The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro

Eight

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK FIRMINO WAS awakened by the house telephone. It was the mannish voice of the moustached maid.

“Your Editor wants you on the telephone, he says it’s urgent.”

Firmino dashed downstairs in his dressing-gown. The pension was still sleeping.

“The presses start rolling in half an hour,” said the Editor, “I’m getting out a special edition today, just a couple of pages but with all your shots, no need for a text, for the moment it’s better for you to keep quiet, at three this afternoon the mystery face will be spread all over the country.”

“How did the photos come out?” asked Firmino.

“Hideous,” replied the Editor, “but anyone who wants to recognize them will recognize them.”

Firmino felt a shiver run down his spine as he thought of the impact the paper would make: worse than a horror film. He plucked up courage and timidly enquired how the various photos would be arranged.

“On the front page we’re putting the full-face shot,” replied the Editor, “on the two inner pages the right and left profiles, and on the back page a postcard view of Oporto showing the Douro and the Iron Bridge, in color of course.”

Firmino went up to his room. He had a shower, shaved, and put on a pair of cotton trousers and a red Lacoste T-shirt, a present from his fiancée. He gulped down a cup of coffee and went out into the street. It was Sunday, the city was practically deserted. People were still sleeping, and later on would be going to the sea. He had an urge to go there himself, even if he had no swimming trunks with him, but just to get a breath of fresh air. Then he changed his mind. He had his guidebook with him and decided to explore the city, for example the markets, the working-class parts which he didn’t know. Going down the steep alleyways of the lower town he came across a bustle of activity he had not suspected. Truly Oporto kept up certain traditions which Lisbon had by now lost, such as fishwives, even on a Sunday, carrying baskets of fish on their heads, and then the “calls” of the street trades, which took him back to his childhood: the ocarinas of the knife-grinders, the croaking bugles of the vegetable sellers. He crossed Praça da Alegria, which was as lively as its name implied. There he found a little market of green-painted stalls where all manner of things were sold: second-hand clothes, flowers, legumes, traditional wooden toys and handmade crockery. He bought a small terracotta dish on which an artless hand had painted the tower of the Clérigos. He was sure his fiancée would like it. He came to Largo do Padrao, which was a market without really being one, in that the farmers and fishermen had simply set up improvised shops in the doorways and on the pavements of Rua de Santo Ildefonso. He arrived at the Fontainhas, where he found a small flea-market. Many of the stalls were closed, because Saturday was the big day there, but a certain amount of business was done even on Sunday morning. He paused by a stall selling exotic cage-birds. On the cages were strips of paper which indicated the name of the bird and the place of origin. Most of them came from Brazil or Madeira. Firmino thought of Madeira, and how lovely it would be to spend a dream-holiday there, as promised by the advertisements for Air Portugal. Next there was a second-hand book stall, and Firmino began to browse. He came across an old book about how a city, a century ago, communicated with the world. He cast an eye at the chapter on the newspapers and advertising of the period. He discovered that at the beginning of the nineteenth century there was a paper called O Artilheiro in which the following fascinating announcement appeared: “Persons wishing to dispatch packages to Lisbon or Coimbra by means of our horses may deposit the merchandise at the post station opposite the Tobacco Factory.” The next page was devoted to a paper called O Periódico dos Pobres, The Paupers’ Journal, in which the ads of the tripe-vendors appeared free of charge, the sale of tripe being regarded as a public service. Firmino was overcome by a wave of affection for this city towards which, when he didn’t know it at all, he had felt a certain hostility. He came to the conclusion that we are all subject to prejudice, and that unwittingly he had suffered a lapse in dialectics, that fundamental dialectic so dear to the heart of Lukács.

He glanced at his watch and thought about going to get something to eat, it was lunchtime, and he followed his nose to the Café Àncora. The place was crowded, even the restaurant part, but Firmino found a table and sat down. Almost at once the friendly waiter arrived.

“Did you find the gypsy?” he asked with a smile.

Firmino nodded.

“Later on, with your permission,” said the waiter, “we’ll talk about them, the gypsies, I mean. Meanwhile if you want a quick dish freshly prepared today, I recommend the octopus salad with oil, lemon and parsley.”

Firmino agreed, and a minute later the waiter arrived with his order.

“Do you mind if I sit down for a moment?” he asked.

Firmino invited him to do so.

“Excuse my asking,” said the waiter politely, “may I ask what job you do?”

“I’m a journalist,” replied Firmino.

“Wow!” exclaimed the waiter, “in that case you can help us. Where, in Lisbon?”

“Yes, in Lisbon,” confirmed Firmino.

“We’re getting a movement going in favor of the gypsies of Portugal,” whispered the waiter, “I don’t know whether you’ve seen the racist demonstrations there have been in a number of towns around here?”

“I’ve heard about them,” said Firmino.

“People don’t want the gypsies,” said the waiter, “in one town they’ve even beaten them up, it’s an outbreak of racism. I don’t know for sure which political parties are inciting people against them though it’s not hard to imagine, and we don’t want Portugal to become a racist country, it’s always been a tolerant country, I am a member of an association called Citizens’ Rights and we are collecting signatures, would you care to sign?

“Willingly,” replied Firmino.

From his pocket the waiter produced a sheet full of signatures headed “Citizens’ Rights.”

“I ought not to have you sign in the restaurant,” he said, “because collecting signatures is forbidden in public places, we have special centers dotted all over town, but as the boss isn’t looking, right, if you just sign here, with your particulars and the number of some official document.”

Firmino wrote his name, the number of his identity card, and under the heading “profession” wrote: journalist.

“Will you give us a write-up in your paper?” asked the waiter.

“I can’t promise,” said Firmino, “at the moment I’m busy with another matter.”

“There are some ugly things happening in Oporto,” observed the waiter.

Just then a newsboy entered the café, a kid carrying a bundle of newspapers, and as he did the rounds of the tables he repeated: “The great Oporto mystery, the missing head discovered.”

Firmino bought Acontecimento. He gave it a quick glance, folded it neatly in four because he felt embarrassed. He put it in his pocket and left. He thought he had better be getting back to Dona Rosa’s.

DONA ROSA, SEATED on the sofa in the sitting-room, had a copy of Acontecimento open before her. She lowered the paper and looked up at Firmino.

“What a horrible business,” she murmured, “the poor soul. And poor you,” she added, “having to face such horrors at your age.”

“That’s life,” sighed Firmino, taking a seat beside her.

“The pretenders to the throne are a good deal better off,” observed Dona Rosa, “in Vultos there’s a feature on a splendid reception given in Madrid, everybody is so elegant.”

Just then the telephone rang and she went off to answer it. Firmino watched. Dona Rosa gave a nod, beckoning twice with her forefinger.

“Hullo,” said Firmino.

“Have you something to write with?” asked a voice.

Firmino instantly recognized the voice which had called him before.

“I’ve got something to write with,” he said.

“Don’t interrupt me,” said the voice.

“I’m not interrupting you,” Firmino assured him.

“The head is that of Damasceno Monteiro,” said the voice, “twenty-eight years old, he worked as errand-boy at the Stones of Portugal, he lived in Rua dos Canastreiros, it’s up to you to find the number, it’s in the Ribeira, opposite a fountain, you must inform the family, I can’t do it for reasons I won’t go into, goodbye.”

Firmino hung up and at once dialed the number of the paper, giving a glance at the notes on his pad. He asked for the Editor but the switchboard operator put him through to Senhor Silva.

“Hullo, Huppert here,” said Silva.

“This is Firmino,” said Firmino.

“Enjoying the tripe?” asked Silva in sarcastic tones.

“Listen Silva,” said Firmino, stressing the name, “why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

There was a silence at the other end, then Silva asked indignantly: “What did you say?”

“You heard,” replied Firmino, “now pass me the Editor.”

After a bit of electronic music on came the Editor’s voice.

“He’s called Damasceno Monteiro,” said Firmino, “twenty-eight years old, worked as errand-boy at the Stones of Portugal in Vila Nova de Gaia, I’ll go and inform his family, they live in the Ribeira, and after that I’ll go to the morgue.”

“It’s now four o’clock,” said the Editor quite casually, “if you can manage to get me a report by nine tomorrow morning we’ll come out with another special edition, today’s sold out in an hour, and just think, today’s Sunday and lots of the kiosks are closed.”

“I’ll try,” said Firmino without conviction.

“You better had,” declared the Editor, “and make sure there’s lots of colorful detail, plenty of drama and pathos, like a good slushy photo-romance.”

“That’s not my style,” replied Firmino.

“Find another style,” retorted the Editor, “a style Acontecimento needs. And another thing, mind it’s a long piece, really good and long.”