The Collected Novels of José Saramago (211 page)

To Raimundo Silva’s annoyance, Senhora Maria was no longer there, not because she might have left half the chores unfinished, but because there was now no one to come between him and the telephone, no indiscreet witness who, with her presence, might absolve him from the cowardice, or timidity, a less offensive word, that had overwhelmed him on confronting that other self who, with such subtle cunning, had persuaded the telephonist at the publishing house to divulge Maria Sara’s number, and, as we saw, one of the world’s best kept secrets. But this other Raimundo Silva is an unpredictable fellow, he has his days, or not even that, simply hours or seconds, at times he erupts with a force that seems capable of moving worlds, both outside and within, but it never lasts, no sooner does that force come than it is gone, a fire that is barely alight when it dies out. The Raimundo Silva who is here before the telephone, incapable of lifting the receiver and dialling a number, was the man, at the top of the castle with the city stretching out below, the man, we insist, to plan the best possible tactics for the mammoth task of besieging and capturing Lisbon, but he is now close to repenting that moment of reckless bravado when he gave in to another person’s wishes, and he is about to search in his pockets for the paper on which he jotted down the number, not to use it, but in the hope that he might have lost it. He has not lost it, the piece of paper is there, crumpled up in his open hand, as if, and this is what it was, even though Raimundo Silva does not remember, he were afraid of losing it during all that time he had spent searching and fumbling. Seated at his desk, with the telephone beside him, Raimundo Silva imagines what might happen if he were to decide to dial the number, what conversation would he engage in other than the one he had invented beforehand, and as he
considers the various possibilities, it occurs to him, and it is absurd that it should occur to him for the first time, that no one knows anything about Maria Sara’s private life, whether she is married, a widow, spinster or divorcee, if she has any children, if she lives with her parents, or with only one of them, or neither, and this unknown reality becomes threatening, it shakes and demolishes the fragile architecture of the dream and foolish hopes he had been building for several weeks on sandy terrain without any solidity, Suppose I were to dial the number and a man’s voice answers telling me she cannot come to the telephone, that she is in bed, but if I should like to leave some message or inquiry, not really, I only wanted to know if she is feeling better, yes, I’m a colleague of hers and as I spoke I would be asking myself once more if the word colleague is appropriate in the case of a professional relationship between a proof-reader and his boss, and as our conversation came to a close, I would ask, To whom am I speaking, and he would reply, I’m her husband, now it is true that she does not wear a wedding ring but that does not mean anything, there are plenty of married couples around who do not wear rings and consider themselves just as happy, or they are unhappy and then it does not matter, besides the man’s reply would be the same whatever the circumstances, He would say, I’m her husband, even if he were not, he most certainly would not say, I’m her companion, the word companion is no longer used, and even more unlikely, I’m the man she lives with, a vulgar expression no one would use, but there is something about Maria Sara that tells me she is not married, it is not just the absence of a wedding ring, it is something difficult to define, the way she speaks, the way she pays attention while giving the impression that her mind is elsewhere, and when I say married, I also mean living with a man, or to have a man although not actually living with him, what is usually referred to as an affair, or a casual relationship, without any ties or commitments, the most common situation of all nowadays, although I cannot claim to have much experience of such blessings, I simply observe the world and learn from those who know, ninety per cent of the knowledge we claim to possess comes to us in this way, not from first-hand experience, and therein also resides the merest premonition, that nebulous information wherein occasionally shines that sudden light we call intuition, now then, my premonition and intuition tell me that there is no man in Maria Sara’s life, impossible though it may seem for one so pretty, no raving beauty, but most appealing, as for her body, the first impression is good, but bodies can only be judged when they are naked, this is sound advice, judge on the evidence, better still afterwards, once you know what was covered and have found it to your liking.

Everyone agrees that the powers of imagination are infinite, as this instance has once more proved, when Raimundo Silva began to feel his own body, what was happening inside it, first the sensation of a weak earth-tremor, almost imperceptible, then a sharp palpitation, insistent, urgent. Raimundo Silva looks on, with half-closed eyes he follows the process as if he were mentally recalling a familiar page, and he remains quiet, waiting, until his blood little by little recedes like the tide abandoning a cavern, slowly, from time to time still tossing fresh waves in rebellion, but it is futile, the tide ebbs, these are the final assaults, finally there is nothing but the quiet trickling of rivulets of water, the algae spread limply over the rocks where tiny crabs scurry in terror to take shelter, leaving signs on the wet sand that are barely discernible. Now in a pleasant state of semi-numbness, Raimundo Silva asks himself where these grotesque little creatures might have come from and what they are trying to tell him with their strange, disconcerting movements, as if nature had initiated its predictable general upheaval, In future, we’ll all be crabs, he thought, and suddenly he could visualise the soldier Mogueime on the bank of the estuary, washing blood from his hands and watching the crabs of that time escape, to the right, into the darkest depths, their earthen colour merging with the shadows of the water. The image quickly disappeared, another came, like passing slides, once more it was the estuary, but now there was a wóman washing clothes at the water’s edge, Raimundo Silva and Mogueime knew who she was, they had been told she was the concubine
of the aforementioned knight Heinrich, a German from Bonn, picked up in Galicia when some crusaders disembarked there to replenish their supplies of drinking-water, one of their servants abducted her, now the knight has been killed in ambush along with his servant, and the woman goes around, more or less with any man whom she chances to meet, we say more or less, but with caution, because sometimes she has been taken against her will, two fellows who tried it were discovered several days later stabbed to death, those responsible were never found, with such a large gathering of men, it is difficult to avoid disorder and violence, not to mention that it might have been the work of Moors who had infiltrated the encampment and were secretly carrying out treacherous assaults. Mogueime got close to the woman, and a few paces away, sat on a rock and watched her. She did not turn round, she had seen him out of the corner of her eye as he approached, she recognised him from his appearance and familiar gait, although she did not yet know his name, only that he was Portuguese, having heard him speak Galician on one occasion. The swaying movement of the woman’s hips perturbed Mogueime. Besides, he had his eye on her ever since the knight’s death, and even long before then, but a common soldier, and medieval at that, would never dare to pursue another man’s woman even if a concubine. He had felt angry and resentful when he then saw her carried off by others, but she had not stayed with any of them, however much they loved her, like those men stabbed to death who had desired her so much that they wanted to take her by force. To take her by force himself was never Mogueime’s intention, especially here in this wilderness in full view of everyone, soldiers who were off duty, stable-lads washing down their masters’ mules, a truly peaceful scene which seemed remote from the imminent siege and assault on the city, especially if, as now, we turn our backs on the city and castle and contemplate the tranquil surface of the waters of the estuary as it wends its way inland where the broad swell of the river cannot reach, and ahead the hills with trees scattered here and there on terrain that is yellowish one minute and dark green the next depending on whether it is covered by
perennial scrub or pasture scorched by the sun. It is midday and the heat is intense, eyes have to be averted from the water in order not be dazzled and blinded by the constant glare of the sun, but not the eyes of Mogueime who goes on staring at the woman. She now straightens up, raises and lowers her arm to beat the clothes, the sound of smacking travels over the water, an unmistakable sound, then another smack, and another, and then silence, the woman rests both hands on the white rock, an ancient Roman sarcophagus, Mogueime looks without moving, at that moment the wind carries the shrill cry of a muezzin, almost muffled in the distance, yet still intelligible for anyone who, although not familiar with the Arabic language, has been listening to that cry for almost a month, three times a day. The woman turns her head slightly to the left as if trying to hear the muezzin’s invocation more clearly, and Mogueime being on this side, a little way behind, it was inevitable their eyes should meet. Any physical desire Mogueime might have felt died instantly, his heart beating fast as if in panic, it is difficult to probe the matter any further for one has to take into account the primitive nature of feelings at that time, there is always the risk of falling into an anachronism, for example, to put diamonds on crowns of iron or invent subtleties of refined eroticism in bodies that are content to go all the way after making a quick start. But Mogueime had already shown himself to be somewhat different from the common soldier when the debate took place about the conquest of Santarém and the rape and beheading of the Moorish women, and if it is true that at the time he betrayed a tendency to let his imagination run riot, then, ironically enough, it could be that for this very same reason, if truth is to prevail, we will find the difference in his nature stemming from doubt, from the subsequent re-ordering of a fact, from the oblique verification of his motives, from an ingenuous questioning of the influence each one of us has over the actions of others without knowing it, an influence deliberately denied by those who claim to be entirely responsible for their own actions. With his bare feet on the rough wet sand, Mogueime feels the weight of his whole body, as if he had become part of the rock on which he is seated, now the royal trumpets might well give the signal to attack but in all likelihood it will not be heard, what is echoing in his head, however, is the cry of the muezzin, he continues to hear it even while watching the woman, and when she finally averts her eyes the silence becomes absolute, true there are sounds all around but they belong to another world, the mules pant and drink from a freshwater stream that flows into the estuary, and probably because he could not find any better way of embarking on what has to be done, Mogueime asks the woman, What is your name, how often we must have asked each other that question since the world began, What is your name, sometimes going on to give our own name, I’m called Mogueime, to open up the conversation, in order to give before receiving, and then we wait until we hear the reply, when it comes, when the question is not met with silence, but not on this occasion, My name is Ouroana, she said.

The paper with the telephone number is still lying there on his desk, nothing could be easier, dial six numbers, and hear a voice at the other end of the line, a few kilometres away, so simple, it no longer matters whether it is the voice of Maria Sara or that of her husband, what is important is to note the differences between then and now, in order to speak, or to kill, it is necessary to get close, that is what Mogueime and Ouroana did, she arrived from Galicia, brought by force to the siege, the concubine of a crusader who is now dead and subsequently washerwoman for the nobility in order to earn a living, while he, having conquered Santarém, came in search of greater glory, before the imposing walls of Lisbon. Raimundo Silva dials five numbers, he only needs one more but cannot make up his mind, he pretends that he is savouring the foretaste of pleasure, a shiver of fear, he tells himself that if he wanted to, he could complete the number, only one to go, but he declines, muttering, I cannot, and he replaces the receiver as if getting rid of a heavy load threatening to crush him. He gets to his feet, thinks, I’m thirsty, and goes to the kitchen. He fills a glass with water from the tap, drinks slowly, relishes the coolness of the water, it is a simple pleasure, perhaps the simplest of all, a glass of water when one is thirsty, and as he drinks he can picture the stream flowing towards the estuary, and the mules stirring the water’s surface as they drink, seven hundred and forty years ago, the stable-lads spur them on with a whistle, how true that there is not much that is new under the sun, not even King Solomon was capable of imagining how right he was. Raimundo Silva put down his glass, turned round, there was a note lying on the kitchen table, the usual and quite superfluous explanation from the charlady, Goodbye for now, I’ve left everything in good order, but not this time, not a word about her obligations, a quite different message this time, A lady rang, she wants you to call this number, and Raimundo Silva does not have to dash into the study to know that it is the same number as that on the crumpled piece of paper which had been so difficult to find Or not to lose.