The Collected Novels of José Saramago (345 page)

A
in the telephone book, regardless of the fact that some say Afonso isn’t a surname at all but a first name. He is sitting at his desk again, he is holding the piece of paper with the notes he wrote on it, his right hand is again resting on the receiver, he looks as if he is finally about to make the phone call, but how very long this man takes to make up his mind, how
vacillating, how irresolute he has turned out to be, no one would think he was the same person who only a few hours ago almost snatched the letter from Maria da Paz’s hands. Then, abruptly, without thinking, as the only way of overcoming this paralyzing cowardice, he dials the number. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso listens to the phone ringing, once, twice, three times, many times, and just as he is about to hang up, thinking, half relieved, half disappointed, that no one is there, a woman, out of breath, as if she had had to run from the other end of the apartment, said simply, Hello. A sudden muscular contraction tightened Tertuliano Máximo Afonso’s throat, he did not reply, giving time for the woman to say again, impatiently, Hello, who is it, at last the history teacher managed to say three words, Good afternoon, madam, but instead of responding in the reserved tone of someone addressing a stranger whose face she cannot even see, the woman said with a smile that shone through every word, If you’re trying to fool me, don’t bother, Excuse me, stammered Tertuliano Máximo Afonso, I just needed some information, What can a person who knows everything about the apartment he is phoning possibly need to know, All I wanted to know is whether the actor Daniel Santa-Clara lives there, My dear sir, I will be sure to tell the actor Daniel Santa-Clara, when he gets in, that António Claro phoned to ask if they both lived here, Sorry, I don’t understand, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso began to say, just to gain time, but the woman broke in, This isn’t like you, you don’t usually play tricks like this, just tell me what you want, has filming been delayed, is that it, Forgive me, madam, there’s been some mistake, my name isn’t António Claro, You’re not my husband, she asked, No, I’m just someone wanting to know if the actor Daniel Santa-Clara lives at this address, Given my answer, you now know that he does, Yes, but the way you gave the answer left me confused, puzzled, That wasn’t my intention, I just thought it was my husband having a joke, You can be quite sure that I am not your husband, Well, I find that very hard to believe, That I’m not your husband, It’s your voice, I mean, your voice is exactly like his, It must just be a coincidence, Coincidences like that don’t happen, two voices, like two people, might be similar, but not absolutely identical, Perhaps it’s your imagination, Every word you say sounds to me as if it were coming out of his mouth, Well, I find that very hard to believe, Would you like to give me your name so that I can tell him you called, No, it’s all right, besides, your husband doesn’t know me, You’re a fan, are you, Not exactly, Nevertheless, he’ll want to know, No, I’ll phone another day, Listen. The connection was cut, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso had slowly replaced the phone on the rest.

T
HE DAYS PASSED AND
T
ERTULIANO
M
ÁXIMO
A
FONSO DID NOT
phone. He was pleased by the way the conversation with António Claro’s wife had gone, and he felt, therefore, confident enough to try again, but on further consideration, he had decided to opt for silence. For two reasons. The first was his realization that he enjoyed the idea of prolonging and increasing the atmosphere of mystery that his phone call must have created, he even amused himself by imagining the dialogue between husband and wife, his doubts about the supposed absolute identity of the two voices, her insistence that she would never have confused them if they hadn’t been identical, Well, I just hope you’re home next time he calls, then you’ll be able to judge for yourself, she would say, and he would say, If he does call again, after all, he’s already found out from you what he wanted to know, that I live here, He asked for Daniel Santa-Clara, remember, not António Claro, Yes, that is odd. The second and more pressing reason was that he now accepted as entirely justified his original idea as to the advantages of clearing the decks before taking the next step, in other words, waiting until the classes and the exams were over before, with a cool head, drawing up new strategies for approach and siege. It is true that awaiting him is the dull task the headmaster had asked him to undertake, but during the nearly three months of holiday that lie ahead, he is bound to be able to find both the time and the necessary disposition of mind for such arid studies. In fulfillment of the promise he had made, it is even likely that he will go and spend a few days, though only a few, with his mother, on condition, however, that he can find some sure way of confirming his near certainty that the actor and his wife will not be taking their holidays early, we need only remember the question asked by her when she thought she was speaking to her husband, Has filming been delayed, to conclude, putting two and two together, that Daniel Santa-Clara is making a new film and that, if his career is on the rise, as
The Goddess of the Stage
demonstrated, he must, of necessity, spend much more time working than he did in his early days when he was little more than an extra. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso’s reasons for delaying the call are, therefore, as we have seen, convincing and substantive. They do not, however, oblige him or condemn him to inactivity. His idea of going to see the street where Daniel Santa-Clara lives, despite the brutal bucket of cold water thrown on the idea by common sense, had not been entirely discarded. He even considered this, shall we say, prospective act of surveillance to be indispensable to the success of subsequent operations, since it constituted a way of gauging the situation, rather like, as used to happen in time of war, sending out a reconnaissance party in order to evaluate the enemy’s strength. Fortunately, for his own safety, common sense’s providentially sarcastic remarks about the more-than-likely effects of his appearing there barefaced have not been wiped from his memory. He could, it is true, grow a beard or a mustache, place on his nose a pair of dark glasses, wear a hat on his head, but, apart from the hat and
the glasses, which can be put on and taken off, he was certain that these hairier ornaments, beard and mustache, whether by some capricious decision on the part of the production company or by some last-minute change to the script, would already be starting to grow on Daniel Santa-Clara’s face. Consequently, the inevitable disguise would have to resort to the fakery of all ancient and modern masquerades, this unanswerable necessity overriding the fears he had felt the other day, when he had started imagining the catastrophes that might have ensued if, thus disguised, he had gone to the production company in person to request information about the actor Santa-Clara. Like everyone else, he knew of the existence of establishments that specialized in the sale and hire of costumes, props, and all the other paraphernalia indispensable both to the art of theatrical trickery and to the protean transformations of the spy. The possibility that he might be mistaken for Daniel Santa-Clara when he made his purchases could be taken seriously only if it were the actors themselves who went to buy false beards, mustaches, and eyebrows, wigs and hairpieces, eye patches for perfectly healthy eyes, warts and moles, stuffing to plump out cheeks, various kinds of padding for either sex, not to mention cosmetics capable of producing chromatic variations at the whim of the client. Certainly not. Any production company worth its salt will have everything it might need in its warehouses and will buy anything else that isn’t, and, should there be budget constraints, or if something simply isn’t worth buying, then they will rent it, it won’t blacken their family’s reputation. Honest housewives used to put blankets and overcoats in hock as soon as the warm spring days arrived, and their lives were considered no less deserving of the respect of society, which must, surely, know all about need. There is some doubt as to whether what we
have just written, from the word “Honest” to the word “need,” was actually generated by Tertuliano Máximo Afonso’s own thought processes, but since these words, and what lies between them, represent the holiest and purest of truths, it seemed a shame to pass up the opportunity to set them down. What should finally reassure us, now that it is clear what steps he should take, is the certainty that Tertuliano Máximo Afonso will, without fear, be able to visit the shop selling disguises and props, to choose and purchase the kind of beard that best suits his face, on the absolute condition, however, that a pathetic little beard of the kind generally known as a flea trap, even were it to transform him into an arbiter of elegance, would have to be firmly rejected, without haggling and without succumbing to the temptations of a discount, since the ear-to-ear design and the relative shortness of the hair, not to mention the bare upper lip, would leave revealed to the broad light of day the very features he is trying to conceal. For quite the opposite reason, that is, because it would attract the attention of the curious, any kind of very long beard should also be resisted, even if it isn’t of the apostolic variety. The best choice would therefore be a full, fairly thick beard, tending more to the short than to the long. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso will spend hours trying it out in front of the bathroom mirror, sticking on and pulling off the thin film in which the hairs have been implanted, carefully adjusting it to his own sideburns and to the shape of his jaw, eyes, and lips, particularly the latter, since he will have to move them in order to speak and even, who knows, to eat, or even, for one never really does know, to kiss. When he first saw his new physiognomy, he felt a terrible tremor inside him, the intimate, insistent, nervous palpitation in his solar plexus that he knows so well, however, this shock was caused not merely by seeing himself
looking entirely different but, and this is much more interesting when we bear in mind the peculiar situation in which he has recently found himself, by his having a whole new sense of himself, as if, finally, he had come face-to-face with his own authentic identity. It was as if, by looking different, he had become more himself. So intense was the sense of shock, so extreme the feeling of energy rushing through him, so exalted and incomprehensible the joy filling him, that an urgent need to preserve the image made him go out, taking every care not to be seen, and head for a photographic studio far from where he lived in order to have his picture taken. He did not want to subject himself to the erratic lighting and blind mechanisms of a photo booth, he wanted a proper portrait, which it would please him to keep and to contemplate, an image before which he could say to himself, This is me. He paid a surcharge for having the photograph developed on the spot and sat down to wait. To the comment from the assistant who said, It will take a while yet, and suggested he go for a walk to kill time, he replied that he would prefer to wait right there, adding unnecessarily, It’s for a present, you see. Now and then, he would raise his hands to his beard, as if to smooth it, and check with his fingers that everything was in place, then go back to the pile of photography magazines set out on a table. When he left, he took with him, as well as the respective enlargement, half a dozen medium-sized portraits, which he had already decided to destroy so as not to have to see himself multiplied. He dropped in at a nearby shopping center, went into a public toilet, and there, safe from prying eyes, removed the beard. If anyone had noticed a bearded man going into the toilets, he would have been hard pushed to swear that it was this same cleanshaven man who has just emerged five minutes later. Generally speaking, one does not notice what a bearded man is carrying, but the telltale envelope he had been clutching in his hand is now hidden between shirt and jacket. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso, up until now a placid teacher of history at a secondary school, clearly has talent enough for the exercise of either of these two professional activities, that of the disguised criminal or that of the policeman on his trail. Time will tell which of these two vocations will prevail. When he got home, he burned the six small copies of the enlarged photo in the sink, turned on the tap to wash the ashes down the plughole, and, after smugly studying his new, clandestine image, restored it to the envelope, which he then hid on one of his bookshelves, behind a history of the Industrial Revolution that he himself had never read.

A few more days passed, the school term ended with the last exam and the pinning up of the list of marks, his colleague the mathematics teacher said good-bye to him, I’m off on holiday now, but afterward, if you need anything, phone me, and be careful, be very careful, Don’t forget what we agreed, the headmaster told him, and I’ll phone you when I get back from holiday to find out how the work’s going, but if you do decide to go away, because you do, after all, have a right to some rest, leave me a contact number on your answering machine. Some days later, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso invited Maria da Paz out to supper, his appalling treatment of her had finally begun to weigh on his conscience, not even so much as a formal thank-you for her help, not even some explanation of what the letter had said, even if he had to invent one. They met in the restaurant, she arrived a little late, sat down immediately, and blamed her lateness on her mother, to look at them no one would think they were lovers, or you might perhaps think that they had been lovers until recently and
were still not yet used to their new state of mutual indifference, or having to pretend to be indifferent. They exchanged a few polite words, How are you, How have you been, Are you very busy, Me too, and while Tertuliano Máximo Afonso was once again hesitating as to which way the conversation should go, she anticipated him and jumped in with both feet, Did the letter tell you what you wanted to know, she asked, did it give you all the information you needed, Yes, he said, all too aware that his response was at once true and false, That wasn’t my impression, Why’s that, Well, I was expecting a bulkier envelope, Sorry, I don’t understand, If I remember rightly, the facts you needed were so many and so detailed that they couldn’t possibly have fit on one sheet of paper, and that was all the envelope contained, How do you know, did you open it, asked Tertuliano Máximo Afonso sharply and knowing, even as he said it, what response this gratuitous provocation would receive. Maria da Paz looked him straight in the eye and said serenely, No, I didn’t, as you well know, Forgive me, I spoke without thinking, he said, Oh, I’ll forgive you if you insist, but I can go no further than that, Further than what, For example, I can’t forget that you considered me capable of opening a letter intended for you, Deep down, you know that isn’t what I really think, Deep down, I know that you don’t know me at all, If I didn’t trust you, I would never have asked you if it was all right for the letter to be sent to you, My name was just a mask, a mask for your name, a mask for you, But I explained at the time why I thought that was the best way to proceed, Yes, you explained, And you agreed, Yes, I agreed, So, So, from now on I will be expecting you to show me this information you say you received, not because I’m interested, but simply because I think it’s your duty to do so, Now you’re the one who distrusts me, Yes, but I’ll stop distrusting
you if you can tell me how all the facts you asked for could possibly have fit on one sheet of paper, They didn’t give me all the facts, Ah, they didn’t give you all the facts, That’s what I said, Then you’ll have to show me what you’ve got. The food was growing cold on their plates, the sauce on the meat was congealing, the wine was sleeping forgotten in their glasses, and there were tears in Maria da Paz’s eyes. For a moment, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso thought what an infinite relief it would be to tell her the whole story from the beginning, about this extraordinary, singular, astonishing, and never-before-seen case of the duplicate man, the unimaginable become reality, the absurd reconciled with reason, the final proof that for God nothing is impossible, and that the science of this century is, as someone said, a fool. If he did so, if he was open with her, then all his previous troubling actions would be explained, including those that had been, as far as Maria da Paz was concerned, aggressive, rude, or disloyal, or that had, in short, offended against the most elementary common sense, that is to say almost all his actions. Then harmony would be restored, all errors and mistakes would be unconditionally and unreservedly forgiven, Maria da Paz would beg him, Don’t go on with this madness, it might turn out badly, and he would reply, You sound like my mother, and she would ask, Have you told her, and he would say, No, I just said that I had a few problems at the moment, and she would conclude, Now that you’ve talked to me about it, let’s sort it out together. Not many tables are occupied, they have been given a corner table, and no one is paying them any particular attention, situations like this, couples who come to air their sentimental or domestic grievances between the fish and the meat courses or, worse, because the conflicts have taken longer to resolve, between the aperitif and paying the bill, form an integral
part of the catering trade, whether in restaurants or in cafeterias. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso’s well-intentioned thought vanished as quickly as it came, the waiter asked if they had finished and took away the plates, Maria da Paz’s eyes are almost dry, it’s been said thousands of times before that there’s no point crying over spilled milk, the problem in this case is what has happened to the jug, which lay shattered on the floor. The waiter brought the coffee and the bill that Tertuliano Máximo Afonso had asked for, and a few minutes later, they were in his car. I’ll take you home, he had said, Yes, if you wouldn’t mind, she had said. They did not speak until they reached the street where Maria da Paz lived. Before they reached the place where he normally dropped her, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso parked the car by the sidewalk and turned off the engine. Surprised by this unusual gesture, she shot him a glance, but still said nothing. Without turning his head, without looking at her, in a tense, determined voice, he said, Every word that has come out of my mouth during these last few weeks, including the conversation we’ve just had in the restaurant, has been a lie, but don’t ask me what the truth is because I can’t tell you, So it wasn’t statistical data you wanted from the production company, Exactly, And I suppose there’s no point expecting you to tell me what the real reason for your interest was, No, Presumably it’s something to do with the videos you’ve got in your apartment, Just be satisfied with what I’ve told you and stop asking questions and making suppositions, Oh, I can promise you I won’t ask you any questions, but I’m free to make all the suppositions I want, however absurd you may think them, You seem oddly unsurprised, Why should I be surprised, You know what I mean, don’t make me repeat it, Sooner or later you would have had to tell me, I just didn’t expect it to be today, And why would I have had
to tell you, Because you’re more honest than you think, Although not honest enough to tell you the truth, The reason for that isn’t a lack of honesty, something else is keeping your lips sealed, What, A doubt, an anxiety, a fear, What makes you think that, Because I’ve read it in your face and heard it in your words, But the words were lying, They were, yes, but not the way they sounded, The moment has come to use the phrase politicians always use, I can neither confirm nor deny it, That’s just one of those low rhetorical tricks that deceive no one, Why, Because anyone can see that the phrase inclines more toward confirmation than toward denial, Well, I’ve never noticed that, Neither have I, it only occurred to me now, thanks to you, But I didn’t confirm the fear, the anxiety, or the doubt, You didn’t deny them either, Now is not the time for word games, Well, it’s better than sitting at a restaurant table with tears in your eyes, Forgive me, This time there’s nothing to forgive, now I know half of what there is to know, so I can’t complain, But all I said was that everything I told you was a lie, That’s the half I know, from now on I hope to be able to sleep better, You might not be able to sleep at all if you knew the other half, Don’t frighten me, please, There’s no reason to be frightened, don’t worry, there are no corpses involved, Don’t frighten me, It’s all right, as my mother usually says, in the end everything finds a solution, Promise me you’ll take care, Yes, I promise, Great care, Yes, And if, among all the secrets I’m incapable of imagining, you find one you can tell me about, you will tell me, won’t you, however insignificant it may seem to you, It’s a promise, but, in this case, it’s either all or nothing, Even so, I’ll wait. Maria da Paz bent toward him, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and made to get out of the car. He placed one hand on her arm and stopped her, Stay, come back home with me. She gently pulled away, No, not tonight, you couldn’t give me more than you already have, Unless I told you everything, No, not even then. She opened the door, turned once more to say goodbye with a smile, and got out. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso started the engine, waited until she had gone into the building, and then, with a weary gesture, set the car in motion and drove home, where, patient and confident of its power, loneliness was waiting for him.