The Collected Novels of José Saramago (298 page)

Cipriano Algor drove swiftly through the Green Belt, not glancing even once at the fields, the monotonous sight of those vast expanses of plastic, dull by nature and made dingier by dirt, always had a depressing effect on him, so imagine how it would be today, in his current state of mind, if he were to turn his gaze on that desert. Like someone who had once lifted the blessed tunic of some altar saint in order to find out if it had legs like you and me or was supported by a pair of rough-hewn posts, it had been a long time since the potter had felt tempted to stop his van and go and see for himself if there were real plants growing beneath the coverings and panels, plants that bore fruits one could smell, touch, and bite into, with leaves, tubers, and shoots that one could cook, season, and put on a plate, or if the overwhelming melancholy of what lay outside had contaminated with incurable artificiality what was growing inside, whatever that might be. After the Green Belt, the potter turned off along a secondary road, where there were the few spindly remains of a wood, a few poorly cultivated fields, a large stream containing dark and fetid water and, around a corner, the ruins of three houses with no windows now or doors, their roofs half fallen in and the rooms inside almost devoured by the vegetation that always irrupts out of the rubble as if it had been there, just waiting for that moment, ever since the first trenches were dug for the foundations. The village began a few hundred meters beyond, it consisted of little more than the road that passed through it, the few streets that flowed into it and an irregularly shaped main square slightly to one side, where a disused well, with its water pump and its great iron wheel, stood in the shade of two tall plane trees. Cipriano Algor waved to some men who were standing there talking, but, contrary to his custom when he came back from delivering goods to the Center, he did not stop, he had no idea what he wanted to do at that moment, but he certainly didn’t want to have a chat, even with people he knew. The pottery and the house where he lived with his daughter and his son-in-law were at the other end of the village, out in the country, some distance from the other buildings. When he drove into the village, Cipriano Algor had slowed down, but now he was driving even more slowly, his daughter would just be putting the finishing touches to lunch, it was about that time, What shall I do, shall I tell her now or after we’ve eaten, he was asking himself, Best to do it afterward, I’ll leave the van by the woodshed, since I wasn’t going to do any shopping today, it won’t occur to her to go and see if I’ve brought anything back with me, that way we can eat in peace or, at least, she can eat in peace, I won’t, and then I’ll tell her what happened, or perhaps later on this afternoon, when we’re working, it would be just as bad to find out before lunch as immediately after. The road curved around where the village ended, some way beyond the last building you could see a large mulberry tree, at least ten meters high, and that was where the pottery was. The wine has been poured and we must drink it, said Cipriano Algor with a weary smile, and thought how much better it would be if he could just vomit it up. He swung the van toward the left, up the slight slope that led to the house, and halfway up he sounded the horn three times to announce his arrival, he always did this, and his daughter would think it odd if he failed to do so today.

The house and the pottery had been built on this large plot of land, doubtless once a floor for threshing or treading, in the middle of which Cipriano Algor’s potter grandfather, who bore the same name as he did, decided, on some distant day of which there remains neither record nor memory, to plant the mulberry tree. The kiln, set slightly apart from the house, had been an attempt at modernization by Cipriano Algor’s father, who had also been given the same name, and had replaced another ancient, not to say archaic, kiln, which, seen from outside, looked like two cone-shaped logs placed one on top of the other, the smaller one on top, and of whose origins there was no memory either. The present-day kiln had been built on those antique foundations, the same kiln that fired the batch of crockery of which the Center took only half, and which, cold now, waits to be loaded up again. With exaggerated care Cipriano Algor parked the van beneath the wooden lean-to, between two piles of dry firewood, then he thought that he might just go and have a look at the kiln and thus gain a few minutes, but he couldn’t really justify doing this, there was no real reason to do so, it was not like on other occasions when he came back from the city and the kiln was working, on those days he would go and peer inside the muffle and estimate the temperature by the color of the incandescent pots, to see if the dark red had changed to cherry red, or the cherry red to orange. He stood stock-still, as if the courage he needed had got left behind somewhere en route, but it was his daughter’s voice that obliged him to move, Aren’t you coming in, lunch is ready. Intrigued to know what was keeping him, Marta had appeared at the door, Come on, the food’s getting cold. Cipriano Algor went in, gave his daughter a kiss and then locked himself in the bathroom, a domestic utility that had been installed when he was still an adolescent and which had long been in need of enlargement and improvement. He looked at himself in the mirror, but found no new line or wrinkle on his face, It’s probably somewhere inside me, he thought, then he ran the tap, washed his hands and went out. They ate in the kitchen, sitting at a large table that had known happier days and more numerous gatherings. Now, since the death of the mother, Justa Isasca, of whom we will perhaps have little more to say in this story, but whose first name we give here, since we already know her surname, the two of them sit at one end of the table, the father at the head, Marta in the place vacated by her mother and, opposite her, Marçal, when he’s home. How did your morning go, asked Marta, Oh, the usual, replied her father, bending over his plate, Marçal phoned, Oh, yes, and what did he want, He said that he’d been talking to you about us going to live at the Center when he’s promoted to resident guard, Yes, we did talk about that, He was annoyed because you said yet again that you didn’t think it was a good idea, Well, I’ve had a change of heart since then and I think it will be a good thing for both of you, And what brought about this sudden change of heart, You don’t want to work in the pottery all your life, No, although I enjoy what I do, You should be with your husband, one of these days you’ll have children, and three generations of clay-eaters is quite enough, And you’re willing to go with us to the Center, to leave the pottery, asked Marta, Leave, no, never, that’s out of the question, So you’re going to do everything yourself, are you, dig the clay, knead it, work at the bench and the wheel, fire the kiln, load it, unload it, clean it, then put everything in the van and go off and sell it, may I remind you that things have been difficult enough even with the help Marçal gives us on the few days he’s here, Oh, I’ll find someone to help me, there are plenty of lads in the village, You know perfectly well that no one wants to be a potter any more, the ones who get fed up with the country go to the factories in the Industrial Belt, they don’t leave the land in order to work with clay, Yet another reason for you to leave, You don’t think I’m going to leave you alone here, do you, You can come and see me now and then, Oh, Pa, please, I’m being serious, So am I, love.

Marta got up to clear away the plates and serve the soup, which it was the custom in their family to eat after the main course. Her father watched her and thought, I’m just complicating matters with this conversation, I’d better tell her now. He didn’t, his daughter was suddenly eight years old, and he was saying to her, Look, it’s just like when your mother kneads the bread. He rolled the block of clay backwards and forwards, pressing it and stretching it out with the heels of his hands, then he slapped it down hard on the table, squashing and squeezing, then started all over, repeating the whole operation, again and again and again, Why do you do that, his daughter asked him, So that there aren’t any lumps or air bubbles left inside, that would be bad for the work, Is it the same with bread too, With bread you just have to get rid of the lumps, the air bubbles don’t matter. He put to one side the compact cylinder into which the clay had been transformed and began kneading another lump, It’s high time you learned, he said, but immediately regretted his words, Don’t be ridiculous, she’s only eight, and so he said instead, Go outside and play, go on, it’s cold in here, but his daughter said that she wanted to stay, she was trying to make a doll out of a scrap of clay that kept sticking to her fingers because it was too soft, That clay’s no good, try this piece, that way you’ll be able to make something, said her father. Marta was looking at him anxiously, it wasn’t like him to sit with his head bent over his plate to eat, as if, by hiding his face, he was also trying to hide his worries, perhaps it was the conversation he’d had with Marçal, but we talked about that and he didn’t look like he does now, or perhaps he’s ill, he seems worn out, drained, that day my mother said to me, Be careful, don’t push yourself too hard, and I said, The only strength you need is in your arms, the technique’s all in your shoulders, the rest of your body doesn’t have to do anything, Oh, don’t give me that, even the hairs on my head start to ache after an hour of kneading, That’s just because you’ve been feeling a bit tired lately, Or perhaps it’s because I’m getting old, Don’t say things like that, Mama, you’re not old, who would have thought it, though, only two weeks after that conversation, she was dead and buried, such are the surprises that death springs on life, What are you thinking about, Pa. Cipriano Algor wiped his mouth with his napkin, picked up his glass as if he were about to drink, only to set it down again without raising it to his lips. Tell me, go on, said his daughter, and in order to make it easier for him to get things off his chest, she asked, Are you still worried about Marçal or is something else bothering you. Cipriano Algor picked up his glass, drank down the rest of the wine in one gulp and replied quickly, as if the words were burning his tongue, They only took half of the shipment today, they say that fewer people are buying earthenware crockery, that some new imitation plastic stuff has come onto the market and that the customers prefer it, Well, that’s hardly unexpected, it was bound to happen sooner or later, earthenware cracks and chips, it breaks easily, whereas plastic is more resistant, more resilient, The difference is that earthenware is like people, it needs to be well treated, So does plastic, but you’re right, not nearly as much, And the worst thing is that they’ve told me not to deliver any more crockery until they ask for it, So we’ll have to stop work, No, we can’t stop, because when the order comes, we’ll have to have the plates ready to deliver that same day, we can’t just fire the kiln up after we get the order, And what do we do meanwhile, We’ll have to wait, be patient, but I’ll go for a drive around tomorrow and see if I can sell anything, Don’t forget you did that only two months ago, so you won’t find many buyers, You’re not trying to discourage me, are you, No, I’m just trying to see things as they are, you yourself just said that three generations of potters in a family is quite enough, You won’t make a fourth generation anyway because you’re going to live at the Center with your husband, Yes, I should go, but you must come with me, Look, I’ve already told you that I’ll never go and live at the Center, Up until now, it’s been the Center that has fed us by buying the fruits of our labor, and it will go on feeding us when we live there and have nothing more to sell, Thanks to marçal’s salary, There’s nothing wrong with a son-in-law supporting his father-in-law, It depends on the father-in-law, Oh, Pa, there’s no point being proud at a time like this, It’s not pride, What is it then, Something I can’t explain, it’s more complicated than mere pride, it’s something else, a kind of shame, but I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said what I did, It’s just that I don’t want to see you go without, What if I started selling to shops in the city, it’s just a matter of getting authorization from the Center, after all, if they’re buying less from me, they can’t really stop me selling to someone else, You know as well as I do that the shops in the city are having a real struggle just to keep their heads above water, everyone does their shopping at the Center, more and more people want to live at the Center, Well, I don’t, What are you going to do if the Center stops buying our crockery altogether and the people around here start using plastic utensils, Let’s hope I die before that happens, What, like Mama, She died at the potter’s wheel, working, if only I was lucky enough to do the same, Don’t talk about dying, Pa, The only time we can talk about death is while we’re alive, not afterward. Cipriano Algor poured himself a little more wine, got up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as if the rules governing good table manners no longer applied once you had left the table, and said, I’ve got to go and break up some clay, we’re running out. He was just about to leave when his daughter called to him, Pa, I’ve just had an idea, An idea, Yes, I’ll phone marçal and ask him to talk to the head of the buying department and try to find out what the Center’s plans are, whether the reduction in demand is just a temporary thing or if it’s here to stay, you know how well his bosses think of marçal, So he says, If he says so, it’s because they do, retorted Marta impatiently, adding, But if you don’t want me to, I won’t phone, No, go on, phone him, it’s a good idea, besides, it’s the only one we’ve got at the moment, although I doubt that a head of department at the Center will be prepared, just like that, to discuss his plans with a second-rank security guard, I know them better than he does, you don’t have to work there to know what kind of stuff these people are made of, they’re so full of themselves, besides, a department head is just another minion carrying out orders from above, he might even try to fool us with explanations that aren’t true, just to make out how important he is. Marta listened to this whole long tirade, but did not respond. If, as seemed obvious, her father was intent on having the last word, she wasn’t going to rob him of that pleasure. When he went out, she thought only, I must try to be more understanding, I must put myself in his place and imagine what it must be like suddenly to have no work, and to have to leave his home, his pottery, his kiln, his life. She repeated the last words out loud, His life, and her eyes immediately filled with tears, she had put herself in her father’s place and was suffering what he was suffering. She glanced around her and noticed for the first time how everything looked as if it were covered in clay, not with clay dust, but with the color of clay, with all the many colors of the clay dug from the clay pit, a color left behind by three generations who, every day, had stained their hands with the dust and water of the clay, and she glanced outside too, at the bright ash gray of the kiln, the last, fading warmth that lingered from when they had last emptied it, like a house abandoned by its owners, but which waits patiently, and tomorrow, if all this is not over with once and for all, there will again be the first flame from the wood, the first hot breath of air that encircles the dry clay like a caress, and then, very gradually, the slight tremor in the air, the rapidly increasing glow, the dawning splendor, the dazzling irruption into flames. I will never see that again when we leave here, said Marta, and her heart contracted as if she were saying good-bye to the person she loved most in the world, although at that moment she could not have said which of them she meant, whether her dead mother, her suffering father, or even her husband, yes, it must be her husband, that would be logical, since she is his wife. Then she heard the dull thud of the mallet breaking up the clay, as if the sound were rising up from beneath the floor, but those blows sounded different today, perhaps because they were driven not by the simple need to work, but by impotent rage at losing that work. I’m going to phone marçal, muttered Marta to herself, if I carry on thinking like this, I’ll end up as sad as Pa. She left the kitchen and went into her father’s bedroom. There, on top of the small table on which Cipriano Algor kept an account of income and expenses, was an antiquated-looking telephone. She dialed one of the numbers for the switchboard and asked to be put through to security. Almost at the same moment, a man’s voice said abruptly, Security, the speed with which he had answered did not surprise her, everyone knows that in matters of security even the most insignificant of seconds counts, May I speak to security guard marçal Gacho, Marta said, Who’s speaking, It’s his wife, I’m calling from home, Security guard marçal Gacho is on duty at the moment, he can’t come to the phone, In that case, could you give him a message, You’re his wife, Yes, my name’s Marta Algor Gacho, you can check in your records, Then you should know that we don’t take messages, we merely make a note of who called, Could you just tell him to phone home as soon as possible, Is it urgent, asked the voice. Marta thought for a moment, was it urgent, no, it wasn’t, it certainly wasn’t a matter of life and death, there were no serious problems with the kiln, still less a premature birth, but in the end she said, Yes, it is rather urgent, I’ll make a note, said the man, and hung up. With a sigh of weary resignation, Marta replaced the phone on the rest, there was nothing more to be done, it was out of their hands, security could not survive without thrusting their authority in other people’s faces, even in a trivial case like this, so banal, so mundane, a wife phoning the Center because she needs to talk to her husband, she wasn’t the first and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. When Marta went out into the yard, the thud of the mallet no longer sounded as if it were coming from under the ground, it came from where it came, from the dark corner in the pottery where they kept the clay extracted from the clay pit. She went over to the door, but did not go in, I phoned, she said, they’ll pass the message on, Let’s see if they do, replied her father, and without another word, he began laying into the largest block of clay in front of him with the mallet. Marta withdrew because she knew that she should not go into a place deliberately chosen by her father in order to be alone, but also because she too had work to do, a few dozen jugs, large and small, waiting to have handles attached to them. She entered by the side door.