Pereira Maintains

SEVENTEEN

At nine o’clock next morning, Pereira maintains, he made his way down the steps to the private beach of the clinic. In the reef bordering the beach two huge pools had been hacked out of the living rock, where the ocean waves washed in at their own sweet will. The pools were full of long fronds of seaweed, plump and glossy, floating on the surface where a number of patients were wallowing about. Beside the pools were two wooden huts, painted blue, evidently the changing-rooms. Pereira spotted Dr Cardoso keeping an eye on the patients immersed in the pools and teaching them the right movements to make. Pereira went up and said good morning. He was in fine fettle, he maintains, and really felt the urge to get into those pools even though it was pretty chilly there on the rocks and maybe the water temperature was not ideal for a dip. He asked Dr Cardoso for the loan of a costume because, he said apologetically, he had neglected to bring one with him, and asked if possible for an old-fashioned one, of the kind that cover the stomach and part of the chest. Dr Cardoso shook his head. I’m sorry, Dr Pereira, he said, but you’ll have to get over your blushes, the beneficent effects of the seaweed act chiefly by contact with the skin, they have to massage the belly and chest, you’ll have to wear trunks. Pereira resigned himself and went to the changing-hut. He left his trousers and khaki shirt on a peg and emerged again. The air was cool with a vengeance, but bracing. Pereira tested the water with one foot and found it not as icy as he had expected. He got in to the water gingerly, shuddering slightly as those strands of seaweed stuck to him all over. Dr Cardoso came to the edge of the pool and started to give him instructions. Move your arms as if you were doing physical jerks, he said, and massage your stomach and chest with the seaweed. Pereira carried out the instructions to the letter until he found his breath coming short. Whereupon he stopped, stood with the water up to his neck and began to make slow circling movements with his hands. How did you sleep? asked Dr Cardoso. Very well indeed, replied Pereira, but I read until late, I brought along a book by Alphonse Daudet, do you like Daudet? I know him very little, admitted Dr Cardoso. I’ve been thinking of translating a story from the Contes du lundi, I’d like to publish it in the Lisboa, said Pereira. Tell me the story, said Dr Cardoso. Well, said Pereira, it’s called ‘La derniere classe’, it’s about the school-master of a French village in Alsace, his pupils are all sons of peasants, poor boys who have to work in the fields so they seldom come to lessons and the teacher is driven to despair. Pereira took a few steps forward so that the water stopped slopping into his mouth, and went on: Finally comes the last day of school, the Franco-Prussian War has just ended, the teacher waits without much hope for some pupil to show up, but who should he see instead but every man-jack in the village, the peasants, the village elders, all coming to pay homage to their French school-master who is going to have to leave them, for they know that next day their school will be occupied by the Germans, so the teacher writes up on the blackboard ‘Vive la France!’ and off he goes, with tears in his eyes, leaving a tumult of emotion behind him in the schoolroom. Pereira peeled two long strands of seaweed off his arms and asked: How does it strike you, Dr Cardoso? Great stuff, replied Dr Cardoso, but I’m not sure that many people in Portugal today will much appreciate reading ‘Vive la France!’, seeing the times we live in, and I wonder if you’re not making room for your new ruling ego, Dr Pereira, I seem to catch a glimpse of a new ruling ego. Oh come now, Dr Cardoso, said Pereira, this is a nineteenth-century story, it’s ancient history. That’s true, said Dr Cardoso, but none the less it’s an anti-German story, and Germany is above criticism in a country like ours today, have you seen the salute they’ve made compulsory at official functions, they make the stiff-armed salute like the Nazis. That may be so, said Pereira, but the Lisboa is an independent newspaper. Then he asked: Please can I get out now? Another ten minutes, replied Dr Cardoso, now that you’re in you’d better stay in for the full time required by the therapy, and forgive me for asking but exactly what is an independent newspaper these days in Portugal? A newspaper not connected with any political movement, replied Pereira. That’s as maybe, said Dr Cardoso, but the editor of your paper, my dear Dr Pereira, is a supporter of the regime, he appears at every official function, and from the way he flings out his arm you’d think he was throwing the javelin. True, conceded Pereira, but he’s not a bad fellow at heart, and as regards the culture page he’s given me a free hand. No skin off his nose, retorted Dr Cardoso, because there’s the state censorship and every day, before your paper appears, the proofs are examined by the censors, and if there’s something they don’t like don’t you worry it won’t be printed, they leave blank spaces, I’ve already seen Portuguese papers with huge blank spaces in them, and it makes me very angry and very sad. I know, I know, said Pereira, I’ve seen them too, however it hasn’t yet happened to the Lisboa. But it might happen, said Dr Cardoso almost teasingly, it all depends on the ruling ego that gains the upper hand in your confederation of souls. Then he went on: Do you know what I think, Dr Pereira, if you want to help the ruling ego that’s beginning to peep out perhaps you ought to live somewhere else, leave this country, I think you would have fewer conflicts with yourself, after all there’s nothing to prevent you, you’re a serious professional man, you speak good French, you’re a widower, you have no children, what ties do you have to this country? My whole past life, replied Pereira, my precious memories, and you Dr Cardoso, why don’t you go back to France? after all you studied there, you had a French education. It’s by no means out of the question, replied Dr Cardoso, I am in touch with a thalassotherapeutic clinic at Saint-Malo, and might decide to go at any moment. May I get out now? asked Pereira. How time has passed without our noticing it, said Dr Cardoso, you’ve been under treatment a quarter of an hour longer than necessary, by all means go and get dressed, what would you say to lunching together? With pleasure, said Pereira.

That day Pereira had Dr Cardoso’s company for lunch and on his advice, he maintains, ate boiled hake. They talked about literature, Maupassant and Daudet, and about France, what a great country it was. Afterwards Pereira retired to his room and had a short nap, just fifteen minutes, then he lay and watched the strips of light and shadow cast on the ceiling by the shutters. In mid-afternoon he got up, had a shower, put on his black tie and sat down in front of his wife’s photograph. I’ve found an intelligent doctor, he confided to it, his name is Cardoso, he studied in France, he has told me a theory of his about the human soul, or rather, it’s a French philosophical theory, it seems that inside us we have a confederation of souls and every so often a ruling ego comes along and takes over the leadership of the confederation, Dr Cardoso suggests that I’m changing my ruling ego, as snakes change their skins, and that this new ruling ego will change my life, I don’t know how true this is and in fact I’m not all that convinced, but never mind, we must wait and see.

Then he sat down at the table and began translating ‘La dernière classe’ by Daudet. He had brought along his Larousse, which made things easy for him. But he only translated one page, because he didn’t want to rush it, and because that story kept him company. And in fact throughout the week Pereira stayed at the thalassotherapeutic clinic he spent every afternoon translating Daudet’s story, he maintains.

It was a wonderful week of therapy, relaxation and dieting, cheered by the presence of Dr Cardoso, with whom he always had lively and interesting talks, especially about literature. A week that slipped by in the twinkling of an eye, on the Saturday the first instalment of Balzac’s Honorine came out in the Lisboa and Dr Cardoso complimented him on it. The editor-in-chief never called him, which meant that all was running smoothly at the paper. There was no sign of Monteiro Rossi either, or of Marta. In his last few days there Pereira scarcely gave them a thought. And when he left the clinic to take the train back to Lisbon he felt a new man, in tip-top form, he had lost four kilos, he maintains.