Pereira Maintains

NINE

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.

They entered the restaurant, a nineteeth-century chamber with a ceiling festooned with painted flowers. The editor-in-chief was dining at a centre table in the company of a lady in an evening gown. When he looked up and saw Pereira an expression of complete incredulity spread over his face and he beckoned to him. Pereira crossed the room towards him while Silva made his way to another table. Good evening Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, it comes as a surprise to see you here, have you left the office to its own devices? The culture page came out today, said Pereira, I don’t know whether you’ve seen it yet, possibly the paper hasn’t reached Coimbra, there’s a Maupassant story and a feature called ‘Anniversaries’ which I’ve started on my own initiative, and in any case I’m only staying here a few days, on Wednesday I shall be back in Lisbon to get the culture page together for next Saturday. My apologies dear lady, said the editor-in-chief addressing his companion, allow me to introduce Dr Pereira, a member of my staff. Then he added: Senhora Maria do Vale Santares. Pereira inclined his head briefly. There’s something I wanted to tell you sir, he said, provided you have no objection I have decided to engage an assistant to give me a hand purely with advance obituaries of great writers who might die at any moment. Dr Pereira! exclaimed the editor-in-chief, here I am dining with a gracious, sensitive lady with whom I am conversing about choses amusantes, and you come and interrupt us with talk about people who might die at any moment, it seems to me rather less than tactful on your part. I’m very sorry sir, Pereira maintains he said, I didn’t intend to talk shop, but on the culture page one needs to foresee the death of great artists, and if one of them dies unexpectedly it’s a real problem to compose an obituary overnight, and what’s more you’ll remember that three years ago when T.E. Lawrence died not a single Portuguese paper got anything out on time, they all came out with their obituaries a week late, and if we want to be an up-to-date paper we must keep abreast of things. The editor-in-chief slowly chewed his way through a mouthful of something and said: Very well, very well Dr Pereira, after all I did give you a free hand as regards the culture page, I only want to know whether this assistant is going to cost us much and whether he is a trustworthy person. Oh as far as that’s concerned, replied Pereira, he strikes me as an undemanding person, he’s a modest young man, and what’s more he graduated from Lisbon University with a thesis on death, so he knows about death. The editor-in-chief raised a hand to cut him short, took a sip of wine and said: Come now, Dr Pereira, stop talking about death if you don’t mind or you will ruin our dinner, as for the culture page you may do as you see fit, I have confidence in you, you were a reporter for thirty years after all, and now good evening and enjoy your meal.

Pereira moved over to his table and took a seat opposite his friend. Silva asked if he would like a glass of white wine but he shook his head. He called the waiter and ordered a lemonade. Wine isn’t good for me, he explained, the cardiologist told me so. Silva ordered trout with almonds and Pereira ordered a fillet steak à la Stroganoff with a poached egg on top. They started eating in silence, then after a while Pereira asked Silva what he thought about all this. All this what? asked Silva. What’s going on in Europe, said Pereira. Oh don’t bother your head, replied Silva, we’re not in Europe here, we’re in Portugal. Pereira maintains he couldn’t let the matter rest: Yes, but you read the papers and listen to the wireless, he insisted, you know what’s going on in Germany and Italy, they’re fanatics, they’re out to put the world to fire and sword. Don’t bother your head, replied Silva, they’re miles away. True enough, said Pereira, but Spain isn’t miles away, it’s right next door, and you know what’s going on in Spain, it’s a bloodbath, despite the fact that there was a legally elected government, it’s all the fault of one bigot of a general. Even Spain is miles away, said Silva, we’re in Portugal here. That may be so, said Pereira, but even here things aren’t too rosy, the police have things all their own way, they’re killing people, they ransack people’s houses, there’s censorship, I tell you this is an authoritarian state, the people count for nothing, public opinion counts for nothing. Silva gave him a steady look and laid down his fork. Listen to me Pereira, said Silva, do you still believe in public opinion? well let me tell you public opinion is a gimmick thought up by the English and Americans, it’s them who are shitting us up with this public opinion rot, if you’ll excuse my language, we’ve never had their political system, we don’t have their traditions, we don’t even know what trade unions are, we’re a southern people, Pereira, and we obey whoever shouts the loudest and gives the orders. We’re not a southern people, objected Pereira, we have Celtic blood in us. But we live in the South, said Silva, the climate here doesn’t encourage us to have political opinions, laisser faire, laisser passer, that’s the way we’re made, and now listen to me and I’ll tell you something else, I teach literature and I know a thing or two about literature, I’m compiling a critical edition of our troubadours, the Cantigas de amigo, surely you remember them from university, in any case the young men went off to the wars and the women stayed at home and wept, and the troubadours recorded their laments, because everyone had to do what the king commanded don’t you see? the big chief gave the orders, we’ve always needed a big chief, and we still need one today. But I’m a journalist, said Pereira. So what? said Silva. So, said Pereira, I must be free to keep people properly informed. I don’t see the connection, said Silva, you don’t write political stuff, your business is the culture page. Now it was Pereira’s turn to lay down his fork and prop his elbows on the table. Listen to me old man, said he, just imagine if Marinetti died tomorrow, you’ve heard of Marinetti? Vaguely, said Silva. Well then, said Pereira, Marinetti’s a swine, he started his career by singing the praises of war, he’s set himself up as a champion of bloodshed, he’s a terrorist, he hailed Mussolini’s march on Rome, Marinetti is a swine and it’s my duty to say so. Then go and live in England, said Silva, there you can say whatever you like, you’ll have a mass of readers. Pereira finished his last mouthful of steak. I’m going to bed, he said, England’s too far away. Don’t you want any dessert? asked Silva, I rather fancy a slice of cake. Sweet things are bad for me, said Pereira, the cardiologist told me so, and what’s more I’m tired from the journey, but thank you for coming to fetch me from the station, good night, see you tomorrow.

Pereira got up and went off without another word. He was worn to a shred, he maintains.