Requiem (9 page)

There’s a lady here asking for you, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo when he
returned, she says her name’s Isabel. Would you show her into the bar, please, I said,
I’ll be there in a minute. And I picked up the bottle of port.

THE NIGHT IS HOT,
the
night is long, a magnificent night for listening to stories, said the man who came to sit down
next to me on the pedestal beneath the statue of Dom José. It really was a magnificent
night, the moon was full, the air was warm and soft, there was something sensual, magical
about it. There were scarcely any cars in the square, the city seemed to have come to a halt,
people had obviously stayed longer than usual at the beaches and would return later, Terreiro
do Paço was deserted. A ferryboat bound for Cacilhas sounded its siren before leaving,
its lights were the only lights you could see on the Tagus, everything else was utterly still,
as if caught in a spell. I looked at the man who had spoken to me, he looked like a tramp, he
was very thin and was wearing tennis shoes and a yellow T-shirt, he had a long beard and was
almost bald, he must have been about my age or slightly older, he looked at me and raised one
arm in a theatrical gesture. This is the moon of poets, he said, of poets and storytellers,
tonight is an ideal night for listening to stories, and for telling them too, wouldn’t
you like to hear a story? Why should I?, I asked, I can’t see any reason to. The reason
is simple, he replied, because tonight there’s a full moon and because you’re here
alone watching the river, your soul is lonely and filled with longing, and a story might bring
you some happiness. My whole day has been full of stories, I said, I don’t think I need
any more. The man crossed his legs, rested his chin meditatively on his hands and said: We
always need a story even when we think we don’t. But why do you want to tell me a
story?, I asked, I don’t understand. Because I sell stories, he said, I’m a seller
of stories, that’s my job, I sell the stories that I invent. I still don’t
understand, I said. Look, he said, that’s a long story but not the one I want to tell
you tonight, I don’t really like talking about myself, I like talking about my
characters. No, no, I protested, I find your story very interesting, tell me more about
yourself. It’s simple, said the Seller of Stories, I’m a failed writer,
that’s my story. I’m sorry, I said, but I still don’t understand,
couldn’t you tell me more? All right, he said, I’m a doctor, I studied medicine,
but medicine wasn’t the science I wanted to study, when I was a student I spent my
nights writing stories, then I graduated and started work as a doctor, I joined a practice,
but I got bored with my patients, I wasn’t interested in their cases, what interested me
was sitting at my table and writing stories, because I have a prodigious imagination, which is
completely unstoppable, it takes me over and forces me to invent stories, all kinds of
stories, tragic, comic, dramatic, jolly, superficial, profound, and when my imagination breaks
loose, I feel as if I can barely live, I start to sweat, I feel ill, I feel restless, I feel
odd, all I can think about are my stories, there’s no room for anything else.

The Seller of Stories paused for a moment and repeated the theatrical gesture with his arm,
as if he wanted to seize hold of the moon. So what happened?, I asked. One day, he said, I
decided to write down the stories that came to me, and so I wrote ten stories, one tragic, one
comic, one tragicomic, one dramatic, one sentimental, one ironic, one cynical, one satirical,
one fantastic and one realistic and I took the resulting bundle of papers to a publisher.
There I met the literary editor of the publishing house, a very sporty young man who wore
jeans and chewed gum. He said he would read the whole thing and that I should come back in a
week. I went back a week later and the literary editor said: You obviously haven’t read
any American minimalism, I’m sorry, but you really should have read some American
minimalists. I didn’t want to admit defeat and so I went to another publisher. There I
met a very elegant lady, who wore a scarf round her neck, and she too asked me to come back in
a week and so I did. There’s too much plot in your stories, the elegant lady told me,
you obviously haven’t read any avant-garde writers, the avant-garde did away with plot
completely, creating plots is positively retrograde now. I still didn’t want to admit
defeat and so I went to a third publisher. There I met a very serious gentleman who smoked a
pipe, he asked me to come back in a week and so I did. You have absolutely no sense of
pragmatism, this very serious gentleman told me, your reality is completely fragmented, what
you need is a psychiatrist. I left him and started wandering about the city. My practice had
closed down, no one went there any more, I was sad and penniless, but even though I was sad, I
still had an immense desire to tell my stories to people, and so I started walking and I
thought: If I have all these stories to tell, maybe there are people who’d like to hear
them, it’s a big city, and so I started wandering the city and telling stories, and now
that’s how I earn my living.

The Seller of Stories lowered his arm and held out a hand to me as if he were offering me
something. I give you tonight’s moon, he said, and I give you whatever story you feel
like hearing, I know you want to hear a story. Yes, I would like to hear a story now, I said,
I really would, but it can’t be a very long one, I’m meeting someone in a little
while on the Cais de Alcantara and I wouldn’t want to be late. No problem, said the
Seller of Stories, all you have to do is choose the kind of story you’d like to hear
tonight. Look, I said, could I just ask you for a bit of information first?, I’d like to
invite this person I’m meeting to supper, you must know the city well, perhaps you could
tell me the name of a reasonable restaurant near the Cais do Alcântara. There is one,
said the Seller of Stories, right opposite the quay, it used to be a station or something, but
now it’s a kind of social club, it’s got a restaurant, a bar, a disco and who
knows what else, it’s very trendy, I think it’s what’s called postmodern.
Post-modern?, I said, post-modern in what sense? I’m not sure I could explain, said the
Seller of Stories, I mean that it’s been done up in lots of different styles, for
example, the restaurant is full of mirrors and the food they serve is sort of unclassifiable,
I mean, it’s a place that broke with tradition by embracing tradition, you could
describe it as a compilation of several different styles, that’s what I would call
post-modern. It sounds like the ideal place for my guest, I said, and then I asked: Is it
expensive?, it’s just that I haven’t got much money on me and I’d also like
to hear one of your stories, but I don’t know if I can afford it. It isn’t
expensive, said the Seller of Stories, as long as you don’t order smoked swordfish or
oysters, because it’s a fairly up-scale restaurant and you can get things like that
there, but it won’t be expensive and, besides, my stories are cheap, since it’s
late and given your situation, I can offer you a special price, anyway my stories are all
different prices, depending on the genre. So what stories have you got to tell me tonight?, I
asked. Well, he said, I’ve got a rather sentimental one that might bring you comfort on
a night such as this. I don’t want anything sentimental, I said, my whole day has been
extremely sentimental and I’m up to here with it. I also have a very funny story, he
said, a story that will make you roar with laughter. That’s no good either, I said, I
don’t feel like roaring with laughter. The Seller of Stories sighed. You’re very
hard to please, he said. Look, I said, just tell me what you’ve got on offer and how
much each story costs. I have a dream story for two hundred
escudos
, he said, a
really bizarre one. No, that won’t do, I said, I don’t want anything bizarre, my
whole day has been bizarre in the extreme. And finally, I have a children’s story for
three hundred
escudos
, he said, the sort of story people used to tell their children
to send them to sleep, it’s not exactly a fairy story but it tells of a magical world,
of a mermaid who used to work in a circus and who fell in love with a fisherman from Ericeira,
it’s a really nice story, a bit melancholy, with a sad ending that will make you cry.
All right, my friend, I said, perhaps I need to cry a bit tonight, tell me the story about the
mermaid, I’m going to close my eyes and listen as if I were a child about to fall
asleep.

The ferry coming back from Cacilhas sounded its siren as it came alongside the quay. The
night really was magnificent, with the moon hanging so low over the arches of Terreiro do
Paço that you felt you could have reached out your hand and caught hold of it. I lit a
cigarette and settled down to watch the moon and the Seller of Stories began his story.

THE WAITER HAD
his
hair tied back in a small pony-tail, he was wearing a pair of extremely tight trousers and a
pink shirt. I’m Mariazinha, he said with a brilliant smile and then, addressing my
guest, he asked: You haven’t got anything against people like me, have you? My Guest
looked Mariazinha up and down and asked me in English:
Is he mad
? No, I said, I
don’t think so, he’s gay.
Can homosexuals be gay
?, asked my Guest,
what is all this about
? But Botto
¹
was
gay, I said, you should know that, you were his friend.
Botto wasn’t gay
, he
said,
he was an aesthete, it’s not the same thing at all
.

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.