Clandestine Memories

When a social event of great resonance occurs, such as an elevation or death, everyone (or many) wants in some way to "touch (or have touched) the saint." And memories, more or less clear but consistent with the spirit of the moment, resurface. This is somewhat my case here – may God and they themselves forgive me.

Memories of those chance encounters, insignificant at the time, where people don't even recognize each other or pay attention to themselves in the situation, moving freely and completely "naturally." They take root in our memory, for reasons unknown, and remain on standby , waiting to surface in our consciousness as a reference, a quote, or a mere sign of closeness.

When the announcement of Francisco Pinto Balsemão's death came, something similar happened to me. I immediately remembered the first time I had seen him in person, in 1971, when he was already "on everyone's lips." It was in Guarda, where I was then on my honeymoon with my husband, who was also affiliated with the local political party, and where we had gone to reminisce. We were having dinner at the Hotel Turismo (still thriving at the time) when my husband whispered to me: "Balsemão is coming in." I had my back turned and didn't turn around, because the select atmosphere of the room didn't advise such an overly explicit display of curiosity. He passed to my left and went to sit alone at a table further on, also to the left. "Handsome man," I thought. Apparently, Guarda has handsome men: with him, that makes two, my husband and this one..." because, without seeing his face, I had noticed his figure, his walk, and how well-dressed he was. A sober, complete grey suit, a graceful gait without being pretentious, a way of sitting with the ease of a discreet regular . He had his back to me. Only my husband, seated opposite me at the table, could see his face, so he very carefully recounted Balsemão's biographical details, linked by family to the city and by political activity its representative. But even without seeing his face, I could observe the elegance in his manner, which was nonetheless cordial and even animated when in conversation with the head waiter who came to serve him, also with the cordiality of someone who knew his habits. The distance prevented me from hearing what they were saying, but, occasionally, they laughed, alone or together, in the restrained tone in which the whole scene unfolded. Balsemão – I could only see his back, his hair already cut to the style it had become, the gestures of his arms, light but precise – ate quickly and, it seemed, accepting the choices of the head waiter who accompanied him. He stood up, carelessly placing his napkin on the edge of the table, turned to leave, and that's when I saw him, exactly as I saw him today in the photographs from that time. I don't know why, but I would say that, in that gesture of buttoning his coat and then straightening up, he seemed to me a… gallant man. When he passed our table, he slightly lowered his head in a brief greeting and left.

Six years have passed, and much turbulent water has flowed under the bridge.

It was in 1977, around this time of year, that I met Francisco Pinto Balsemão again, this time at Expresso, his brand-new home, his headquarters, the cradle of an infant freedom gaining voice and lexicon, the most modern center of journalistic information that the country could boast of, the great challenger of critical mass and reconstructive will, political and otherwise, to emerge from its shelters, to advance, to persevere, to pave the way...

I had gone to speak with Marcelo Rebelo de Sousa to deliver a memorandum about an initiative of the Linguistics Center of the University of Lisbon at the time, which was to take place very soon and which we wanted to be published in the newspaper to publicize and inform about. It was the “Meeting for Research and Teaching of Portuguese,” which we wanted to be national in scope (it ended up bringing together more than 1100 participants) and in which we intended to disseminate the most current work being done in research, pedagogy, and language didactics, and to invite teachers to present papers, reports, suggestions, and…complaints. It was a small adventure in those post-revolutionary times when, as the dust settled, we didn't want the same mistakes to be repeated, but rather to seek ways of opening up and expanding innovative ideas and progress in the domain and transmission of the language. Marcelo listened attentively to my brief presentation and, suddenly, the professor, the cultured and knowledgeable man, and the curious and challenging young man who never ceased to be, awoke in him. I remember his clear, sharp gaze, leaping from reading the document to my face as if assessing my reliability and the feasibility of the entire program I was outlining. Those were ambitious times, when the delays we were experiencing sometimes made us forget about standards and procedures. Before concluding that lightning-fast interview, he asked two or three judicious questions and stood up, visibly hurried. I imitated him, passed through the office door to head towards the elevator, a beautiful example of an old elevator with ornate, barred doors. Marcelo, very gentlemanly, anticipated me by calling the elevator, which wasn't necessary because it was already coming up.

It stopped. It had an occupant who took the time to open the door before looking at who was waiting on the floor he was interested in. When he raised his head, he came face to face with Marcelo, and suddenly his whole face broke into a smile, exclaiming in a voice bathed in grace: “Many congratulations! Many congratulations! So, a lady!” And Marcelo: “I lost the night, but everything went thankfully well…” I stood there, waiting for this conversation (somewhat ambiguous, but that's how I heard it) to become clear, which I soon understood: it was about the birth of Marcelo's firstborn daughter, which had happened that night, and his intention, after that fleeting visit to the newspaper, was to go back and see her. And, finally noticing me, he briefly introduced me to Balsemão, who greeted me with a very slight bow and a murmured “…pleasure…”. In a hurry, my “Very pleased to meet you” slipped with me into the elevator cabin and died with the closing of the beautiful doors. So I left the two of them in that joyful celebration, in that glorification of pater familias, in that entirely masculine feeling which, I confess, neither then nor now, can I adequately define. For us women, when we recall what childbirth entails, our souls rejoice, our bodies ache. The mental and sentimental image that corresponds to it cannot do without the physical memory of the moment and the discomforts and limitations that follow. But what about men? Doesn't the body suffer, so is fatherhood only joy, only pride, only glory, only sat-tis-fa-tion? Something fleeting and vain? Or is there something more, within the heart, the head, whatever it may be, that leads a man to think of a different future, more creative and ambitious, a more sincere fraternity, a more committed mutual support, a more encouraging or protective gesture according to needs, a pedagogy of freedom for deeper, fairer and more fruitful unions? Turning to others with helpfulness, balance, and openness, teaching what one has learned, demanding what one has taught, in a constant and always ambitious practice? I truly believe that this is what, consciously or unconsciously, animates true fatherhood. And now, as I have finished writing this, I think it was this kind of fatherhood that Francisco Pinto Balsemão cultivated throughout his life, with the gently aristocratic fair play of someone who made a complete commitment to excellence.