The Collected Novels of José Saramago (312 page)

With remarkable and reassuring unanimity, the dictionaries all define ridiculous as meaning anything deserving of mockery or laughter, anything that merits scorn, seems ludicrous or lends itself to comedy. For dictionaries, the particular circumstance does not appear to exist, although when they have to explain what it is, they describe it simply as a state or quality that accompanies a fact, which, in parenthesis, clearly warns us not to separate the facts from their circumstances and not to judge the former without first considering the latter. Yet could there be anything more profoundly ridiculous than Cipriano Algor wearing himself out trudging down the slope into the hollow, carrying the unwanted crockery in his arms, instead of hurling it willy-nilly down from above, transforming it instantly into mere crocks as he scornfully referred to it when describing to his daughter the various stages of the whole traumatic journey. The ridiculous, however, knows no limits. If one day, as Marta imagined, a boy from the village were to retrieve a cracked plate from the rubble and take it home with him, we can be sure that the unfortunate defect had either occurred in the warehouse itself or been caused, given the inevitable clashing of pots and plates, by the uneven road surface during the trip from the Center to the hollow. We have only to observe the care with which Cipriano Algor goes down the slope, the trouble he takes in placing the various bits of pottery on the ground, in keeping like with like, fitting one inside the other when he can and when it seems advisable, it is enough to see this laughable scene with our own eyes for us to state categorically that not a single plate was broken, that not a single cup lost its handle and not a single teapot was deprived of its spout. The regular lines of piled-up pottery fill one chosen corner of the hollow, they encircle the trunks of the trees, snake about among the low vegetation as if it had been written in some great book that they should remain like that until the end of time and until the unlikely resurrection of their remains. Some will say that Cipriano Algor’s behavior is utterly ridiculous, but even here we must not forget the crucial importance of point of view, we are referring this time to marçal Gacho, who, home once more for his day off, and fulfilling what might normally be understood as elementary duties of family solidarity, not only helped his father-in-law to unload the pottery, but also, without any show of puzzlement or bemused perplexity, without asking any questions direct or indirect, without a single ironic or pitying glance, calmly followed his example, even, on his own initiative, steadying some perilously swaying stack, neatening a ragged line, and reducing the height of any piles that have grown excessively tall. It would therefore be only natural, should Marta ever repeat the unfortunate pejorative term which she used in conversation with her father, that her own husband, with the irrefutable authority of one who has seen something with his own eyes, would correct her, It isn’t debris. And if she, whom we have come to know as someone who requires clear explanations of all things, were to insist that it was indeed debris, which is the name that has always been used to designate detritus and other useless matter used to fill up holes, apart, of course, from human remains, which are called something else entirely, marçal would doubtless say to her in his grave voice, It isn’t debris, I was there. Nor, he would add, should the question arise, is it ridiculous.

Awaiting them when they got home were two novelties, each important in its own way The carpenter had finally delivered the mold frames, and Marta had read in her book that when filling with casting slip, one could only sensibly expect one mold to yield forty satisfactory copies, That means, said Cipriano Algor, that we will need at least thirty molds, five for every two hundred figurines, which means a lot of work before and a lot of work afterward, and, given our lack of experience, we can’t be sure that the molds will work perfectly anyway, When do you reckon you’ll have finished removing all the crockery from the Center warehouse, asked Marta, I shouldn’t think I’ll need the whole of the second week, just two or three days might be enough, This is the second week, said marçal, Yes, the second week of the four weeks, but the first week of ferrying the crockery back and forth, the third week will be the second week of actual production, explained Marta, With all these different weeks, I’m not surprised you and your father are a bit disoriented, We each have our own reasons for being disoriented, I, for example, am pregnant and haven’t quite got used to the idea, And your father, He can speak for himself if he wants to, The only disorientation I’m suffering from is having to make one thousand two hundred clay dolls without the faintest idea whether or not I’ll be able to do it, said Cipriano Algor. They were standing in the pottery, where, lined up on the work surface, were the six figurines, looking exactly and dramatically what they were, six insignificant objects, some more grotesque than others because of what they represented, but all identical in their poignant futility. Marta had removed the damp cloths wrapped about them so that her husband could see the dolls, but she almost regretted it, for it was as if those obtuse idols had not deserved all the work that had gone into creating them, the repeated making and unmaking, the trying and failing, the experimenting and adjusting, it is not only great works of art that are born out of suffering and doubt, even a simple clay body and a few simple clay limbs sometimes refuse to surrender to the fingers modeling them, to the eyes interrogating them, to the will calling them into being. Any other time and I would have asked for some leave so that I could help you out, said marçal. Although that sentence was apparently complete, it contained problematic implications which did not need to be articulated in order for Cipriano Algor to understand them. What marçal had wanted to say and what, without actually doing so, he had in fact said, was that, since he was awaiting a more or less definite promotion to the rank of resident guard, his superiors would not be very pleased with him if he went off on holiday at that precise moment, as if public notification of his rise on the career ladder were a banal episode of little importance. That was the most obvious and probably the least problematic of whatever other implications there might be. The heart of the matter, which marçal’s words unwittingly concealed, was a sense of continuing concern about the future of the pottery, about the work carried out there and the people who did the work and who, for better or worse, had, until then, made a living from it. Those six figurines were like six ironic, insistent question marks, each of them asking Cipriano Algor if he was still confident that he had the necessary strength, and for how long, dear sir, to run the pottery alone when his daughter and son-in-law went to live at the Center, if he was naive enough to think that he could fulfill with satisfactory regularity the ensuing orders, always assuming there were any more orders, and, indeed, if he was foolish enough to imagine that from now on his relationship with the Center and with the head of the buying department, both commercial and personal, would be one long honeymoon, or, as the Eskimo was asking with discomfiting acuity and bitter skepticism, Do you really think they are always going to want me. It was at this point that Cipriano Algor remembered Isaura Madruga, he thought that she could help him in the work at the pottery, sit beside him in the van on his trips to the Center, he thought of her in diverse and ever more intimate and soothing situations, having lunch at the same table, chatting on the stone bench, giving Found his food, picking the fruit from the mulberry tree, lighting the lamp above the door, drawing back the sheets on the bed, these thoughts were doubtless too many and too adventurous for someone who had not even wanted to try a slice of cake. marçal’s words did not, of course, require an answer, they merely verified a fact obvious to all, it was just as if he had said, I would like to help you, but I can’t, nevertheless, Cipriano Algor thought he should give expression to some of the thoughts that had filled the silence following Manual’s words, not the intimate thoughts, which he keeps locked up in the strongbox of his pathetic old man’s pride, but those which, in one way or another, whether they want to admit it or not, are common to those living in the house, and which can be summed up in little more than half a dozen words, I wonder what tomorrow holds for us. He said, It’s as if we were walking in the dark, with each step we take, we could as easily go forward as fall flat on our face, we’ll soon be worrying about what awaits us once the first order goes on sale, we’ll start calculating how long they’ll want to keep us on, a long time, a short time, no time at all, it will be like plucking the petals off a daisy to see what answer we get, Not unlike life really, remarked Marta, Yes, except that what would once have been a process of years will now take weeks or days, the future suddenly seems very short, in fact, I think I’ve said as much before. Cipriano Algor paused, then added with a shrug, Which just proves that it must be true, There are only two ways ahead, said Marta, resolute and impatient, we either continue working as we have up until now, without thinking about anything except how to make a good job of what we’re doing, or else we give up, tell the Center that we can’t complete the order and wait, Wait for what, asked marçal, For you to be promoted and for us to move to the Center, and for my father to decide once and for all if he wants to stay or to go with us, what we can’t do is carry on in this will-we-won’t-we situation that has been going on for weeks now, In other words, said Cipriano Algor, if Dad would only die, we could get on with the soup, I’ll forgive you for what you’ve just said, replied Marta, because I know what’s going on inside your mind, Don’t fall out about it, please, begged marçal, I get quite enough of that from my own family, Calm down, don’t worry, said Cipriano Algor, although it might look like it to some people, your wife and I never really fall out, No, although there are times when I feel like hitting you, threatened Marta, smiling, and it will only get worse you know, people have told me that pregnant women often suffer sudden mood changes, they have caprices, fads, tantrums, crying attacks, and violent rages, so prepare yourselves for what is to come, For my part, I’m resigned to it, said Manual, then addressing Cipriano Algor, What about you, Pa, Oh, I’ve been resigned to it for years, ever since she was born, At last, all power to the woman, tremble, O men, tremble and be afraid, exclaimed Marta. This time the potter did not adopt his daughter’s jovial tone of voice, instead he spoke calmly and seriously as if he were picking up one by one words that had been set down in the place where they had been thought and left to ripen, no, these words had not been thought and left to ripen, they emerged at that moment from his mind like roots suddenly rising to the surface of the soil, Work will proceed normally, he said, I will fulfill our commitments as best I can, without protest or complaint, and when marçal receives his promotion then I will consider the situation, You’ll consider the situation, asked Marta, what does that mean, Since it will be impossible to keep the pottery going, I will close it and cease being one of the Center’s suppliers, Fine, and what will you live on then, where, how, with whom, insisted Marta, I will go and live with my daughter and my son-in-law at the Center, that is, if they still want me to. This unexpectedly clear statement from Cipriano Algor elicited very different responses from his daughter and from his son-in-law. marçal exclaimed, At last, and he went over and embraced his father-in-law, You’ve no idea how pleased I am, it’s been like a doubt gnawing away at me. Marta looked at her father skeptically at first, like someone who cannot quite believe what they are hearing, but gradually her face lit up with understanding, it was her memory hard at work reminding her of certain popular sayings, certain snippets from the classics, certain old saws, it did not, it is true, recall everything there was to recall, for example, burn your boats, burn your bridges, make a clean break, cut the Gordian knot, cut loose, cut and run, in for a penny, in for a pound, a dying man needs no advice, cut your losses, sour grapes, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, all these and many more, and all meaning more or less the same thing, I don’t want what I can’t have, and what I can’t have I don’t want. Marta went over to her father and stroked his face with a long, tender, almost maternal caress, It will be better this way, if that’s what you really want, she murmured, and she gave no other sign of contentment than the little conveyed by those few, plain words, but she was sure that her father would understand that this was not out of indifference but out of respect. Cipriano Algor placed his hands on his daughter’s shoulders, then drew her to him, kissed her on the forehead and, in a low voice, said the words she wanted to hear or to read in his eyes, Thank you. marçal did not ask Thank you for what, he had long ago learned that the territory in which this father and daughter moved was not just peculiar to that family, it was in some way sacred and inaccessible. It was not jealousy he felt, merely the melancholy of one who knows himself to be definitively excluded not, however, from that territory, which could never be his, but from another in which, if they were ever there or if he could ever be there with them, he would at last find and recognize his own father and his own mother. He realized, without much surprise, that now that his father-in-law had decided to go and live at the Center with them, the idea of his parents selling their house in the village in order to do the same would inevitably be set aside, however hard that might be for them and however much they protested, first, because one of the Center’s inflexible rules, determined and imposed by the actual structure of the living quarters, is not to admit large families, and second, because since the two families have never got on well, one can easily imagine the hell their lives would become if they were all crammed together in a small space. Despite certain situations and certain outbursts that might lead one to conclude the opposite, marçal does not deserve to be considered a bad son, it is not his fault alone that his feelings and desires do not accord with those of his family, and yet, providing still further proof that the human soul is a poisoned well of contradictions, he is glad not to have to live in the same house as those who brought him into being. Now that Marta is pregnant, let us hope that mysterious Fate does not confirm in her and in him those ancient dictums, Like breeds like and Do as you would be done by. It is true, however, that one way or another, by a kind of infallible tropism, filial nature drives children to find substitute parents when, for good motives or bad, for reasons fair or unfair, they cannot, will not or are unable to recognize themselves in their own parents. Indeed, for all its defects, life loves balance, if it was up to life every cloud would have a silver lining, every concavity would have its convexity, there would be no farewell without an arrival, and word, gesture and glance would behave like inseparable triplets who always say the same thing in all circumstances. By routes whose detailed description we do not feel fitted or able to carry out, but of whose existence and intrinsic communicative value we are absolutely convinced, it was precisely the above-mentioned cluster of observations that planted an idea in marçal Gacho’s head, an idea that was immediately transmitted to his father-in-law with due filial enthusiasm, We could transport what’s left of the crockery in the warehouse in one load, he announced, You don’t even know how much is left, there are a good few vanloads yet, objected Cipriano Algor, I’m not talking about vans, I mean that an ordinary truck would be enough to carry all of it in one load, And where are we going to find this precious truck, asked Marta, We’ll hire one, That would cost me money I could ill afford, said the potter, but hope made his voice tremble, It would just take one day’s work, if we pooled our money, ours and yours, I’m sure we could do it, and besides, with me working as a security guard at the Center, we might get a discount, it’s worth a try, With just me doing all the loading and unloading I don’t think I could manage, my arms and legs are killing me as it is, You won’t be alone, I’ll go with you, said marçal, No, they might recognize you and that could look bad, Oh, I don’t think there’s much danger of that, I’ve only ever been to the buying department once, and in dark glasses and a beret, I could be anyone, It’s a good idea, very good, said Marta, then we could get straight on with the work of making the dolls, That’s what I thought, said marçal, Me too, admitted Cipriano Algor. They stood looking at each other, silent and smiling, until the potter asked, When shall we do it, Tomorrow if you like, replied marçal, we can use my free time, we won’t get another chance for another ten days and then it will be too late, Tomorrow, repeated Cipriano Algor, that would mean we could set to work properly immediately afterward, Exactly, said marçal, and gain nearly two weeks, You’ve given me new heart, said the potter, then he asked, How shall we do it, I don’t think there are any trucks for hire in the village, We’ll hire one in the city, we’ll set off first thing tomorrow so that we have time to find someone who’ll give us a good price, Look, I know that’s the best plan, said Marta, but I really think you should have lunch with your parents, you didn’t go last time you were home and they’re bound to be put out. marçal bristled, I
don’t feel like it, and besides, he turned to his father-in-law and asked, What time do you have to be at the warehouse, At four, You see, there isn’t time to have lunch with my parents, drive all the way to the city, hire a truck and be at the warehouse to pick up the crockery, Tell them you’ve got to have lunch really early, There still won’t be time, and anyway I don’t want to, I’ll go next time I’m home, At least phone your mother, All right, I’ll phone her, but don’t be surprised if she asks me again when we’re moving. Cipriano Algor had left his daughter and son-in-law to discuss the momentous question of the Gacho family lunch and had gone over to where the six dolls stood on the worktable. He very carefully removed the damp cloths and studied the figures closely one by one, they just needed a little retouching on their heads and faces, parts of the body which, on such small figurines, little more than a span high, would inevitably be affected by the pressure of the cloths, Marta will be in charge of restoring them to new, then they will remain uncovered in order to dry off before being placed in the kiln. A shudder of pleasure ran through Cipriano Algor’s aching body, he felt as if he were about to begin the most difficult and delicate task of his life as a potter, the potentially hazardous firing of an object of enormous aesthetic value modeled by a great artist who did not mind lowering himself to work in the precarious conditions of this humble place, and who, and we are speaking now of both object and artist, could not possibly accept the ruinous consequences that would result from a variation in heat of just one degree in either direction. What this is really about, without making a great drama out of it, is placing half a dozen insignificant figurines in the kiln and firing them in order to produce two hundred equally insignificant copies from each one, some say that our fate is already planned for us when we are born, but what is clear is that only a few come into this world to make clay adams and eves or to multiply loaves and fishes. Marta and marçal had left the pottery, she in order to make the supper and he to deepen his incipient relationship with the dog Found, who, although reluctant to accept without protest a uniform in the family, does seem prepared to adopt a position of tacit acquiescence as long as the said uniform is replaced, on arrival, by some type of civil garment, whether ancient or modern, new or old, clean or dirty, Found really doesn’t mind. Cipriano Algor is now alone in the pottery. He absentmindedly tested the solidity of one of the mold frames, quite unnecessarily moved a bag of plaster and, as if his steps had been guided not by will but by chance, found himself standing before the two figures he had modeled, the man and the woman. In a matter of seconds, the man had been transformed into a shapeless ball of clay. The woman might have survived if the question Marta would be sure to ask him the following morning had not rung in his ears, Why, why the man and not the woman, why only one and not both of them. The woman’s clay soon joined that of the man, they are once more one clay.