The Collected Novels of José Saramago (167 page)

Darkness has not yet fallen, but it is cold. In the direction of the mountain that hides the sea there is a path that begins to wend its way up the slope ahead in one bend after another, left and right like a winding thread until it disappears from sight. Soon the valley will be plunged into darkness, as on the night of the blackout, although it would be more accurate to say that in the valley where Maria Guavaira lives every night is like a blackout, so there was no need for all the electric cables of civilized and cultured Europe to break down. Pedro Orce left the house because he wasn’t needed there. He walks on without looking back, at first as quickly as his strength permits, then, beginning to tire, he slows down. He does not feel the least bit nervous in this silence amid the great walls formed by the mountains, he’s a man who was born and bred in a desert, in a land of dust and stones, where one is never surprised to find a horse’s skull, a hoof with the metal shoe still attached, there are some who say not even the horsemen of the Apocalypse could survive there, the warhorse died in war, the infected horse died of infection, the starved horse of starvation, death is the supreme raison d’être of all things and their infallible conclusion, what deceives us is this line of the living along which we find ourselves, which advances toward what we call the future, simply because we had to give it a name, where we are constantly gathering in new beings while constantly leaving old ones behind, we are obliged to refer to these as the dead lest they emerge from the past.

Pedro Orce’s heart is already starting to grow old and weary. He now has to rest more often and for longer, but he does not give up, the dog’s presence consoles him. They exchange signs with each other, like a code that even though undeciphered is enough, for the simple fact of existing is enough, the animal rubs its back against the man’s thigh, the man’s hand strokes the soft skin inside the dog’s ear, the world is filled with the sound of footsteps, breathing, friction, and now the muffled clamor of the sea can unmistakably be heard behind the summit of the mountain, growing louder, louder, getting clearer and clearer, until the immense surface looms up before one’s eyes, vaguely sparkling beneath the night sky that is bereft of moonlight and has few stars, and below, like the living line separating night and death, the dazzling whiteness of spume constantly dissolving and renewing itself. The rocks are blacker where the waves are lashing, as if the stone there had greater density or had been soaked in water since the beginning of time. The wind comes in from the sea, on the one hand it is blowing normally, on the other it can scarcely be felt, this must be due to the peninsula’s displacement on the water, it is no more than a breeze, as we well know, and yet there has never been such a typhoon since the world began.

Pedro Orce measures the dimension of the ocean and at that moment finds it small, because on taking a deep breath he feels his lungs expand so much that all the chasms of liquid could rush in and still leave space for the raft that with its stone battering rams is forcing its way through the waves. Pedro does not know if he is man or fish. He goes down to the sea, the dog goes ahead to sniff out and choose the path, and this prudent and astute guide was much needed, for without daylight, Pedro Orce on his own could not have found entrance or exit in this labyrinth of stones. At last they reached the great slabs of rock that descend to the sea, there the roar of waves breaking is deafening. Beneath this pitch-black sky and the cries of the sea, should the moon now appear, a man could die of rapture, while believing himself to be dying of anguish, of fear and solitude. Pedro Orce no longer
felt cold. The night became clearer, more stars appeared, and the dog, which had been gone for a moment, came running back, it had not been trained to tug its master’s trousers, but we know it well enough to be certain that it is perfectly capable of making its wishes known, and now Pedro Orce must accompany it to examine its discovery, a castaway swept up on the shore, a treasure chest, some vestige of Atlantis, the wreckage of the Flying Dutchman, an obsessive memory, and when he arrived he saw that it was nothing but stones, but since this was a dog not easily fooled, there had to be something unusual there, that was when he noticed that he was actually standing on it, the thing, an enormous stone, roughly in the form of a boat, and there was another one, long and narrow like a mast, and yet another, this must be the helm with its tiller, although it was broken. Thinking that the dim light was deceiving him, he started walking around the stones, touching and probing them, and then he was no longer in any doubt, this side, tall and pointed, is the prow, this other flat one is the stern, the mast is unmistakable, and the helm, for example, could only be made for a giant, were it not for the fact that this is definitely a stone ship standing here. A geological phenomenon, to be sure. What Pedro Orce knows about chemistry is more than enough to explain the discovery, an ancient wooden vessel brought here by the waves or abandoned by mariners, stranded on these rocks since time immemorial, then the fragments were covered by earth, their organic material petrified, once more the earth has retreated, thousands of years will be needed, until today, to blunt the edges and reduce these volumes, wind, rain, the erosion of cold and heat, the day will come when one stone will be indistinguishable from another. Pedro Orce sat right inside the boat, from where he’s sitting he can see nothing but sky and the distant sea, if this ship were to pitch ever so slightly he would imagine himself to be sailing, and then, which shows you what the imagination can do, he absurdly began to imagine that this petrified ship was indeed sailing and towing the peninsula, one cannot trust these flights of fantasy, obviously it is not impossible, one has witnessed even more difficult feats, but as it happens the ship’s stern is facing out to sea as if ironically, no reputable vessel would ever sail backward. Pedro Orce stood up, he now feels cold, and the dog has jumped onto the parapet, Time we were going home, master, you’re rather old for these late nights, if you didn’t go in for them when you were young, it’s too late now.

When they reached the summit of the mountains, Pedro Orce could scarcely walk, and his poor lungs, which only a short time ago could have inhaled the entire ocean, gasped like a punctured bellows, the harsh air chafed his nostrils, parched his throat, these mountain tracks are not for a pharmacist getting on in years. He sank down onto a boulder, had to rest, his elbows resting on his knees, holding his head in his hands, the sweat glistening on his forehead, the wind ruffling loose strands of hair, he’s a physical wreck, weary and dejected, alas, no one has yet discovered ways of petrifying a human being in the flower of youth and transforming him into an eternal statue. His breathing is more relaxed, the air has softened, it comes and goes without that grating noise like sandpaper. Aware of these changes, the dog, which had been stretched out waiting, made as if to get up. Pedro Orce raised his head, looked down into the valley where the house stood. There seemed to be em aura hovering over it, a diffused radiance, a kind of light without any luminosity, if this phrase, which like all others can be formed only with words, can be understood without ambiguity. Pedro Orce suddenly remembered that epileptic back in Orce who, in the wake of those fits that left him prostrate, tried to explain the confused sensations that preceded them, it could be a vibration of the invisible particles of the air, the radiation of energy, like heat in the distance, the distortion of luminous rays just beyond his reach, this night was truly filled with wonders, the thread and the cloud of blue wool, the stone ship grounded on the rocks on the shore, and now this house that is shaking, or so it appears to us, seen from here. The image flickers, the outline blurs, it appears to recede until it becomes an almost invisible point, then it returns, slowly vibrating. For an instant, Pedro Orce was afraid of being left abandoned in this other desert, but the fear passed, just enough time to realize that down there Maria Guavaira and Joaquim Sassa had got together, times have changed a lot, nowadays a man no sooner sets eyes on a woman than he is poking the fire, if you’ll pardon this crude metaphor, both plebeian and obsolete. Pedro Orce had risen to start going down the slope, but sat down again and patiently waited, shivering with cold, for the house to return to his image of a home, where there would be no flames other than that last one still burning in the hearth, if he lingers here too long he is much more likely to find only ashes instead of the fire.

Maria Guavaira woke up with the first light of morning. She was in her room, in bed, and there was a man asleep at her side. She could hear him breathing deeply, as if he were drawing renewed strength from the marrow of his bones, and semiconscious, she wanted her own breathing to accompany his. It was the different rhythm within her breast that made her feel that she was naked. She ran her hands over her body, from her thighs to her crotch, then over her belly and up to her breasts, and suddenly she remembered her cry of surprise when her orgasm had dawned inside her like a sun. Now completely awake, she bit her fingers in order to suppress that same cry, but in that stifled sound she would have liked to recognize those sensations, to capture them forever, or perhaps it was reawakened desire, perhaps remorse, the anguish that utters that familiar phrase, Now what is to become of me, thoughts cannot be isolated from other thoughts, impressions are not untainted by other impressions, this woman lives in the country, remote from the amatory arts of civilization, and any moment now, two men will arrive who have come to work on Maria Guavaira’s land, what is she going to say to them, her house filled like this with strangers, there is nothing like the light of day to alter the appearance of things. But this man sleeping beside her threw a stone into the sea, and Joana Carda cut the earth in two, and José Anaiço became the king of starlings, and Pedro Orce can cause the earth to tremble with his feet, and the Dog has come from who knows where to bring these people together, And it brought me closer to you than to the others, I pulled the thread and you came to my door, to my bed, you penetrated my body, even my soul, for only from my soul could that cry have come. She closed her eyes for several minutes, when she opened them she saw Joaquim Sassa awake, she could feel his firm body, and sobbing with desire she opened herself to him, she did not cry out, but wept smiling, and day broke. There is no point in making indiscreet revelations about the words they spoke, let people form their own idea, try to imagine it for themselves, they are unlikely to succeed, however limited the language of love may appear to be.

Maria Guavaira got up and her body is as white as Joaquim Sassa had dreamed, she told him, I didn’t want to wear my widow’s clothes, but now I haven’t got time to look for something else to wear, the farmhands will be here any minute. She dressed, returned to the bed, covered Joaquim Sassa’s face with her hair and kissed him, then rushed out of the bedroom. Joaquim Sassa rolled over on the bed, closed his eyes, he’s going back to sleep. There’s a tear on one of his cheeks, it could have been shed by Maria Guavaira or it could be his own, for men also weep, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and weeping only does them good.

This is the room where Joana Carda and José Anaiço spent the night, the door is closed, they’re still asleep. The other door is ajar, the dog came to look at Maria Guavaira, then went back inside and lay down again, keeping vigil over the sleeping Pedro Orce who is resting from his adventures and discoveries. One can tell from the atmosphere that it will be a hot day. The clouds are coming in from the sea and appear to be moving more swiftly than the wind. Near Deux Chevaux are two men, these are the hired laborers who have arrived for work, they are commenting to each other that the widow, who is always complaining about how little she earns from farming, has finally bought herself a car, Once the husband is out of the way, these women manage very nicely, this sarcastic remark came from the older man. Maria Guavaira called out to them, and as she set about lighting the fire and heating up the coffee she explained that she had offered shelter to some travelers who had lost their way, poor people, You aren’t safe living here all by yourself, the younger man said, but this phrase, so full of concern, is simply a variant of many others that have been spoken with somewhat different intentions, You should have remarried, you need a man to keep an eye on the house, no exaggeration, you couldn’t have found a better man than me, when it comes to work and all the rest, Believe me when I say I’m very fond of you, One day you’ll see me come through that door and you’d better believe I’ll be here to stay. You’re driving me out of my mind, You think men have no feelings, that we’re made of wood, whereupon Maria Guavaira threatened him, If you come any closer, I’ll know for sure, because you’ll get a live coal in your face, and the younger man had no choice but to rephrase his opening sentence, You should have a man here to look after you, but even expressing it like this has not helped him to get what he wants.