Manual of Painting and Calligraphy (27 page)

And I, what am I to do? I, Portuguese, once the portrait painter of the bourgeoisie and now unemployed, I, the portrait painter of the protégés and protectors of Salazar and Marcelo and their oppressive secret police. And for this same reason, I, too, find myself protected by those who protect them, thus protecting themselves, and therefore in practice I am both protected and protector even though not in thought, what am I to do? All around me lies the desert waiting to be filled with what? Copy out, like anything else, a couple of pages by Marx and wholeheartedly believe in them, have enough knowledge and perception to confront them with history and recognize that they make sense? Herr Marx: in the restricted ambience of my profession, the relations of productivity have altered. Who is the painter going to work for now? And why? And for what? Does someone want or need this painter, is someone about to come to this desert and hire him? Nowadays (and not for the first time) abstraction is all the rage among painters: they imitate the illusion created by the kaleidoscope, they shake it gently every so often and carry on doing so, already aware that the human face will never appear in this game with mirrors and colored bits of paper. It may fill the desert but will never populate it. Although (and this my mind can grasp even if I am only a Portuguese painter who does portraits of the bourgeoisie) the topography of faces may not be enough to populate deserts and fill blank canvases. Deserts they remain. But let time take its course. Time only needs time. The popular rising in Madrid in 1808 only found Goya prepared in 1814. It is true that history goes faster than the men who paint and record it. This is probably inevitable. I ask myself, if I were to have some role to play tomorrow, what events of today would be waiting for me? (Unless this hope in a distributive justice turns out to be nothing other than a defensive front for the spirit of abnegation. May willpower assert itself. I should like to know what Goya would have thought about this. And Marx.)

A
NTONIO WAS ARRESTED
three days ago. I found out this morning through Chico in the advertising agency where I have been working for almost a month. Chico came dashing into my office and blurted out the news, not that there was much to tell. Or perhaps his words only sounded jumbled, for I could scarcely believe my ears: “Antonio under arrest?” Chico and I looked at each other. It seemed incredible, but Chico was certain and we both asked ourselves the same thing: Antonio arrested? But why Antonio? What has he done? Or rather, what was he on the point of doing that they should have arrested him? As far as we knew, Antonio had done nothing wrong. But what did we know about Antonio? I know this is how we both felt, because in the conversation that followed we touched on these things. Antonio had never shown any sign of being involved in politics. It is true that I had not seen him for many months, but Chico, who had been with him only the week before, assured me he had noticed nothing unusual or different in his behavior; they had talked vaguely about several things, as one did in our crowd, Antonio looking as distracted as ever, and they had even agreed to meet for lunch one day soon. “So, as you can see, there was nothing to arouse my suspicions. Do you think Antonio could have been up to something?” I told him, “I know as much as you do. Whenever we discussed politics Antonio never showed any more interest than the rest of us. Although he always seemed a bit too withdrawn, in my opinion. Perhaps he didn’t trust us.” “You must be joking. We’ve always trusted each other in the group.” “But probably not enough for him to be able to take us into his confidence. Besides, what is this group of ours? For Antonio, clearly just like any other group and apparently not the most interesting as far as he was concerned.” Chico listened attentively, carefully pondering my words before making any reply. “By Jove, I believe you’re right.” “How did you find out he’d been arrested?” “Because of our luncheon engagement. I telephoned him at home yesterday and the day before yesterday on several occasions at different times and there was no answer. I thought he might have gone to Santarém to spend a few days with his family, but he’s punctilious in these matters, as you know—one would never suspect he was an architect—and I refuse to believe he’d go off just like that without telling me our arrangement was canceled. I went to his house this morning. I rang the bell for ages and nothing happened. I knocked at his neighbor’s door and a rather attractive woman, as it happened, answered, but the minute I asked about Antonio a look of terror came into her face and I thought she was going to slam the door in my face. She must have been watching me through the peephole. All smiles, I managed to get the whole story out of her. Three days ago, about seven in the morning, the police arrived and got Antonio out of bed. They ransacked the house and took him away. He must be in Caxias.” Chico paused for breath, looked at me and murmured, “Antonio.” The Antonio whom he had probably never shown enough esteem was now being discussed with affection, certainly with respect and perhaps even an indefinable note of admiration and envy. (That petit bourgeois craving for martyrdom.) I got up from my bench, went to the window, looked outside without really noticing or taking in what I was seeing. I turned to Chico. “What’s going to happen to him now?” “He’ll come through. Antonio is tough.” “And what about us, what are we going to do? We’d better warn his family.” “Of course, but who’s likely to know his parents’ address or telephone number? I don’t.” “Nor me. Perhaps one of the others will know. We can only try.” Chico said anxiously, “Leave this to me. I’ll deal with it. I can contact the others.”

No one could tell us anything. From this detail and many others to which we had never really given much thought before, I began to realize just how little Antonio had confided in us. I don’t feel I can blame him. If he was actively involved in politics, then he must have thought of us as being nothing but a fatuous bunch of psychological and social misfits. In fact, everyone (or nearly everyone in the group, because I consider myself an exception) is forever being affectionate and sentimental with just enough cynicism to make it clear we are playing a game. As if we were constantly explaining to each other: Believe what I am about to tell you in such a way that it seems I do not want you to believe me. And besides: If you don’t believe what I am telling you, even while appearing not to want you to believe me, I would know you don’t value me, because if you were to value me you would also know that this is the manner in which intelligent people confide in each other nowadays. And besides, any reaction other than this one would be a sign of discourtesy, of backwardness and a lack of sensibility. Antonio looked on as we played out this farce and preferred to remain silent. I think back, see him with new eyes, try to feel his presence, to reconstitute certain words and phrases he used throughout all those years, only to discover someone who did more listening than speaking. But I clearly remember that it was he who advised me to read Marx’s preface to
A
Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy
and who, when he asked me sometime later if I had read it, went quite silent when I made the excuse that I still hadn’t found the time. And I also remember that I could not bring myself to tell him when I eventually got around to reading the book, but not all of it. This must be said because it is the truth. I can still visualize that scene when he uncovered the painting in my storeroom, that second portrait of S. covered in black paint (how remote it all seems), and I ponder that episode in the light of the present situation. And in the light of what these pages have done for me. Everything now seems much clearer. Antonio must have been desperate and annoyed with all of us who were there commemorating the end and material outcome of the portrait, annoyed above all with me (and although I cannot explain it, I can understand his attitude). By provoking me, he had exposed my inferiority; things subsequently turned out in such a way that this supposed inferiority became clear to all, and all the more clear as the humiliating situation in which he had left me became more obvious. But if it was inferiority (this is an assumption rather than a statement of fact), then perhaps at the time he had no other outlet: his suppressed aggression finally surfaced. So among the members of the group I was the most vulnerable and perhaps the most useful target. For different reasons both of us felt bad. Looking back, this is how I see it, and if this reflection serves no other purpose, it explains, and this is reassuring, why I never bore him any grudge or ill will. I cannot say that I miss him; I find that unconsciously I was always aware of his absence. Now I feel it even more, and that is all.

Chico has just telephoned me to say that no one in the group knows where Antonio’s parents live. We both agree that something must be done, but what? I propose we go to Caxias the following day to try to get some news and Chico agrees, but preferably not tomorrow, when he expects to be very busy, appointments he cannot afford to cancel and several urgent visits to clients, that’s business, and he cannot neglect his responsibilities at the agency. He suggests I go there with Ricardo, who is a doctor, or with Sandra, who is not easily intimidated and usually gets her way. “More than can be said for me,” I think to myself. Yes, I shall go, but without Sandra, because this is a matter I must resolve on my own. “Unless we go there the day after tomorrow,” Chico suggested halfheartedly. “No, there’s no time to lose, it has to be tomorrow.”

I will go. I am familiar with the walls of Caxias, which can be seen from the road. About the prison itself I know nothing. Or something, if seeing is enough. I can visualize the
Prigioni
of Piranesi, the photographs of Hitler’s concentration camps, the various Sing Sings one sees in films. Images. Not really much help in this situation. By now Antonio has experienced the rest: the prison cell, the interrogations, the guards, prison food, hard bunks. And perhaps even torture. Not just physical aggression but being deprived of sleep for days on end. No one is likely to give me any information, I am not a relative and can think of no persuasive arguments. While I am speaking (where? to whom?) they will take down the registration number of my car and bring it up at trial, every little detail or scrap of information might be useful, nothing is superfluous, nothing is discarded in case it turns out to be vital information. Antonio was of no interest to the police, then suddenly they pounced and put him under arrest. What did he do? What did he know? When and where did Antonio make some compromising move which warranted his arrest and detention in Caxias? For how long had he known he was in danger of being arrested because of subversive activities which had put him at risk? When Antonio conversed with us or went to the cinema or took a stroll, or right here in my apartment held up a portrait covered in black paint, what was he thinking about, mulling over, plotting, and where and when and how? And with whom? We all have certain things we allow or wish others to know, certain other things we hide from them, and this is the code of social conduct we observe, tolerated because harmless and normal, but Antonio had more to hide than the rest of us. He concealed the most important thing of all, his secret life. He was concerned about his safety and the safety of those who depended on him. And as we chatted and he listened, saying nothing, smoking, watching us attentively, what could he have been thinking? On a par with the audible reply he gave us, what other reply was he mentally construing in silence?

Enough of asking questions. On the territory of S.’s adversary I revive those questions I asked myself when I decided halfway through painting the second portrait to turn to writing to try and find out more about S. I went around in a circle and came back to where I had started from—after making my journey. I must refrain from asking myself any more questions, from interrogating Antonio, who, like S., but for other reasons, might not want to answer me. Either I find out by myself or I will never know. And today, within this circle, I have traveled in all directions, at least I know where the wall and boundaries are situated. No one can proceed further without this knowledge. The difference between the circle and the spiral.