Antonio Tabucchi - Pereira Maintains

That Saturday morning, on the dot of midday, Pereira maintains, the telephone rang. Pereira had not brought his omelette sandwich to the office that day, partly because he was trying to skip a meal every now and again as the cardiologist had advised him, and partly because even if he failed to stave off the pangs of hunger he could always get an omelette at the Café Orquídea.

Good morning Dr Pereira, said the voice of Monteiro Rossi, this is Monteiro Rossi speaking. I was expecting a call from you, said Pereira, where are you? I am out of town, said Monteiro Rossi. Excuse me, insisted Pereira, but out of town where? Out of town, replied Monteiro Rossi. Pereira maintains he was slightly nettled by such a stiff uninformative response. From Monteiro Rossi he would have liked more cordiality, even gratitude, but he restrained his vexation and said: I have sent a sum of money to your post office box. Thank you, said Monteiro Rossi, I’ll go and pick it up. And he volunteered nothing more. So Pereira asked him: When do you intend to call in at the office? perhaps it would be a good thing to have a tête-à-tête. I’ve no idea when I’ll be able to call on you, replied Monteiro Rossi, to tell the truth I was just writing a note to fix a meeting somewhere, if possible not in the office. It was then that Pereira realized something was up, he maintains, and lowering his voice, as if someone else might be listening in, he asked: Are you in trouble? Monteiro Rossi did not answer and Pereira thought he hadn’t heard. Are you in trouble? repeated Pereira. In a way yes, said the voice of Monteiro Rossi, but it’s not something to talk about over the telephone, I’ll write you a note to fix a meeting for the middle of next week, the fact is I need you, Dr Pereira, I need your help, but I’ll tell you about it when I see you, and now you must excuse me, I’m calling from somewhere very inconvenient and I have to hang up, forgive me Dr Pereira we’ll talk about it when we meet, goodbye for now.

The telephone went click and Pereira hung up in turn. He felt apprehensive, he maintains. He considered what was best to do and made his decisions. First of all he would have a lemonade at the Café Orquídea and stay on there for an omelette. Then, in the afternoon, he would take a train to Coimbra and find his way from there to the baths at Buçaco. He would be sure to meet his editor-in-chief, that was inevitable, and Pereira had no wish to get into conversation with him, but he had a good excuse for not spending any time with him because his friend Silva was also at the spa for his holidays and had often invited him to join him there. Silva was an old college friend at Coimbra now teaching literature at the university, a cultured and sensible man, a level-headed bachelor, it would be a pleasure to spend two or three days in his company. And in addition he would drink the health-giving waters of the spa, stroll in the gardens and perhaps take a few inhalations, because his breathing was terribly laboured, he was often forced to breathe through his mouth, especially when climbing stairs.

He pinned a note to the door: ‘Back mid-week, Pereira’. Luckily he did not meet the caretaker and this was some comfort to him. He went out into the blinding midday light and made for the Café Orquídea. As he passed the kosher butcher he noticed a small gathering outside it, so he stopped. He saw that the window was smashed and the shopfront covered with scrawls which the butcher was busy covering with white paint. He edged his way through the crowd and went up to the butcher, whom he knew well, young Mayer, he had also known his father well, old Mayer, with whom he had many a time partaken of a lemonade at one of the cafés down by the river. Then old Mayer had died and left the shop to his son David, a hulking youngster with quite a paunch in spite of his youth and a jovial air about him. David, asked Pereira, what’s happened here? You can see for yourself, replied David as he wiped his paint-stained hands on his butcher’s apron, we live in a world of hooligans, it was the hooligans. Have you called the police? asked Pereira. You must be joking, replied David, you must be joking. And he went on covering the scrawlings with white paint. Pereira walked on to the Café Orquídea and took a seat inside, next to the fan. He ordered a lemonade and took off his jacket. Have you heard what’s going on, Dr Pereira? asked Manuel. Pereira’s eyes widened and he asked: The kosher butcher? Kosher butcher my foot, Manuel flung back over his shoulder, that’s the least of it.

Pereira ordered an omelette aux fines herbes and lingered over it. The Lisboa came out at five o’clock and he wouldn’t see it because he’d be on the train to Coimbra by then. Perhaps he could send for a morning paper, but he doubted if the Portuguese papers reported the event the waiter was referring to. Rumours simply spread, news travelled by word of mouth, all you could do was ask around in the cafés, listen to gossip, it was the only way of keeping in touch with things, other than buying some foreign paper from the newsagent in Rua do Ouro, but the foreign papers, if they arrived at all, were three or four days old, so it was useless to go hunting for a foreign paper, the best thing was to ask. But Pereira had no wish to ask anyone anything, he simply wanted to get away to the spa, enjoy a day or two of peace and quiet, talk to his friend Professor Silva and not think about all the evil in the world. He ordered another lemonade, asked for his bill, left the cafe and went to the central post office where he sent two telegrams, one to the hotel at the spa to book a room and the other to his friend Silva: ‘ARRIVE COIMBRA BY EVENING TRAIN STOP IF YOU CAN MEET ME WITH CAR WOULD BE GRATEFUL STOP AFFECTIONATELY PEREIRA.’

Then he went home to pack a suitcase. He thought he would leave buying his ticket until he got to the station, he had all the time in the world, he maintains.

When Pereira’s train drew in to Coimbra a magnificent sunset was outspread over the city, he maintains. He looked around but saw no sign of his friend Silva on the platform. He supposed the telegram had not arrived or else Silva had left the spa. But on reaching the booking-hall he saw his friend seated on a bench smoking a cigarette. He was delighted and hurried to meet him. He hadn’t seen him for quite a while. Silva gave him a hug and took his suitcase. They left the station and walked to the car. Silva had a black Chevrolet with shining chrome, roomy and comfortable.

The road to the spa led through a countryside of lush green hills and was just one bend after another. Pereira wound the window down, he was beginning to feel a little queasy and the fresh air did him good, he maintains. They talked very little during the journey. How are you getting along? asked Silva. So so, replied Pereira. Still living alone? asked Silva. Yes, alone, replied Pereira. I think it’s bad for you, said Silva, you ought to find a woman who’d keep you company and jolly your life up a bit, I realize you’re still very attached to the memory of your wife, but you can’t spend the rest of your life nurturing memories. I’m old, replied Pereira, I’m fat and I’ve got heart trouble. You’re not old at all, said Silva, you’re the same age as I am, and after all you could go on a diet, treat yourself to a holiday, take more care of your health. Humph, replied Pereira.

Pereira maintains that the hotel at the spa was a wonder, a shining white mansion set amid spacious gardens. He went up to his room and changed. He donned a light-coloured suit and a black tie. Silva was waiting for him in the lobby sipping an aperitif. Pereira asked if he had seen his editor-in-chief. Silva answered with a wink. He dines every evening with a middle-aged blonde, he replied, she’s a guest in the hotel, he appears to have found himself some company. Just as well, said Pereira, it’ll let me off having to discuss business.