Antonio Tabucchi - The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro

— What do you mean by “his gang?”

Two members of the Guardia Nacional who never leave his side.

— Did you recognize them?

One of them yes, his name is Costa, he’s got an enormous swollen belly because he has cirrhosis. The other I don’t know, a young kid, maybe a recent recruit.

— And what happened .

Damasceno was carrying four packets of drugs wrapped in plastic. He realized that I’d done a disappearing act and faced up to the Green Cricket.

— And what did the sergeant do?

He began to hop on one leg and then the other as he does when he’s mad, then he began to stutter, because as I told you when he’s angry he stutters, and you can’t understand a word that comes out of his mouth.

— Then what?

He stuttered away and said: “you son-of-a-bitch that stuff is mine.” I could see him through the crack in the screen door. Then the Green Cricket grabbed the packets of stuff and did an incredible thing.

— What was that?

He opened one of them with a clasp-knife, he literally ripped it open, and shook the whole contents out on Damasceno’s head. He said: son-of-a-bitch, I baptize you. Do you realize what that means? He was throwing away millions and millions.

— What next?

Damasceno was covered with powder, as if he’d been snowed on, and the Cricket was really nervous, hopping from side to side like a devil, in my opinion he’d had a fix.

— How d’you mean?

That he’d had a fix. The Cricket sells the stuff, but every so often he takes it too, and he has bad stuff, like some people have bad wine, and he wanted to bump off Damasceno there and then.

— Please make yourself clearer: bump off Damasceno in what sense?

The Cricket had pulled out his pistol, he was hysterical, he pointed it at Damasceno’s temple and then at his belly and yelled: son-of-a-bitch, I’m going to kill you.

— Did he fire?

He fired all right but the shot went high, it hit the ceiling, if you go to the offices of the Stones of Portugal I bet you’ll be sure to find a hole in the ceiling, he didn’t kill him because his men intervened and deflected the shot, and he put the pistol back in its holster.

— What next?

The Cricket realized he couldn’t kill him there on the spot, but that doesn’t mean he’d cooled off. He gave Damasceno a kick in the balls that doubled him up, then kneed him in the face, just like in the movies, and he started kicking him again and again. Then he ordered his gang to carry Damasceno to the car, they’d reckon up with him when they got him to the station.

— What about the packets of drugs?

They tucked them into their jackets, loaded Damasceno into the car and set off for Oporto. They were all mad with rage, like wild beasts that had smelt blood.

— Do you want to tell us anything else?

The rest is up to you. Next morning Damasceno’s body was found by a gypsy on a piece of waste ground, he had been beheaded as you know. And now it’s my turn to ask you a question: what conclusions can you draw from all this?

AND THIS IS THE question your correspondent wishes to put to all his readers.

DONA ROSA’S PENSION WAS quiet at that time of day. The few guests had not yet returned. In the lounge the television, at very low volume, was broadcasting a gossip program until it was time for the news.

“Let’s see if the news mentions it,” growled the lawyer.

The sheer bulk of the man overflowed from one of the padded armchairs in Dona Rosa’s sitting-room, he drank water and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He had only just arrived and had sat down in silence in the lounge, while Dona Rosa rushed off unbidden to fetch him a bottle of fizzy mineral water.

“I’ve just come from the Public Prosecutor’s offices,” he added, “the first interrogations have already taken place.”

Firmino said nothing. Dona Rosa, moving on tiptoe, gently adjusted the antimacassars on the armchairs.

“Do you think the news will mention it?” repeated the lawyer.

“I think so,” replied Firmino, “but we’ll see how.”

It was in fact the first item, an informative coverage which really took everything from the press, especially the interview given by Torres to Acontecimento , and stating that this was all they could disclose for now because of the secrecy imposed during preliminary investigations. In the studio was the inevitable sociologist who provided an analysis of violence in Europe, spoke of an American film in which a man was decapitated, and arrived at conclusions verging on psychoanalysis.

“But what’s all this got to do with it?” asked Firmino.

“Just chit-chat,” commented the lawyer laconically, “oh yes they’re falling back on the secrecy thing, what do you say to inviting me to dinner? I feel a real need to relax.”

He turned to Dona Rosa.

“Dona Rosa, what is the house offering this evening?”

Dona Rosa showed him the menu. The lawyer made no comment but appeared satisfied, for he got up and beckoned to Firmino to follow him. The dining-room was still in darkness, but the lawyer switched on the lights as if he owned the place and chose the table he wanted.

“If you have half a bottle of wine left over from lunch,” he said to Firmino, “tell Dona Rosa to chuck it away, I can’t stand those half-finished bottles they put on the table in some pensions. I find them depressing.”

That evening Dona Rosa’s cook had made meatballs smothered in tomato sauce, and the first course was green-cabbage soup. The little moustached maid entered with the steaming tureen and the lawyer told her to leave it on the table, just in case.

“You were speaking of the preliminary secrecy,” said Firmino, feeling he had at least to say something.

“Ah yes,” replied the lawyer, “preliminary secrecy, I’d like to talk to you about this so-called secrecy, but it would inevitably lead on to very weighty matters which might bore you, and I have no wish to bore you.”

“You’re not boring me in the least,” replied Firmino.

“Don’t you think this soup is a little too thin?” asked the lawyer, “personally I like it thicker, potatoes and onions are the secret of a good green-cabbage soup.”

“Anyway you’re not boring me at all,” replied Firmino, “if you want to talk about such things go ahead, I’m all ears.”

“I’ve lost my thread,” said the lawyer.

“You were telling me that the matter of preliminary secrecy would have inevitably led to a more boring discussion,” Firmino reminded him.

“Ah yes, of course,” mumbled the lawyer.

The maid came in with the dish of meatballs and started to serve them. The lawyer had his positively smothered with tomato sauce. “Ethics,” said the lawyer while stirring a meatball around in the sauce.

“Ethics meaning?” enquired Firmino.

“Professional ethical-preliminary secrecy,” replied the lawyer, “that is an inseparable binomial, at least apparently.”

The meatball he was attempting to dissect flew off at a tangent and landed on his shirtfront. The maid saw all and darted over, but with a peremptory gesture the lawyer waved her away.

“Meatball and shirtfront, that also is a binomial, at least as far as I am concerned. I don’t know whether or not you have realized that the world is binary, nature runs on binary structures, or at least our western culture does, which after all is the one which has catalogued everything, just think of the eighteenth century, the naturalists, Linnaeus for example, but who are we to blame him, for the fact is that this pathetic little ball rolling around in space, and on which we are traveling, is subject to an absolutely simple system, which is the binary system, what do you think about that?”