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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!