The Collected Novels of José Saramago (170 page)
Leaving aside the case of Galicia, a case and a region that are purely peripheral, or, to adopt other criteria, appendicular, Spain is protected from the more fatal consequences of the collision, since Portugal essentially acts as a screen or buffer. Problems of some logistic complexity have yet to be resolved, such as that posed by the important cities of Vigo, Pontevedra, Santiago de Compostela, and La Coruña, but, as for the rest, the people who live in villages are so accustomed to a precarious existence that, almost without waiting for orders, advice, or information, they have started retreating farther inland, peaceful and resigned, using the means of transport already described, and others as well, starting with the most primitive means of all, their own feet.
Portugal’s situation, however, is quite different. Note that the entire coast, excepting the southern part of the Algarve, now finds itself in danger of being stoned by the islands of the Azores, the word stoned is used here because the outcome is much the same whether a stone hits us or we hit our head against a stone, it is all a question of speed and inertia, not forgetting that in this case, the head, even though wounded and cracked, will reduce all the stones to splinters. Under the circumstances, with a coastline like this, nearly all of it flat, and with the proximity of the larger cities to the sea, and taking into account the unpreparedness of the Portuguese for the slightest catastrophe, earthquake, flood, forest fire, or drought, it is doubtful whether the government of salvation will know how to do its duty. The best solution, actually, would be deliberately to stir up panic, to rush people into abandoning their homes and force them to seek refuge farther inland. The worst thing of all will be if people start to run out of food, either during the journey or wherever they decide to settle, then there will be so much indignation and frustration that all hell will break loose. We are worried, naturally, but frankly we would be much more worried if we happened to be in Galicia watching the travel preparations of Maria Guavaira and Joaquim Sassa, Joana Carda and José Anaiço, Pedro Orce and the Dog, the relative importance of topics is variable, it depends on the point of view, the humor of the moment, one’s personal sympathies, the objectivity of the narrator is a modern invention, we need only reflect that our Lord God didn’t want it in His Book.
Two days have passed, the horse, after being near starvation, has been given extra rations of food, as much oats and beans as it likes, Joaquim Sassa even suggested giving it soup laced with wine, and the wagon, now that the holes have been patched with the canvas removed from Deux Chevaux, not only is more comfortable inside but will protect them from the weather as the light showers give way to constant rain, for September is here and we’re in a region that is invariably wet. Meanwhile, one can reckon that the peninsula has sailed about a hundred and fifty kilometers since José Anaiço made his precise calculations, So there are still seven hundred and fifty kilometers to go, or fifteen days, for those who prefer more empirical measurements, at the end of which, give or take a minute, the first collision will take place, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, those poor wretches in Alentejo, it’s just as well they are used to disasters, they are like the Galicians, their skin is so tough that we would be fully justified in using another word, let us say leather instead of skin and dispense with any further explanation. Here in these northern territories, in the Elysian valleys of Galicia, there is plenty of time for our travelers to get out of harm’s way. The wagon is already equipped with mattresses, sheets, and blankets, all the luggage is on board, along with basic cooking utensils, food already prepared for the first few days, omelettes to be precise, and various foodstuffs, such as white and red beans, rice and potatoes, a barrel of water, a cask of wine, two laying hens, one of them mottled, its neck bald, salt cod, a pitcher of olive oil, a bottle of vinegar, and some salt, for we cannot live without it unless we refuse baptism, pepper and saffron, all the bread they had in the house, a bag of flour, hay, bran and bean pods for the horse, the dog presents no problem, it knows how to look sifter its own needs, when it accepts any help, it is only to please others. Maria Guavaira, without explanation, but then perhaps she could not have explained even if asked, wove bracelets of the blue thread for them all, and collars for the horse and dog. There is such a quantity of wool there that no one noticed any difference. Besides, one must admit that, even if they’d wanted to take it with them, there’s no room for the wool in the wagon, nor was it ever foreseen that there would be, otherwise where would he sleep, that young farmhand who is about to arrive.
On the last night in the house, they were late getting to bed, they sat up talking for hours on end, as if the following morning was to be one of sad farewells, with each of them going his separate way. But staying together like this was one way of keeping up their spirits, it is a well-known fact that canes start to break the moment they are separated from the bundle, everything breakable has already been broken. They spread out the map of the peninsula on the kitchen table, as drawn here it is still incongruously joined to France, and they marked out the first day’s itinerary, the inaugural route, taking care to choose the least bumpy roads, in view of the feeble strength of their scraggy horse. But they would have to make a side trip to the north, as far as La Coruña, where Maria Guavaira’s demented mother was in a mental institution, daughterly love decrees that she go and rescue her from that pandemonium, for one can imagine the panic in that bedlam, an enormous island bursting through the front door, hurling itself onto the city and sweeping before it the anchored boats, and all those glass-paned windows on the avenue on the waterfront shattering to smithereens at the same time, and the demented inmates thinking, if they are capable of thinking in their lunacy, that the Day of Judgment has finally come. Maria Guavaira will have the honesty to say, I don’t know what life is going to be like with my mother in the wagon, even if she isn’t really violent, bear with me, it’s only until we reach a place of safety. They promised to be patient, they would arrange things as best they could, but as we know very well not even the greatest love can withstand its own madness, so how will it cope with another’s madness, in this case that of the insane mother of one of the insane Just as well that José Anaiço had the fortunate idea of telephoning for information from the first place where it was possible, the health authorities might well have transferred or be about to transfer the inmates to a place of safety, for this is not one of your classical shipwrecks, the first to be rescued here are those who are lost.
The couples finally withdrew to their rooms, they did what people normally do on these occasions, who knows if we will ever come back, so let the vibrations of carnal love between humans remain, that love with no equal among the species, made as it is of sighs, murmurings, impossible words, saliva and sweat, anguish, implored martyrdom, Not just yet, one is dying of thirst yet refuses the water of freedom, Now, now, my love, and this is what old age and death will steal from us. Pedro Orce, who is old and already bearing the first sign of death, which is solitude, left the house once more to go and take a look at the stone ship, accompanied by the dog, which has every name and none, and in case you are about to say that if the dog accompanied him then Pedro Orce is no longer alone, do not forget the animal’s remote origins, the hounds of hell have already seen everything, and because they have such a long life they accompany no one, it is the humans who live for such a short time who accompany dogs. The stone ship stands there, the prow is as tall and pointed as on the first night, Pedro Orce is not surprised, each of us sees the world with the eyes he possesses, and eyes see what they choose to see, eyes create the world’s diversity and fabricate its wonders, even if they’re only made of stone, its tall prows, even if they’re only an illusion.
The morning awoke overcast and drizzly, a familiar figure of speech but one that is incorrect, because mornings do not awaken, it is we who awaken in the mornings, and then, going to the window, see that the sky is covered with low clouds and the rain is drizzling down, tiresome for anyone caught in it, but such is the power of tradition that if there were a ship’s log book on this journey of ours, the clerk would inscribe his first paean as follows, The morning awoke overcast and drizzly, as if the skies were gazing down with disapproval on this adventure, the skies are always invoked in these instances, whether it rains or shines. Deux Chevaux, with one mighty heave, replaced the wagon under the tiled roof, or rather the thatch, for this is not a garage but a lean-to exposed to the elements. Abandoned like this and without its canvas hood, which was used to patch the awning on the wagon, the car already looks like a wreck, objects suffer the same fate as people, when they have outlived their usefulness they are discarded, they are discarded once they no longer serve any purpose. The wagon, on the other hand, despite being ancient, has been rejuvenated after being taken out into the open air, the wagon is restored as the rain washes it down, being put into action has always had this admirable effect, just look at the horse, covered with an oilcloth to protect its back and looking almost like a charger in a joust, caparisoned for battle.
These descriptive interludes should cause no surprise, they’re ways of showing how difficult it is to uproot people from places where they have been happy, all the more so since these people are not fleeing in panic, Maria Guavaira is now closing the doors carefully, she sets free the hens that are being left behind, releases the rabbits from their hutch, the pig from the sty, these are animals accustomed to being fed and now left to God’s mercy, if not to the wiles of Satan, for the pig is quite capable, should the mood take it, of attacking the other animals. When the younger of the two farmhands arrives he will have to break a window to enter the house, there is no one for leagues around to see him break in. If I break in, there’s good reason for doing so, these are his words, and perhaps it is true.
Maria Guavaira climbed into the driver’s seat, beside her sat Joaquim Sassa with open umbrella, his duty is to accompany the woman he loves and to protect her from the inclement weather, he cannot do her job for her, because of the five persons here only Maria Guavaira knows how to drive a wagon and horse. Later in the afternoon when the sky clears, she will teach them. Pedro Orce will insist upon being the first to receive some basic training, a thoughtful gesture on his part, so that the two couples may relax under the awning with no unwelcome separations, the driver’s seat is spacious enough for three, an ideal solution that allows the other two to be together, even if this only means sitting quietly side by side, in silence. Maria Guavaira shook the reins, the horse, hitched between the shafts of the wagon with no partner at its side, gave the first pull, felt the harness tugging, then the weight of the load, memories came flooding back to its old bones and muscles, and the almost forgotten sound returned, that of the earth being crushed beneath the rotating metal rims of the wheels. You can learn, forget, and learn everything anew, when forced by necessity. For several hundred meters the dog accompanied the wagon in the rain. Then it saw that it could travel in the shelter of that great encumbrance while still on foot. It got under the wagon, fell into step with the horse’s rhythm, and that is how we will see the dog for the rest of the journey, come rain or shine, since it has no wish to act as guide or to amuse itself with all those senseless comings and goings that make men and dogs seem so similar.
That day they did not travel far. They had to conserve the horse’s strength, all the more so since the bumpy road demanded constant effort, whether pulling the wagon on the way up or slowing down in the descents. There was not a living soul as far as the eye could see. We must have been the last people to leave these parts, Maria Guavaira said, and the clouded sky, the leaden atmosphere, the gloomy landscape were like the dying breath of a world at its end, desolate, expiring after so much sorrow and weariness, so much living and dying, so much resolute life and subsequent death. But new loves travel in this wagon, and new loves, as those who have observed them know, are the greatest force in this world, they fear no misfortune, since by their very nature new loves are themselves the greatest misfortune of all, a sudden flash of lightning, joyful surrender, disquieting confusion. But one must not put too much trust in first impressions, in this almost funereal appearance of this departure, in the dreary rain, from a deserted country it would be better, were we not so discreet, to listen carefully to the conversations between Joana Carda and José Anaiço, between Maria Guavaira and Joaquim Sassa, Pedro Orce’s silence is even more discreet, it is almost as if he were not here at all.
The first village they passed through had not been completely abandoned. Some of the elderly had reassured their worried children and relatives that dying for the sake of dying was preferable to dying of hunger or some malignant disease, if a person has been so gloriously chosen to die along with the whole of his world, be he a Wagnerian hero or not, he will accede to that sublime Valhalla to which all great catastrophes lead. Elderly Galicians and Portuguese, for they belong to the same race, know nothing about such matters, but for some strange reason were capable of saying, I’m staying put, you can leave if you’re frightened, and this doesn’t mean that they felt all that courageous, simply that at this point in their lives they have finally come to realize that courage and fear are the two pans on the scale that oscillate while the pointer remains still, paralyzed by amazement at the useless invention of emotions and feelings.
As the wagon passed through the village, curiosity, which is probably the last human trait to disappear, brought the elderly out in the road, they waved slowly, and it was as if they were bidding themselves good-bye. Then José Anaiço suggested that it would be wise to seize this opportunity to get some sleep by making use of one of the empty houses, here or in some other village, or in some deserted spot, they were certain to find beds and greater comfort than in the wagon, but Maria Guavaira announced that she would never set foot in a strange house without the owner’s consent, some people have such scruples, while others if they see a locked window smash it in and then say, It was all for the best, and whether it is for their own good or that of someone else, there will always be some doubt about the first and ultimate motive. José Anaiço regretted having made the suggestion, not because it was a bad one, but because it was absurd, Maria Guavaira’s words were enough to define a code of self-respect, Try to be self-sufficient as far as you can, then confide in someone deserving of your trust, better still if this is someone deserving of you. As matters stand, these five appear to deserve one another, in every sense, so let them stay in the wagon, eat their omelettes, talk about the journey they have made so far and the journey that lies ahead of them. Maria Guavaira will reinforce the practical driving lessons she has given with a little theory, beneath a tree the horse goes on munching its ration of hay, the dog satisfies itself on this occasion with domestic provisions, it prowls around sniffing and startling the nightjars. It has stopped raining. A lantern illuminates the inside of the wagon, anyone passing this way would say, Look, a theater, they are certainly characters but not actors.