Declares Pereira.

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I must think of one true, declaratory statement to make before succumbing to sleep tonight, just one sentence that no-one can contradict. It must be a sentence that inspires me and makes a promise that I’ll probably break tomorrow, a statement that sums up all that is past and points to a bright new future. I set myself a noble task. (A dog howls in the distance at this point). Maybe instead of writing a sentence on paper or speaking it into the air I should act it out, take a walk on a cold autumn morning through the Luxembourg Gardens and listen to the gravel on the paths crunching under my feet before sitting in Café Riva with a double espresso, reading a newspaper, waiting for someone who doesn’t turn up. (A train blows steam through its whistle late at night in 1933 on its way from London to Edinburgh). Surely a glass of good wine could drag a true sentence from me, a truthful, honest wine that never boasts or flatters. A wine drunk at a small, round table under the wide skirt of one of the lime tree that lines Avenue du Colonel Fabien; a wine drunk by a melancholy man wearing a black Homberg, a melancholy man who has been searching for a true declaratory sentence to utter since he was fifteen years old and still lives in hope but realises that time is short. He carries a dictionary with him in case the sentence that he happens upon includes a word that he does not know how to spell correctly. (A tired gravedigger props his shovel up against the Church wall and sits on a bench to eat a cheese sandwich). At last the elusive sentence suggests itself: “I made perfect pesto from fresh ingredients today and it was good”. Maybe a better sentence would be, “I’m going to sleep now, so goodnight”.