Manual of Painting and Calligraphy (30 page)

We entered the forecourt facing the entrance. I parked the car and opened the doors. The mother asked, “Can you wait for us? We don’t want to take too much of your time.” “I’ll wait for as long as is necessary. I’m only sorry not to be able to do more.” They went off in the direction of the main gate, side by side, the mother in the middle. The Republican guard in the sentry box questioned them and M. replied. I could not hear what they were saying. They stood there waiting. At one point M. turned in my direction and smiled. I waved, not to say goodbye but as if promising to join them. A few moments later the gate was opened and they disappeared inside. As I waited (forty minutes precisely by my watch) other people arrived. The same exchanges through the porthole of the sentry box, the same waiting and then admittance through the gate, which opened reluctantly, barely enough for visitors to squeeze through. I strolled around the car, sat on the brick border of a flowerbed full of withered geraniums. A few minutes later I got up and went up to the sentry box: the Republican guard was on the telephone, he would listen, then reply. He peered at me from out of the shadows, then came to the porthole. “Do you want something?” “No, I’m waiting for some people who’ve gone inside.” “You’re not allowed to loiter at the gate. Move away.” I turned on my heel without as much as replying. Son of a bitch.

When M. and her parents emerged I was sitting in the car listening to the radio. I went to meet them. The mother’s eyes were red and tearful but she had only just started weeping, perhaps only after coming through the gate. The father’s expression was grim. M. looked pale. “Well?” I asked. The question was pointless, but what else could I say? We got into the car. “Shall we go?” M. asked in a low voice. I slowly started up the engine, skirted the wall and began descending the path full of potholes (deliberately left there, no doubt, to prevent any vehicle from making a quick getaway before the sentries had time to open fire) with which I was becoming familiar. “He’s been beaten up,” said M. “He indicated he’d been beaten up but not to say anything.” “My poor son,” sighed the mother. “Tell me more. How did you find him? Did he have any message for his friends?” I caught the flicker of a smile in the corner of M.’s eye. “Messages for friends, no. But he told me not to forget to get the painter to whitewash the chicken coop. I told him I’d already sent for him and not to worry. The one person who did not appreciate the conversation was the guard. He obviously thought we were speaking in code.” This caused general amusement. “Trust Antonio,” I muttered to myself. Don’t forget to get the painter to come and whitewash the chicken coop. Could he have been thinking about me when he made that request? Was I the painter he had in mind, the one who had covered over a picture with black paint and who had long since been chosen for this moment should it ever arrive?

M. told me someone would call at my apartment the following evening, a railway worker with a parcel of clothes and personal belongings, in addition to some books Antonio was allowed to receive. She asked me if I would take them to Caxias the next day and hand them in at the gate. This time she did not ask me if it would be any trouble. It was an order rather than a request. I preferred it so. When we reached the Baixa I made a suggestion: “Wouldn’t you all like to rest a little at my place?” M. looked at her watch. “I don’t think there’s enough time.” She smiled. “By the time we climb those four flights of stairs . . .” Her parents obviously knew she had been to see me. This transparent relationship caused me some embarrassment. As a rule people keep quiet even about things they should confide, and between parents and children, as I recall, this secrecy is the accepted thing, disguised with a greater or lesser show of affection, destined to play a role I am almost tempted to describe as theatrical. Within this short period of time I became aware on a number of occasions, from what was said or implied, of this special relationship between M. and her parents: a detachment which might be seen as the final stage in the most intimate of relationships, a kind of freedom notwithstanding extreme dependency, a tree born on the outer edge of the forest. I parked the car near the station and accompanied them to the entrance. I have always been struck by the absurdity of farewells on station platforms. Everything has already been said and there is no time to start all over again, no sign of the train leaving as the clock ticks out those last few seconds—then at last sheer relief as it makes its departure, even though there may be tears and remorse after the last car has disappeared from sight. The father thanked me for my help and said, “We’ll make our own way to the platform. No need for you to wait.” M. and I withdrew to a corner of the entrance hall to avoid the crowd. “I’ve enjoyed your company,” I said, looking into her eyes. “And I’ve certainly enjoyed meeting you,” she replied. And with a serene but at the same time pensive expression she raised her head, stood on tiptoe and kissed me on the cheek. And without another word, a traveler who had made her farewell and was setting off on her journey, she crossed the concourse and went through the barrier without looking back. I returned slowly to the car and got in. There are such moments in life: one unexpectedly discovers that perfection exists, that it, too, is a tiny sphere traveling in time, empty, transparent, luminous, and which sometimes (rarely) comes in our direction and encircles us for a few brief moments before traveling on to other parts and other people. Yet I had the feeling that this sphere had not disengaged itself and that I was traveling inside. The hour of fear is nigh, I whispered to myself. New faces are appearing on the horizon of my desert. Who is this elderly couple, what is this composure they possess? And Antonio, now in prison, what freedom has he taken with him into his cell? And M., who smiles at me from afar, treading the sand with feet of wind, who uses words as if they were glass splinters and who suddenly approaches and kisses me? I repeat: the hour of fear is nigh. Perfection fleetingly exists. Not meant to linger. Much less stay. “I’ve certainly enjoyed meeting you,” she said. Taking the utmost care with my lettering, I write these words over and over again. I travel slowly. Time is this paper on which I write.

T
HERE HAS BEEN
an abortive military uprising. Troops from the Fifth Infantry Regiment stationed at Caldas da Rainha have marched on Lisbon, but finally returned to their barracks. There is much disquiet everywhere. M. gave me a copy of the manifesto issued by the Officers’ Movement. Here is the closing paragraph: “We hereby declare our solidarity with our comrades who are under arrest and we shall continue to defend them, whatever the circumstances. Their cause is our cause, however much we may deplore their hasty action. The revolt they have staged has not been in vain. It has served to awaken the conscience of those who were perhaps still wavering. It has served to define the existing factions and provides valuable lessons for the immediate future. It has served to give us a sharp reminder of the glaring conflicts within the army itself, and—since the army is regarded as the mirror of the nation—of the general turmoil throughout our country. Finally, it has served to demonstrate the methods to which our ‘leaders’ resort, their lack of any scruples and the alliances they form in their attempt to crush and paralyze a process which has already become irreversible. Under this last heading we must denounce the intervention of the secret police (directly instigated by the minister and undersecretary of state for defense) arresting comrades and, at least in one case, forcing entry into a comrade’s house at five o’clock in the morning, abusing his wife and children physically and mentally, and searching the house without a warrant. This intervention by the military police is repugnant and intolerable and constitutes a further violation of our civil rights. Such actions cannot be allowed to continue, otherwise they will become accepted practice and we shall lose forever any remnants of dignity and self-respect. Nor did our so-called leaders stop here. Summoning the national guard, they dispatched them against our comrades with an inadmissible and outrageous mandate authorizing them to besiege the military academy! For its part, the Portuguese Legion, revealing the existence of an active military and police network, collaborated with the security forces and the national guard by helping to pursue the men of the Fifth Infantry Regiment as they made their way back to Caldas da Rainha. Could it be that the government and their ‘military chiefs’ have finally found in the Portuguese Legion, the national guard and security forces those valiant soldiers needed to carry out their overseas policy in Africa? Comrades from all three branches of the armed forces: the march of the Fifth Infantry Regiment on Lisbon, together with the events preceding it, have renewed our determination to promote our movement with even greater confidence and resolve. We are relying on your spirit of comradeship and on your support for those imprisoned (nearly two hundred men in all, including officers, sergeants, corporals and conscripts), who gave the first real sign to the country and the armed forces that we are not prepared to tolerate this state of affairs. Finally, we appeal to you to remain faithful to the declared objectives of the movement. We must stand together and reinforce our organization, convinced that if we remain coherent and lucid we shall soon achieve our goal.”

M.
COULD NOT
remain in Lisbon. I took her to Caxias. (Antonio has been interrogated again and kept without sleep for four days. Could have been worse, commented M. He’s received everything except the books, which were confiscated.) We then took a drive around Sintra, which she scarcely knew. We did not speak much. I have noticed that her moments of silence (and therefore our moments of silence) cause no embarrassment. They simply create a different time scale during pauses in conversation. I believe it is possible (and even desirable) to remain silent for ages at her side and that silence becomes another way of continuing our conversation. I write the same thing in two different ways, to see if one of them gets it right. The thing is said, yet is somehow inadequate. It is not entirely true, however, that we have not spoken much. But to write (as I have learned) is a matter of choice just as with painting. One chooses words, phrases, snatches of dialogue just as one chooses colors or determines the length and direction of lines. The traced outline of a face can be interrupted without the face ceasing to exist; there is no danger that the matter contained within this arbitrary borderline will vanish through the opening. By the same token, when one writes, one eliminates the superfluous even though those words might have proved to be useful when spoken; the essence is preserved in this other interrupted line, which is writing.

We dined in Sintra. It was already agreed that I would drive her to Santarém. We took a short stroll around the Palace Square. It was fairly cold and I instinctively put my arm around her shoulders. The gesture was meant to be fraternal and so it was, but I was conscious that the warmth I felt as our bodies made contact was anything but fraternal. With her left hand M. gripped mine as it came to rest on her right shoulder and like this we walked back to the car. Darkness had fallen. As we left the town under the tunnel of trees picked out leaf by leaf in the headlights, she repeated, “I enjoy your company.” She could not have said anything nicer, and those words were all I wanted to hear. What should I do? Park the car in some rest stop, switch off the headlights, pull her toward me, get her excited, pull up her skirt, open her blouse? A sad adventure. As if reading my thoughts and guessing my intentions, M. said, “We mustn’t rush things.” And I replied, “I’m in no hurry.” The road was now straight all the way and I could drive faster, but we were not referring to the journey.

We went back to talking about her brother and parents. “You said the other day that all your work is in Santarém. Such an odd way of putting it. What did you mean?” She smiled. “You’ve a good memory.” “It’s not bad, but in this instance it’s even better because I wrote down the phrase word for word.” M. remained silent. We passed through a village. The streetlamps lit up our faces as we passed. And when we plunged once more into the darkness of the countryside M. began to speak. “I work in a lawyer’s office. We went to live in Santarém for the reasons I mentioned. It was there I met my husband. We married, didn’t get on and separated. All this you already know. My parents like living in Santarém. I don’t mind, although the town is provincial and restricted. They built it on a hill, otherwise it might have been a fine city. House by house, street by street, those stones, it’s more beautiful than one imagines. But not the people. There are exceptions everywhere, even in Santarém, I’m glad to say, but the horizon of the people who live in Santarém is not what you’re likely to find in Portas do Sol. You’ve never seen a city appear to be so open while being so inward-looking.” “And are your horizons those of Portas do Sol?” “Of course they are those of Portas do Sol.” “I don’t know what you mean.” Once more she fell silent. Then she examined me closely: I could see her eyes, tense, wide open and lit up by the indicators on the dashboard. I drove at a steady speed, neither slow nor fast. M. went back to staring at the road. And then began speaking again. “Listen, we’ve only known each other for several weeks. All I knew was your name, address and telephone number. A few reassuring words from my brother. I contacted you, visited you in your apartment, told you about myself, we spoke as friends, which is only natural, and you have been honest. I’m not referring to anything sexual when I say you’ve been honest; I mean something else, much more complicated and difficult to explain. The kind of honesty one has no difficulty in recognizing. I enjoy being in your company, as I’ve already said. And I’m likely to say it again because it’s true. Unless I’m deceiving myself, I believe our friendship will last, become much more intimate. And I don’t mean sex.” “I know what you mean.” Resting her hand momentarily on my knee, she told me, “I’m in charge of a political operation in the region of Santarém. That’s why I said all my work is there. Santarém and district, as people used to say in the old days.” “Are you a Party member?” “Yes, I am.” “And what about Antonio?” I could feel her retract. “Antonio’s in jail. There’s nothing more to be said about him.”