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FERNANDO PESSOA DIESPortugal’s great poetFernando Pessoa, the extraordinary poet of Mensagem, a poem of nationalistexaltation, one of the most beautiful poems ever written, was buriedyesterday. Death surprised him in a Christian bed at St. Louis’ Hospital onSaturday night. Funeral services were arranged by the Barata Agency.The prolix news story went on for two long columns, nothing like the usualnewspaper obituaries. It provided a detailed biography, copious literary criticismand fulsome praise of the dead poet; listed the names of those who attended thefuneral, and quoted the brief impromptu speech delivered by Luiz de Montalvor,the deceased’s companion of 34 years of literary life, at the foot of the gravewhere the body was buried.“The whole crowd of friends and acquaintances of the deceased will notattend the funeral...,” the policeman muttered to himself, lolling on the bed, aftercross-referencing the names of those present at the funeral with the names listedin the book he had removed from the nightstand drawer.Then he sat up in bed, rekindled the cigar that had gone out, and sat at thesmall desk set against the bedroom window.With a crayon, he began to underline in the notebook the names of friendsand acquaintances of the deceased who had missed the funeral.The list was not short: Álvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis, Bernardo Soares,António Mora, Raphael Baldaya, Frederico Reis, and dozens of others, lessfrequently seen at meetings with the man he was investigating, who lived on RuaCoelho da Rocha in Campo de Ourique.“Not even Ofélia Queirós deigned to attend the burial of her ex-boyfriend.Perhaps that love was not so unforgettable after all...,” the PIC agent thought tohimself, rejoicing inwardly, while biting the tip of the crayon.“Where had all those people who didn’t attend the funeral got to?” he askedhimself, while looking at the pocket watch hanging by its chain from a nail on thewall of the room.“Zero hour” was still a while away. He decided to cop some Zs until then; takea nap. He adjusted the pillow, stretched out on the bed and relaxed, confident inthe success of the operation, so often postponed, which he would carry out later.When he awoke, it was a quarter to midnight. He got out of bed and went tothe bedroom window to check the weather. There was a light, intermittent drizzle.He got dressed quickly, putting on a dark suit and raincoat, stuck a trilby onhis gleaming bald head, and went to check the contents of the shopping bag hewould take to do the job.He checked the bunch of skeleton keys, picks and wires with bent tips, shookthe little lamp (to check for oil), and rattled the matchbox.RUY TAPIOCA351