Requiem (8 page)

The Lighthousekeeper’s Wife had started going down the stairs and turned to tell me to
be careful. We went out into the courtyard and she closed the door. Thanks ever so much, I
said, take care and say hello to your husband. Would you like something to drink, she said,
I’ve got some cherry brandy, I made it myself. All right, I said, only one glass,
though, but it will have to be quick, I’m afraid, I’ve got to catch the train to
be back in Lisbon by nine.

“
ALENTEJANOS FOR THE
ALENTEJO
and the Alentejo for the Fatherland” said the inscription above the
door. I went up the wide staircase and emerged into a Moorish courtyard with a small fountain,
a glass door and some marble columns lit by red lights, like the lights they use in
sacristies. It had a slightly absurd beauty and only then did I understand why I’d
arranged to meet Isabel there: precisely because it was such an absurd place. I walked on and,
beyond, I saw a reading room, with small tables and newspapers threaded onto wooden poles,
like in an English gentleman’s club. But there was no one in the room. I looked at my
watch and realised that I still had plenty of time before my appointment. I walked slowly
across the courtyard. I saw several doors and opened one at random. It opened on to a vast
panelled room, eighteenth-century in style, with great glass doors crowned by half-moons
painted with frescos. It was the dining room, of monumental size, with all the tables laid and
an immense, polished parquet floor. On one side of the room there was a miniature theatre with
a tiny red velvet curtain that drew back to reveal a space framed by two columns and dominated
by two caryatids carved in yellow wood, two naked figures which, for some reason, I found
indecent, perhaps because they really were. I closed the dining room door and returned to the
courtyard. The night was hot, close, like a breath of warm air full of the seaweed smell of
the sea. I opened another door and entered the billiard room. It was a large, cool room, its
walls lined with fabric. A man, in black jacket and bow tie, was playing billiards on his own.
When he saw me, he stopped, rested his cue on the floor and said: Good evening, and welcome.
Are you a member?, I asked. The man smiled, rubbed chalk on the tip of the cue and replied:
What about you? Are you a member? Me, no, I said, I’m just a visitor, a guest. This club
is for members only, he said, I’m the manager, but you were quite right to come in, no
one’s been in all day, I’ve spent the whole day alone here, so it’s good to
see another human being at last.

He was a very small man in his sixties, white-haired and elegant, he had pale eyes and a
pleasant face. I arranged to meet someone here at nine o’clock, I said, it was a stupid
thing to do, since I’m not a member and I’ve never been here before, and the
person who’s coming here belongs only in my memory. The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo
rested the cue on the table and smiled a melancholy smile. There’s nothing wrong with
that, he said, you’ll feel perfectly at home here, this club is nothing but a memory,
now. Forgive my asking, I said, but what does all this have to do with the Alentejo? The
Manager of the Casa do Alentejo smiled again and said: It’s a long story, this club was
founded by Alentejo landowners, people with land and money who fancied giving a European slant
to their lives, they imagined Lisbon was like London and Paris; in the old days, before you
were
born, they all used to come here to play billiards with their foreign
friends, drink port and play billiards, things were different then, this place isn’t the
same now, the membership’s changed but not the club, some of the old
alentejanos
turn up occasionally, but not often, this is a place for memories now.
The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo smiled his melancholy smile again. If you want to have
supper here, there’s not much to choose from, he said, the cook has only made one dish
today, it’s very good though,
ensopada de borreguinho à moda de Borba.
Thanks, I said, but I’m not sure I’ll be eating here, besides I’m not very
hungry yet, I might just have a drink, but not right now. I see you’re not a great fan
of Alentejo cooking, he said. On the contrary, I replied, I love the way they cook game and
poultry in the Alentejo, in Elvas once, I had some stuffed turkey, which was simply out of
this world, the best turkey I’ve ever eaten in my life. I couldn’t agree more,
said the Manager, but I prefer the soups myself, I don’t know if you like
poejada
or not, there are two ways of making it, one is with soft cheese and the other is with
eggs, which is how they make it in south of the Alentejo, that’s where I’m from,
whenever I think about my childhood, I always think of the
poejada
my grandmother
used to make, our cook makes it too, but you know, here in the city things turn out
differently, the food is always more sophisticated, it’s nothing like a real
poejada
, it’s a soup for posh people. I think it’s because the things
we remember from our childhood never return, I said. You’re right, he said,
there’s no point in deluding ourselves.

The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo put more chalk on his cue. Do you like playing bar
billiards?, he asked. I do, I said. Then why don’t we play a game?, he said.
You’re on, I said, but only a quick one, I’d like to wait in the bar for the
person who’s coming here to meet me. The Manager handed me a cue, carefully set up the
pins and said: Let’s play the way people used to play, now everyone does it the American
way, using huge billiard balls, a terrible game I think. I agree, I said.

The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo played the opening shot and again rubbed chalk on the end
of his cue. He played precisely, scientifically, weighing up the state of play with a swift,
geometric glance. He was economical in his movements, keeping them to a minimum: a slight lift
of the elbow, a slight shift of the shoulder, though still barely moving either arm or
shoulder. I see you’re a professional, I said, I’ve obviously got myself into deep
water here. He gave another melancholy smile. That’s what my life’s become, he
said, endless solitary afternoons here, playing bar billiards on my own.

I saw that I was in a difficult position. The smallest ball lay exactly midway between my
ball and his, it was an impossible shot, which would require either some sort of juggling feat
or a huge stroke of luck. I lit a cigarette and studied the situation. I think I’ve had
it, I said, but I’m not giving up just yet, am I allowed to use a screw shot? The use of
screw shots is allowed, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo ironically, but if you rip
the baize you’ll have to pay for it. OK, I said, I think I’ll have a go anyway. I
calmly smoked my cigarette and walked round to the other side of the billiard table to get
another perspective on the trajectory my ball would have to follow. I’d like to propose
something to you, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo. I looked at him, laid my billiard
cue down on the table and took off my jacket. Go on, I said. We should place a bet on this
shot, he said, I’ve got a bottle of 1952 port and it’s high time I opened it, so
if you win it’s on me, if you lose, it’s on you. I made rapid calculations as to
how much a 1952 bottle of port was likely to cost and how much money I had left in my pocket:
I really was in no position to be placing bets, I couldn’t afford it. The Manager of the
Casa do Alentejo gave me a challenging look. Aren’t you up to it?, he said. I am, I
said. There’s nothing I’d like better tonight than to drink a 1952 port. Then if
you’ll excuse me, he said, and he went off to get the bottle. I sat down in an armchair
and went on smoking. I would have liked to do some thinking, but I wasn’t in the mood.
All I wanted was to be there, smoking, studying the billiard table and the strange geometric
pattern the balls had created on the green cloth and from which I had to extricate myself. And
the peculiar path my ball would have to follow in order to strike my opponent’s ball
seemed to me a sign: it was clear that the impossible parabola I would have to achieve on the
billiard table was the same parabola I was following that night, and so I made a bet with
myself, well not a bet exactly, more of a conjuration, an exorcism, a plea to fate, and I
thought: If I manage it, Isabel will appear, if I don’t, I’ll never see her
again.

The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo returned bearing a silver tray with a bottle and two
glasses on it and put it down next to the billiard table. Now then, he said, I think we should
drink a glass of port before you attempt your shot, I’m sure you could do with a
pick-me-up. He opened the bottle precisely, efficiently, and carefully wiped the mouth with a
napkin to remove any fragments of cork clinging to the glass. He filled the glasses and held
out the tray to me. He was clearly an expert, the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo, but his
professionalism seemed out of place in a situation that called for a certain spirit of
complicity, affability or even collusion. There wasn’t a trace of this in his behaviour
or in his attitude, rather there was a professional politeness that underscored the tension of
the moment. He raised his glass and I said: Listen, I’ve actually made two bets, a real
one with you and a personal one with myself, would you mind if we drank to the latter? To your
own personal wager, then, he said gravely, adding: I’ve wanted to open this bottle for
ages, but it never seemed the right moment.

It was a magnificent port, slightly rough and intensely aromatic. The Manager of the Casa do
Alentejo filled the glasses again and said: One more drink, I think the occasion demands it.
Have you worked here long?, I asked. Five years, he said, but before that I worked at the
Tavares Restaurant, I’ve spent my life amongst the wealthy, it’s awful always
living alongside the rich when you’re not rich yourself, because you pick up their way
of thinking but you can’t actually join in, I’d have no problem living the way the
rich do because I share their way of thinking, but I haven’t the means to do so, only
the right mentality. That’s definitely not enough, I said. Anyway, today I’m going
to drink this port despite them, continued the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo, I’m
thoroughly pissed off, if you’ll forgive the expression. Not at all, I said,
you’re perfectly entitled to feel pissed off. Do you know what my trouble is?, he said,
it’s that I’ve never allowed myself to feel pissed off, I was always worried about
this or that, about the rich, how they were feeling, if they had everything they needed, if
they had enough to eat and drink, if they were happy, good God, the rich always have
everything they need, they always eat and drink well, they’re always happy, I’m a
fool to have always worried about them, but I’m going to change my attitude now,
I’m going to change my way of thinking, they’re rich and I’m not,
that’s what I have to remember, I have nothing in common with them, even if I have lived
in their world, there’s no common ground between us. That’s what they call class
consciousness, I said, at least I think it is. I don’t know about that, he said
thoughtfully, that’s some sort of political label and I don’t know much about
politics, I never had time for it, I was always too busy working.

The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo filled our glasses again and anxiously raised his to his
lips. Forgive that little outburst, he said, I’m sorry. There’s no need to
apologise, I said, the odd outburst does you good, it helps to detoxify you, besides, class
consciousness is very simple, you just came to the realisation that you don’t belong to
the same class as the rich, it’s elementary. And I’ll tell you something else, he
said, next time I’m not going to vote for their party, I’ve voted for them ever
since the 1974 revolution, you see, I thought of myself as one of them and so I voted for
their party, but the game’s over, I’m going to change my vote now that I’ve
got class consciousness, do you really think I have? I do, I said, to calm him down, I think
you’ve achieved genuine class consciousness, albeit a little late. Better late than
never, he sighed, and filled our glasses again. Not too much, I said, it’s very strong
this wine and I need quick reflexes for my screw shot. He smiled his melancholy smile and lit
a cigarette. Do you mind if I smoke?, he asked. Feel free, I said.

We fell silent, sitting in the armchairs. From far off, outside, came the sound of an
ambulance siren. There’s someone who’s worse off than us, said the Manager of the
Casa do Alentejo philosophically, and then he asked: Which party do you think I should vote
for? That’s a difficult question, I said, I couldn’t advise you on anything so
personal. But you understand my problem, he said, perhaps you could make a suggestion. Look, I
said, if you really have to choose a party, choose according to the dictates of your heart,
make a sentimental choice, or rather a visceral one, they’re always the best ones. He
smiled and said: thank you, I really think it’s high time I did something like that,
I’m sixty-five years old and if I don’t make a visceral choice now, when will I?
He replaced the cork in the bottle and said: What’s left goes to the winner, I think
it’s time for you to try your screw shot.

We got up and I noticed that my legs felt a bit unsteady, I thought that in that state it
would be a miracle if I managed to hit the ball, nevertheless I picked up my cue, chalked the
end and went over to the billiard table. I stood on tiptoe in order to hit the ball from
above. My hand was trembling slightly, I really needed a rest, but the screw shot is played
without a rest, hitting from above downwards. Perfect silence reigned in the room. I thought:
It’s now or never, I closed my eyes and hit the ball. The ball began to spin, reached
almost the middle of the table, brushing dangerously close to the pins, and then, as if by a
miracle, it turned, curved, and very slowly, as if following a prescribed course, touched my
opponent’s ball and stayed there. You won, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo,
amazed, that shot deserves a round of applause. He laid his cue down on the table and clapped
politely. At that moment, the doorbell rang. He excused himself and went to answer it. I wiped
the sweat from my brow with a handkerchief and wondered if this might be the moment to change
my shirt again, since I was once more drenched in sweat. I pulled off the shirt I was wearing,
placed it on the armchair and put on the other blue shirt that I’d been carrying under
my arm all day.