Pereira Maintains

EIGHTEEN

Pereira returned to Lisbon, and the better part of August vanished almost before he could look round, he maintains. Piedade, his maid-of-all-work, was not yet back, but in his letter-box he found a card from her, postmarked Setúbal, which read: ‘Returning mid-September because my sister has to have operation for varicose veins, all the best, Piedade.’

Pereira settled back into his flat. Luckily the weather had changed and it wasn’t all that hot. In the evening a stiffish Atlantic breeze would spring up, so he had to wear a jacket. When he went back to the office he found few changes. The caretaker was no longer huffy with him, in fact she was a good deal more friendly, but a horrible stench of frying still hung about on the landing. There wasn’t much in the way of post: the electricity bill, which he forwarded to the main office, and a letter postmarked Chaves, from a lady in her fifties who wrote children’s stories and was hereby submitting one to the Lisboa. Itwas a tale of elves and fairies which had nothing whatever to do with Portugal and which the author must have filched from some Irish story. Pereira wrote her a courteous answer suggesting that she should base her work on Portuguese folklore, because, he told her, the Lisboa was addressed to Portuguese, not to English-speaking readers. Towards the end of the month a letter arrived from Spain. It was addressed to Monteiro Rossi, and the envelope read: Señor Monteiro Rossi, c/o Dr Pereira, Rua Rodrigo da Fonseca 66, Lisboa, Portugal. Pereira was tempted to open it. He had practically forgotten Monteiro Rossi, or at least so he thought, and he found it beyond belief that the young man should have told anyone to address a letter to him c/o the culture page of the Lisboa. However, he put it unopened into the ‘Obituaries’ file. He then had lunch at the Café Orquídea, though he didn’t order omelettes aux fines herbes, because Dr Cardoso had forbidden them, and he no longer drank lemonade. Instead he ate seafood salad and drank mineral water. Balzac’s Honorine had been published in its entirety and had been a great success with the readers. Pereira maintains that he even received two telegrams, one from Tavira and the other from Estremoz, the first saying that it was a really marvellous story and the other that repentance is a thing we all ought to think about, and both of them ending with the words: Thank you. It occurred to Pereira that perhaps someone had received the message in the bottle, and he set about preparing the final draft of Daudet’s ‘La dernière classe’. The editor-in-chief called him one morning to congratulate him on the Balzac story, saying that the head office had been simply inundated with compliments. Pereira had a feeling that the editor-in-chief would never receive the message in the bottle, and he chortled to himself. That message was really and truly a coded message, and only people who had ears to hear could receive it. The editor-in-chief did not have ears to hear and could not receive it. So now, Dr Pereira, asked the editor-in-chief, what have you got up your sleeve for us? I have just finished translating a story by Daudet, replied Pereira, I hope it will be suitable. I trust it isn’t L’Arlésienne, said the editor-in-chief, glad to be able to show off one of his few scraps of literary knowledge, that story is a trifle osé, and I don’t think it would go down well with our readers. Pereira simply said: No, it’s a tale from the Contes du lundi, it’s called ‘The Last Class’, I wonder if you know it, it’s a story about love of one’s country. I don’t know it, replied the editor-in-chief, but if it’s a patriotic story that’s all to the good, we all need patriotism in this day and age, patriotism is just the ticket. Pereira said goodbye and rang off. He had scarcely gathered up the typescript to take it to the printer’s when the telephone rang again. Pereira was at the door already with his jacket on. Hullo, said a woman’s voice, good morning Dr Pereira, this is Marta, I would like to see you. Pereira’s heart missed a beat and then he asked: How are you Marta, and how is Monteiro Rossi? I’ll tell you in due course Dr Pereira, said Marta, where can I meet you this evening? Pereira considered for a moment and was on the point of telling her to come to his flat, then thought better of it and answered: At the Café Orquídea at half-past eight. All right, said Marta, I’ve cut my hair short and bleached it, I’ll see you at the Café Orquídea at half-past eight, however Monteiro Rossi is well and is sending you an article.

Leaving the office to go to the printer’s Pereira felt uneasy, he maintains. He thought of going back to the office and waiting there until it was time for dinner, but he then realized what he absolutely must do was go home and have a cold bath. He therefore took a taxi and made the cabbie drive all the way up the steep slope to his house. Taximen usually refused to go up that ramp because it was hard to turn at the top, so Pereira had to promise a tip, he was quite worn out, he maintains. He entered his flat and the first thing he did was run a cold bath. He lay in it and gently massaged his paunch as Dr Cardoso had taught him to. Then he put on his bath robe, went into the hall and addressed his wife’s portrait. Marta is on the scene again, he informed it, she tells me she’s cut her hair short and bleached it, I don’t know why, and she’s bringing me an article by Monteiro Rossi, but Monteiro Rossi is evidently still off on business of his own, those kids worry me but never mind, I’ll tell you how things go by and by.

At eight thirty-five, Pereira maintains, he entered the Café Orquídea. The only reason he recognized Marta in the skinny little shrimp with cropped hair sitting near the fan was that she was wearing the same dress as ever, otherwise he would never have taken her for the same girl. She seemed another person, did Marta, with that cropped bleached hair and the fringe and the wisps curving forward over her ears, giving her a tomboy, rather foreign look, rather French, perhaps. What’s more she must have lost at least ten kilos. Of her shoulders, which Pereira remembered as so soft and shapely, there now remained two bony shoulder-blades that stuck out like the wings of a plucked chicken. Pereira sat down opposite her and said: Good evening Marta, what on earth has happened to you? I decided to change my appearance, replied Marta, in certain circumstances it’s necessary and in my case it became essential to make myself a different person.

Heaven knows why it occurred to Pereira to ask her a certain question. He cannot begin to say why he did it. Perhaps because she was too blonde and too unnatural and he could hardly recognize her as the girl he had known, perhaps because every so often she gave a furtive glance around as if expecting someone or afraid of something, but the fact is that he asked her: Is your name still Marta? To you I am Marta, of course, replied Marta, but I have a French passport, my name is Lise Delaunay, I am a painter by profession and am in Portugal to paint watercolour landscapes, though the real reason is simply travel.

Pereira felt a terrific urge to order an omelette aux fines herbes and a glass of lemonade, he maintains. What would you say to a couple of omelettes aux fines herbes? he asked Marta. With pleasure, replied Marta, but first I’d really like a glass of dry port. So would I, said Pereira, and ordered two dry ports. I scent trouble, said Pereira, you’re in the soup Marta, you might as well admit it. I don’t deny it, answered Marta, but it’s the kind of trouble I like, I feel in my element, after all it’s the life I’ve chosen. Pereira shrugged his shoulders. Just as long as you’re happy, he said, and Monteiro Rossi, he’s in trouble too I imagine, because he hasn’t been in touch, what’s happening to him? I can tell you about myself but not about Monteiro Rossi, said Marta, I can answer only for myself, he hasn’t been in touch with you so far because he’s been in difficulties, he’ll still be out of Lisbon for a while, he’s on the move in Alentejo, his problems may be bigger than mine, in any case he’s short of money into the bargain and that’s why he’s sent you this article, he says it’s an anniversary article, you can give me the money if you like and I’ll see that he gets it.

Pereira would have liked to say: Don’t speak to me of those articles of his, obituaries or anniversaries it makes no difference, all I do is pay Monteiro Rossi out of my own pocket, I still don’t know why I don’t sack him, I offered him a job as a journalist, I gave him a chance of a career. But he uttered not a word of all this. Instead he took out his wallet and extracted two banknotes. Give him this from me, he said, and now let’s have the article. Marta took a sheet of paper from her handbag and handed it over. See here Marta, said Pereira, I’d like you to know there are certain things you can count on me for, even if I’d prefer to steer clear of your problems, as you know I don’t concern myself with politics, however if you hear from Monteiro Rossi tell him to get in touch, perhaps I can be of some help to him too in my way. You are a great help to all of us, Dr Pereira, said Marta, we of the cause will not forget it. They finished their omelettes and Marta said she had to be off. Pereira wished her luck and she slipped nimbly away between the tables. Pereira stayed on and ordered another lemonade. He would have liked to talk all this over with Father António or Dr Cardoso, but Father António was certainly asleep at that time of night and Dr Cardoso was away there at Parede. He drank his lemonade and called for the bill. What’s the latest news? he asked the waiter when he came to the table. Barbarous goings on, replied Manuel, barbarous goings on, Dr Pereira. Pereira put a hand on his arm. What do you mean by barbarous? he asked. Haven’t you heard what’s happening in Spain? replied the waiter. No, I haven’t, said Pereira. It seems there’s some great French writer who’s denounced Franco’s repression in Spain, said Manuel, and it’s created an awful fuss with the Vatican. What’s the name of this French writer? asked Pereira. Hmmm, replied Manuel, it’s slipped my mind for the moment, he’s a writer you’d know for certain, the name’s Bernan, Bernadette, something of the sort. Bernanos, exclaimed Pereira, he’s called Bernanos! That’s it, replied Manuel, that’s the name. He’s a great Catholic writer, said Pereira with pride, I knew he’d take a stand, he’s a man of the highest moral principles. And it occurred to him that perhaps he might publish a couple of chapters of the Journal d’un curé de campagne, which had never been translated into Portuguese.

He bade Manuel goodnight and left him a handsome tip. He would have liked to have a talk with Father António, but Father António was assuredly asleep by that time of night, he got up at six every morning to say Mass in the Church of the Mercês, Pereira maintains.