Is your friend English? Mariazinha asked me, I can’t cope with the English, they’re so boring! No, I said, my guest isn’t English, he’s Portuguese but he lived in South Africa, he likes speaking English, he’s a poet. That’s all right then, said Mariazinha, I love people who can speak other languages, I can speak Spanish, I learned it in Estremoz, I worked at the Pousada Santa Isabel, ¿les gusta Estremoz, caballeros? My Guest looked at Mariazinha again and said: He’s mad. No, I said, I don’t think he is, I’ll explain later. Anyway here’s the wine list, said Mariazinha, the menu’s all here in my little head, I’ll tell you what there is later when you’re ready to order, I’ll leave you now, caballeros, I have to see to that big boy all by himself over there, he must be dying of hunger.
Mariazinha walked off, hips swaying, to attend to the needs of a gentleman sitting on his own at a corner table. Where have you brought me? asked my Guest, what sort of place is this? I don’t know, I said, it’s the first time I’ve been here, someone recommended it to me, it’s supposed to be post-modern, and if you’ll forgive me, you may be partly to blame for all this, I mean for postmodernism. I don’t understand, said my Guest. Well, I went on, I was thinking of the avant-garde movement, about the effect it had. I still don’t understand, said my Guest. Well, I said, how can I put it, it was the avant-garde movement that first upset the balance, and things like that leave a mark. But this is all so vulgar, he said, we had elegance. That’s what you think, I said, I don’t agree, Futurism, for example, was vulgar, it celebrated noise and war, I think it had a vulgar side to it, I’ll go further, there’s even something slightly vulgar about your own Futurist odes. Is that why you wanted to see me? he asked, in order to insult me. To be exact, it wasn’t me who wanted to see you, I said, it was you who wanted to see me. I received a message from you, he said. That’s a good one, I said, this morning I was in Azeitão sitting quietly under a tree reading, it was you who called me. All right, said my Guest, as you wish, let’s not argue, let’s just say I’d like to know what your intentions are. In relation to what? I asked. In relation to me, for example, said my Guest, that’s what interests me. You don’t find that a little egocentric? I asked. Of course, he replied, I am egocentric, but what do you want me to do about it, all poets are egocentric, and my ego has a very special centre, indeed if you wanted me to tell you where that centre is I couldn’t. I’ve come up with a few hypotheses myself, I said, I’ve spent my life hypothesising about you and now I’m tired of it, that’s what I wanted to tell you. Please, he said, don’t abandon me to all these people who are so certain about everything, they’re dreadful. You don’t need me, I said, don’t talk nonsense, the whole world admires you, I was the one who needed you, but now it’s time to stop, that’s all. Did my company displease you? he asked. No, I said, it was very important, but it troubled me, let’s just say that you had a disquieting effect on me. I know, he said, with me it always finishes that way, but don’t you think that’s precisely what literature should do, be disquieting I mean? personally I don’t trust literature that soothes people’s consciences. Neither do I, I agreed, but you see, I’m already full of disquiet, your disquiet just adds to mine and becomes anxiety. I prefer anxiety to utter peace, he said, given the choice.
My Guest opened the wine list and read it attentively. How are you supposed to choose a wine without first having chosen your meal? he said, this really is a bizarre restaurant. They serve almost exclusively fish dishes, I said, that’s why they mostly offer white wines, but if you prefer red, there’s a house red that might not be too bad. No, no, he said, tonight I’ll drink white wine too, but you’ll have to help me choose, I don’t know the names, they’re all new. Young or old? I asked. Old, he said, I don’t like fizzy wines. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s a Colares Chita, which is a wine from your day. My Guest approved and said: It’s a wine from Azenhas do Mar, in 1923 it won a gold medal in Rio de Janeiro, I was living in Campo de Ourique at the time.
Mariazinha came over to us again and I ordered a bottle of Colares. Would you like to order your food now? asked Mariazinha. Look, I said, if you don’t mind, we’d like to drink a glass of wine first before choosing, we’re thirsty and besides we want to drink a toast. That’s fine by me, said Mariazinha, the kitchen’s open until two and the restaurant closes at three, so feel free. He left us only to return soon after with a bottle and an ice bucket. Tonight we have a literary menu, he said as he was opening the bottle, Pedrinho chose the names, es el apocalipse, caballeros. Who’s Pedrinho? I asked. Pedrinho’s the young fellow who advises us in the kitchen, said Mariazinha, he’s terribly cultured, he did a literature course at Évora. Not someone else from the Alentejo, I said. Have you got anything against them? asked Mariazinha with a haughty look, I’m from there too, from Estremoz. No, I’ve got nothing against them, I replied, it’s just that my day has been full of people from the Alentejo, I’ve been bumping into them everywhere. We’re international, said Mariazinha, with a shake of his ponytail, and left us to ourselves.
My Guest raised his glass. Let’s drink a toast, he said. Right, I said, to what? To the next century, he said, you’re going to need all the luck you can get, this was my century and I felt at home in it, but you might have some problems in the next one. Who’s “you”? I asked. The people alive now, he replied, you fin-de-siècle people. We’ve already got masses of problems, I said, we really need a toast. I’d also like to drink to saudosismo,2 said my Guest, raising his glass again, I miss poor old saudosismo, there are no saudosistas left, Portugal’s become so very European. But you’re European, I said, you’re the most European writer of the twentieth century, I’m sorry, but you’re the last person who should say such things. But I never left Lisbon, he said, I never left Portugal, oh, I liked Europe, but only as an idea, I sent other people off to Europe: one friend to England, another to Paris, but not me, I stayed put in my aunt’s house. It was comfortable, I said, very comfortable. That’s right, he went on, perhaps I’ve always been a bit of a coward, do you know what I mean? but I’ll tell you something, cowardice produced some of the bravest writing of the century, for example, that Czech writer who wrote in German, I can’t remember his name just now, but don’t you think he wrote some extraordinarily brave things? Kafka, I said, his name was Kafka. That’s right, my Guest said, and yet he was a bit of a coward too. He took a sip of wine and went on: There’s something cowardly about his diary, but what courage he had to write that magnificent book of his, you know, the one about guilt. The Trial? I asked, is that the one you mean? Of course, he said, the most courageous book of the century, he has the courage to say that we are all guilty. Guilty of what? I asked. I don’t know, he said, of being born, perhaps, and of what happens afterwards, we’re all guilty.
Mariazinha came over wearing a luminous smile, his powder was beginning to melt slightly in the heat, but his expression remained ingratiating. Right, caballeros, he said, I’m going to tell you what the menu of the day is, it’s a poetic menu, but then nouvelle cuisine demands poetry, as a starter we have soup Amor de Perdição and salad Fernão Mendes Pinto, what do you think? The names are certainly picturesque, I said, but you’ll have to explain what they mean. Right, said Mariazinha, the soup is a coriander soup made with lots of coriander and chicken giblets. The salad is an exotic mix of avocado, prawns and bean sprouts. Am I also to blame for “nouvelle cuisine”? asked my Guest, I’m not responsible for those horrible names. No, I said, you’re absolutely right, nouvelle cuisine is a quite separate horror. Does your friend only speak English? Mariazinha interrupted, what a bore! And what do you have as a main dish? I asked. Now let me see, said Mariazinha, we have sea bass trágico-marítimo3 sole interseccionista, Gafeira eels à moda do Delftm and cod escárnio e mal-dizer. My Guest raised one eyebrow and whispered: Ask him how the sole is cooked. I asked and Mariazinha looked slightly irritated. It’s stuffed with ham, he said, that’s why it’s called interseccionista, because it’s made from fish and meat. My Guest smiled ironically and nodded. And what about the eels à moda do Delfim, I asked, how are they served? They’re cooked in moira, said Mariazinha, it’s a speciality of the house. I don’t know what that is, I said, can you explain? Look, said Mariazinha, you know what caldeirada is, a sort of fish stew, right? well moira is the stock you get from the caldeirada, I’ll tell you how it’s made, you cut the fat off the eels and add coarse salt and vinegar to it. Then this mixture, which is very tasty, is added to the stewed eels themselves, it’s more or less the same as eels à moda da Murtosa, only more refined, that’s why we call it Gafeira eels à moda do Delfim. But Gafeira doesn’t exist, I said, it’s an imaginary place, a literary place. That doesn’t matter, said Mariazinha, Portugal’s full of lakes, you can always find a Gafeira. I’ll have that then, I said, but only a half-portion, just to get an idea.