That year, he caught a slight fever. After a few days, the fever rose, and became life-threatening. He was already in grave danger when the publisher appeared, unaware that Pestana was ill; he had come to give him the news that the conservatives were back in power, and to ask him to write a polka for the occasion. The nurse, an impoverished theater clarinetist, informed him of Pestana’s condition, and the publisher realized it was best to say nothing. It was the patient himself who insisted that he tell him what he had come for; the publisher obeyed.

“But only once you’re fully recovered,” he concluded.

“Just as soon as the fever subsides a little,” said Pestana.

There was a few seconds’ pause. The clarinetist quietly tiptoed over to prepare the medication; the publisher stood up and took his leave.

“Goodbye.”

“Look,” said Pestana, “since it’s quite likely that I’ll be dead in the next few days, I’ll do you two polkas straightaway; the other will come in handy for when the liberals are back.”

It was the only joke he had made in his entire life, and it came none too soon, for he died at five minutes past four the following morning, at peace with his fellow men and at war with himself.

The Gentleman’s Companion

THE GENTLEMAN’S COMPANION

SO YOU REALLY THINK that what happened to me in 1860 could be made into a story? Very well, but on the sole condition that nothing is published before my death. You’ll only have to wait a week at most, for I’m really not long for this world.

I could even tell you my whole life story, which contains various other interesting episodes, but that would require time, energy, and paper, and I only have paper; my energy is low and time for me is like the guttering flame of a night lamp. Soon the sun will rise on a new day, a terrible sun, impenetrable as life itself. Farewell, my dear friend; read on and wish me well, forgive anything that offends, and don’t be surprised if not everything smells of roses. You asked me for a human document and here you have it. Do not ask me for the empire of the Great Mogul or a photograph of the Maccabees. Ask me, on the other hand, for my dead man’s shoes, and they will be yours and yours alone.