The Collected Novels of José Saramago (301 page)

Ever since they sent him back with half the load of crockery, which, it should be said, has not yet been unloaded from the van, Cipriano Algor has, from one moment to the next, ceased to deserve his reputation, gained over a lifetime of much work and few holidays, as an early-rising worker. Now he gets up when the sun has already risen, he washes and shaves more slowly than is strictly necessary for an already closely shaven face and for a body accustomed to cleanliness, he has a light breakfast but takes his time over it, and finally, with no visible lifting of the low spirits with which he got out of bed, he goes to work. Today, however, having spent what remained of the night dreaming about a tiger that came and ate from his hand, he threw off his blankets as soon as the sun had begun to paint the sky with light. He did not open the window, merely opened the shutter door just a crack to see what the weather was like, at least that is what he thought, or what he wanted to think that he thought, but the fact is that he was not in the habit of doing so, for this man has lived long enough to know that the weather is always there, sunny, as today promises to be, or rainy, as it was yesterday, indeed, when we open the window and raise our nose to the air above, it is merely to find out if the weather is doing what we want it to do. To cut a long story short, when he peered outside, what Cipriano Algor wanted to know was if the dog was still there waiting for them to give him another name or if, tired of waiting fruitlessly, it had gone off in search of a more diligent master. All that could be seen of the dog was a pair of floppy ears and a snout resting on its crossed front paws, but there was no reason to suspect that the rest of its body was not inside the kennel. He’s black, said Cipriano Algor. When he had taken the dog the food last night, it had seemed to him that the dog was indeed that color, or, as someone will doubtless remark, that absence of color, but it had been dark, and if in the dark even white cats are gray, the same, in even darker circumstances, could be said of a dog seen for the first time beneath a mulberry tree when a fine, nocturnal drizzle was dissolving the line separating beings from things, making those beings more like the things which, sooner or later, they will all become. The dog is not really black, although his snout and ears almost are, the rest of his body is a more general gray, with an admixture of other tones from dark to solid black. Given that the potter is sixty-four years old with all the usual visual problems that age brings with it, and that he stopped wearing glasses because of the heat of the kiln, one cannot really blame him for saying, He’s black, since the first time he saw the dog was at night and in the rain, and, now, distance makes the early-morning light seem misty. When Cipriano Algor finally goes over to the dog, he will see that he will never again be able to say, He’s black, but that he would be guilty of grave misrepresentation were he to say, He’s gray, especially when he discovers that the dog has a thin white blaze, like a delicate cravat, that goes from his chest to his belly. Marta’s voice rings out from the other side of the door, Pa, wake up, the dog’s waiting for you. I am awake, I’m just coming, replied Cipriano Algor, immediately regretting those last few words, it was puerile, almost ridiculous, for a man his age to get as excited as a child who has been brought a long-dreamed-of present, when we all know that, on the contrary, in places like this, the more useful a dog is, the more it is valued, an unnecessary virtue in toys, and as far as dreams and their fulfillment are concerned, a dog could not possibly satisfy someone who, that same night, had dreamed of a tiger. Despite this self-administered dressing-down, Cipriano Algor did not take excessive care this morning when getting washed and dressed, he merely pulled on his clothes and left the bedroom. Marta asked him, Shall I make him something to eat, No, afterward, food would only distract him at the moment, Go on, then, off you go and tame your wild beast, He’s not a wild beast, poor thing, I’ve been watching him from the window, Yes, I had a look at him too, What do you think, Well, I don’t think he belongs to anyone around here, Some dogs never leave their backyards, they live and die there, apart from those cases where they’re taken out into the country to be hanged from the branch of a tree or finished off with a bullet in the head, That’s hardly the kind of thing I want to start the day with, thank you, No, you’re right, it isn’t, so let’s start the day in a less human but more compassionate way, said Cipriano Algor, going out into the yard. His daughter did not follow him, she stood in the doorway, watching, It’s his party, she thought. The potter took a few steps and, then, in a clear, firm voice, although not too loud, he pronounced the chosen name, Found. The dog had already looked up when he saw him, and now, hearing the name he had been waiting for, he emerged fully from the kennel, a slim young dog, neither big nor small, with a curly coat, he really was gray, gray tending to black, with that narrow white blaze, like a cravat, dividing his chest in two. Found, the potter said again, advancing a few more steps, Found, come here. The dog stayed where he was, he had his head up and was slowly wagging his tail, but he did not move. Then the potter crouched down so that his eyes were on the same level as the dog’s, and this time he said in an intense, urgent tone of voice, as if giving expression to some deep personal need of his, Found. The dog took one step forward, then another, not stopping this time, until he was within reach of the arm of the person calling him. Cipriano Algor held out his right hand, almost touching the dog’s nostrils, and waited. The dog sniffed a few times, then stretched out his neck so that his cold nose brushed the tips of the fingers held out to him. The potter slowly moved his hand toward the dog’s nearest ear and stroked it. The dog took the final step, Found, Found, said Cipriano Algor, I don’t know what your name was before, but from now on your name is Found. It was only then that he noticed that the dog had no collar and that his fur was not just gray, it was covered in mud and bits of vegetation, especially his legs and belly, a clear sign that he had taken a difficult route across fields and open countryside, rather than traveling comfortably by road. Marta had joined them, she brought a plate with a little food on it for the dog, nothing too substantial, just enough to confirm the meeting and to celebrate the baptism, You give it to him, said her father, but she said, No, you give it to him, I’ll have plenty of other opportunities to feed him. Cipriano Algor put the plate down on the ground, then got up with some difficulty, Oh, my knees, what I wouldn’t give to have even the knees I had last year, Does it make that much difference, asked his daughter, At this time of life even a day makes a difference, the only saving grace is that sometimes things improve. The dog Found, and now that he has a name, we really shouldn’t use any other, not dog, which we slipped in just now out of force of habit, nor animal nor creature, which serve to describe anything that does not form part of the mineral and vegetable kingdoms, although now and again we might still have to resort to these variants in order to avoid boring repetition, which is the only reason why, instead of Cipriano Algor, we have sometimes written potter, or man, old man, and Marta’s father. Anyway, as we were saying, the dog Found, having cleaned the food off the plate with two licks of his tongue, providing clear proof that yesterday’s hunger had still not been satisfied, raised his head like someone waiting for a second helping, at least that was how Marta interpreted the gesture, which is why she said, Be patient, lunch comes later, make do with what you’ve got in your stomach, but it was a hasty judgment, the kind that so often emerges from the human brain, for despite his continuing hunger, which he would be the last to deny, it was not food that was preoccupying Found at that moment, what he wanted was to be given some sign as to what he should do next. He was thirsty, but he could obviously go and quench his thirst in one of the many puddles of water left around the house by the rain, yet something held him back, something which, if we were talking about human feelings, we would not hesitate to call scrupulousness or good manners. Since they had put his food on a plate rather than making him grub for it in the mud, then surely the water should be drunk from some special receptacle too. He must be thirsty, said Marta, dogs need a lot of water, There are plenty of puddles over there, said her father, he’s not drinking from them because he doesn’t want to, If we’re going to keep him, we can’t let him go drinking water from puddles as if he had neither house nor home, obligations are obligations. While Cipriano Algor occupied himself making various seminonsensical utterances, the sole aim of which was to accustom the dog to the sound of his voice, but in which deliberately, and as insistently as a refrain, the word Found was repeated several times, Marta brought a large, earthenware bowl full of clean water, which she placed beside the kennel. In defiance of all skepticism, which is more than justified after the thousands of stories one has read and heard about dogs and their exemplary lives and sundry miracles, we must, nevertheless, point out that Found again surprised his new owners by remaining exactly where he was, face to face with Cipriano Algor, apparently waiting until he had finished what he had to say Only when the potter had stopped speaking and made a gesture as if to dismiss him did the dog turn around and take a drink. I’ve never known a dog behave like that before, Marta remarked, The worst thing, after all this, replied her father, would be for someone around here to tell me that the dog belongs to him, Oh, I don’t think that will happen, I’d guarantee that Found doesn’t come from these parts, sheepdogs and watchdogs don’t do what he did, After lunch, I’ll go and ask around, You could deliver Isaura’s water jug too, said Marta not even bothering to hide a smile, Yes, I’d already thought of that, as my grandfather always said, never put off till tomorrow what you can do today, replied Cipriano Algor, his gaze elsewhere. Found had finished drinking his water and, since neither the potter nor his daughter seemed to want to pay him any attention, he decided to lie down at the entrance of the kennel where the ground was not so wet.

After breakfast, Cipriano Algor went to choose a water jug from the store, placed it carefully in the van, among the boxes of plates, so that it wouldn’t fall over, and then he got in, sat down and started the engine. Found looked up, he obviously knew that such a noise always precedes a departure, which is immediately followed by a disappearance, but previous experience must have taught him that there is a way of preventing such calamities from happening, at least sometimes. He got up on his long legs, frantically wagging his tail, as if he were wielding a whip, and, for the first time since he had come seeking asylum, Found barked. Cipriano Algor drove the van slowly toward the mulberry tree and stopped a little way from the kennel. He thought he understood what Found wanted. He opened the door on the passenger side and held it open, and before he’d had time to issue an invitation, the dog was already in. Cipriano Algor had not intended taking him along, he had simply thought he would go from house to house asking if anyone knew such and such a dog, with this color coat and this appearance, with this cravat and these moral virtues, and while he was describing these various characteristics, he would pray to all the saints in heaven and to all the devils on earth, please, by fair means or foul, to make whoever he asked say that they had never in their life owned or heard of such a dog. Having Found there in the cab with him would eliminate the monotony of describing him and save him repeating himself, he would just have to ask, Is this dog yours, or is it yours, my friend, depending on the degree of intimacy with his interlocutor, and await the response, No, or Yes, if the former, he would pass rapidly on to the next house in order not to allow time for emendation, if the latter, he would carefully observe Found’s reactions, because he wasn’t the kind of dog to allow himself to be taken away on false pretenses by the mendacious demands of some would-be master. Marta, who, at the sound of the engine starting up, had appeared at the door of the pottery, her hands covered in clay, wanted to know if the dog was going too. Her father said, Yes, he is, and a moment later the courtyard was as deserted and Marta as alone as if this were the first time this had happened to either of them.

Before going to see Isaura Estudiosa, the origin and provenance of whose surname, by the way, as with those of Gacho and Algor, remains a mystery, the potter knocked on the doors of twelve neighbors and had the satisfaction of hearing all of them give the same answer, It’s not mine, No, I don’t know whose it could be. A tradesman’s wife took such a liking to Found that she made a generous offer to buy him, an offer immediately rejected by Cipriano Algor, and in the three houses where no one replied he could hear the violent barking of canine guards, which allowed the potter, by some tortuous reasoning, to conclude that Found could not possibly belong there, as if, according to some universal law for domestic animals, it was written that where there is one dog there cannot be another. Cipriano Algor finally stopped the van outside the house of the woman in black and knocked on the door, and when she opened it, he said good morning rather more loudly than was natural, the person to blame for this sudden vocal confusion being Marta with her preposterous idea of marrying off two old widowed people, a description deserving of the severest censure, it must be said, at least as far as Isaura Estudiosa is concerned, for she can be only forty-five at most, and if, for the sake of accuracy, one had to add a few more years, you would never think it to look at her. Oh, good morning, Senhor Cipriano, she said, I’ve come to keep my promise and bring you your water jug, Thank you so much, but you really shouldn’t have bothered, after our conversation in the cemetery yesterday, it struck me that people and things are much the same, they have a certain life span, they last for a while, then, like everything else in the world, they come to a sudden end, On the other hand, one water jug can be replaced by another water jug just by discarding the shattered remains of the old one and filling the new one with water, but that’s not the case with people, it’s as if with the birth of each new person, the mold they emerged from was broken, which is why everyone is different, Well, people don’t emerge from molds, of course, but I think I know what you mean, That was just the potter in me talking, pay no attention, here you are, and I hope the handle of this one doesn’t fall off quite so soon. The woman put out her hands to take hold of the body of the water jug, then clutched it to her and thanked him again, Thank you so much, Senhor Cipriano, and it was then that she saw the dog in the van, That dog, she said. Cipriano Algor felt a shock go through him, it had never occurred to him that Isaura Estudiosa might be the dog’s owner, and yet she had said That dog as if she had recognized him, with a look of surprise on her face that could have belonged to someone who has at last found what they were looking for, you can imagine with what reluctance Cipriano Algor asked, Is he yours, hoping that she would say no, and you can imagine too his relief when he heard her answer, No, he’s not mine, but I remember seeing him wandering around a couple of days ago, I even called to him, but he pretended not to hear me, he’s a lovely dog, When I got home yesterday after visiting the cemetery, I found him huddled inside the kennel we’ve got under the mulberry tree, the one that belonged to another dog we had, Constante, anyway, it was getting dark and all I could see were these two eyes shining, He was obviously looking for the right master, Well, I don’t know if I’m the right master for him, he may already have one, that’s what I’ve been trying to find out, Where, here, asked Isaura Estudiosa, and without waiting for an answer, she went on, I wouldn’t bother if I were you, that dog isn’t from around here, he came from a long way away, from another place, from another world, Why do you say another world, Oh, I don’t know, perhaps because he seems so different from other dogs nowadays, You’ve hardly seen him, What I saw was enough, in fact, if you don’t want him, I’ll have him, If it was any other dog, I might let you, but we’ve already decided to take him in, assuming we don’t find his owner, of course, So you really want him, We’ve even given him a name, What’s he called, then, Found, A good name for a lost dog, That’s exactly what my daughter said, Well, if you want to keep him, don’t go looking for an owner, But I have a duty to return him to his owner, that’s what I’d like someone to do if I lost a dog, If you do, though, you’ll be going against the wishes of the dog, after all, he was obviously looking for somewhere else to live, Seen from that point of view, you might be right, but there are laws and customs to take into account, Oh, forget about laws and customs, Senhor Cipriano, just take what is already yours, Isn’t that a bit selfish, Sometimes you have to be a bit selfish, Do you think so, I do, Well, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, So have I, Senhor Cipriano, See you again sometime, Yes, see you again. With the jug clutched to her breast, Isaura Estudiosa watched from her door as the van turned around to retrace its route, she looked at the dog and at the man who was driving, the man waved good-bye with his left hand, the dog must have been thinking about home and about the mulberry tree that served as his sky.