The Collected Novels of José Saramago (2 page)

Baltasar and Blimunda,
published in Portugal in 1982, earned prompt acclaim in Europe. A historical fantasy, full of such unexpected and unpredictable elements as Domenico Scarlatti, the Inquisition, a witch, and an airplane, it is odd, charming, funny, teasing. To me it seems a lovable warm-up for the greater novels to come, but it made his reputation, and many hold it to be among his best.

Of all his books, I have the most difficulty with
The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis.
This is Saramago at his most intellectually Borgesian. Also perhaps at his most Portuguese. It asks of the reader, if not some knowledge of its subjects (the writer Fernando Pessoa, Portuguese literary culture, the city of Lisbon), at least a fascination with masks, doubles, assumed identities, which Saramago certainly had and I almost entirely lack. A reader who shares that fascination with him will find this (and later
The Double)
a treasure.

Of his next book, in his autobiography for the Nobel Prize he says simply, “In consequence of the Portuguese government censorship of
The Gospel According to Jesus Christ
(1991), vetoing its presentation for the European Literary Prize under the pretext that the book was offensive to Catholics, my wife and I transferred our residence to the island of Lanzarote in the Canaries.” Most men who leave their homeland in protest against tyrannical bigotry go off shouting, pointing their fingers, shaking their fists. He just “transferred his residence.” I confess that the subject of the book is, again, not of the highest interest to me, but it is a subtle, kind, and quietly unsettling work, an outstanding addition to the long list of Jesus novels (which may begin, as the title of this one implies, with the Gospels themselves).

The Stone Raft
is a lovely novel, which had the very rare fortune of being turned into a lovely movie, made in Spain. Europe comes apart at the Pyrenees, so that the Iberian Peninsula begins drifting slowly off toward the Canary Islands, toward America ... Saramago takes full advantage of this opportunity to make fun of the impatient and impotent pomposity of governments and the media when faced with events beyond the scope of bureaucrats and pundits, and also to explore the responses of some obscure citizens, “ordinary people,” as we call them, to the same mysterious events. This is one of his funniest books. And here also we find the first important Saramago dog. I tend to rank his novels with a dog in them higher than the ones without. I’m not sure why; it may have something to do with his refusal to consider man as central in the scheme of things. The more people fixate on humanity, it sometimes seems, the less humane they are.

Next—he was in his seventies now, and writing a novel every year or two—comes
The History of the Siege of Lisbon.
The first time I read it, I liked it, but felt stupid and inadequate because it is or appears to be about the founding event of Portuguese history, and I know no Portuguese history. I was reading too carelessly to realize that my ignorance made no difference at all. Rereading it, I found that of course everything you need to know is in the novel: the “real” history of what happened in the twelfth century when the Christians besieged the Moors in Lisbon, and the “virtual” history that comes to be interwoven with it, through the change of a single word, a deliberate mistake introduced into a new
History of the Siege of Lisbon
by a proofreader in Lisbon in the twentieth century. And the hero of the story (and the love story) is the proofreader. That alone was enough to win my heart.

Immediately after this mellow and meditative tale comes
Blindness
(its Portuguese title is
An Essay on Blindness),
which won its author the Nobel Prize. It is the most deeply frightening novel I have ever read.

It was the first of Saramago’s that I tried to read—my friend the poet Naomi Replansky said I had to. I tried and failed. The punctuation annoyed me, but the story itself appalled me.

To be willing to read about terrible cruelty, I need to trust the author. Trust unquestioningly, the way one trusts Primo Levi. Too many writers use violence and cruelty to sell their books, to “thrill” readers who have been trained to think nothing is interesting but “action,” or to keep their own demons at bay by loosing them on other people. I don’t read those books. I will let a writer torture me only if I accept his reasons for doing so. I had to find out Saramago’s reasons. So at that point I got hold of all his books then in print in English and read them. Too hastily, too carelessly, as I have said, but I was ignorant—I was learning how to read Saramago. To read him is, in fact, an education, a relearning how to see the world, a new way of understanding ...as it is with all the great novelists, from Cervantes through Austen to Tolstoy, Woolf, García Márquez...

Having learned that I could trust this author absolutely, I went back and read
Blindness.
To me it is an almost unbearably moving novel and the truest parable of the twentieth century. (I have not seen the film based on it; I did not trust the filmmakers.) It completely changed my idea of what literature, at this strange time of paralysis in crisis, can be and do.

Soon after
Blindness
came the story “The Tale of the Unknown Island,” an endearing and witty fable, and soon after that,
All the Names,
perhaps the most Kafkaesque of his novels, with its satire of a monstrous bureaucracy. Comparing Saramago with Kafka is a tricky business, though; I can’t imagine Saramago writing “Metamorphosis” any more than I can imagine Kafka writing a love story. And
All the Names,
with its unforgettable Registry that leads back into impenetrable darkness, its protagonist the clerk Senhor José, driven to seek the person behind one of the innumerable names in the files of the Registry, if not exactly a love story, is a story about love.

After the
Journey to Portugal,
a detailed guidebook of his native land not included in this anthology, Saramago wrote
The Cave,
which I have to say in some ways I like the best of all, because I like the people in it so much. Saramago will tell us what the book is about—though when he wrote this in
The Notebook
he wasn’t talking about his novel but about the world he saw in May 2009:

Every day species of plants and animals are disappearing, along with languages and professions. The rich always get richer and the poor always get poorer ... Ignorance is expanding in a truly terrifying manner. Nowadays we have an acute crisis in the distribution of wealth. Mineral exploitation has reached diabolical proportions. Multinationals dominate the world. I don’t know whether shadows or images are screening reality from us. Perhaps we could discuss the subject indefinitely; what is already clear is that we have lost our critical capacity to analyze what is happening in the world. We seem to be locked inside Plato’s cave. We have jettisoned our responsibility for thought and action. We have turned ourselves into inert beings incapable of the sense of outrage, the refusal to conform, the capacity to protest, that were such strong features of our recent past. We are reaching the end of a civilization and I don’t welcome its final trumpet. In my opinion, neoliberalism is a new form of totalitarianism disguised as democracry, of which it retains almost nothing but a semblance. The shopping mall is the symbol of our times. But there is still another miniature and fast-disappearing world, that of small industries and artisanry...

This is the framework of
The Cave,
an extraordinarily rich book that uses science-fictional extrapolation with great skill in the service of a subtle and complex philosophical meditation that is at the same time, and above all, a powerful novel of character. It is worth noting that one of the principal characters is a dog.

In 2004 came
The Double,
which I found rather hard going but have not yet reread, so my judgment on it now would be worthless. After that came
Seeing,
which picks up the setting and some of the characters of
Blindness
but uses them in an entirely different way (nobody could accuse Saramago of writing the same book over, or anything like the same book). It is a heavy-hitting political satire, very dark—far darker, paradoxically, in its end and implications than
Blindness.

By now the author was well into his eighties, and not surprisingly chose to write a book about death.
Death with Interruptions
is the English title. The premise is irresistible. Death (who isn’t one person but many, each with a locality she’s responsible for—bureaucracy, after all, is everywhere) gets sick of her job and takes a vacation from it. This is a major theme in Saramago, the humble employee who decides to do something just a little out of line, just this once ... So in the region for which this particular Death is responsible, nobody dies. The resulting problems are drawn with a very dry humor. Death herself is an interesting person, but to me the book comes alive (if I may put it so) halfway through, with the appearance of the cellist, and the dog.

In the year in which I am writing this, 2010,
The Elephant’s Journey
was published in English, very shortly after the author’s death. If it were his last book, no author could have a more perfect final word—but it isn’t his last. There is
Cain
yet to come, the novel whose name he wouldn’t tell anybody while he was writing it because, he said, if you knew that, you’d know everything about it. Which is hardly the case ... but soon we’ll know.

The true story of the elephant, Solomon, who walked and went by ship from Portugal to Vienna in the sixteenth century, and the soldiers, archdukes, and others who accompanied him, may be Saramago’s most perfect work of art, as pure and true and indestructible as a Mozart aria or a folk song. I wrote of it in a review for the
Guardian:
“In his Nobel talk, Saramago said, ‘As I could not and did not aspire to venture beyond my little plot of cultivated land, all I had left was the possibility of digging down, underneath, towards the roots. My own but also the world’s, if I can be allowed such an immoderate ambition.’ That hard, patient digging is what gives so light and delightful a book as this its depth and weight. It is no mere fable, as the story of an elephant’s journey through the follies and superstitions of sixteenth-century Europe might well be. It has no moral. There is no happy ending. The elephant Solomon will get to Vienna, yes; and then two years later he will die. But his footprints may remain across the reader’s mind, deep, round impressions in the dirt, not leading to the Austrian Imperial Court or anywhere else yet known, but indicating, perhaps, a more permanently rewarding direction to be followed.”

Those tracks are now imprinted on electrons as well as in the dirt, on the page, in the mind; they are now in the vibrations in our computers, the symbols on our screens, as real and intangible as light itself, for all who will to see and read and follow.

U
RSULA
K. L
E
G
UIN
October 2010

Baltasar and Blimunda

A man was on his way to the gallows when he met another, who asked him: Where are you going, my friend? And the condemned man replied: I’m not going anywhere. They’re taking me by force.

Padre Manuel Velho

João

Je sais que je tombe dans l’inexplicable, quand j’affirme que la réalité—cette notion si flottante—la connaissance la plus exacte possible des êtres est notre point de contact, et notre voie d’accès aux choses qui dépassent la réalité.

Marguerite Yourcenar

D
OM JOÃO, THE FIFTH
monarch so named on the royal list, will pay a visit this night to the bedchamber of the Queen, Dona Maria Ana Josefa, who arrived more than two years ago from Austria to provide heirs for the Portuguese crown, and so far has shown no signs of becoming pregnant. Already there are rumours at court, both within and without the royal palace, that the Queen is barren, an insinuation that is carefully guarded from hostile ears and tongues and confided only to intimates. That anyone should blame the King is unthinkable, first because infertility is an evil that befalls not men but women, who for that very reason are often disowned and second, because there is material evidence, should such a thing be necessary, in the horde of bastards produced by the royal semen, who populate the kingdom and even at this moment are forming a procession in the square. Moreover, it is not the King but the Queen who spends all her time in prayer, beseeching a child from heaven, for two good reasons. The first reason is that a king, especially a king of Portugal, does not ask for something that he alone can provide, and the second reason is that a woman is essentially a vessel made to be filled, a natural supplicant, whether she pleads in novenas or in occasional prayers. But neither the perseverance of the King who, unless there is some canonical or physiological impediment, vigorously performs his royal duty twice weekly, nor the patience and humility of the Queen, who, besides praying, subjects herself to total immobility after her husband’s withdrawal, so that their generative secretions may fertilise undisturbed, hers scant from a lack of incentive and time, and because of her deep moral scruples, the King’s prodigious, as one might expect from a man who is not yet twenty-two years of age, neither the one factor nor the other has succeeded so far in causing Dona Maria Ana’s womb to become swollen. Yet God is almighty.

Almost as mighty as God is the replica of the Basilica of St Peter in Rome that the King is building. It is a construction without a base or foundation, resting on a table-top, which does not need to be very solid to take the weight of a model in miniature of the original basilica, the pieces lying scattered, waiting to be inserted by the old method of tongue and groove, and they are handled with the utmost reverence by the four footmen on duty. The chest in which they are stored gives off an odour of incense, and the red velvet cloths in which they are separately wrapped, so that the faces of the statues do not scratch against the capitals of the columns, reflect the light cast by the huge candelabras. The building is almost ready. All the walls have been hinged together, and the columns have been firmly slotted into place under the cornice with the name and title of Paolo V Borghese inscribed in Latin which the King no longer reads, although it always gives him enormous pleasure to observe that the ordinal number after the Pope’s name corresponds to the V that comes after his own. In a king, modesty would be a sign of weakness. He starts to place the effigies of prophets and saints into the appropriate grooves on top of the walls and the footman gives a low bow as he removes each statue from its precious velvet wrappings. One by one, he hands the King a statue of some prophet lying face down, or of some saint turned the wrong way around, but no one heeds this unintentional irreverence as the King proceeds to restore the order and solemnity that befits sacred objects and turning them upright, he inserts each vigilant statue into its rightful position. What the statues see from their lofty setting is not St Peter’s Square but the King of Portugal and his retinue of footmen. They see the floor of the dais and the screens looking on to the Royal Chapel, and tomorrow at early Mass, unless they have already been wrapped up and put back in the chest, the statues will see the King devoutly attend the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass with his entourage, different nobles from those who are with him at present, for the week is ending and others are due to take their place. Beneath the dais where we are standing, there is a second dais, also hidden by screens, but there are no pieces here waiting to be assembled, it is an oratory or a chapel where the Queen attends Mass privately, yet not even this holy place has been conducive to pregnancy. Now all that remains to be set in position is the dome by Michelangelo, a copy of that remarkable achievement in stone which, becauses of its massive proportions, is kept in a separate chest and, as the final, and crowning piece, is treated with special care. The footmen make haste to assist the King and, with a resounding clatter, the tenons and mortises are fitted together and the job is finished. If the overwhelming noise that echoes throughout the chapel should penetrate the long corridors and spacious apartments of the palace into the chamber where the Queen is waiting, she will know that her husband is on his way.