The Collected Novels of José Saramago (353 page)

It was a few minutes after eight o’clock the following morning when he parked the car almost opposite the door out of which he expected Maria da Paz to emerge, on the other side of the street. It seemed that the patron saint of detectives had been there all night, saving the place for him. Most of the shops are still closed, some of them, according to the notices fixed on the doors, for the purpose of staff holidays, there are not many people about, a queue of them, shorter rather than long, is waiting for the bus. António Claro soon realized that his laborious musings on how and where he should place himself in order to spy on Maria da Paz had been not only a waste of time, but also a useless waste of mental energy. Inside the car, reading the newspaper, is where he is least at risk of attracting attention, he’ll just look like he’s waiting for someone, which is true but can’t be spoken out loud. A few people, mainly men, occasionally emerge from the building under surveillance, but none of the women correspond to the image that António Claro, without realizing it, had been forming in his mind with the help of a few female characters from films in which he has taken part. It was half past eight on the dot when the building door opened and a pretty, young woman, pleasing to look at from head to toe, came out, accompanied by an elderly lady. That’s them, he thought. He put down his newspaper, turned on the engine, and waited, as restless as a horse in the starting gate before the pistol sounds. The two women continued slowly along on the
right-hand side of the pavement, the younger giving her arm to the older, there is no doubt about it, they are mother and daughter and probably live alone. The old lady is the one who answered the phone yesterday, and by the way she’s walking, she must have been ill, but the other one, I would bet anything you like that the other one is the famous Maria da Paz, and she’s got a pretty good body, yes, sir, the history teacher has excellent taste. The two of them were moving off, and António Claro didn’t know what to do. He could follow them and come back when they got into the car, but then he would risk losing them. What shall I do, shall I stay or go, where’s she taking the old biddy, his rather nervous state is to blame for this somewhat discourteous expression, António Claro does not normally talk like that, it just came out. Ready for anything, he leaped out of the car and strode after the two women. When they were about thirty meters away, he slowed his pace and tried to match his speed to theirs. To avoid getting too close, he had to stop now and then and pretend he was looking in the shop windows. He was surprised to find that the slowness was beginning to irritate him, as if he saw in it an obstacle to future actions that, although not yet fully defined in his head, would, in any case, brook no impediment. The false beard was making him itch, the walk seemed endless, and he hadn’t even gone very far, about three hundred meters in all, the next corner brought the end of the journey, Maria da Paz helps her mother up the steps of the church, kisses her good-bye, and is now walking back the way she came, with the nimble step of certain women who walk as if they were dancing. António Claro crossed over to the other side of the street and paused farther on outside a shop in whose window, shortly afterward, the slender figure of Maria da Paz would pass. Alertness is all now, a moment of indecision could ruin everything, if she gets into one of these cars and he doesn’t manage to reach his quickly enough, then he can kiss all his carefully laid plans good-bye until the next time. What António Claro does not know is that Maria da Paz doesn’t own a car, she is calmly going to wait for the bus that will drop her close to the bank where she works, so the detectives’ handbook, completely up-to-date as regards the latest technology, had forgotten that, of the five million people in this city, some of them would have lagged behind in acquiring their own means of transport. The queue had not grown much, Maria da Paz joined it, and António Claro, so as not to stand too close, allowed three people to go ahead of him, the false beard covers his face but not his eyes, his nose, his eyebrows, head, hair, or ears. Someone educated in the esoteric doctrines would choose to add the soul to the list of things that a beard does not cover, but on this point we will remain silent, we would not want to add fuel to a debate that has been going on pretty much since time began and which will go on for a long time yet. The bus arrived, Maria da Paz managed to find a free seat, António Claro will stand in the aisle, at the back. It’s worked out well, he thought, this way we can travel together.

W
HAT
T
ERTULIANO
M
ÁXIMO
A
FONSO TOLD HIS MOTHER
was that he had met someone, a man, who was so like him that anybody who did not know them intimately would be bound to confuse them, that he had had a meeting with this man and regretted having done so, because it was one thing to see yourself repeated, with a few tiny differences, in one or two genuine twin brothers, since it’s all in the family, but to come face to face with a stranger you’ve never seen before and for a moment to find yourself doubting who’s one and who’s the other, I’m sure, at least at first sight, that even you wouldn’t be able to tell which of the two was your son, and if you got it right, it would be pure chance, Even if they brought me ten men identical to you, all dressed the same, and you were stuck in the middle of them, I would point straight to my son, maternal instinct never fails, There’s nothing in the world that can properly be called maternal instinct, I mean, say we’d been separated when I was born and didn’t meet until twenty years later, are you sure you’d still be able to recognize me, Well, I don’t know about recognize, because the little wrinkled face of a newborn baby is not the same as the face of a young man of twenty, but I bet you anything you
like that something inside me would make me look at you twice, And the third time, perhaps, you might look the other way, Yes, possibly, but from that moment on, I might feel a kind of ache in my heart, And what about me, would I look at you twice, asked Tertuliano Máximo Afonso, Probably not, said his mother, but that’s because children are all such ungrateful creatures. They both laughed, and she asked, And is this why you’ve been so worried, Yes, it was such a shock, it’s hard to believe that anything like it can ever have happened before, even genetics itself, I imagine, would deny it, to start with I had nightmares about it, it was like an obsession, And how are things now, Fortunately, common sense stepped in to lend a hand and made us realize that, having lived this long in ignorance of each other’s existence, that was all the more reason to remain apart now that we had met, you see we couldn’t even bear to be together, we could never be friends, Enemies more like, There was a point when I thought that might happen, but the days passed, things returned to normal, and now, all that’s left is like the vague recollection of a bad dream that time will gradually erase from my memory, Let’s hope so. Tomarctus was lying at Dona Carolina’s feet, his neck outstretched so that his head was resting on his folded paws, as if he were asleep. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso looked at him for a few moments and said, I wonder what the dog would do if he was confronted by me and by that man, which of us he would see as his master, He’d know you by your smell, That’s assuming we don’t both smell the same, and I can’t be sure of that, There must be some differences, Possibly, People’s faces might look very similar, but not their bodies, I mean, I don’t suppose you both stood naked in front of a mirror, comparing everything, down to your toenails, No, of course not, Mama, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso said quickly,
and it wasn’t really a lie, because he and António Claro hadn’t actually stood in front of a mirror together. The dog opened his eyes, closed them, then opened them again, he must have thought it was time he got up and went out into the yard to see if the geraniums and the rosemary had grown since last he looked. He stretched, first his front legs and then his back legs, extending his spine as much as he could, then he walked over to the door. Where are you off to, Tomarctus, asked the master who only appeared from time to time. The dog paused on the threshold, turned his head in expectation of some intelligible order, and when this was not forthcoming, went out. And what about Maria da Paz, have you told her what’s been going on, asked Dona Carolina, No, I didn’t want to burden her with worries that even I have found hard to bear, Well, I can understand that, but I would equally well have understood if you had told her, It seemed best not to, And will you tell her now, now that it’s all over, It’s not worth it, one day when she could see how worried I was, I did promise to tell her what was going on, I said I couldn’t tell her then but that one day I would, And now it looks like that day will never come, It’s best to leave things as they are, In some situations, the worst thing you can do is leave things as they are, it just makes them stronger, It can also serve to let them rest and make them leave us in peace, If you cared about Maria da Paz, you’d tell her, But I do care about her, Not enough, though, if you sleep in the same bed as a woman who loves you but you’re not open with her, what business have you to be there, You defend her as if you knew her, Even though I’ve never seen her, I do know her, You only know what I’ve told you, and that can’t be much, The two letters in which you mentioned her, a few remarks you’ve made over the phone, that’s all I needed, To know that she’s the right woman for me, Well, I could have put it like that if I could also say that you were the right man for her, And you don’t think I was, or that I am, Possibly not, The best solution, then, the simplest, would be to end the relationship, You said it, I didn’t, Let’s be logical, Mama, if she’s right for me but I’m not right for her, why would you be so keen for us to get married, So that she’s still there when you wake up, But I’m not asleep, I’m not a sleepwalker, I have my life, my work, There’s a part of you that has been asleep ever since you were born, and my fear is that one day you’ll be in for a nasty awakening, You’ve got the makings of a Cassandra, Mama, What’s that, The question isn’t what, but who, Teach me then because, as I understand it, teaching someone who doesn’t know something is an act of charity, All right then, Cassandra was the daughter of Priam, the king of Troy, and when the Greeks placed a wooden horse outside the gates of the city, she began crying out that the city would be destroyed if the horse was brought inside, it’s explained in detail in Homer’s
Iliad,
the
Iliad
s a poem, Yes, I’ve heard of it, but what happened next, The Trojans thought she was mad and ignored her prophecies, And then, The city was attacked, looted, and reduced to ashes, So this Cassandra woman was right, History has taught me that Cassandra is always right, And you said I had the makings of a Cassandra, Yes, I did and I’ll say it again, as lovingly as a son who has a witch for a mother can, So you’re one of those unbelieving Trojans whose fault it was that Troy was burned, In this case, there is no Troy to be burned, How many Troys with other names and in other places were burned after that, Too many to count, You don’t want to be another one, do you, There’s no wooden horse standing outside the door of my apartment, But if ever there is one, heed the voice of this old Cassandra, and don’t let it in, All right, I’ll be sure to listen for any neighing, The only thing I ask is that you don’t meet that man again, will you promise, Yes, I promise. Tomarctus the dog felt it was time to rejoin them, he had been sniffing around the rosemary and the geraniums in the yard, but these had not been his last port of call. He had gone into Tertuliano Máximo Afonso’s bedroom, seen the open suitcase on the bed, and had been a dog for long enough to know what this meant, which is why he did not lie down at the feet of his mistress, who never goes away, but at the feet of this other person who is about to leave.

After all the doubts as to the most prudent way to tell his mother about the thorny problem of his absolute twin, or to use a more popular and somewhat vulgar expression, his spitting image, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso was now reasonably convinced that he had managed to get around the difficulty without leaving behind him too many anxieties. He had been unable to prevent the subject of Maria da Paz from resurfacing, but he was surprised when he remembered something that had happened during the conversation, at the point where he had said that it would be best to finish the relationship once and for all, for, precisely at that moment, when he had uttered that apparently irremissible sentence, he had felt a kind of inner lassitude, a half-conscious longing for abdication, as if a voice in his head were trying to make him see that his obstinacy was nothing but the last redoubt behind which he was still struggling with a repressed desire to raise the white flag of unconditional surrender. If that’s true, he thought, I’m under a strict obligation to reflect seriously on the matter, to analyze this fear and indecision that is probably just left over from my first marriage, and to resolve once and for all, for my own sake, what it means to care about a person so much that you want to live with her, because the truth is I didn’t even think
about it when I got married, and the same truth requires me to confess that, deep down, what frightens me is the possibility of failing again. These praiseworthy resolutions occupied Tertuliano Máximo Afonso’s journey, alternating with fleeting images of António Claro, whom his thoughts, oddly enough, refused to represent as being as identical as he actually was, as if, against all the evidence of the facts, they were refusing to accept his existence. He also remembered fragments of the conversations he had had with him, especially the conversation in the house in the country, but with a strange sense of distance and indifference, as if none of it had anything to do with him, as if it were a story he had read once in a book of which all that remained were a few loose pages. He had promised his mother he would never meet António Claro again and so it would be, no one would be able to accuse him tomorrow of having taken a single step in that direction. His life is going to change. He will phone Maria da Paz as soon as he gets home. I should have called her while I was away, an unforgivable lack of consideration on my part, even if only to find out how her mother was, that was the very least I could have done, especially when she might well be about to become my mother-in-law. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso smiled at a prospect that, only twenty-four hours before, would have set his nerves jangling, the holiday has clearly been good for mind and body, it has clarified his ideas, he’s a new man. He arrived in the late afternoon, parked the car outside the door of the apartment building, and then, nimble, lithe, and in the best of moods, as if he had not just driven more than four hundred kilometers nonstop, he walked up the stairs as lightly as an adolescent, not even noticing the weight of his suitcase, which, as is only natural, was heavier returning than it had been going, and he very nearly danced into his apartment. In accordance with the traditional conventions of the literary genre known in Portuguese as the
romance,
or novel, and which will continue to be called thus until someone comes up with a term more in keeping with its current configuration, this cheery description, organized as a simple sequence of narrative events in which, quite deliberately, not a single negative note was struck, would be cunningly placed there in preparation for a complete contrast, which, depending on the writer’s intentions, could be dramatic, brutal, or terrifying, for example, a murder victim lying on the floor in a pool of blood, a convention of souls from the next world, a swarm of furious drones in heat who mistake the history teacher for the queen bee, or, worse still, all of this combined into a single nightmare, for, as has been demonstrated ad nauseam, the imagination of the Western novelist knows no limits, or, rather, it hasn’t since the days of the aforementioned Homer, who, when one thinks about it, was the very first novelist. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso’s apartment opened its arms to him like a second mother, and with the voice of the air it murmured, Come, my son, here I am waiting for you, I am your castle and your fortress, no power can prevail over me, because I am yours even when you are absent, and even if I lay in ruins, I would still be the place that once was yours. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso put his suitcase down on the floor and turned on the overhead light. The living room was tidy, there wasn’t a speck of dust on the furniture, it is a great and solemn truth that men, even those who live alone, never manage to separate themselves entirely from women, and we are not thinking now of Maria da Paz, who, for her own personal and dubious reasons would, despite everything, agree, but the upstairs neighbor, who spent all morning yesterday here cleaning, with as much care and attention as if the apartment were
hers, or with more care, probably. The light on the answering machine is blinking. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso sits down to listen. The first call to leap out at him was from the headmaster, hoping that he was enjoying the holidays and wanting to know how the proposal for the ministry was getting on, Not, of course, that this should in any way affect your legitimate right to a rest after such a hard school year, the second brought him the slow, paternal voice of the mathematics teacher, nothing important, just to ask how his depression was faring and suggesting that a long, leisurely trip around the country, in good company, would perhaps be the best therapy for what ailed him, the third call was the one that António Claro had left the other day, the one that began, Hello, it’s António Claro here, I don’t suppose you were expecting a call from me, it was enough for his voice to ring out around that previously tranquil living room for it to become clear that the traditional conventions of the novel we mentioned above are not, after all, merely a hackneyed solution used by unimaginative narrators, but a literary resultant of the great cosmic equilibrium, because the universe, which, ever since it began, has been a system entirely lacking any form of organizing intelligence, has, nevertheless, had more than enough time to learn through its own infinitely multiplying experiences, and, as is evident from the endless spectacle of life, has produced an infallible compensatory mechanism that will require only a little more time to prove that any slight delay in the functioning of its gears has not the slightest impact on what really matters, for it makes no odds whether one has to wait a minute or an hour, a year or a century. Let us remember the excellent mood in which Tertuliano Máximo Afonso arrived home, let us remember, again, that in accordance with the traditional conventions of the novel, backed up
by the clear existence of that universal compensatory mechanism to which we have just made such well-founded reference, he should have come face-to-face with something that would simultaneously destroy his happiness and plunge him into the depths of despair, pain, fear, of everything that we know one can meet when turning a corner or putting a key in a door. The monstrous terrors we described earlier were mere examples, it could have been those terrors or it could have been something far worse, and yet it was none of them, the apartment opened its maternal arms to the owner, said a few pleasing words, of the kind all houses are capable of saying, but which, mostly, their inhabitants do not know how to hear, in short, let us waste no more words, it seemed that nothing could spoil Tertuliano Máximo Afonso’s happy return home. Pure illusion, pure confusion, pure fantasy. The wheels of the cosmic machinery had been transported into the electronic workings of the answering machine, waiting for a finger to come and press the button that would open the door of the cage of the last and most terrible of monsters, not the bloody corpse on the floor, not the incorporeal convention of ghosts, not the buzzing, libidinous cloud of drones, but the studied, persuasive voice of António Claro, his urgent entreaties, please, can we meet again, please, we have lots of things to say to each other, when we, here, on this side, are witnesses to the fact that, only yesterday, at this very hour, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso was promising his mother never to have anything to do with the man, either by meeting him in person or by phoning him to tell him that what’s done is done and asking him, please, to leave him in peace and quiet. We energetically applauded that decision, but let us for a moment, and to do so we have only to put ourselves in his shoes, let us feel compassion for the nervous state in which the phone
message has left poor Tertuliano Máximo Afonso, his forehead once more bathed in sweat, his hands again shaking, and the entirely new feeling that the roof is about to fall in on him at any moment. The light on the answering machine is still blinking, a sign that there are still one or two more messages inside. Reeling from the shock of hearing António Claro’s message, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso had stopped the tape and now trembles to know what other messages there might be, possibly that same voice, scornfully taking his agreement as read, arranging the day, hour, and place of another meeting. He got up from the chair, and from the dejected state into which he had fallen, he went into the bedroom to get some fresh clothes but then changed his mind, what he most needs is a cold shower that will shake him up and reinvigorate him, that will wash away down the drain the black clouds hanging over his head and so dimming his reason that it has not even occurred to him until now that the next message, or at least one of them, might be from Maria da Paz. The idea has just now occurred to him, and it was as if a long-delayed blessing had just descended from the shower, as if another purifying shower, not the one enjoyed by those three naked women on the balcony, but the one enjoyed by this man, shut up alone in the precarious safety of his apartment, were, with the flow of water and soap, compassionately freeing his body from grime and his soul from fear. He thought about Maria da Paz with a kind of nostalgic serenity, as a ship might think of its last port of call before it set out on its voyage around the world. Washed and dried, refreshed and dressed in clean clothes, he returned to the living room to hear the remaining messages. He began by erasing those left by the headmaster and the mathematics teacher, which were not worth preserving, then, frowning, he listened
again to António Claro’s, which he also removed with a sharp tap on the appropriate button, and, finally, he settled down to listen to what might follow. The fourth call was made by someone who chose not to speak, it lasted an eternity of thirty seconds, but from the other end came not a whisper, no music played in the background, there was not even the slightest inadvertent exhalation, far less any deliberate, heavy breathing, as deployed in the cinema to raise audience anxiety levels. Don’t tell me it’s that same guy again, thought Tertuliano Máximo Afonso angrily, while he waited for the person to hang up. It wasn’t him, it couldn’t be, anyone who had just left such a prolix message would clearly not make another, totally silent call. The fifth and final message was from Maria da Paz, It’s me, she said, as if there were no other person in the world who could say, It’s me, knowing they would be recognized, I assume you’ll be coming home about now, I hope you’ve had a good rest, I did think you might phone me from your mother’s house, but I should have known better than to expect such things from you, anyway, it doesn’t matter, I just wanted to leave you a few friendly words of welcome, give me a call when you feel like it, whenever you want to, but not because you feel obliged to, that would be bad for you and for me, sometimes, I imagine how wonderful it would be if you were to phone me just because you felt like it, like someone who suddenly feels thirsty and goes and drinks a glass of water, but I know that would be asking too much of you, never pretend a thirst you don’t feel, sorry, I didn’t mean to say all this, I just wanted to say that I hoped you’d got home safely and were in good health, oh, and while we’re on the subject, my mother is much better, she’s started going to Mass again and does her own shopping, in a few days, she should be as good as new, I send you a kiss, and another, and another. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso rewound the tape and replayed the message, at first, with the smug smile of someone listening to praise and flattery which he appears to feel perfectly confident that he deserves, gradually, though, his face grew serious, then thoughtful, then worried, he had suddenly remembered what his mother had said, I just hope she’s there when you wake up, and these words are echoing around in his mind now like the last warning of a Cassandra grown weary of being ignored. He looked at his watch, Maria da Paz should be back from the bank. He gave her another fifteen minutes and then rang. Hello, she said, It’s me, he said, At last, Yes, I got back less than an hour ago, just time enough to have a shower and to be sure that I’d catch you at home, You heard the message I left you, Yes, Oh, dear, because I have the feeling I said things I shouldn’t have said, For example, Well, I can’t remember exactly what, but it was as if I were asking you for the
n
th time just to notice me, and however much I swear it won’t happen again, I always end up saying the same humiliating things, Don’t use that word, it’s really not fair on you or even on me, Call it what you like, but I see clearly now that this situation can’t go on, otherwise I’ll end up losing the little self-respect I still have, It will go on, What, are you telling me that our misunderstandings will continue as they have until now, that there’ll be no end to my pathetic conversations with a wall that doesn’t even give back an echo, No, I’m telling you I love you, Look, I’ve heard you say those words before, especially in bed, before, during, but never afterward, But it’s true, I do love you, Please, please, don’t torment me anymore, Listen, All right, I’m listening, all I’ve ever wanted is to listen to you, Our life is going to change, I don’t believe you, Believe me, you have to, And you take care what you say to me, don’t give me hopes today that you can’t or
won’t want to fulfill tomorrow, Neither of us knows what the future will bring, that’s why I’m asking you now, on this particular day, to give me your trust, And why come to me today asking me for something you have already, Because I want to live with you, I want us to live together, It can’t be true what I’ve just heard, I must be dreaming, Well, I’m quite happy to say it again if you want me to, On condition that you use exactly the same words, Because I want to live with you, I want us to live together, This is just not possible, people don’t change from one hour to the next, what’s been going on in that head and heart of yours for you to be asking me to come and live with you, when up until now your one concern has been to make it absolutely clear that nothing could be further from your thoughts and that I shouldn’t get my hopes up, People can change from one hour to the next but still be the same person, So you really do want us to live together, Yes, And you love Maria da Paz enough to want to live with her, Yes, Tell me again, Yes, yes, yes, That’s enough, you’re making me breathless, I might explode, Be careful, please, I want you in one piece, Do you mind if I tell my mother, she’s spent her whole life waiting for this happy moment, Of course I don’t mind, although she’s not exactly crazy about me, The poor thing had her reasons, you kept stalling, you wouldn’t make a decision, she wanted her daughter to be happy, and I didn’t show much evidence of that, mothers are all the same, Do you want to know what my mother said yesterday when we were talking about you, What, She said I just hope she’s still there when you wake up, Presumably those were the words you needed to hear, They were, You woke up and I was still here, I don’t know for how much longer, but I was, Tell your mother she can sleep easy from now on, But I won’t be able to sleep a wink, When can we see each other, Tomorrow, as soon as I leave work, I’ll take a taxi and come straight there, You will hurry, Yes, right into your arms. Tertuliano Máximo Afonso put down the phone, closed his eyes, and heard Maria da Paz laughing and shouting, Mama, Mama, then saw the two women embracing and instead of shouts there were murmurs, instead of laughter, tears, sometimes we ask ourselves why happiness took so long to arrive, why it didn’t come sooner, but appears suddenly, as now, when we’ve given up hope of it ever arriving, it’s likely then that we won’t know what to do, and rather than it being a question of choosing between laughter and tears, we will be filled by a secret anxiety to which we might not know how to respond at all. As if returning to forgotten habits, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso went into the kitchen to see if he could find something to eat. The eternal cans, he thought. Stuck to the fridge was a note that said in large letters, in red so that they wouldn’t be missed, there’s soup in the fridge, it was from his upstairs neighbor, bless her, for once the cans could wait. Exhausted by the journey, worn out by emotion, Tertuliano Máximo Afonso went to bed before eleven o’clock. He tried to read a page about Mesopotamian civilizations, but twice the book fell from his hands, in the end, he turned out the light and settled down to sleep. He was just drifting slowly off when Maria da Paz came and whispered in his ear, How wonderful it would be if you were to phone me just because you felt like it. She would probably have said the rest of the sentence too, but he had already got out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown over his pajamas, and was dialing her number. Maria da Paz asked, Is that you, and he replied, Yes, it’s me, I was thirsty and I’ve come to ask for a glass of water.