Pereira Maintains

FOURTEEN

Next day Pereira rose early, he maintains, drank some coffee, packed a small suitcase and slipped in Alphonse Daudet’s Contes du lundi. He might possibly stay on a few days longer, he thought to himself, and Daudet was an author who would suit the Lisboa down to the ground.

Passing through the hall he paused in front of his wife’s photograph and told it: Yesterday evening I saw Marta, Monteiro Rossi’s fiancee, I have an idea those youngsters are getting themselves into really bad trouble, in fact they’re already in it, in any case it’s none of my business, I need a week of thalassotherapy, Dr Costa has ordered it, and besides, Lisbon is stifling hot and I’ve translated Balzac’s Honorine, I’m leaving this morning, I’m just off to catch a train from Cais de Sodré and I’ll take you with me if you don’t mind. He picked up the photograph and laid it in his suitcase, face upwards, because his wife had all her life had such a need for air and he felt sure her picture also needed plenty of room to breathe. He made his way down to the cathedral square and waited for a taxi to take him to the station. Once there he thought he might have a bite to eat at the British Bar in the Cais de Sodré. He knew it was a place frequented by writers and he hoped to run across someone. In he went and sat down at a corner table. And sure enough there at the next table was Aquilino Ribeiro the novelist lunching with Bernardo Marques, the avant-garde artist who had designed and illustrated the leading Portuguese Modernist reviews. Pereira gave them good day and the two artists nodded in reply. It would be really something to lunch at their table, thought Pereira, to tell them how just yesterday he had received an article slating D’Annunzio and to hear what they had to say about it. But the two men were talking ten to the dozen and Pereira couldn’t pluck up courage to interrupt them. He gathered that Bernardo Marques intended to give up his art work and that the novelist had decided to go and live abroad. Pereira found this disheartening, he maintains, because he wouldn’t have expected a writer of that stamp to go and leave his country in the lurch. While he drank his lemonade and picked away at a plate of winkles, Pereira overheard a few snatches. Paris, said Aquilino Ribeira, the only conceivable place is Paris. Bernardo Marques nodded and said: I’ve had requests for work from several magazines, but I’ve no incentive to go on drawing, this country is bloody awful, it’s better not to let anyone have one’s work. Pereira finished his winkles and lemonade, got to his feet and paused a moment by the table where the two artists sat. Gentlemen, don’t let me interrupt your meal, he said, allow me to introduce myself however, I am Dr Pereira of the culture page of Lisboa, the whole of Portugal is proud to have two such artists as you, we have sore need of you.

Then he went out into the blinding midday light and stepped across to the station. He bought a ticket to Parede and asked how long it took to get there. The clerk said no time at all sir and he felt thankful. It was the train for Estoril, used chiefly by holiday-makers. Pereira decided to sit on the left-hand side of the train because he wanted to look at the sea. The carriage was practically empty at that time of day so Pereira could sit anywhere he liked. He lowered the blind a little because his window faced south and the sun was in his eyes. And he sat looking out at the sea. His thoughts turned to his past life, but he has no wish to talk about that, he maintains. He prefers simply to say that the sea was calm and there were bathers on the beach. Pereira thought how long it was since he had last swum in the sea, it seemed centuries ago. He remembered his days at Coimbra, when he used to haunt the beaches near Oporto, Granja for example, or Espinho, where they had a casino and a club. The sea was freezing cold on those northerly beaches, but he was quite capable of swimming all morning long, while his fellow undergraduates, chilled to the marrow, waited for him on the beach. Eventually they would all get dressed, put on smart jackets and go to the club to play billiards. People would stare at them as they came in and the head waiter would greet them crying: Here come our students from Coimbra! And he would give them the best billiard table.

Pereira came out of his reverie when they were drawing level with Santo Amaro. The beach was a splendid curve dotted with blue-and-white-striped canvas bathing-huts. The train came to a halt and Pereira was seized with the notion of getting out and having a swim, he could always go on by the next train. The impulse was too strong for him. Pereira cannot presume to say why he felt it, perhaps it was because he had been thinking of his Coimbra days and swimming at Granja. So he left the train, carrying his little suitcase, and went down through the tunnel leading to the beach. On reaching the sand he took off his shoes and socks and continued barefoot, his case in one hand and his shoes in the other. He spotted the bathing-attendant at once, a bronzed young man keeping an eye on the bathers while lolling in a deck-chair. Pereira told him he wanted to hire a bathing-suit and a changing-hut. The attendant sneakily looked him up and down and murmured: I don’t know that we have a costume your size, but I’ll give you the key of the deposit and cabin number one, which is the roomiest. He then enquired in a tone which to Pereira sounded like a snub: Would you be wanting a rubber ring as well? I’m a very good swimmer, replied Pereira, perhaps a lot better than you are yourself so don’t worry. He took the keys of the deposit and the cabin and went off. In the deposit he found a bit of everything: buoys, inflatable rings, a fishing-net festooned with corks, and bathing-suits. He rummaged among the latter to see if there was an old-fashioned, one-piece costume that would cover his paunch. Luckily he found one and tried it on. It was woollen and on the tight side, but the best of the bunch. His suitcase and clothes he dumped in the changing-hut and then walked down the beach. At the water’s edge were a number of young men playing ball and Pereira gave them a wide berth. He entered the water slowly, by degrees, allowing its coolness to envelop him little by little. Then, when the water was up to his belly-button, in he plunged and began to swim a slow, measured crawl. He swam a long way, right out to the line of buoys. As soon as he caught hold of a safety-buoy he realized he was completely winded, and that his heart was thumping madly. I’m crazy, he thought, I haven’t swum for half a lifetime and here I go throwing myself into the water like an athlete. He clung to the buoy and rested awhile, then turned onto his back and floated. The sky above him was so blue it was wounding to the eyes. Pereira got his breath back and returned with slow strokes leisurely to shore. As he passed the bathing-attendant it occurred to him he might get a bit of his own back. Maybe you noticed I didn’t need a ring, he said, but can you tell me the time of the next train for Estoril? The attendant consulted his watch. In fifteen minutes, he replied. Fine, said Pereira, in that case I’ll go and dress and you come along to the hut to be paid because I haven’t much time. He dressed, came out, combed what little hair he had left with a pocket comb he kept in his wallet, and paid the attendant. Goodbye, he said, and I advise you to keep an eye on those lads playing ball, in my opinion they’re a nuisance to the other bathers and can’t swim anyway.

He hurried through the tunnel and sat down on a stone bench under the awning. He heard the train approaching and glanced at his watch. It occurred to him that it was pretty late, at the thalassotherapeutic clinic they had probably expected him for lunch, and they eat early in such places. Never mind, he thought. He had a healthy glow, he felt fresh and relaxed as the train drew in to the platform, and anyway, he maintains, he was in no hurry to get to the thalassotherapeutic clinic, he would be staying there at least a week.

When he arrived at Parede it was almost half-past two. He hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take him to the thalassotherapeutic clinic. The one for tuberculars? asked the driver. I don’t know, said Pereira, but it’s on the sea. Then it’s only just down the road, said the driver, you’d just as well walk there. Look here, said Pereira, it’s very hot and I’m tired and I’ll give you a good tip.

The thalassotherapeutic clinic was a pink building surrounded by a large garden full of palm trees. It was perched high on the rocks with a flight of steps leading from it to the road and continuing on down to the beach. Pereira toiled up the steps and entered the lobby. There he was received by a fat, white-coated lady with a florid complexion. I am Dr Pereira, said Pereira, I believe my doctor, Dr Costa, has telephoned to book a room for me. Oh, Dr Pereira, said the white-coated lady, why are you so late, we were expecting you for lunch, have you had any? To tell the truth all I’ve had is some winkles at the station, confessed Pereira, and I feel quite peckish. Then come along with me, said the white-coated lady, the restaurant is closed but Maria das Dores is still on duty and she’ll make you a snack. She piloted him as far as the dining-room, a vast apartment with great windows overlooking the sea. It was completely deserted. Pereira sat down at a table and along came a heavily mustachioed woman in an apron. I am Maria das Dores, said the woman, I’m the cook here, I can do you a little grilled something. A sole, replied Pereira, many thanks. At the same time he ordered a lemonade and soon began to sip it with relish. He removed his jacket and spread the table-napkin over his shirt. Maria das Dores arrived with a grilled fish. We’re out of sole, she said, but I’ve done you a bream. Pereira set to with gusto. The seaweed baths are at five o’clock, said the cook, but if you don’t feel up to it and want to have a snooze you can start tomorrow, your doctor is Dr Cardoso, he’ll visit you in your room at six. Perfect, said Pereira, I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit.

He went up to his room, number twenty-two, and found his suitcase already there. He closed the shutters, brushed his teeth and slipped between the sheets in his birthday-suit. A fine fresh breeze off the Atlantic was filtering through the slats of the shutters and stirring the curtains. Pereira fell asleep almost at once. And he dreamt a lovely dream, a dream of his youth. He was at the beach at Granja, swimming in an ocean for all the world like a swimming-pool, and on the edge of the pool was a pale-skinned girl, waiting for him and clasping a towel in her arms. Then he swam back, but the dream went on, it was really a beautiful dream. But Pereira prefers not to say how it went on because his dream has nothing to do with these events, he maintains.