Antonio Tabucchi - Pereira Maintains

Pereira said: Very well, goodbye, and hung up. António Ferro, he thought, that frightful António Ferro, the worst of it was he was a shrewd, intelligent man, and just to think he’d been a friend of Fernando Pessoa’s, ah well, concluded Pereira, it must be admitted that even Pessoa picked himself some pretty queer friends. Pereira then had a shot at an anniversary feature on Camoens and stuck at it until half-past twelve. He then chucked the lot in the wastepaper basket. The devil take Camoens as well, he thought, that great bard who sang the heroism of the Portuguese Race, ha ha some heroism, thought Pereira. He put on his jacket and left the office for the Café Orquídea. There he took his place at the usual table. Manuel came bustling up and Pereira ordered a seafood salad. He ate slowly, very slowly, then went to the telephone. He fished out the scrap of paper with the numbers Monteiro Rossi had given him. The first number rang for a long time but no one answered. He called it again, he had mis-dialled so often in the past. The number rang for a long time but no one answered. Then he tried the other number. A woman’s voice came on the line. Hullo, said Pereira, I would like to speak to Senhora Delaunay. I don’t know anyone of that name, replied the woman’s voice cagily. Good afternoon, repeated Pereira, I’m looking for Senhora Delaunay. Excuse me, but who is calling? asked the voice. Listen madam, said Pereira, I have an urgent message for Lise Delaunay, would you kindly put her on. There is no one here by the name of Lise, said the voice, I think you must have dialled a wrong number, who gave you this number may I ask? It doesn’t matter, replied Pereira, but if I can’t speak to Lise at least put me on to Marta. Marta? said the woman in apparent bewilderment, Marta who? there are so many Martas in this world. Pereira realized he didn’t know Marta’s surname so he simply said: Marta is a thin girl with blonde hair who also answers to the name of Lise Delaunay, I am a friend and have an important message for her. I’m sorry, said the woman but there’s no Marta here and no Lise either, good afternoon. The telephone went click and Pereira was left with the receiver in his hand. He hung up and returned to his table. What can I bring you? asked Manuel, bustling up. Pereira ordered a lemonade with sugar, then asked: Any news of interest? I’ll be finding out at eight o’clock this evening, said Manuel, I have a friend who gets the BBC from London, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow if you like.

Pereira drank his lemonade and paid the bill. He left and went back to his office. He found Celeste in her cubbyhole still poring over the calendar. Anything new? asked Pereira. There was a phone-call for you, said Celeste, it was a woman but she wasn’t too keen on telling her business. Did she leave a name? asked Pereira. It was a foreign-sounding name, replied Celeste, but it’s slipped my mind. Why didn’t you write it down? said Pereira reproachfully, you’re supposed to work the switchboard, Celeste, you’re supposed to take messages. I have enough trouble writing Portuguese, replied Celeste, I can do without foreign names, it was a complicated name. Pereira’s heart missed a beat and he asked: And what did this person want, Celeste, what did she say? She said she’d got a message for you and she was looking for a Senhor Rossi, what an odd name, and I said there was no one here by the name of Rossi, this was the editorial office of the culture page of the Lisboa , so I called the head office because I thought I’d find you there, I wanted to inform you, but you weren’t there so I left a message that you were wanted by some foreign lady, a certain Lise, so there! I’ve remembered it. You told them at the head office that someone was looking for this Senhor Rossi? asked Pereira. No, Dr Pereira, replied Celeste with a sly wink, I didn’t tell them that, I didn’t see the point, I just said that this Lise was looking for you, so don’t you worry Dr Pereira, if they want you they’ll find you. Pereira glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock, he decided not to go upstairs but said: Listen Celeste, I’m going home because I don’t feel too well, if anyone telephones ask them to call me at home, maybe I won’t come to the office tomorrow so please take in my mail.

When he got home it was nearly seven. He had dawdled for quite a while at Terreiro do Paço, sitting on a bench and watching the ferries leaving for the other side of the Tagus. It was lovely, that early evening hour, and Pereira felt like making the most of it. He lit a cigar and inhaled deeply. While he was sitting there a tramp came and sat down by him, he had a mouth-organ and played him some old Coimbra songs dear to his heart.

When Pereira entered the flat he couldn’t find Monteiro Rossi at once and this gave him quite a fright, he maintains. But Monteiro Rossi was in the bathroom doing his ablutions. I’m having a shave, Dr Pereira, Monteiro Rossi called out, I’ll be with you in five minutes. Pereira took off his jacket and laid the table. He used the plates from Caldas da Rainha, as on the night before, and on the table he placed two fresh candles bought that morning. Then he went into the kitchen and wondered what he should make for supper. For some reason it occurred to him to try to make an Italian dish, even though he knew nothing about Italian cooking. He thought he’d invent a dish, he maintains. He carved a thick slice of ham and chopped it into small cubes, then beat up two eggs, stirred in plenty of grated cheese and tipped in the ham, added oregano and marjoram, mixed everything together thoroughly and then put on a pan of water to boil for the pasta. There’d been some spaghetti in the cupboard for quite some time, and when the water boiled he dumped it in. Monteiro Rossi entered looking as fresh as a rose, Pereira’s khaki shirt enveloping him like a sheet. I thought I’d make an Italian dish, said Pereira, I don’t know if it’s really Italian, perhaps it’s just an invention but at least it’s spaghetti. What a treat, said Monteiro Rossi, I haven’t had spaghetti for ages. Pereira lit the candles and dished up. I tried to ring Marta, he said, but at the first number there was no answer and the second number was answered by a woman who pretended to be slow on the uptake, I even said I wanted to speak to Marta but it was no use, then when I got to my office the caretaker told me that someone had rung me, it was probably Marta looking for you, perhaps rather rash of her, in any case someone now knows I’m in touch with you, I’m afraid this will cause problems. What am I to do? asked Monteiro Rossi. If you’ve got anywhere safer you’d better go there, replied Pereira, otherwise stay here and we’ll wait and see. He fetched the maraschino cherries and took one without any juice. Monteiro Rossi filled his glass. At that moment came knocking at the door. Determined blows fit to break the door down. Pereira wondered how they had managed to get in at the street door, and for a second or two was stricken dumb. The knocking came again, more furious still. Who’s there? called Pereira getting to his feet, what do you want? Open up, police, open up or we’ll shoot the door down! Monteiro Rossi dashed into the next room, all he managed to blurt out was: The passports, Dr Pereira, hide the passports. They’re already safe, Pereira assured him, and made for the hall to open the door. As he passed his wife’s photograph he cast a glance of complicity at that faraway smile. Then he opened the door, he maintains.

Pereira maintains there were three of them, in civilian clothes, pistols in their fists. The first to enter was a weedy little runt with a moustache and brown goatee. Political police, announced the weedy runt with an air of authority, we have orders to search this flat, we’re looking for someone. Let me see your identity cards, demanded Pereira stoutly. The weedy runt turned to his companions, two dark-suited thugs, and said: You hear that, lads, what do you think of it? One of the pair pointed his pistol straight at Pereira’s mouth and hissed: How’s this for identification, fatty? Come come, lads, said the weedy runt, I won’t have you treat Dr Pereira that way, he’s a leading journalist, he writes for a respectable newspaper, perhaps a shade too Catholic, I won’t deny that, but with the right political alignment, and now Dr Pereira, stop wasting our time, we haven’t come for a cosy chat and wasting time isn’t our strong point, anyway we know you’re not involved, you’re a worthy person, you just didn’t know who you were dealing with, you went and placed your confidence in a shady character, but I’ve no wish to get you into trouble, just let us get on with our work. I am the editor of the culture page of the Lisboa spluttered Pereira, I want to speak to someone, I want to telephone to my editor-in-chief, does he know you’re here at my house? Come off it, Dr Pereira, replied the weedy runt in mellifluous tones, do you imagine that before we carry out police operations we inform your editor-in-chief, what can you be thinking of? But you’re not the police, insisted Pereira, you’re not official, you’re not in uniform, you have no authority to enter my home. The weedy runt smirked at the two thugs over his shoulder and said: The master of the house is recalcitrant, lads, I wonder how we can make him see reason. The man covering Pereira with his pistol landed him a terrific back-hander that sent Pereira reeling. Now now, Fonseca, that won’t do, said the weedy runt, you mustn’t maltreat Dr Pereira, otherwise you’ll scare him out of his wits, he’s a delicate fellow in spite of being so big and fat, he’s in the culture business, he’s an intellectual, Dr Pereira must be persuaded gently else he’ll piss in his pants. The thug called Fonseca lashed out with another backhander and Pereira staggered again, he maintains. Fonseca, said the weedy runt with another smirk, you’re a sight too rough, I’ll have to keep my eye on you mate, or you’ll spoil all my good work. Then he turned to Pereira and said: Dr Pereira, as I was saying we’ve got nothing against you, we’ve only come to teach a little lesson to a young man who’s here in your flat, a person who requires a little lesson because he doesn’t know the true values of his country, he’s lost touch with them, poor chap, and we’re here to help him find them again. Pereira rubbed his cheek and mumbled: There’s no one here. The weedy runt cast a glance around the place and said: Careful now Dr Pereira, don’t make things hard for us, this young man’s your guest and we only want to ask him a few questions, it’s only a matter of a brief interrogation to see that he regains his sense of patriotism, that’s all we want to do, that’s all we’ve come for. Then let me ring the police, insisted Pereira, let them come and take him to head quarters, that’s where they carry out interrogations, not in people’s homes. Come now Dr Pereira, said the weedy runt with his ghost of a smirk, you’re not being in the least bit cooperative, your flat is ideal for a private interrogation like ours, your caretaker is away, your neighbours have moved to Oporto, it’s a nice quiet evening and this building is a perfect joy, so much more discreet than a police station, don’t you think?