The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro

Twenty-One

FIRMINO STEPPED OUT OF THE Faculty of Letters and halted at the top of the steps to scan the parking lot for Catarina. April was glittering in all its glory. Firmino looked at the trees in the large square of this university town bursting with early spring foliage.

He took off his jacket, it was almost hot enough to be summer. Then he spotted her car and started down the steps brandishing a sheet of paper.

“You can start packing,” was his triumphant cry, “we’re off!”

Catarina threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“When do we start?”

“At once. In theory even tomorrow.”

“For a whole year?”

“The whole year’s grant went to the chap who was in a class by himself,” said Firmino, “but they’ve given me six months, which is better than nothing, don’t you think?”

He rolled down the car window and murmured dreamily. “L’Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Elysées, the Musée d’Orsay, the Bibliothèque Nationale, the Latin Quarter — six months in the ‘Ville Lumière’—don’t you think we should celebrate?”

“Yes, let’s celebrate,” replied Catarina, “but are you sure the money will be enough for two?”

“The monthly grant comes to quite a bit,” replied Firmino, “of course Paris is a fiercely expensive city, but I also have the right to substantial meal tickets at the students’ canteen, it won’t be a life of luxury but we’ll get by.”

Catarina edged her way in to the traffic in Campo Grande.

“Where shall we go to celebrate?” she asked.

“Maybe at ‘Tony das Bifes,’” suggested Firmino, “however first go round the roundabout and take me to the office, I want to settle things at once with the Editor, and in any case it’s still only midday.”

THE SWITCHBOARD LADY IN HER wheelchair was already having her meal out of a small tinfoil dish and reading a weekly magazine she was particularly fond of.

“There you are, reading all our trade rivals,” teased Firmino in passing.

That morning the editorial staff was present in full strength. Firmino led Catarina through the maze of desks, gave Silva an amiable “Good morning, Monsieur Huppert”, rapped twice on the Editor’s glass door, and breezed right in.

“My fiancée,” announced Firmino.

“How d’you do,” murmured the Editor.

They sat themselves down on those agonizing white metal chairs which the Modernist architect had scattered everywhere. As usual the fug in the Editor’s office was unfit to breathe.

“I have a little matter I wish to discuss with you, sir,” said Firmino, not quite knowing how to begin. But then he charged in with: “I want to ask for six months’ leave.”

The Editor lit a cigarette, gave Firmino a blank look and said: “Explain yourself better.” Firmino set out to explain everything as best he could: the scholarship he had won, the chance of research work in Paris under a professor at the Sorbonne, and of course he would give up his salary, but if he left the paper he would be without social security, he didn’t ask the paper to pay his monthly installments, he’d do that out of his own pocket, it was just that he didn’t want to find himself in the position of being unemployed, because as the Editor very well knew, here in Portugal the unemployed were fobbed off with about enough to starve a stray dog, and in any case in six months’ time he’d be back at work again, cross his heart he would.

“Six months is a long time,” muttered the Editor, “and who knows how many cases will come our way in the next six months?”

“Think of it this way,” replied Firmino, “summer is on the doorstep, the holidays will soon be starting and people will be off to the seaside, it seems that people kill each other less in summertime, I’ve read it in some statistic or other, and maybe the job of special correspondent could be taken over by Senhor Silva, he’s really been panting for it.”

The Editor said nothing. He appeared to be thinking it over. Meanwhile Firmino had a sudden inspiration.

“Hey, I could send you reports from Paris, that’s a city with a mass of crimes passionels, it’s not every paper that can afford a special correspondent in Paris, and you’d have one free of charge. Just think how posh it would sound: from our special correspondent in Paris.”

“That might be a solution,” replied the Editor, “but I have to give it some thought, we’ll discuss the matter calmly tomorrow, and in the meanwhile let me think it over.”

Firmino got up to go. Catarina got up with him.

“Ah, one moment,” said the Editor, “there’s a telegram for you, arrived yesterday.”

He handed over the telegram and Firmino opened it. It read: “Must speak to you urgently Stop Expect you tomorrow in my library Stop Useless telephone me Stop Best wishes Fernando de Mello Sequeira.”

Firmino read the telegram and gave Catarina a worried look. She returned it with a questioning air. Firmino read the telegram out loud.

“What does he want me for?” he asked.

Neither of them had anything to say.

“What shall I do?” asked Firmino, turning to Catarina.

“I think you ought to go.”

“You really do?” insisted Firmino.

“Why not? After all,” smiled Catarina, “Oporto isn’t the end of the world.”

“What about our celebration at ‘Tony dos Bifes’?” asked Firmino.

“We can put that off until tomorrow,” answered Catarina, “let’s just have a snack at the ‘Versailles’ and then I’ll take you to the station. It’s ages since I’ve been to the ‘Versailles.’”

HOW DIFFERENT IS A CITY seen in the broad light of day and in blazing sunshine. Firmino cast his mind back to the last time he had seen that city, that misty December day when everything had seemed so dreary and dreadful. But now Oporto wore a gladsome look, lively, animated and the potted flowers on the sills of Rua das Flores were all in bloom.

Firmino pressed the bell and the door clicked open. He found Don Fernando sprawled on the sofa under the bookshelves. He was in a dressing gown, as if he had only just got out of bed, but wore a silk scarf round his neck.

“Good evening, young man,” he said vaguely, “thank you for coming, make yourself at home.”

Firmino sat down.

“You wanted to see me urgently,” he said, “what’s it all about?”

“We’ll discuss that later,” said Don Fernando, “first tell me about yourself and your fiancée, how is she, have they taken her on at the library?”

“Not yet,” replied Firmino.

“And your thesis on the post-war novel in Portugal?”

“I’ve written it,” said Firmino, “but it’s not very long, just a brief essay of twenty-odd pages.”

“Still on your beloved Lukács?” enquired Don Fernando.

“I’ve adjusted my sights a little,” explained Firmino, “I concentrated on a single novel and incorporated other methods.”

“Tell me all,” said the lawyer.

“Newspaper weather reports as a metaphor of prohibition in a 1960s Portuguese novel, that’s what I’ve called my dissertation.”

“And a very fine title too,” said the lawyer approvingly. “And on whose method do you base it?”

“Mostly on Lotman, as regards decoding the secret message,” explained Firmino, “but I’ve kept in Lukács as far as politics are concerned.”

“An interesting mélange,” said the lawyer, “I should like to read it, perhaps you might send me a copy. Anything else to tell me?”

“On the basis of this work I put in for a scholarship to go to Paris, and I won it,” Firmino admitted with some measure of pride. “I have a really good research project under way.”

“Very interesting,” said the lawyer, “and what’s your project about?”

“Censorship in literature,” said Firmino.

“Is that the case!” exclaimed the lawyer, “I offer my congratulations. And when do you hope to leave?”

“The sooner the better,” replied Firmino, “the grant starts the moment the candidate accepts, and I signed the acceptance form this morning.”

“I see,” said the lawyer, “in that case I may have brought you here to no purpose, I didn’t bargain on an event so gratifying yet so demanding on you.”

“Why to no purpose?” enquired Firmino.

“I had need of your help.”

Don Fernando got up and made his way to the desk. There he selected a cigar and inhaled its odor for a long time without making up his mind to light it, then he flopped down on the sofa again, threw his head back and gazed at the ceiling.

“I’m asking for a retrial,” he said.

Firmino stared at him in astonishment.

“But it’s too late now,” he said, “you didn’t appeal within the legal time-limit.”

“That is true,” admitted the lawyer, “at that time it seemed useless.”

“And the case has been closed,” Firmino pointed out.

“True, it has been closed,” said the lawyer. “And I shall have it reopened.”

“On what grounds?” asked Firmino.

Don Fernando said nothing, but pulled himself upright, and without getting up opened a small buffet beside the sofa, extracting a bottle and two glasses.

“It’s not an exceptional port,” he said, “but it has its dignity.”

He poured out the wine and at last made up his mind to light the cigar.

“I have an eyewitness,” he said almost in a whisper, “and the things he witnessed justify me in asking for a retrial.”

“An eyewitness?” repeated Firmino, “but how do you mean?

“An eyewitness to the murder of Damasceno Monteiro,” replied Don Fernando.

“Who is it?”

“The name is Wanda,” said the lawyer, “a person I happen to know.”

“Wanda who?”

The lawyer took a sip of port.

“Wanda is a poor creature,” he replied, “one of those poor creatures who rove the face of the earth and have no hope of the kingdom of heaven. Eleutério Santos, known as Wanda. A transvestite.”

“I don’t see where this is getting us,” said Firmino.

“Eleutério Santos,” continued Don Fernando, as if reciting a crime-sheet, “thirty-two years old, born in a village in the mountains of the Marao to a family of very poor shepherds, sexually abused by an uncle at eleven years old, raised in a Home until seventeen years of age, occasional jobs like unloading fruit at the mouth of the Douro, other occasional work as assistant grave-digger at the public cemetery, a year in mental hospital here in Oporto suffering from depression, a sojourn which obliged him to live cheek by jowl with oligophrenics and schizophrenics in those exemplary hospices on which our country so prides itself, at present simply Wanda, known to the police as a prostitute walking the streets of Oporto, with the occasional slight depressive crisis, though now he can afford to see a doctor.”

“You certainly know all about him,” observed Firmino.

“I was his legal adviser in a case against a casual client who slashed him during an encounter in a car,” said Don Fernando, “a petty sadist who however had a bit of money, and Wanda didn’t come out of it too badly.”

“And the evidence?” asked Firmino, “tell me about the evidence.”

“To put it briefly,” replied Don Fernando, “Wanda was on his usual street, but that evening it seems there wasn’t much in the way of business, so she moved to a side street that wasn’t in her territory and there ran into the pimp who controls that street, who flew at her at once. Wanda defended herself and there was a scuffle. A patrol of the Guardia Nacional came by, the pimp took to his heels leaving Wanda flat out on the ground, they shoved her into the car, took her to the police station and put her in the detention cell, or rather, what they call the detention cell but is really only an ordinary little room adjoining the offices. However it happened that those particular patrolmen had a proper sense of duty and registered the fact that Wanda had been taken into custody. The register clearly states: Eleutério Santos, entry 2300 hours. And there is no way they can tamper with that register.”

The lawyer fell silent while he filled the air with puffs of smoke and gazed once more at the ceiling.

“Then what?” asked Firmino.

“The patrol which had arrested Wanda went off duty and Wanda was left in the little room which, as I have said, adjoined the offices, and there she lay down on a bunk and went to sleep. At about half-past twelve she was awakened by cries, she opened the door a crack and peeped through. There was Damasceno Monteiro.”

The lawyer paused to put out his cigar. His little eyes in their pouches of fat were focused on a point in the distance.

“They had tied him to a chair, he was stripped to the waist and Sergeant Titânio Silva was stubbing out cigarettes on his belly. Seeing that there’s No Smoking in that police station, Damasceno Monteiro provided a convenient ashtray. This Titânio wanted to know who had stolen the previous consignment of heroin, because this was the second time he’d been ripped off and Damasceno swore he didn’t know, that this was the first time he had done a job at Stones of Portugal. And at a certain point Damasceno started yelling that he’d denounce him, that the whole town would know it was Sergeant Titânio Silva who controlled all the heroin peddling in Oporto, and this Titânio started to jibber and jump up and down like a madman, though these details are superfluous, you’ll learn more about them later, until he pulled out his pistol and shot the lad point-blank through the temple.”

The lawyer poured himself out another glass of port.

“Does the story interest you?” he asked.

“Very much so,” replied Firmino, “and how does it go on?”

“This Titânio told officer Costa to go down to the kitchen and fetch the electric carving knife. Costa came back with the knife and Titânio said: ‘Cut off his head, Costa, he’s got a bullet in his brain that would give us away, you go and throw the head into the river while Ferro and I take care of the body.’”

The lawyer glanced at him with his little restless eyes and asked: “Satisfied?” “Very much so,” said Firmino, “but where do I come into it?”

“Look here,” said Don Fernando, “I already know all these details, but I can’t get them into the papers. And as this morning I took Wanda to give evidence to the appropriate authorities, I would like her to repeat what she knows to a newspaper, let us call it a sort of precaution, in view of all the road accidents that happen in this country.”

“I take your point,” said Firmino, “where can I find this Wanda?” “I’ve put her into hiding at my brother’s farm, she’ll be safe there,” said Don Fernando.

“When can I interview her?” asked Firmino.

“At once if you like, but it would be better if you went on your own, if you wish I will telephone to Manuel to take you in my car.”

“Fine,” said Firmino.

The lawyer rang Manuel.

“The time it will take him to get the car out of the garage,” he said as he hung up, “not more than ten minutes.”

“I’ll go out and wait for him in the street,” said Firmino, “the air is especially pleasant today, have you smelt the sweet scent of spring, Don Fernando?”

“What about your scholarship?” asked Don Fernando.

“There’s time for that,” said Firmino, “it lasts six months, if I lose a day or so it won’t matter, later on I’ll give my girl a call.”

He opened the door to leave, but paused on the threshold.

“You know, no one is going to believe that evidence.”

“You think not?”

“A transvestite,” said Firmino, “psychiatric hospitals, known to the police as a prostitute. Just imagine.”

AND HE MADE TO CLOSE THE door behind him. Don Fernando raised a hand to stop him. He heaved himself to his feet and advanced into the middle of the room. He pointed at the ceiling, as if addressing the air, then pointed a finger at Firmino, then stabbed a thumb at his own chest.

“She’s a human being,” he said, “remember that, young man, first and foremost she’s a human being.”

He paused, then went on: “Try to be gentle with her, be very tactful, Wanda is a creature as fragile as crystal, one word out of place and she bursts into tears.”

Helsinki, 30 October 1996