I’d finally managed to open the window, but the air that entered was hot. I closed my eyes and thought about other things, about my childhood, I remembered how in summer I used to go on my bike to fetch cold water from the “Le Caroline” with a bottle and a straw basket. The car braked suddenly and I opened my eyes. The driver had got out of the taxi and was looking about him disconsolately. I’ve taken the wrong road, he said, look, I’ve come up the wrong road, we’re in Campo de Ourique, I took the road on the left as you said, but I don’t think it was Saraiva de Carvalho, I took another road and it’s one-way only, see what I mean? all the cars are parked facing in the other direction, I’ve come up a one-way street. It doesn’t matter, I said, the important thing is that you turned left, now we can just drive along this one-way street until we reach Largo dos Prazeres. The Taxi Driver placed his hand on his heart and said very gravely: I can’t, I’m sorry but I really can’t, I still haven’t sorted out my taxi licence and if a policeman sees me, he’ll slap a huge fine on me and then what will become of me? I’ll have to go back to São Tomé, that’s what, I’m sorry, but I really can’t do it. Look, I said, the city’s empty today, anyway, don’t worry, if a policeman stops us, I’ll talk to him, I’ll pay the fine, I’ll take full responsibility, I promise, please, I’m sweating like a pig here, I need a shirt, or even two shirts, please, you don’t want me to get ill here in this unknown street in Campo de Ourique, do you?
I didn’t mean to threaten him, I was being serious, but he clearly took my words as a threat, because he scrambled back into the taxi and drove off without a word of protest. If that’s what you want, he said, in a resigned voice, I don’t want you being ill in my taxi, I haven’t got my licence yet, you see, it would ruin me. We drove the wrong way down the length of the street which, for all I know, may well have been Saraiva de Carvalho itself, and came out in Largo dos Prazeres. The gypsies were right by the entrance to the cemetery, they’d set out a small market on wooden tables and blankets spread on the ground. I got out of the taxi and asked the driver to wait for me. The Largo was empty and the gypsies were stretched out asleep on the pavement. I went over to a table occupied by an old gypsy woman dressed all in black but for the yellow scarf on her head. On her table lay a pile of Lacoste polo shirts, perfect but for the absence of the crocodile. Excuse me, I said, I’d like to buy something. What’s wrong with you, my dear? asked the Old Gypsy Woman when she saw my shirt, have you got the fever or something? I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I replied, I’ve been sweating like mad and I need a clean shirt, possibly two. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you in a minute, said the Old Gypsy Woman, but first, my dear, buy the shirts, you can’t go around like that, if you leave sweat to dry on your back it can make you ill. What do you think would be best, I asked, a shirt or a polo shirt? The Old Gypsy Woman appeared to think for a moment. Then she said, I’d advise you to buy a Lacoste polo shirt, they’re nice and cool, it’s five hundred
escudos for a fake Lacoste and five hundred and twenty for a genuine one. My God, I said, a Lacoste shirt for five hundred and twenty escudos seems very cheap, but what’s the difference between a fake one and a genuine one? That’s easy, said the Old Gypsy Woman, if you want a genuine Lacoste shirt, you buy a fake one, which costs five hundred escudos, and then you buy a crocodile, which costs twenty escudos and is self-adhesive, you stick the crocodile on in the right place and there’s your genuine Lacoste shirt. She showed me a small bag full of crocodiles. What’s more, she said, for twenty escudos, my dear, I’ll give you four crocodiles, so that you’ll have three spare, because the trouble with these self-adhesive things is that they’re always coming unstuck. That seems very reasonable to me, I said, I’ll buy two genuine Lacostes then, which colour would you recommend? I like red and black best myself, she said, because they’re the gypsy colours, but black’s no good in this sun, besides you’re obviously rather delicate, and red’s too loud, you’re too old now for this colour red. I’m not that old, I protested, I can still wear bright colours. I’d go for the blue, said the Old Gypsy Woman, I think blue would be ideal for you and now, my dear, I’m going to tell you what’s wrong with you and why you’re sweating so much, look, for another two hundred escudos, I’ll tell you everything, what’s happening to you now and what else awaits you on this hot Sunday afternoon, wouldn’t you like to know your fate? The Old Gypsy Woman grabbed my left hand and looked hard at my palm. It’s rather complicated, my dear, said the Old Gypsy Woman, you’d best sit down here on this bench. I sat down, but she didn’t let go of my hand. Listen, my dear, she said, this can’t go on, you can’t live in two worlds at once, in the world of reality and the world of dreams, that kind of thing leads to hallucinations, you’re like a sleepwalker walking through a landscape with your arms outstretched, and everything you touch becomes part of your dream, even me, a fat old woman weighing one hundred seventy-five, I can feel myself dissolving into the air at the touch of your hand, as if I was becoming part of your dream too. What should I do? I asked, tell me. Right now, you can’t do anything, she replied, the day still awaits you and you can’t run away from it, you can’t escape your fate, it will be a day of tribulations but also a day of purification, afterwards, my dear, you may perhaps be able to feel at peace with yourself, at least I hope so. The Old Gypsy Woman lit a cigar and inhaled the smoke. Now give me your right hand, she said, so that I can finish my reading. She looked closely at my right hand and stroked the palm with her rough fingers. I see that you have to visit someone, she said, but the house you’re looking for exists only in your memory or in your dream, you can tell the taxi not to wait for you, the person you’re looking for is right here, on the other side of that gate. She pointed in the direction of the cemetery and said, off you go, my love, you have an appointment to keep. I thanked her and went over to the Taxi Driver. It looks like I’m going to stay here, I said, getting out my wallet to pay him, anyway, thanks very much, you’ve been really kind. Great polo shirts, said the Taxi Driver, looking at the two folded shirts under my arm, you made a good choice there. I paid him and picked up my jacket and the bottle of champagne. The Taxi Driver shook me energetically by the hand and gave me a card. My phone number, he said, if you ever need a taxi again, just phone, my wife will take the message, you can even book a taxi for the next day, if you want. The car drove off, but after only a few yards, reversed back towards me. You’re not still feeling ill, are you? the man asked from his window. No, I said, I’m better now, thanks. The Taxi Driver smiled and the car disappeared round the corner.