence them. I’m the one who supports them, in fact the young man practically lives at my expense, I do nothing but give him money out of my own pocket, I’ve taken him on as my assistant but he doesn’t write a single article I can publish, I say Father António, do you think I ought to make a proper confession? Have you committed any sins of the flesh? asked Father António. The only flesh I know is the flesh I lug around with me, replied Pereira. Then come, Pereira, don’t waste my time, because to hear a confession I have to concentrate and I don’t want to tire myself out, in a little while I have to visit my sick parishioners, let’s by all means talk of this and that and your affairs in general, but not under confession, just as friends.