The telephone went click and Pereira hung up in turn. He felt apprehensive, he maintains. He considered what was best to do and made his decisions. First of all he would have a lemonade at the Café Orquídea and stay on there for an omelette. Then, in the afternoon, he would take a train to Coimbra and find his way from there to the baths at Buçaco. He would be sure to meet his editor-in-chief, that was inevitable, and Pereira had no wish to get into conversation with him, but he had a good excuse for not spending any time with him because his friend Silva was also at the spa for his holidays and had often invited him to join him there. Silva was an old college friend at Coimbra now teaching literature at the university, a cultured and sensible man, a level-headed bachelor, it would be a pleasure to spend two or three days in his company. And in addition he would drink the health-giving waters of the spa, stroll in the gardens and perhaps take a few inhalations, because his breathing was terribly laboured, he was often forced to breathe through his mouth, especially when climbing stairs.
He pinned a note to the door: ‘Back mid-week, Pereira’. Luckily he did not meet the caretaker and this was some comfort to him. He went out into the blinding midday light and made for the Café Orquídea. As he passed the kosher butcher he noticed a small gathering outside it, so he stopped. He saw that the window was smashed and the shopfront covered with scrawls which the butcher was busy covering with white paint. He edged his way through the crowd and went up to the butcher, whom he knew well, young Mayer, he had also known his father well, old Mayer, with whom he had many a time partaken of a lemonade at one of the cafés down by the river. Then old Mayer had died and left the shop to his son David, a hulking youngster with quite a paunch in spite of his youth and a jovial air about him. David, asked Pereira, what’s happened here? You can see for yourself, replied David as he wiped his paint-stained hands on his butcher’s apron, we live in a world of hooligans, it was the hooligans. Have you called the police? asked Pereira. You must be joking, replied David, you must be joking. And he went on covering the scrawlings with white paint. Pereira walked on to the Café Orquídea and took a seat inside, next to the fan. He ordered a lemonade and took off his jacket. Have you heard what’s going on, Dr Pereira? asked Manuel. Pereira’s eyes widened and he asked: The kosher butcher? Kosher butcher my foot, Manuel flung back over his shoulder, that’s the least of it.
Pereira ordered an omelette aux fines herbes and lingered over it. The Lisboa came out at five o’clock and he wouldn’t see it because he’d be on the train to Coimbra by then. Perhaps he could send for a morning paper, but he doubted if the Portuguese papers reported the event the waiter was referring to. Rumours simply spread, news travelled by word of mouth, all you could do was ask around in the cafés, listen to gossip, it was the only way of keeping in touch with things, other than buying some foreign paper from the newsagent in Rua do Ouro, but the foreign papers, if they arrived at all, were three or four days old, so it was useless to go hunting for a foreign paper, the best thing was to ask. But Pereira had no wish to ask anyone anything, he simply wanted to get away to the spa, enjoy a day or two of peace and quiet, talk to his friend Professor Silva and not think about all the evil in the world. He ordered another lemonade, asked for his bill, left the cafe and went to the central post office where he sent two telegrams, one to the hotel at the spa to book a room and the other to his friend Silva: ‘ARRIVE COIMBRA BY EVENING TRAIN STOP IF YOU CAN MEET ME WITH CAR WOULD BE GRATEFUL STOP AFFECTIONATELY PEREIRA.’
Then he went home to pack a suitcase. He thought he would leave buying his ticket until he got to the station, he had all the time in the world, he maintains.
NINE
When Pereira’s train drew in to Coimbra a magnificent sunset was outspread over the city, he maintains. He looked around but saw no sign of his friend Silva on the platform. He supposed the telegram had not arrived or else Silva had left the spa. But on reaching the booking-hall he saw his friend seated on a bench smoking a cigarette. He was delighted and hurried to meet him. He hadn’t seen him for quite a while. Silva gave him a hug and took his suitcase. They left the station and walked to the car. Silva had a black Chevrolet with shining chrome, roomy and comfortable.
The road to the spa led through a countryside of lush green hills and was just one bend after another. Pereira wound the window down, he was beginning to feel a little queasy and the fresh air did him good, he maintains. They talked very little during the journey. How are you getting along? asked Silva. So so, replied Pereira. Still living alone? asked Silva. Yes, alone, replied Pereira. I think it’s bad for you, said Silva, you ought to find a woman who’d keep you company and jolly your life up a bit, I realize you’re still very attached to the memory of your wife, but you can’t spend the rest of your life nurturing memories. I’m old, replied Pereira, I’m fat and I’ve got heart trouble. You’re not old at all, said Silva, you’re the same age as I am, and after all you could go on a diet, treat yourself to a holiday, take more care of your health. Humph, replied Pereira.
Pereira maintains that the hotel at the spa was a wonder, a shining white mansion set amid spacious gardens. He went up to his room and changed. He donned a light-coloured suit and a black tie. Silva was waiting for him in the lobby sipping an aperitif. Pereira asked if he had seen his editor-in-chief. Silva answered with a wink. He dines every evening with a middle-aged blonde, he replied, she’s a guest in the hotel, he appears to have found himself some company. Just as well, said Pereira, it’ll let me off having to discuss business.
They entered the restaurant, a nineteeth-century chamber with a ceiling festooned with painted flowers. The editor-in-chief was dining at a centre table in the company of a lady in an evening gown. When he looked up and saw Pereira an expression of complete incredulity spread over his face and he beckoned to him. Pereira crossed the room towards him while Silva made his way to another table. Good evening Dr Pereira, said the editor-in-chief, it comes as a surprise to see you here, have you left the office to its own devices? The culture page came out today, said Pereira, I don’t know whether you’ve seen it yet, possibly the paper hasn’t reached Coimbra, there’s a Maupassant story and a feature called ‘Anniversaries’ which I’ve started on my own initiative, and in any case I’m only staying here a few days, on Wednesday I shall be back in Lisbon to get the culture page together for next Saturday. My apologies dear lady, said the editor-in-chief addressing his companion, allow me to introduce Dr Pereira, a member of my staff. Then he added: Senhora Maria do Vale Santares. Pereira inclined his head briefly. There’s something I wanted to tell you sir, he said, provided you have no objection I have decided to engage an assistant to give me a hand purely with advance obituaries of great writers who might die at any moment. Dr Pereira! exclaimed the editor-in-chief, here I am dining with a gracious, sensitive lady with whom I am conversing about choses amusantes, and you come and interrupt us with talk about people who might die at any moment, it seems to me rather less than tactful on your part. I’m very sorry sir, Pereira maintains he said, I didn’t intend to talk shop, but on the culture page one needs to foresee the death of great artists, and if one of them dies unexpectedly it’s a real problem to compose an obituary overnight, and what’s more you’ll remember that three years ago when T.E. Lawrence died not a single Portuguese paper got anything out on time, they all came out with their obituaries a week late, and if we want to be an up-to-date paper we must keep abreast of things. The editor-in-chief slowly chewed his way through a mouthful of something and said: Very well, very well Dr Pereira, after all I did give you a free hand as regards the culture page, I only want to know whether this assistant is going to cost us much and whether he is a trustworthy person. Oh as far as that’s concerned, replied Pereira, he strikes me as an undemanding person, he’s a modest young man, and what’s more he graduated from Lisbon University with a thesis on death, so he knows about death. The editor-in-chief raised a hand to cut him short, took a sip of wine and said: Come now, Dr Pereira, stop talking about death if you don’t mind or you will ruin our dinner, as for the culture page you may do as you see fit, I have confidence in you, you were a reporter for thirty years after all, and now good evening and enjoy your meal.