I went through the gate into the cemetery. There was no one there, just a cat strolling amongst the graves nearest the gate. To my right, at the entrance itself, right next to the gate, was a small lodge, the door was open. Excuse me, I said, can I come in? I closed my eyes to accustom them to the darkness, because the room lay in deep shadow. I managed to make out a few coffins piled one on top of the other, a vase of dried flowers and a table with a gravestone leaning against it. Come in, said a voice, and I saw that at the far end of the room, near a vast sideboard, sat a small man. He was wearing glasses and a grey overall and, on his head, a black cap with a plastic peak, like the ones worn by ticket collectors on trains. What can I do for you, sir? he asked, the cemetery’s closed, it’ll be open again soon, it’s lunch time now, I’m the cemetery keeper. Only then did I realise he was having his lunch. He was eating out of a small aluminium tin and was poised with his spoon in mid-air. I’m sorry, I said, I didn’t mean to disturb you, do forgive me. Would you care to join me? asked the Cemetery Keeper, carrying on eating. No, thank you, I said, enjoy your meal but, if you don’t mind, I’ll just wait here until you’ve finished, or I could wait outside if you’d rather. Feijoada, said the Cemetery Keeper as if he hadn’t heard me, every day it’s feijoada, my wife doesn’t know how to cook anything else. And then he went on: Certainly not, you wait here in the cool, you can’t wait out there in that heat, sit down, find somewhere to sit and sit down. That’s very kind of you, I said, would you mind if I changed my shirt too? I was drenched in sweat and so I bought two polo shirts from the gypsies. I placed the bottle of champagne on a coffin, took off my shirt and put on the “genuine Lacoste”. I was feeling better, I’d stopped sweating and the room was really cool. I first came here as a boy, said the Cemetery Keeper, fifty years ago now, and I’ve spent my life keeping watch over the dead. Really, I said. A silence fell between us. The man went on calmly eating his
feijoada, from time to time taking off his glasses and putting them back on again. I can’t see a thing without my glasses, he said, or with them for that matter, everything’s blurred, the doctor says it’s a cataplasm. A cataract, I said, the word’s “cataract”. Well, cataract or cataplasm, it makes no difference, said the Cemetery Keeper, it comes to the same rotten thing. He took off his cap and scratched his head. What’s the idea of coming to the cemetery at this hour and in this heat? asked the Keeper, you must be mad. A friend of mine is here, I replied, the gypsy told me so, the gypsy selling polo shirts outside said I should look for him in here, he’s an old friend, we spent a lot of time together, we were like brothers, I’d like to pay him a visit, there’s a question I’d like to ask him. And do you think he’ll reply? said the Cemetery Keeper, the dead tend to be very silent, I should know, I know them. I’m going to try, I said, there’s something I’ve never understood, he died without explaining it to me. Something to do with women? asked the Cemetery Keeper. I didn’t reply and he went on: There’s always a woman somewhere in these stories. It wasn’t only that, I said, there may have been some malice involved, I don’t know how to explain, but I’d like to understand the reason for that malice, if that’s what it was. What was his name? asked the Cemetery Keeper. Tadeus, I said, Tadeus Waclaw. That’s some name, said the Keeper. He was the son of Polish parents, I explained, but he wasn’t Polish himself, he was well and truly Portuguese, he even chose a Portuguese pseudonym. And what did he do? asked the Keeper. Well, I said, he worked, but he was mainly a writer, he wrote some lovely things in Portuguese, well, lovely isn’t quite the word, the things he wrote were bitter, because he himself was full of pain and bitterness. The Cemetery Keeper pushed aside his lunch tin and got up, he went over to the vast sideboard and picked up a large book, like the registers teachers use in school. What’s his surname? he asked. Slowacki, I said, Tadeus Waclaw Slowacki. Is he buried under his real name or under his pseudonym? asked the Keeper, quite rightly in the circumstances. I don’t know, I replied, perplexed, but I think he was buried under his real name, that seems more logical to me. Silva, Silva, Silva, Silva, Silva, Silva … Slowacki, said the Keeper at last, here he is, Slowacki Tadeus Waclaw, first row on the right, no. 4664. The Keeper took off his glasses and smiled. It’s a reversible number, he said, did your friend like to joke? He did, I said, he spent his whole life playing jokes, he even played jokes on himself. I’m going to write that number down, said the Keeper, I like reversible numbers, I’m going to try it on the lottery, sometimes it’s odd finds like this that turn out to be really lucky.