Pereira Maintains

FIFTEEN

At half-past six Pereira heard a knock at the door, though he was awake in any case, he maintains, and was gazing up at the ceiling, at the strips of light and shadow cast by the shutters, thinking of Balzac’s Honorine, and of repentance. And he felt he had something to repent of but he didn’t know what. He had a sudden longing to talk to Father António, because to him he’d have been able to confide that he wanted to repent but didn’t know what he had to repent of, he only felt a yearning for repentance as such, surely that’s what he meant, or perhaps (who knows?) he simply liked the idea of repentance.

Who is it? called Pereira. It’s time for your constitutional, came a nurse’s voice from outside the door, Dr Cardoso is waiting for you in the lobby. Pereira had not the slightest desire to take a constitutional, he maintains, but he got up all the same, opened his case, put on some cotton trousers, a roomy khaki shirt, and a pair of espadrilles. He took his wife’s photograph, propped it up on the table and told it: Well, here I am at the thalassotherapeutic clinic, but if I get bored I’ll leave, luckily I brought a book by Alphonse Daudet so I can do some translations for the paper, our favourite of Daudet’s was ‘Le petit Chose’, d’you remember? we read it at Coimbra and we both found it really touching, it’s a story of childhood, and perhaps we were thinking of a child that never came our way, well never mind, anyway I’ve brought the Contes du lundi, I think that one of those stories would do very well for the Lisboa, but you must excuse me now, I have to go, it seems there’s a doctor waiting to see me, we’ll soon find out what this thalassotherapy is all about, so I’ll see you later.

On reaching the lobby he saw a white-coated figure looking out at the sea. Pereira went up to him. He was a man between thirty-five and forty, with blue eyes and a little blond beard. Good evening, said the doctor with an unassuming smile, I am Dr Cardoso, you must be Dr Pereira, it’s time for the patients to go for their walk along the beach, but if you prefer we can stay and talk here or in the garden. Pereira replied that he didn’t much care for a walk on the beach, he said he’d already been on the beach that day, and gave him an account of his swim at Santo Amaro. Oh, that’s really good news, said Dr Cardoso, I thought I had a more difficult case on my hands, but I see that you are still drawn to outdoor life. Perhaps it’s truer to say that I’m drawn to memories, said Pereira. How do you mean? asked Dr Cardoso. I’ll explain in due course, said Pereira, not now, perhaps tomorrow.

They went out into the garden. Shall we take a stroll? suggested Dr Cardoso, it would do you good and me as well. Beyond the palm trees in the garden, which grew amid rocks and sand, there was a fine greensward dotted with trees. Dr Cardoso, who seemed in a chatty mood, led the way there. You’ve been placed under my care during your stay, said the doctor, so I need to talk to you, to learn about your way of life, you must have no secrets from me. Ask me anything you like, said Pereira readily. Dr Cardoso plucked a blade of grass and started chewing on it. Let’s start with your eating habits, he said, what are they? First thing in the morning I have coffee, replied Pereira, then I have lunch and supper like everyone else, that’s all there is to it. But what dietary regimen do you maintain, asked Dr Cardoso, I mean what do you usually eat? Omelettes, Pereira would have liked to answer, I eat almost nothing but omelettes, because my caretaker makes me omelette sandwiches and because all they serve at the Café Orquídea is omelettes aux fines herbes. But he was too ashamed, and gave a quite different answer. A varied diet, said he, fish, meat, vegetables. I’m a fairly frugal eater and arrange these matters rationally. And when did you first begin to suffer from obesity? asked Dr Cardoso. Some years ago, replied Pereira, after my wife died. And what about sweets, asked Dr Cardoso, do you eat a lot of sweet things? Never touch them, replied Pereira, I don’t like them, I only drink lemonade. What sort of lemonade? asked Dr Cardoso. Freshly squeezed lemon juice, said Pereira, I like it, I find it refreshing and I really feel that it does my insides good, because I often have trouble with my insides. How many glasses a day? asked Dr Cardoso. Pereira reflected a moment. It depends on the day, he replied, these hot summer days, for example, ten or a dozen. Ten or a dozen lemonades a day! exclaimed Dr Cardoso, my dear Dr Pereira that seems to me madness, and tell me, do you take sugar in it? Masses of sugar, said Pereira, half a glass of lemon juice and half of sugar. Dr Cardoso spat the blade of grass from the tip of his tongue, raised a stern hand and pronounced: From today on no more lemonades, you will drink mineral water instead, preferably not effervescent, but if you prefer it bubbly that is also acceptable. There was a bench under the cedar trees and Pereira sat himself down on it, obliging Dr Cardoso to do likewise. I’m sure you’ll forgive me, Dr Pereira, said Dr Cardoso, but now I have to ask an intimate question: What about sexual activity? Pereira lofted his gaze to the treetops and said: What exactly do you mean? Women, explained Dr Cardoso, do you sleep with women, do you have a regular sex life? Look here doctor, said Pereira, I’m a widower, I’m no longer young and I have an exacting job, I have neither the time nor the inclination to go chasing after women. Not even from time to time? asked Dr Cardoso, I mean not even a chance affair, some complaisant lady every so often? Not even that, said Pereira, pulling out a cigar and asking permission to smoke. Dr Cardoso nodded. It’s not good for your heart, he said, but if you must you must. It’s because your questions embarrass me, confessed Pereira. Well here comes another embarrassing question, said Dr Cardoso, do you have wet dreams? I don’t understand the question, said Pereira. What I mean, said Dr Cardoso, is do you have erotic dreams that lead to orgasm, do you have erotic dreams at all, what do you dream about? Listen doctor, replied Pereira, my father taught me that our dreams are the most private and personal thing we have and we should never reveal them to anyone. But you’re here for treatment and I’m your doctor, objected Dr Cardoso, your psyche is part and parcel with your body and I absolutely must know what you dream about. I often dream of Granja, confessed Pereira. Is that a woman? asked Dr Cardoso. It’s a place, said Pereira, it’s a beach near Oporto, I used to go there as a young man when I was a student at Coimbra, and there was also Espinho, a classy beach with a swimming-pool and casino, I often used to have a swim there and then a game of billiards, there was a first-rate billiard-room, and that’s where I and my fiancee whom I later married used to go, she was a sick woman though she didn’t know it yet, she just suffered from bad headaches, that was a wonderful time in my life, and maybe I dream about it because it gives me pleasure to dream about it. Very good, said Dr Cardoso, that’ll do for today, though I’d very much like to join you for dinner if I may, it’ll give us a chance to chat of this and that, I’m very fond of literature and I’ve noticed that your paper gives a lot of space to French writers of the last century, and I studied in Paris, you know, I’m French-trained, and this evening I’ll outline the programme for tomorrow, we’ll meet in the restaurant at eight o’clock.

Dr Cardoso got up and said goodbye for now. Pereira remained seated and took another look at the treetops. Excuse me doctor, he said, you know I promised to stub out my cigar but now I find I want to finish it. Do as you wish, said Dr Cardoso, we’ll start your diet tomorrow. Pereira sat on alone and smoked. He couldn’t help thinking that Dr Costa, who was after all an old acquaintance, would never have asked him such personal, intimate questions, evidently young doctors who had studied in Paris had quite different ideas. Pereira was astonished looking back on it and felt terribly embarrassed, but he decided it was better not to think too much about it, he maintains, this was plainly a queer sort of clinic.