Antonio Tabucchi - Pereira Maintains

He left the article with Senhor Pedro and made it to the door. He felt like a wet rag and his insides were churning madly. It occurred to him to stop for a sandwich at the cafe at the corner, but in the end he only ordered a lemonade. Then he took a taxi as far as the cathedral. He entered the flat warily, afraid that someone might be lying in wait for him. But there was no one there, only an enormous silence. He went into the bedroom and gazed a moment at the sheet that covered Monteiro Rossi. Then he fetched a small suitcase, packed the absolute minimum and the file of obituaries, went to the bookshelves and began to hunt through Monteiro Rossi’s passports. Eventually he came across one that suited him. It was a French passport, a good piece of work, the photograph was of a fat man with bags under his eyes, and the age was about right. His name was Baudin, François Baudin. It sounded a pretty good name to Pereira. He slipped the passport into the suitcase and picked up the picture of his wife. I’m taking you with me, he told it, you’d much better come with me. He packed it face up, so that she could breathe freely. Then he took a look around and glanced at his watch.

Better be getting along, the Lisboa would be out any moment and there was no time to lose, Pereira maintains.

Also by Antonio Tabucchi

The Edge of the Horizon

Indian Nocturne

Letter from Casablanca

Little Misunderstandings of No Importance

The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro

Requiem: A Hallucination

It’s Getting Later All the Time