Antonio Tabucchi - The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro

“Diocleciano is expecting you in the living-room,” she said, leading the way.

Diocleciano’s family living-room was a spacious apartment lit by a chandelier. The furniture, evidently bought at some discount store, was fake antique, with gilded legs and tops covered with sheets of glass. On the table in the middle of the room was a head on a dish, as in the Bible story. Firmino gave it a brief nauseated glance and turned to Senhor Diocleciano, who was seated at the head of the table as if playing host at a formal dinner.

“I fished it up at the mouth of the Douro,” he told Firmino. “I had hooks out for chub and a small net for shrimp, and it got stuck on the hooks.”

Firmino looked at the head on its dish, trying to overcome his repugnance. It must have been in the river some days. It was swollen and purple, one eye had been eaten by fish. He tried to give it an age, but failed. It might have been twenty, but the man could even have been forty.

“I have to turn it in at the morgue,” said Senhor Diocleciano as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “so if you want to take pictures of it make it quick, because I found it at five o’clock and there’s a limit to how much I can lie.”

Firmino took out his camera and got busy, photographing the head full face and in profile.

“Have you noticed this?” asked Senhor Diocleciano, “come closer.”

Firmino did not move. The old man was pointing a finger at one temple.

“Take a look at that.”

Firmino at last brought himself to approach, and saw the hole.

“It’s a hole,” he said.

“A bullet hole,” specified Senhor Diocleciano.

Firmino asked Senhor Diocleciano if he might make a telephone call, it would be a short one. He was taken to the telephone in the hall. At the office he got the answering service. Firmino left a message for the Editor.

“Firmino here, the severed head has been found in the river by a fisherman of corpses. I have photographed it. It has a bullet hole in the left temple. I’ll send the photos at once by fax or somehow, I’ll call by the Luso Agency, perhaps we can bring out a special edition, I’m not thinking of writing anything for the moment, comments are superfluous, I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

He went out into the warm Oporto night. This time he had no desire whatever for a taxi, a good walk was what he needed. But not down to the river, even though it was close by. He had no wish even to look at the river that evening.

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK FIRMINO WAS awakened by the house telephone. It was the mannish voice of the moustached maid.

“Your Editor wants you on the telephone, he says it’s urgent.”

Firmino dashed downstairs in his dressing-gown. The pension was still sleeping.

“The presses start rolling in half an hour,” said the Editor, “I’m getting out a special edition today, just a couple of pages but with all your shots, no need for a text, for the moment it’s better for you to keep quiet, at three this afternoon the mystery face will be spread all over the country.”

“How did the photos come out?” asked Firmino.

“Hideous,” replied the Editor, “but anyone who wants to recognize them will recognize them.”

Firmino felt a shiver run down his spine as he thought of the impact the paper would make: worse than a horror film. He plucked up courage and timidly enquired how the various photos would be arranged.

“On the front page we’re putting the full-face shot,” replied the Editor, “on the two inner pages the right and left profiles, and on the back page a postcard view of Oporto showing the Douro and the Iron Bridge, in color of course.”

Firmino went up to his room. He had a shower, shaved, and put on a pair of cotton trousers and a red Lacoste T-shirt, a present from his fiancée. He gulped down a cup of coffee and went out into the street. It was Sunday, the city was practically deserted. People were still sleeping, and later on would be going to the sea. He had an urge to go there himself, even if he had no swimming trunks with him, but just to get a breath of fresh air. Then he changed his mind. He had his guidebook with him and decided to explore the city, for example the markets, the working-class parts which he didn’t know. Going down the steep alleyways of the lower town he came across a bustle of activity he had not suspected. Truly Oporto kept up certain traditions which Lisbon had by now lost, such as fishwives, even on a Sunday, carrying baskets of fish on their heads, and then the “calls” of the street trades, which took him back to his childhood: the ocarinas of the knife-grinders, the croaking bugles of the vegetable sellers. He crossed Praça da Alegria, which was as lively as its name implied. There he found a little market of green-painted stalls where all manner of things were sold: second-hand clothes, flowers, legumes, traditional wooden toys and handmade crockery. He bought a small terracotta dish on which an artless hand had painted the tower of the Clérigos. He was sure his fiancée would like it. He came to Largo do Padrao, which was a market without really being one, in that the farmers and fishermen had simply set up improvised shops in the doorways and on the pavements of Rua de Santo Ildefonso. He arrived at the Fontainhas, where he found a small flea-market. Many of the stalls were closed, because Saturday was the big day there, but a certain amount of business was done even on Sunday morning. He paused by a stall selling exotic cage-birds. On the cages were strips of paper which indicated the name of the bird and the place of origin. Most of them came from Brazil or Madeira. Firmino thought of Madeira, and how lovely it would be to spend a dream-holiday there, as promised by the advertisements for Air Portugal. Next there was a second-hand book stall, and Firmino began to browse. He came across an old book about how a city, a century ago, communicated with the world. He cast an eye at the chapter on the newspapers and advertising of the period. He discovered that at the beginning of the nineteenth century there was a paper called O Artilheiro in which the following fascinating announcement appeared: “Persons wishing to dispatch packages to Lisbon or Coimbra by means of our horses may deposit the merchandise at the post station opposite the Tobacco Factory.” The next page was devoted to a paper called O Periódico dos Pobres , The Paupers’ Journal, in which the ads of the tripe-vendors appeared free of charge, the sale of tripe being regarded as a public service. Firmino was overcome by a wave of affection for this city towards which, when he didn’t know it at all, he had felt a certain hostility. He came to the conclusion that we are all subject to prejudice, and that unwittingly he had suffered a lapse in dialectics, that fundamental dialectic so dear to the heart of Lukács.

He glanced at his watch and thought about going to get something to eat, it was lunchtime, and he followed his nose to the Café Àncora. The place was crowded, even the restaurant part, but Firmino found a table and sat down. Almost at once the friendly waiter arrived.

“Did you find the gypsy?” he asked with a smile.

Firmino nodded.

“Later on, with your permission,” said the waiter, “we’ll talk about them, the gypsies, I mean. Meanwhile if you want a quick dish freshly prepared today, I recommend the octopus salad with oil, lemon and parsley.”

Firmino agreed, and a minute later the waiter arrived with his order.

“Do you mind if I sit down for a moment?” he asked.

Firmino invited him to do so.

“Excuse my asking,” said the waiter politely, “may I ask what job you do?”

“I’m a journalist,” replied Firmino.

“Wow!” exclaimed the waiter, “in that case you can help us. Where, in Lisbon?”