Antonio Tabucchi - Pereira Maintains

Pereira maintains that he felt a sense of relief. He finished his lemonade and was tempted to have another but couldn’t make up his mind because he didn’t know how much longer Monteiro Rossi wanted to stay on, so he asked: What do you say to another round? Monteiro Rossi accepted and said he had the whole evening free and would like to talk about literature as he had very few opportunities to do so, he usually discussed philosophy, he only knew people exclusively concerned with philosophy. And at this point Pereira was reminded of an oft-repeated saying of an uncle of his, an unsuccessful writer, so he quoted it. He said: Philosophy appears to concern itself only with the truth, but perhaps expresses only fantasies, while literature appears to concern itself only with fantasies, but perhaps it expresses the truth. Monteiro Rossi grinned and said he thought this defined the two disciplines to a T. So Pereira asked him: What do you think of Bernanos? Monteiro Rossi appeared slightly at a loss at first and asked: The Catholic writer, you mean? Pereira nodded and Monteiro Rossi said gently: You know, Dr Pereira, as I told you on the telephone I don’t give a great deal of thought to death, or Catholicism either for that matter, because my father as I said was a naval engineer, a practical man who believed in progress and technology, and brought me up on those lines, although he was Italian I feel that he brought me up more in the English style, with a pragmatical view of life; I love literature but perhaps our tastes don’t coincide, at least as regards certain writers, but I do seriously need work and am willing to write advance obituaries for all the writers you ask for, or rather your paper does. It was then, Pereira maintains, that he felt a sudden surge of pride. He maintains it irked him that this young man should be giving him a lecture on professional ethics, and in a word he found it a sight too cheeky. He decided to adopt a haughty tone himself, and said: I don’t answer to my editor-in-chief for my decisions on literature, I am the editor of the culture page and I choose the writers who interest me, I have made up my mind to give you the job and also to give you a free hand; I would have liked Bernanos and Mauriac because I admire their work, but at this point I leave the decision up to you to do as you think fit. Pereira maintains that he instantly regretted having committed himself to such an extent, he risked trouble with the editor-in-chief by giving a free hand to this youngster whom he scarcely knew and who had openly admitted having copied his degree thesis. For a moment he felt trapped, he realized he had placed himself in a foolish situation. But luckily Monteiro Rossi resumed the conversation and began to talk about Bernanos, whose work he apparently knew quite well. He said: Bernanos has guts, he isn’t afraid to speak about the depths of his soul. At the sound of that word, soul, Pereira took heart again, he maintains, as if raised from a sickbed by some healing balm, and this caused him to ask somewhat fat-headedly: Do you believe in the resurrection of the body? I’ve never given it a thought, replied Monteiro Rossi, it’s not a problem that interests me, I assure you it simply isn’t a problem that interests me, but I could come to the office tomorrow, I could even do you an advance obituary of Bernanos but frankly I’d rather write a memorial piece on Lorca. Very well, said Pereira, I am the whole editorial staff and you will find me at number sixty-six Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca, near Rua Alexandre Herculano and just a step along from the kosher butcher, if you meet the caretaker on the stairs don’t take fright, she’s a harridan, just tell her you have an appointment with Dr Pereira and don’t get chatting with her, she’s probably a police informer.

Pereira maintains that he doesn’t know why he said this, perhaps simply because he detested the caretaker and the Salazarist police, but the fact is he saw fit to say it, though it wasn’t to set up some phoney complicity with this young man whom he had only just met; that wasn’t it, but the exact reason Pereira doesn’t know, he maintains.

When Pereira got up next morning, he maintains, there ready and waiting for him was a cheese omelette sandwiched between two hunks of bread. It was ten o’clock and his daily, Piedade, came in at eight. She had evidently made it for him to take to the office for lunch, because this woman knew his tastes inside out and Pereira adored cheese omelettes. He drank a cup of coffee, had a bath, put on a jacket but decided not to wear a tie. However, he slipped one in his pocket. Before leaving the flat he paused in front of his wife’s photograph and told it: I’ve come across a lad called Monteiro Rossi and have decided to take him on as an outside contributor and get him to do advance obituaries, at first I thought he was very bright but he now seems to me a trifle dim, he’d be about the age of our son if we’d had a son, there’s even a slight resemblance to me, he has that lock of hair flopping into his eyes, do you remember when I had a lock of hair flopping into mine? it was in our Coimbra days, well, I don’t know what else to tell you, we’ll just have to wait and see, he’s coming to the office today, he says he’ll bring me an obituary, he has a beautiful girlfriend with copper-coloured hair, called Marta, she’s just a bit too cocksure and talks politics but never mind, we’ll see how it goes.

He took the tram to Rua Alexandre Herculano, then trudged laboriously on foot up to Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca. When he reached the door he was drenched with sweat, it was a real scorcher. In the hallway as usual he met the caretaker who said: Good morning Dr Pereira. Pereira gave her a nod and climbed the stairs. The minute he entered the office he got down to shirtsleeves and switched on the fan. He couldn’t decide how to spend the time, it was nearly midday. He contemplated eating his omelette sandwich, but it was still early for that. Then he remembered the ‘Anniversaries’ feature and started to write. ‘Three years ago died the great poet Fernando Pessoa. By education he was English-speaking, but he chose to write in Portuguese because he declared that his motherland was the Portuguese language. He left us many beautiful poems scattered in various magazines and one long poem, Message , which is the history of Portugal as seen by a great artist who loved his country.’ He read over what he had written and found it nauseating, yes, nauseating was the word, Pereira maintains. So he chucked that page away and wrote: ‘Fernando Pessoa died three years ago. Very few people, almost no one, even knew he existed. He lived in Portugal as a foreigner and a misfit, perhaps because he was everywhere a misfit. He lived alone, in cheap boarding-houses and rented rooms. He is remembered by his friends, his comrades, those who love poetry.’

He reached for his omelette sandwich and took a bite. At that very moment he heard a knock at the door, so he hid the omelette sandwich away in a drawer, wiped his mouth on a sheet of flimsy paper and said: Come in. It was Monteiro Rossi. Good morning Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, I’m sorry I’m a bit early but I’ve brought you something, in fact last night when I got home I had an inspiration, and anyway I thought there was a chance of something to eat here at the Lisboa . Pereira patiently explained that that room was not the Lisboa itself but a separate office for the culture page, and that he, Pereira, was the whole office staff, he thought he had already made this clear, it was simply a room with a desk and a fan, because the Lisboa was only a minor evening paper. Monteiro Rossi sat himself down and pulled out a sheet of paper folded in four. Pereira took it and read it. Unpublishable, Pereira maintains, a completely unpublishable article. It described the death of Lorca, and began as follows: ‘Two years ago, in obscure circumstances, we lost the great Spanish poet Federico García Lorca. He was assassinated, and suspicion rests on his political opponents. The whole world is still wondering how such an act of barbarism could have been perpetrated.’