Pereira Maintains

TWELVE

On the dot of eleven, Pereira maintains, his doorbell rang. He’d got up early, had breakfast, and made a jug of lemonade packed with ice, which now stood on the dining-room table. Monteiro Rossi came in with a furtive air and a muttered good morning. Pereira, slightly perplexed, closed the door and asked if his cousin wasn’t coming after all. Oh yes, he’s here, replied Monteiro Rossi, but he doesn’t like to burst in just like that, he’s sent me on ahead to take a dekko. A dekko at what? asked Pereira rather huffily, do you think you’re playing at cops and robbers, or did you imagine the police were here waiting for you? Oh it isn’t that, Dr Pereira, apologized Monteiro Rossi, it’s just that my cousin is all on edge, he’s in a difficult position you know, he’s here on a delicate mission, he has an Argentine passport and doesn’t know which way to turn. You told me all that last night, retorted Pereira, and now please call him in, that’s quite enough of this tomfoolery. Monteiro Rossi opened the door and beckoned. Come on in Bruno, he said in Italian, the coast is clear.

And in there came a skinny little shrimp, with hair cut en brosse, a yellowish moustache and a blue jacket. Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, let me introduce my cousin Bruno Rossi, however as the name on his passport is Bruno Lugones it’d be better to make a point of calling him Lugones. What language can we talk in? asked Pereira, does your cousin speak Portuguese? No, said Monteiro Rossi, but he speaks Spanish.

Pereira seated them at the dining-table and helped them to lemonade. This Bruno Rossi said not a word, but darted suspicious glances this way and that. At the distant siren of an ambulance he stiffened and went over to the window. Tell him to relax, Pereira advised Monteiro Rossi, we’re not in Spain here, there’s no civil war on. Bruno Rossi returned to his seat and said: Perdone la molestia pero estoy aquí por la causa republicana. Listen here Senhor Lugones, said Pereira in Portuguese, I will speak slowly so that you can understand me, I am not interested either in the republican or in the monarchist cause, I edit the culture page of an evening paper and such things do not fall within my province. I have found you some out-of-the-way accommodation, more than that I cannot do, and you will kindly take care not to come calling on me because I want nothing to do with either you or your cause. This Bruno Rossi turned to his cousin and said in Italian: He isn’t at all how you described him, I expected to find a comrade. Pereira caught the meaning and said: I am nobody’s comrade, I am a lone wolf and like it, my only comrade is myself, I don’t know if I make myself clear Senhor Lugones, that being the name on your passport. Yes, yes, said Monteiro Rossi almost tripping over his tongue, but the fact is that, well, the fact is we need your help and understanding, because we need money. What exactly do you mean? asked Pereira. Well, said Monteiro Rossi, my cousin has no money and if we get to the hotel and they want payment in advance we can’t fork out, not for the moment, I’ll put things straight afterwards, or rather Marta will, it’ll only be a loan.

On hearing this Pereira stood up, he maintains. He apologized, saying: Please excuse me but I need a few moments’ thought, all I ask is a couple of minutes. He left the two of them alone at the dining-table and went through into the hall. Standing before his wife’s photograph he told it: You know, it’s not so much this Lugones who worries me, it’s Marta, in my opinion she’s the one to blame for all this, Marta is Monteiro Rossi’s girl, the one with the copper-coloured hair, I think I mentioned her to you, well, she’s the one who’s getting Monteiro Rossi into a scrape, and he’s allowing himself to be got into a scrape because he’s in love with her, I ought to drop him a word of warning, don’t you think? His wife’s photograph smiled its faraway smile and Pereira thought he’d got its message. He returned to the dining-room and asked Monteiro Rossi: Why Marta? what’s Marta got to do with it? Oh well, babbled Monteiro Rossi blushing slightly, because Marta has a lot of resources behind her, that’s all. You listen to me carefully, Monteiro Rossi, said Pereira, I can’t help feeling that you’re getting into a scrape all because of a beautiful girl, but anyway I’m not your father and don’t wish to adopt a fatherly air in case you think it patronizing, so there’s only one thing I wish to say to you: take care. Yes, yes, said Monteiro Rossi, I am taking care but what about the loan? We’ll see to that, replied Pereira, but why should it have to come from me of all people? But Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, digging a sheet of paper from his pocket and holding it out to him, I’ve written this article and I’ll write two more next week, I took the liberty of doing an anniversary, I’ve done D’Annunzio, I’ve put my heart into it but my reason as well, as you advised me, and I promise you that the next two will be Catholic writers of the kind you’re so keen on.

A flush of irritation came over Pereira, he maintains. Now look here, he said, it’s not that I want nothing but Catholic writers, but someone who’s written a thesis on death might give a little more thought to the writers who have dealt with this subject, who are interested in the soul, in short, and instead you bring me an anniversary article on a downright vitalist like D’Annunzio, who may possibly have been a good poet but who frittered his life away in frivolities, and my newspaper doesn’t care for frivolous people, or at least I don’t, do I make myself clear? Perfectly, said Monteiro Rossi, I’ve got the message. Good, said Pereira, then now let’s get along to this hotel, I’ve remembered a cheap hotel in the Graça where they don’t make a lot of fuss, I will pay the advance if they ask for it, however I expect at least two more obituaries from you, Monteiro Rossi, this is your two weeks’ wages. I should tell you, Dr Pereira, said Monteiro Rossi, that I did that anniversary article on D’Annunzio because last Saturday I bought the Lisboa and saw there’s a feature called ‘Anniversaries’, it isn’t signed but I imagine you write it yourself, but if you’d like a hand I’d be very willing to give you one, I’d like to work on that sort of feature, there’s a mass of authors I could write about, and what’s more, seeing as how it’s printed anonymously there’d be no risk of getting you into trouble. So you are in trouble are you? Pereira maintains he said. Well, a little, as you can see, replied Monteiro Rossi, but if you prefer a pseudonym I’ve thought one up, what do you think of Roxy? That would do fine, said Pereira. He removed the lemonade jug, placed it in the ice-chest, and putting on his jacket: Very well, let’s be on our way, he said.

They left the flat. In the little square outside the building a soldier was sleeping stretched out on a bench. Pereira admitted that he was in no fit state to make it up the hill on foot, so they waited for a taxi. The sun was implacable, Pereira maintains, and the wind had dropped. A taxi came cruising past and Pereira hailed it. During the ride not a word was spoken. They alighted beside a granite cross towering over a tiny chapel. Pereira entered the hotel, advising Monteiro Rossi to wait outside but taking the bloke Rossi in with him and presenting him to the desk-clerk, a little old man with pebble glasses who was dozing behind the counter. I have here an Argentine friend, said Pereira, he is Señor Bruno Lugones, here’s his passport, he would like to remain incognito, he is here for sentimental reasons. The old man took off his spectacles and leafed through the register. Someone telephoned this morning to make a booking, he said, was that you? It was me, confirmed Pereira. We have a double room without bath, said the old man, I don’t know if that would do for the gentleman. It will do very well, said Pereira. Cash in advance, said the old man, you know how things are. Pereira took out his wallet and produced a couple of banknotes. I’ll pay for three days in advance, he said, and good morning to you. He waved a hand at Bruno Rossi but decided not to shake hands, he didn’t want to seem on such intimate terms. I hope you’ll be comfortable, he said.

He left the place and crossed the square to where Monteiro Rossi was sitting waiting on the edge of the fountain. Call in at the office tomorrow, he told him, I’ll read your article today, we have things to talk about. Well actually I …, began Monteiro Rossi. Actually what? asked Pereira. Well you know, said Monteiro Rossi, as things stand I thought it would be better for us to meet in some quiet spot, perhaps at your flat. I agree, said Pereira, but not at my flat, enough of that, let us meet at one o’clock tomorrow at the Café Orquídea, would that suit you? Right you are, replied Monteiro Rossi, the Café Orquídea at one o’clock. Pereira shook hands and said: See you tomorrow. Since it was downhill all the way he thought he’d go home on foot. It was a splendid day and luckily a bracing Atlantic breeze had now sprung up. But he felt in no mood to appreciate the weather. He felt uneasy and would have liked to have a talk with someone, perhaps Father António, but Father António spent all day at the bedsides of his sick parishioners. He then bethought himself of having a chat with the photograph of his wife. So taking off his jacket he made his way slowly homewards, he maintains.