The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro

Three

WHO KNOWS WHY HE HAD always disliked Oporto? Firmino thought about this. His taxi was crossing the Praça da Batalha, a fine square, austere in the English manner. Oporto did in fact have an English air to it, with its grey stone Victorian façades and people walking in such orderly fashion along the streets. Could it be, wondered Firmino, that I don’t feel at ease with the English? Possibly, but it wasn’t the main reason. The one time he’d been in London he had felt perfectly at home. Obviously Oporto wasn’t London, it was merely an imitation of London, but maybe even this wasn’t the reason, decided Firmino. And he thought back to his childhood, and his uncles and aunts in Oporto where his parents unfailingly took him every Christmas holiday. Grim, those Christmases. They flooded back into Firmino’s mind as if they had happened the day before. He saw Aunt Pitù and Uncle Nuno, herself tall and lean and always dressed in black, with a cameo pinned on her breast, and he plump, jovial, and a specialist at telling jokes that made nobody laugh. And the house! A turn-of-the-century little villa in the middle-class part of town, depressing furniture and sofas bestrewn with lace doilies, paper flowers and old oval photographs on the walls, the whole genealogy of the family Aunt Pitù was so proud of. And Christmas dinner. A nightmare. Starting with the inevitable cabbage soup served in the Cantonese porcelain bowls that were Aunt Pitù‘s pride and joy, and the tenderness with which his mother encouraged him to eat up even though he was gagging over it. And then the torture of being woken up at eleven o’clock at night to attend Low Mass, the ritual of being forced into his best suit, and setting forth into the chill December mists of Oporto. The wintry mists of Oporto. Firmino thought it over and came to the conclusion that his dislike of that city was a hangover from his childhood, maybe Freud was right. He pondered over Freud’s theories. Not that he knew them all that well, rather that they didn’t inspire enough faith in him. Lukács, on the other hand, with his precise X-ray of literature as an expression of class, he was a different matter, and besides he was useful to his studies of the post-war Portuguese novel. Yes, Lukács was more use to him than Freud, but it could be that that old Viennese doctor was right about certain things, who knows?

“But where is this blessèd boarding-house?” he asked the cabbie.

He felt he had the right to do so. They had been on the road for at least half an hour, at first in the broad thoroughfares of the center and now in the impossibly narrow alleyways of a district unknown to Firmino.

“It takes the time it takes,” came the surly mutter of the cabbie.

Taximen and policemen, thought Firmino, were the two types he hated most. And yet in his job most of his dealings were with policemen and taximen. He was a journalist on a periodical specializing in scandals and murder victims, divorces, disemboweled women and beheaded corpses, and that was his life. He thought how wonderful it would be to write his book on Vittorini and the post-war Portuguese novel, he was sure it would be an event in the academic world, and might even lead eventually to a research grant.

The taxi stopped plumb in the middle of a narrow street, before a building that showed every year of its age, and the driver unexpectedly turned towards Firmino and bade him a hearty farewell.

“Afraid you wouldn’t get here, eh? young gentleman,” he said kindly, “but here in Oporto we don’t cheat anyone, we don’t go round and round the mulberry bush to rook the customers of their money, we’re not in Lisbon here, you know.”

Firmino alighted, got out his bag and paid. Above the main door a sign read “Pension Rosa — First Floor.” The entrance hall was set up as a ladies’ hair salon. There was no elevator. Firmino climbed a staircase embellished with a red banister, or one which had once been red, which saddened him and at the same time made him feel at home. Only too well did he know the sort of boarding-house his Editor habitually sent him to: dreary suppers at seven in the evening, bedrooms with a washbasin in the corner, and worst of all the old harridans who owned them.

But this time it was nothing of the sort, at least as far as the owner was concerned. Dona Rosa, a lady of about sixty, her hair arranged in a blue permanent wave, was not wearing a flower-patterned housecoat like the proprietresses of all the other pensions he had known, but a stylish grey coat and skirt and a jovial smile. Dona Rosa bade him welcome and carefully explained the timetable of the establishment. Dinner was at eight, and that evening it would consist of tripe à la mode d’Oporto. If he wished to fend for himself for supper, in the square to the right as he left the house there was a long-established café, the Café Àncora, one of the oldest in Oporto, practically an institution, where the food was good and reasonably priced, but before that perhaps he had better have a shower, wouldn’t he like to see his room? it was the second on the right down the corridor, she would appreciate a couple of words with him but they could have them after dinner, she was a night owl anyway.

When Firmino entered his room his good first impressions of the Pension Rosa were confirmed. A spacious window giving on to the garden behind the house, a high ceiling, solid country furniture, a double bed. A bathroom with flower-patterned tiles and a bathtub. There was even a hair-dryer. Firmino undressed without hurry and had a lukewarm shower. All in all, here in Oporto there wasn’t that sticky heat he had been afraid of, or at least his room was nice and cool. He put on a short-sleeved shirt, threw a light jacket over his arm just in case, and went out. The street outside was still showing signs of life. The shops were already shuttered up, but folks were at their windows enjoying the evening air and chatting with their neighbors across the way. He dawdled a bit to listen in to this prattle, which he found rather touching. He caught a few phrases here and there, especially those of a sturdily-built young lady leaning far out over the sill. She was carrying on about the Porto football team which had won a match in Germany the day before. She seemed particularly enthusiastic about the center forward, whose name was unknown to Firmino.

He spotted the café as soon as he entered the square. He could scarcely have missed it. It was a nineteenth-century building with an elaborately stuccoed façade and a heavy timber-framed doorway. The sign depicted a rubicund little man sitting astride a barrel of wine. And in Firmino went.

The main room of the café was immense, with its old wooden tables, its enormous inlaid counter and a host of revolving brass fans hanging from the ceiling. The tables right down the end were reserved for the restaurant, but there were no clients. Firmino took a seat and prepared for a lavish dinner by studying the menu carefully. He made up his mind, and already felt his mouth watering when the waiter arrived. A slender youngster with a little brown beard and a crew-cut.

“The kitchen is closed, sir,” said the waiter, “only cold dishes are available.”

Firmino glanced at his watch. It was half-past eleven, he had no idea it had got so late. However, in Lisbon you could dine at your leisure at this hour.

“In Lisbon one can still have dinner at this time of night,” he said, just for something to say.

“Lisbon is Lisbon and Oporto is Oporto,” replied the waiter philosophically, “but I think you will find that our cold dishes will not disappoint you, and if I may make a suggestion, the cook has prepared a shrimp salad with home-made mayonnaise that would make the dead arise.”

Firmino said yes to it and the waiter soon returned with the platter of shrimp salad. He served him a generous helping, and said in the meanwhile:

“Porto won yesterday's match in Germany, the German players are tough, but our boys beat them on speed.”

Clearly he was in the mood for a chat, and Firmino fell in with this.

“Porto’s a fine team,” he replied, “but it doesn’t have the tradition that Benfica has.”

“You’re from Lisbon, then?” asked the waiter promptly.

“The center of Lisbon,” Firmino assured him.

“I thought so from your accent,” said the waiter. “And what brings you here to Oporto?”

“I’m looking for a gypsy,” answered Firmino without a thought.

“A gypsy?” asked the waiter.

“Yes, a gypsy,” repeated Firmino.

“I’m on the side of the gypsies,” said the waiter as if feeling out his ground. “What about you?”

“I don’t know much about them,” replied Firmino, “in fact very little indeed.”

“It may be because I come from Barcelos,” said the waiter. “You know, when I was a child in Barcelos they held the grandest fair in the whole of the Minho, but now it’s not what it used to be, I went back last year and found it really sad and depressing, but in those days it was a sight to see, but I don’t want to bore you, perhaps I’m bothering you?”

“Not at all,” said Firmino, “in fact sit down and keep me company, can I offer you a glass of wine?”

The waiter sat down and accepted the glass of wine.

“I was telling you about the fair at Barcelos,” the waiter went on, “when I was a child it was magnificent, especially on account of the livestock in the market, those pure-bred Minhota oxen with the long, long horns, do you remember them? but in any case they’re a thing of the past, but also the horses, the fillies, the foals, the mares, my father was a horse-dealer and used to do business with the gypsies during the summer months, they had splendid horses, the gypsies did, and were persons worthy of honor and esteem, I remember a banquet they gave my father after concluding some transaction, it was at a big table out in the main square of Barcelos and my father took me along with him.”

He paused a while.

“I don’t know why I’m pestering you with my memories of childhood,” he resumed, “but maybe it’s because I feel really sorry for the gypsies today, they’re reduced to poverty and what’s more everybody is against them.”

“Is that the case?” said Firmino, “I didn’t know.”

“It’s a nasty business around these parts,” added the waiter, “perhaps I’ll tell you about it some other time, I hope you’ve enjoyed our restaurant and will visit us again.”

“The shrimp salad was delicious,” Firmino assured him.

He too would have liked to stay on and chat, but he remembered that Dona Rosa wished to have a word with him, so he paid the bill and hurried back to the pension. He found her in the sitting-room reading a magazine. She patted the sofa beside her as an invitation to sit down and he did so. Dona Rosa asked if he had enjoyed his dinner and Firmino said he had, and also that the waiter, a very friendly fellow, was on excellent terms with the gypsies.

“We too are on excellent terms with the gypsies,” replied Dona Rosa.

“We who?”

“The Pension Dona Rosa,” replied Dona Rosa.

And giving him a broad grin she added: “Manolo the Gypsy is expecting you at midday tomorrow at the encampment, he has agreed to have a talk with you.”

Firmino looked at her in astonishment.

“Did you contact him through the police?” he asked.

“Dona Rosa does not use police channels,” replied Dona Rosa levelly.

“Then how did you manage it?” persisted Firmino.

“All a good journalist needs is the contact, don’t you think?” said Dona Rosa with a wink.

“Where is this encampment?” asked Firmino.

Dona Rosa unfolded a map of the city which she had ready on the table.

“As far as Matosinhos you can go by bus,” she explained, “but after that you have to take a taxi, the encampment is just here, you see? Where the green splodge is, it’s land belonging to the council. Manolo will be waiting for you at the general store on the edge of the encampment.”

Dona Rosa refolded the map implying that that was all she had to tell him, but: “Do you carry a tape recorder?” she asked.

Firmino nodded.

“Keep it in your pocket,” said Dona Rosa, “the gypsies don’t like tape recorders.”

She got up and started switching off the lights, making it plain that it was time for bed. Firmino also got up and was about to take his leave.

“How old are you?” asked Dona Rosa.

Firmino replied with a formula he used whenever he felt too embarrassed to confess that he was only twenty-seven. It was a clumsy formula, but he never managed to find anything better.

“Close on thirty,” he said.

“Too young for a filthy job like this,” grumbled Dona Rosa. Then she added: “See you tomorrow and, sleep well.”