Pereira Maintains

TEN

Next morning Pereira woke at six. He had a cup of black coffee, though he had to press for it, he maintains, because room service only started at seven. Then he went for a walk in the gardens. The baths also opened at seven, and at seven on the dot Pereira was at the gates. Silva wasn’t there, the editor-in-chief wasn’t there, there was practically no one at all and Pereira maintains it was a great relief. He started by drinking two glasses of water tasting of rotten eggs, after which he felt slightly sick and his insides began to churn around. He would have appreciated a nice cool lemonade, because despite the early hour it was already hotting up, but he thought he shouldn’t mix lemonade and sulphur water. Then he went to the bath-houses where they made him strip and put on a white bath-robe. Mud bath or inhalations? asked the receptionist. Both, replied Pereira. He was ushered into a room containing a marble bathtub full of brownish liquid. Pereira removed his bath-robe and climbed in. The mud was lukewarm and gave him a feeling of well-being. At a certain point an attendant came in and asked him where he needed massage. Pereira told him he didn’t want massage at all, only the bath, and would prefer to be left in peace. When he got out of the tub he had a cool shower, donned the bath-robe again and went next door where there were jets of steam for inhalation. In front of these jets lots of people were already seated, their elbows propped on a marble shelf, breathing in blasts of hot air. Pereira found a free spot and sat down. He breathed deeply for several minutes, and lost himself in his thoughts. These turned to me reason also to his wife’s photograph. It was nearly two days since he had talked to his wife’s photograph and Pereira maintains he regretted not bringing it with him. He got to his feet, went back to the changing-rooms, got dressed, put on his black tie, then left the baths and returned to the hotel. In the restaurant he spied his friend Silva tucking in to croissants and café-au-lait. Fortunately the editor-in-chief was not to be seen. Pereira went up to Silva, bade him good morning, told him he had taken the waters and continued: There’s a train for Lisbon at about midday, I’d be grateful for a lift to the station, if you can’t manage it I’ll take the hotel taxi. What, off already? exclaimed Silva, I was hoping to spend a couple of days with you. You must forgive me, but I have to be back in town this evening, lied Pereira, I have an important article to write tomorrow, and anyway, you know, I don’t like the idea of leaving the office in the hands of the caretaker, so I’d really rather get back. It’s up to you, replied Silva, I’ll certainly give you a lift.

During the drive they said nothing at all. Pereira maintains that Silva seemed to be in a huff, but he himself did nothing to make things easier. Never mind, he thought, never mind. They reached the station at eleven-fifteen and the train was waiting at the platform. Pereira climbed aboard and waved goodbye through the window. Silva gave him a hearty wave in return and went his way.

Pereira took a seat in a compartment where a woman reading a book was already seated. She was handsome, blonde and chic, with a wooden leg. As she was in a window seat Pereira took a place by the corridor so as not to disturb her. He noticed, however, that she was reading a book by Thomas Mann, and in German at that. This aroused his curiosity, but for the moment he said nothing except good morning Senhora. The train pulled out at eleven-thirty and a few minutes later the waiter came round to take bookings for the dining-car. Pereira booked a place because he felt that his stomach was a little upset, he maintains, and needed something to settle it. It wasn’t a long journey, to be sure, but they would reach Lisbon rather late for lunch, and he had no wish to go searching around for somewhere to eat when he got there, not in that heat.

The lady with the wooden leg also booked for the dining-car. Pereira noticed that she spoke good Portuguese but with a slight foreign accent. This, he maintains, redoubled his curiosity and steeled him to make a suggestion. Senhora, said he, please forgive me, I have no wish to be intrusive, but seeing that we are travelling companions and have both booked for the dining-car I suggest we share a table, we can enjoy a little conversation and perhaps feel less lonely, eating alone is so gloomy, especially on a train, allow me to introduce myself, I am Dr Pereira, editor of the culture page of the Lisboa, an evening paper published in Lisbon. The lady with the wooden leg gave him a broad smile and held out her hand. Very glad to meet you, said she, my name is Ingeborg Delgado, I am German but of Portuguese ancestry, I have come to Portugal to rediscover my roots.

The waiter came by ringing the bell for lunch. Pereira got up and stood aside for Senhora Delgado. He did not presume to offer her his arm, he maintains, because he thought this might be mortifying to a lady with a wooden leg. But Senhora Delgado moved pretty smartly despite her artificial limb, and led the way along the corridor. The dining-car was close to their compartment so luckily their walk was a short one. They chose a table on the left-hand side of the train. Pereira tucked his napkin into the collar of his shirt and immediately felt embarrassed about it. Forgive me, he said, but when I eat I always seem to mess up my shirt, my daily says I’m worse than a child, I hope you don’t think I’m too provincial. Meanwhile outside the train window flowed the gentle landscape of central Portugal, with its green pine-covered hills and dazzling white villages, and now and then the black dot of a peasant working in the vineyards. Do you like Portugal? asked Pereira. Yes, I do, replied doubt I’ll be staying here long, I have visited my relatives in Coimbra, I have rediscovered my roots, but this is not a country for me or for people of my race, I am awaiting a visa from the American Embassy and soon, I hope, I shall be leaving for the United States. Pereira thought he caught her meaning so he asked: Are you Jewish? Yes, I am Jewish, confirmed Senhora Delgado, and Europe in these times is not a suitable place for people of my race, especially Germany, but even here we are not very popular, I can tell it from the newspapers, perhaps the paper you work for is an exception, even if it seems so Roman Catholic in its views, too much so for non-Catholics like myself. But this is a Catholic country, replied Pereira, and I ought to tell you that I’m a Catholic myself, even if in my own way, unfortunately we did have the Inquisition and that doesn’t do us much credit, but I, for example, don’t believe in the resurrection of the body, I don’t know if that means anything to you? I’ve no idea what it means, said Senhora Delgado, but I’m fairly sure it’s none of my business. I noticed you were reading a book by Thomas Mann, said Pereira, he’s a writer I very much admire. He too is not happy about what’s going on in Germany, said Senhora Delgado, I don’t think he’s happy about it at all. Maybe I’m not happy about what’s going on in Portugal, admitted Pereira. Senhora Delgado took a sip of mineral water and said: Then do something about it. Such as what? asked Pereira. Well, said Senhora Delgado, you’re an intellectual, tell people what’s going on in Europe, tell them your own honest opinion, just get on and do something. There were many things he would have liked to say, Pereira maintains. He would have liked to tell her that his editor-in-chief was a bigwig in the regime, and worse still there was the regime itself, with its police and its censorship, and that everyone in Portugal was gagged, and that no one in short could express his own honest opinion, and that he personally spent his days in a wretched little hole in Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca in the company of an asthmatic fan and under the eye of a caretaker who was probably a police informer. But Pereira said none of this, all he said was: I’ll do my best Senhora Delgado, but it isn’t easy to do one’s best in a country like this for a person like me, you know, I’m not Thomas Mann, I’m only the obscure editor of the culture page of a second-rate evening paper, I write up the anniversaries of famous authors and translate nineteenth-century French stories, and more than that I cannot do. I understand, replied Senhora Delgado, but surely there’s nothing one can’t do if one cares enough. Pereira looked out of the window and sighed. They were nearing Vila Franca, already within sight of the long snaking course of the Tagus. How beautiful it was, this little land of Portugal, blest by the sea and its gentle seaborne climate, but it was all so difficult, thought Pereira. Senhora Delgado, he said, we shall soon be reaching Lisbon, we are at Vila Franca, a town of honest workers, of labouring folk, we in this small country also have our opposition, albeit a silent opposition, perhaps because we have no Thomas Mann, but we do what little we can, and now perhaps we’d better return to our compartment and prepare our bags, I’m truly glad to have met you and had this chat with you, allow me to offer you my arm but don’t think of it as a gesture of assistance, it is only a gesture of chivalry, because you know here in Portugal we are very chivalrous.

Pereira got up and offered his arm to Senhora Delgado. She accepted it with the trace of a smile and rose with some difficulty from the cramped table. Pereira paid the bill and added something for a tip. He left the dining-car with Senhora Delgado on his arm, feeling very gratified and rather troubled, though without knowing why, he maintains.