Requiem (2 page)

I’M TERRIBLY
SORRY
, said the Taxi Driver, but I don’t know where Rua das Pedras Negras is,
could you give me some directions? He smiled a smile full of white teeth and went on:
I’m from São Tomé, you see, I’ve only been working in Lisbon for a
month and I don’t know the streets yet, in my own country I was an engineer but nothing
needs engineering there, so here I am working as a taxi driver and I don’t even know the
streets, I mean I know the city really well, I never get lost, it’s just that I
don’t know the
names
of the streets. Oh, I said, it’s a street I know
from twenty-five years back and
I
can’t remember how to get there either,
though I know it’s near the castle. Let’s head in that direction then, said the
Taxi Driver, smiling, and we set off.

Only then did I realise that I was sweating profusely. My shirt was drenched and it clung to
my chest and back. I took off my jacket, but even then I went on sweating. Look, I said,
perhaps you can help me, my shirt’s sopping wet, I need to buy a new one, can you
suggest where I might go? The Taxi Driver braked and turned to me. Do you feel ill?, he asked,
a worried expression on his face. No, I replied, I don’t know, I mean I don’t
think so, it must be the heat, the heat and some sort of anxiety attack, sometimes anxiety can
make you sweat, anyway I need a clean shirt to put on. The man lit a cigarette and thought for
a moment. Today’s Sunday, he said, the shops are all shut. I tried to wind down the
window on my side, but the handle was broken. This fact only increased my anxiety, I could
feel the sweat pouring from my head and a few drops fell onto my knees. The Taxi Driver was
looking at me with real concern now. Then he said, I know, I’ve got a great idea,
I’ll give you my shirt, if you don’t mind wearing it that is. You can’t do
that, I said, you can’t drive around naked from the waist up. I’ve got a T-shirt
on underneath, he replied, I can just wear that. But there must be somewhere in the whole of
Lisbon where I can buy a shirt, I said, perhaps a shopping centre, a market, I don’t
know. Carcavelos! exclaimed the Taxi Driver triumphantly, there must be a Sunday market in
Carcavelos, that’s where I live, my wife goes shopping there every Sunday, or is it
Thursday? I don’t know, I said, I’m not sure that’s a very good idea,
there’s a beach at Carcavelos and today’s Sunday, it’ll be packed, it could
be dreadful, can’t you think of anywhere here in Lisbon? The man struck his forehead
with the palm of his hand. The gypsies! he exclaimed, I’d forgotten about the gypsies!
He smiled his broad, candid smile again and said: Don’t you worry, my friend,
you’ll get your shirt, I’ve just remembered that on Sundays the gypsies set up
stalls at the entrance to the Cemitério dos Prazeres, they sell everything, shoes,
socks, shirts, T-shirts, let’s try them, the only problem is I don’t know how to
get there, I mean, I know vaguely where the Cemitério dos Prazeres is, but I
don’t know which route to take, can you help me at all? Let’s see, I said,
I’m a bit confused too, let’s review the situation, where are we now? We’re
at Cais do Sodré, said the Taxi Driver, on the avenue, almost opposite the station.
Right, I said, I think I know how to get there, but to start with let’s go up Rua do
Alecrim, I’d like to drop in at the Brasileira to buy a bottle of wine. The Taxi Driver
drove round the square and set off up Rua do Alecrim, he switched on the radio and gave me a
sideways look. Are you sure you’re OK?, he asked. I reassured him and leaned back in the
seat. Now I really was bathed in sweat. I undid the top buttons of my shirt and rolled up the
sleeves. I’ll wait here with the engine running, said the man, stopping on the corner of
Largo Camões, but do be quick, because if a policeman turns up, he’ll move me on.
I got out of the taxi. The Chiado was deserted apart from a woman, dressed in black and
carrying a plastic bag, who was sitting at the foot of the statue of António Ribeiro
Chiado. I went into the Brasileira and the barman gave me a mocking look, did you fall in the
river?, he asked. Worse than that, I said, I seem to have a river inside me, do you have any
French champagne? Laurent-Perrier and Veuve Clicquot, he said, they’re both the same
price and they’re nice and chilled. Which would you recommend? I asked. Look, he said,
with the air of one who knows about such things, they’re always advertising Veuve
Clicquot, to read the magazines you’d think it was the best champagne in the world, but
I find it a touch acidic, besides I don’t like widows, I never have, anyway, if I were
you, I’d buy the Laurent-Perrier, especially since, as I said, it’s exactly the
same price. Fine, I said, I’ll take the Laurent-Perrier. The barman opened the fridge,
wrapped the bottle up and put it in a plastic bag on which was written in red letters:
“A Brasileira do Chiado, the oldest café in Lisbon”. I paid, went out into
the sun again, still sweating like mad, and got into the taxi. Right, said the Taxi Driver,
now you have to tell me the way. It’s easy, I said, drive into Largo Camões and
where Silva’s the jeweller’s is, take the road going down, it’s called
Calçada do Combro, then take Calçada da Estrela and when you reach Largo da
Estrela, go up Domingos Sequeiros as far as Campo de Ourique, and then on the left
you’ll find Saraiva de Carvalho which will take us straight to Largo do Cemitério
dos Prazeres. You’ll have to tell me the streets one at a time, my friend, said the Taxi
Driver pulling out, I’m sorry but you’ll have to be patient. I said, let me just
close my eyes for a minute or two, I’m exhausted, look, it’s easy to remember:
Calçada do Combro, Calçada da Estrela, Largo da Estrela, Domingos Sequeiros,
Campo de Ourique, and when we get there I’ll tell you.

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.

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.