Requiem (4 page)

Senhor Casimiro’s Wife gave an exhausted sigh and placed a hand on her heaving bosom.
And there you are, she said, after that your stomach does all the work, you just have to eat
it up. Bravo! exclaimed Tadeus, applauding, do you know what that’s called, Casimira?,
it’s called a first-class lesson in material culture, I’ve always preferred the
material to the imaginary, or rather, I’ve always preferred to inflame the imagination
with the material, the imagination should be handled with care, even the collective
imagination, someone should have told Herr Jung that food always comes before the imagination.
I don’t understand a word you’re saying, said Senhor Casimiro’s confused
Wife, I haven’t studied like you have, I was brought up in a village and never got
beyond primary school. It’s very simple, Casimira, said Tadeus, all I mean is that
I’m a materialist, but entirely non-dialectic, which is what distinguishes me from the
Marxists, the fact that I’m not a dialectical materialist. You’re certainly
“dialectical”, replied Senhor Casimiro’s Wife shyly, you always have been,
ever since I’ve known you. That’s a good one, laughed Tadeus, slapping his knee
with the palm of his hand, Casimira deserves another glass of Reguengos for that! No, said
Senhor Casimiro’s Wife, you don’t want to get me drunk, do you? That’s
precisely what you should do, said Tadeus, I bet you’ve never been drunk in your life,
have you? You ought to drink half a bottle of Reguengos before going to bed with Senhor
Casimiro, you’d be in seventh heaven, you and your husband. Senhor Casimiro’s Wife
lowered her eyes and blushed. Look, Senhor Tadeus, she said, it doesn’t matter to me if
you choose to make fun of me, you’re an educated man and I’m just an ignorant
woman, but making indecent remarks is another matter altogether, if you don’t treat me
with more respect I’ll tell my husband. Senhor Casimiro doesn’t mind, replied
Tadeus, he’s just a dirty old man, come on now, don’t be angry, Casimira, have
another little drink and then bring us the dessert or whatever
you’ve
prepared today, we have absolute confidence in your desserts.

Tadeus lit a cigar and offered me one. No thanks, I said, it’s too strong for me. Come
on, my fearful friend, he said, try it, you need a cigar after
sarrabulho
. We smoked
in silence. The parrot seemed to have gone to sleep on its perch, all you could hear was the
buzz of the fan. Look Tadeus, I said, why did Isabel kill herself? That’s what I want to
know. Tadeus inhaled the smoke and blew it out into the air again. Why don’t you ask
her?, he said, since you’re asking me you might just as well ask her. I don’t know
if I’ll be able to find her on this Sunday in July, I said, I found you because a gypsy
woman helped me, but how can I find Isabel again? I can help you, said Tadeus, it might be
easier than you think. Just tell me, I said, were you the one who persuaded her to have an
abortion?

Senhor Casimiro arrived with the dessert. It was a plate of yellow cakes in the form of
little boats. They’re
papos de anjos de Mirandela
, said Senhor Casimiro
proudly, egg yolks and fruit syrup, it’s all authentic, I don’t like to boast but
there isn’t a restaurant in Lisbon where you can eat
papos de anjos
like these.
Senhor Casimiro scuttled back to the kitchen and Tadeus picked up one of the cakes. What did
you want, my friend?, he said in reply to my previous question, did you want a little bastard
child with two fathers? I didn’t know about your affair with Isabel, I said, I only
found out about it much later, you deceived me, Tadeus. And then I asked: Was it yours or
mine? I don’t know, he said, whoever’s it was, it wouldn’t have been happy.
That’s what you think, I replied, but I think it had the right to live. Oh yes, said
Tadeus, and make four people unhappy: me, you, him and Isabel. She wasn’t happy anyway,
I insisted, it was because of all that that she got depressed, and it was because of the
depression that she committed suicide, and that’s what I want to know, if her wise
counsellor was you. I’ve already told you, she’s the one you should ask, Tadeus
said defensively, I don’t know, I swear, I don’t know anything. You
were
the wise counsellor, I said, I see that now. That has nothing to do with her death, said
Tadeus, if you want to know why she killed herself, you have to ask her. Where can I find
her?, I asked. I don’t know, he said, you choose a place, here or there, it makes no
difference to her. In the Casa do Alentejo, I said, on Rua das Portas do Santo Antão,
what do you think? Splendid, he said ironically, I’m sure it’s a place she would
love to have visited, I doubt she’s ever set foot there before, but why not? Right, I
said, at nine o’clock tonight, you can tell her I’ll be waiting for her at nine
o’clock tonight at the Casa do Alentejo. Let’s have some coffee, said Tadeus, what
I need is a coffee and a
grappa
. But Senhor Casimiro was already on his way with two
coffees and a bottle of
grappa
, an old earthenware bottle. Senhor Casimiro, said
Tadeus, put it all on my bill. Oh, no you don’t, I cried, lunch is on me. Senhor
Casimiro pretended he hadn’t heard me and walked off. Don’t make a fuss, said
Tadeus paternally, you haven’t got much money on you, you left Azeitão with
hardly anything, you were sitting under a mulberry tree reading and you didn’t have much
money in your wallet, I know all about it, you’ve got the whole day ahead of you in
Lisbon and you need to hang on to your cash, look, don’t make a fuss. We got up and went
over to the door. Senhor Casimiro and his wife leaned over the low kitchen door to say
goodbye. Listen, Tadeus, I said, I need to lie down for an hour or two, I’m taking some
pills that make me drowsy and this lunch you bought me is making me feel even drowsier, if I
don’t sleep for an hour I’ll flake out on the floor. What are you taking?, he
asked. It’s a French drug made from amineptine, I said, it calms you down in the morning
and gives you a feeling of well-being, but later on it makes you sluggish. All those drugs for
the soul are junk, said Tadeus, you heal the soul through the stomach. Maybe, I said,
you’re lucky to be so certain about things, I’m not certain about anything. Why
don’t you sleep at my house?, asked Tadeus, there’s a comfortable bed for you in
the guestroom. Thanks, but I’d rather not, I replied, this is the last time I’ll
see you, but look, I really don’t have much money, I can’t afford a hotel, I need
a cheap boarding house, one of those places where you can rent a room for an hour or two, you
must know of somewhere, perhaps you can help. That’s easy, he said, go to the
Pensão Isadora, it’s immediately behind Praça da Ribeira, mention my name
and ask for Isadora, she’ll give you a room, you can catch the tram that goes to Cais do
Sodré, it should be here any minute.

The tram stop was right opposite the restaurant and we waited behind the glass door out of
the heat. We heard the tram coming as it rounded the bend, the noise of its wheels reaching us
in the silence of the city. Now are you sure you don’t want to sleep at my house?,
Tadeus asked again. I’m sure, I replied, goodbye Tadeus, rest in peace, I doubt
we’ll ever see each other again. Just as well!, cried the parrot. I opened the door,
crossed the road and boarded the tram.

*
Barcelos and Caldas are two towns in north and
central Portugal respectively, both famous for their ceramics.

IT WAS AN OLD
BUILDING,
faded pink, with rickety wooden shutters. The guesthouse stood between a
junk shop and a shipping company and on the glass door, which stood ajar, was written:
Pensão Isadora. I pushed open the door and went in. Behind the counter, sitting in a
wicker armchair, was a man, apparently asleep. He had the
Correio da Manhã
draped over his face and was snoring. I went over to him and coughed discreetly, but the man
didn’t move. Then I said: Good afternoon, and the man very slowly removed the newspaper
from his face and looked at me. He was about sixty-five years old, possibly more, with a gaunt
face and a thin moustache. Are you the owner?, I asked. The owner isn’t here, he said in
an Alentejo accent, he died a year ago, I’m the porter. I reached for my wallet, took
out my identity card, placed it on the counter and asked: Do you need any identification? The
Porter of the Pensão Isadora gave my identity card a questioning glance and then looked
at me distrustfully. Identification?, he said, what for? I don’t know, I said, I thought
it was the custom. Look, my friend, he said, are you trying to irritate me? I don’t want
to irritate anyone, I replied patiently, I’m just showing you my identity card. The
Porter of the Pensão Isadora got up from his chair and calmly, very calmly, picked up
the card. Let’s see, he murmured, you’re Italian, five foot eight inches tall,
you’ve got blue eyes and brown hair, fascinating. He dropped my identity card on the
counter and said: Delighted to have met you but, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to
go to the lavatory, unfortunately I have problems with my prostate. He disappeared behind the
grimy curtain and left me standing there; I put away my identity card and strolled round the
small hallway, looking at the pictures hanging on the walls. The first was a photographic view
of the Basilica in Fátima taken from a helicopter, a photograph from the fifties,
perhaps, you could see the great square and an enormous queue of people going into the church.
Underneath was written:
Faith knows no frontiers
. The second picture was a photograph
of a simple farmhouse, also dating from the fifties to judge by the colours, and beneath that
was written:
The birthplace of His Excellency the President
. The third picture was of
a naked woman with blonde hair, who was clutching a teddy bear, this had nothing written
underneath it. My inspection was interrupted by a voice from behind the curtain. Are you still
there?, asked the Porter of the Pensão Isadora. Of course I’m still here, I said.
I turned towards the counter and attempted a smile, but the man wasn’t smiling. What do
you want?, he asked wearily. I want a room, I said, I thought that was obvious. A room?, he
repeated, what for? A room to sleep in, I said, I need to sleep. The Porter of the
Pensão Isadora stroked his thin moustache, put on a grave face, scratched his bottom
and said: This is a serious guesthouse, my friend, we don’t take single people here, do
I make myself clear? No, you don’t, I said stubbornly, explain it to me again. We only
take couples, said the Porter of the Pensão Isadora, we don’t want any peeping
Toms or perverts here. Fine, I said, if that’s the problem, look, I’ve already
said that all I want to do is sleep, I need to lie down for a couple of hours on a bed, a nice
clean bed. Then why don’t you find a decent hotel?, he said, not without a certain
logic. Listen, I said, it would take too long to explain, but the fact is that I have to spend
the whole day in Lisbon and I haven’t got much money, as I told you before, I just want
to sleep for a couple of hours, I had a heavy lunch and if I don’t have a nap I’ll
have indigestion all afternoon, I just need to sleep, I don’t want to inconvenience
anyone. The Porter of the Pensão Isadora seemed unconvinced. He stroked his moustache
again and asked me: But what made you come here? I saw that I wasn’t going to get
anywhere with him, so I said: Is Isadora in? I’d like to talk to her, tell her a friend
of hers sent me. The Porter of the Pensão Isadora went to the stairs and shouted:
Isadora, come down here, there’s a guy wants to talk to you! I heard heavy footsteps
along the corridor above and Isadora appeared on the stairs. She was an old prostitute, now
retired, who had taken on a rather respectable air, a pair of spectacles hung about her neck
on a chain and she wore a scarlet blouse. With all the aplomb of a headmistress, Isadora
advanced down the stairs towards me. I do apologise, she said, our porter can be a little rude
at times but, you know, with the things that go on nowadays, you can’t be too careful,
but if you wanted to speak to me, you should have said so at once. Tadeus sent me, I said,
I’m a friend of his, he sends his best regards, look, I just wanted a room to rest in
for a couple of hours and a nice clean bed, I just wanted to have a nap, I had lunch with
Tadeus, we ate
sarrabulho
, and I’m dead on my feet, plus I didn’t sleep
last night because the farm dog kept barking, and I have to meet someone at midnight on the
Cais de Alcântara. My dear boy, said Isadora, you should have said so right away,
I’ll get a nice cool room ready for you with a clean bed, but why doesn’t Tadeus
call round any more, damn him? I don’t know, I said, I expect he’s got problems.
Isadora rang the bell on the counter, at the same time calling out: Viriata! Viriata! Then she
turned to me again and said: You can have number fifteen, my dear, it’s on the first
floor, right next to the bathroom, Viriata’s just going to make up the bed. Do you need
my identity card?, I asked. Certainly not, she said. I went up the stairs and into room
fifteen. It was a spacious room, with a large double bed and was furnished with the sort of
furniture you find in the provinces: a dresser with capacious drawers, a mirrored wardrobe, a
few dark chairs. In one corner, near the window, was a washstand made out of wrought iron with
a jug of water on it. I laid my jacket and my spare Lacoste shirt on the dresser and waited
for the maid. After a while there was a knock on the door and I said: Come in. Good afternoon,
said the woman, I’m Viriata. She was a plump young woman, with a very curly perm and a
country face. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five but she looked forty.
I’m from the Alentejo, she said smiling, we nearly all are here, apart from one little
girl called Mercedes, who’s Spanish, but now she only works here every other day,
otherwise she works in Praça da Alegria, she wants to be a jazz singer. She began
putting the clean sheets on the bed and said:
I’d like to be a singer
too, but I’ve never studied music, Mercedes did, she went to a posh school in
Mérida, she comes from a good family. And you, I asked, didn’t you study
anything? Me, no, she said, I only learned how to read and write, my mother died when I was
eight and my father was a pig, always drunk, do you like the Alentejo? Very much, I said, do
you know, this very morning I was in the Alentejo, in Azeitão. Oh, she said,
Azeitão isn’t the real Alentejo, it’s practically in Lisbon, to really get
the feel of the Alentejo you have to visit Beja and Serpa, I’m from Serpa, when I was a
little girl I used to keep sheep near the walls of Serpa and on Christmas Eve, the shepherds
used to get together in their houses and sing old folk songs, it was so nice, only the men
sang, the women just listened and cooked, we used to eat
mìgas, açorda
and
sargalheta
, the sort of food you don’t get in Lisbon any more,
Lisbon’s gone all posh now, do you know, yesterday I went to have lunch in a little
restaurant just next door here, nothing special but the fish is good, I ordered sole and the
waiter said to me: Grilled or with bananas? With bananas?, I said, what do you mean, with
bananas? It’s Brazilian-style, the waiter said to me, and if you didn’t know
before, now you do. I know, I said, the world’s gone mad, with all these peculiar fads,
it’s a complete mess really. Viriata finished making the bed and folded down the sheet
for me. Right, she said, the bed’s ready, would you like some company? No thanks,
Viriata, I said, I just want to sleep for an hour and a half, I don’t need any company.
I’m very clean and quiet, Viriata said, even if you want to sleep I won’t bother
you, I’ll just lie next to you really still. Thanks again, I said, but I prefer to sleep
alone. How about if I scratched your back?, said Viriata, wouldn’t you like to go to
sleep with someone scratching your back? I smiled and said: Viriata, thank you, you’re a
lovely girl, but I don’t need anyone to scratch my back, I just want to lie quietly for
an hour and a half, I’m sorry, Viriata, but it’s not a very good day for me to
have my back scratched, but listen, can you come and wake me up in an hour and a half,
don’t forget now and I’ll give you a big tip. Viriata left silently. I lowered the
blinds. The room was cool, the bed clean, I calmly got undressed, hung my trousers over the
back of a chair, took off the gypsy woman’s Lacoste shirt and slid naked into bed, it
was good to be there, the pillow was soft. I stretched out my legs and closed my eyes.