Baltasar and Blimunda

...

SINCE THE FLYING machine landed on Monte Junto, Baltasar Sete-Sóis has gone there some six, or was it seven, times to examine and repair as best he can the ravages caused by time and the elements despite the machine's protective covering of foliage and brambles. When he discovered that the iron plates had become rusty, he took along a pot of tallow and greased them thoroughly, repeating the process each time he went back. He had also got into the habit of carrying on his back a bundle of reeds that he collected on marshland he encountered along his route, and these he used to repair such cracks and rents in the cane framework as had been made by natural causes, such as when he found a lair with six fox cubs inside the shell of the Passarola. He killed them as if they were rabbits by striking them on the crown of the head with his hook, then tossed their lifeless bodies here and there in the vicinity. The parent foxes would discover their dead cubs, smell the blood, and almost certainly return there no more. During the night the foxes could be heard yelping. They had scented out the trail. When they found their dead cubs, the poor creatures made a great din, and since they did not know how to count, and were uncertain whether all the cubs were dead, they approached the hostile machine that had been their downfall, a machine capable of flying, although now grounded and motionless, they drew near cautiously, worried by the scent of a human presence, and sniffed once more the spilled blood of their offspring, then retreated, snarling and bristling as they went. They were never to return to that spot. But the story might have ended differently if,. instead of being a tale about foxes, it had been a tale about wolves. This also crossed Baltasar's mind, so, from that day on, he carried his sword with him, the tip of the blade somewhat eroded by rust but still perfectly capable of beheading a wolf and its mate.

He always went alone, and he was planning to go back on his own, when Blimunda said to him for the first time in three years, I'm going too, and this caused him some surprise, and he warned her, It's a long journey and will tire you out, but she had made up her mind, I want to know the route in case I should ever have to go without you. This made good sense, although Baltasar had not forgotten the danger of encountering wolves in that wilderness, Come what may, you mustn't go there alone, the roads are bad, the place is deserted, as you may remember, and you could be attacked by wild beasts, whereupon Blimunda replied, You should never say, Come what may, for something unexpected might happen if you use that expression, Very well, but you sound just like Manuel Milho, Who is Manuel Milho, He worked with me on the building site, but he decided to go back home, he said that he would rather die in a flood, should the Tagus burst its banks, than be crushed to death under a stone at Mafra for, contrary to what people say, all deaths are not the same, what is the same is to be dead, and so he went back to his native province, where the stones are small and few and the water is soft.

Baltasar was reluctant to see Blimunda make the long journey on foot, so he hired a donkey, and after making their farewells, they set off, they had not answered when Inés Antónia and their brotherin-law inquired, Where are you going, and warned them, This journey will cost you two days' wages, and if any crisis should occur we won't know where to find you, the crisis to which Inês Antónia referred was probably the death ofJoão Francisco, for death was already prowling around the old man's door, it took one step forward as if about to enter, then relented, perhaps inhibited by João Francisco's silence, for how can anyone say to an old man, Come with me, if he neither speaks nor responds but only sits there staring, confronted with such a stare, even death loses its nerve. Inés Antónia does not know, Álvaro Diogo does not know, their son, who is at an age where he is interested only in himself, does not know that Baltasar has already confided in João Francisco, Father, I'm going with Blimunda to the Serra do Barregudo, to Monte Junto, to see how the machine is faring in which we flew from Lisbon that time when, you may remember, people claimed that the Holy Ghost had flown over the building site at Mafra, it wasn't the Holy Ghost, but us, together with Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço, you remember the priest who came here to the house when Mother was still alive, and she wanted to kill a cockerel, but he wouldn't hear of it, saying that it was preferable to hear a cockerel crowing than to eat it for supper, besides, it would be unkind to hens to deprive them of their cockerel. João Francisco listened to these reminiscences, and the old man, who rarely spoke, assured him, Yes, I remember it well, now go in peace, for I'm not ready to die yet, and when the moment comes I shall be with you wherever you may be, But Father, do you believe me when I tell you that I have flown, When we get old, things that are destined to come about start to happen, and at last we're capable of believing those things we once doubted, and even when we find it difficult to believe that such things can happen, we believe that they will happen, I have flown, Father. My son, I believe you.

Giddy-up, giddy-up, giddy-up, pretty little donkey, no one could say that of this little donkey, which, unlike the donkey in the refrain, has sores underneath its saddle, but it trots along merrily, the load is light and is carried with ease wherever the ethereal, slender Blimunda goes, sixteen years have passed since first we set eyes on her, but an admirable vigour stems from this maturity, for there is nothing like a secret for preserving youth. No sooner did they reach the marshland than Baltasar set about gathering reeds, while Blimunda collected waterlilies, which she fashioned into a garland and arranged over the donkey's ears, it made a charming picture, and never had such a fuss been made of a humble donkey, it was like a pastoral scene from Arcadia, although this shepherd was disabled and his shepherdess the custodian of wills, donkeys rarely appear in such a setting, but this one had been specially hired by the shepherd, who did not wish his shepherdess to get tired, and anyone who imagines that this is any common hiring is clearly unaware just how often donkeys get irritated when some heavy load is dumped on their back to aggravate their sores and cause the tufts of hair to chafe. Once the willow canes had been bundled and tied, the load became heavier, but any load that is carried willingly is never tiring, and matters improved when Blimunda decided to dismount from the donkey and proceed on foot, they were like a trio out for a stroll, one bearing flowers, the other two providing companionship.

Spring is here and the countryside is covered with white daisies and mallows, where they cover the path the travellers cut through them, and the firm heads of the flowers are crushed beneath the bare feet of Baltasar and Blimunda, who both have shoes or boots but prefer to carry them in their knapsacks until the road becomes stony, and a pungent odour rises from the ground, it is the sap of the daisies, the perfume of the world on the day of its inception, before God invented the rose. It is a perfect day for their trip to inspect the flying machine, great white clouds pass overhead, and they muse how pleasant it would be to fly just once more in the Passarola, to soar into the sky and circle those castles suspended in mid-air, to venture where birds do not venture, by jubilantly penetrating those clouds trembling with fear and cold, before emerging once more into the blue and heading towards the sun, to contemplate the earth in all its beauty and exclaim, Earth, how beautiful Blimunda looks. But this route is dull, Blimunda looks less beautiful, and even the donkey has shed the lilies, which have become parched and withered, let us sit down here to eat the world's stale bread, let us eat and then travel on without delay, for there is still a long way to go. Blimunda commits the itinerary to memory as they go along, carefully noting that mountain, that thicket, four boulders standing in a row, six hills forming a semicircle, and the villages, now then, what are they called, Ah yes, Codeçal and Gradil, Cadriceira and Furadouro, Merceana and Pena Firme, and on and on we go until we reach Monte Junto and the Passarola.

As in tales of yore, a secret word was uttered and before a magic grotto there suddenly arose a forest of oak trees that could be penetrated only by those who knew the other magic word, the one that would replace the forest with a river and set thereon a barge with oars. Here, too, words were uttered, If I must die on a bonfire, let it at least be this one, the demented Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço had once exclaimed, perhaps these bramble thickets are the forest of oak trees, this woodland in flower the oars and the river, and the distressed bird the barge, what word will be spoken that will give meaning to all of this. The donkey was relieved of its saddle and hobbled to prevent it from straying too far, and it began to eat whatever it could reach and fancied, if one may speak of choice within the simple confines of the possible, and meanwhile, Baltasar went off to clear a path through the brambles that would lead them to the machine, which was carefully hidden from sight, this is a task that, no matter how many times Baltasar does it, no sooner does he turn his back than the shoots sprout up again, a maze of entangled foliage that makes it almost impossible to clear a passage, to burrow through the brambles, but unless a path is cleared, there will be no hope of restoring the entwined canes, of protecting the wings that time has eroded, of raising the Passarola's drooping head, of supporting her tail, and of getting the rudders back into working order, it is true that we and the machine are grounded, but we are prepared. Baltasar worked for hours, hurting his hands on the thorns, and once he had cleared a path he called Blimunda, who found that she still had to crawl on all fours until she finally arrived, they were immersed in a green shadow that looked translucent, perhaps because of the fresh shoots that criss-crossed the blackened sail without entirely concealing it, because of the tender leaves that allowed the light to filter through, and above this cupola there was another one of silence, and above the silence, a vault of blue light, glimpsed in fragments, patches, and secret revelations. Climbing up the wing that was resting on the ground, they arrived on the deck of the machine. There, carved on a plank, were the sun and the moon, no other sign united them, and it was as if no other human being existed in this world. In certain places the floor had rotted, once again Baltasar would have to bring some planking from the building site, battens that were rejected when the scaffolding went up, for it would be futile to repair the metal plates and external casing if the timber itself was crumbling away. The amber balls glimmered dimly under the shadow cast by the sail, like eyes refusing to close or resisting sleep in order not to miss the hour of departure. But the entire scene has an air of desolation, withered leaves darkening in a puddle of water which continues to resist the first days of hot weather and were it not for Baltasar's perseverance, this would be a derelict ruin, the decomposed skeleton of a dead bird.

Only the globes, with their mysterious amalgam, continue to shine as on the first day, opaque but luminous, their ribbing clearly defined, their grooves precisely outlined, and who would believe they have been here for four long years. Blimunda touched one of the globes and discovered that it was neither hot nor cold, it was just as if she had clasped her hands to find them neither hot nor cold but simply alive, The wills inside here are still alive, they certainly haven't escaped, I can see the globes have suffered no damage and the metal is well preserved, poor wills, imprisoned all this time and waiting for what. Baltasar, who was working below deck, heard part of Blimunda's question or divined it, If the wills escape from the globes, the machine will be useless, and it will have been a waste of time returning here, but Blimunda reassured him, Tomorrow I'll be able to tell you.

They both toiled until sunset. Blimunda made a broom with some branches from the nearby hedges and swept up the leaves and the debris, then helped Baltasar replace the broken canes and smear the metal plates with grease. She sewed the sail, which had become torn in two places, like any dutiful wife, just as Baltasar, like any good soldier, had gone about his duties on numerous occasions and even now was engaged in finishing the task of covering the restored surface with tar. Dusk fell. Baltasar went off to unshackle the donkey, so that the poor creature would be more comfortable, he tied it to the machine, where it would warn them if any animal should approach. He had inspected the interior of the Passarola beforehand, by descending through a hatch in the deck, the hatch of this aerial barge or airship, a term that will easily be coined one day when it becomes necessary. There were no signs of life, not so much as a snake, not so much as a simple lizard that tends to dart wherever there is darkness and concealment, not even a spider's web, or there would be flies around. The cavity below deck was like the inside of an egg, the same inner shell and silence. They lay there on a bed of foliage and used the clothes they had taken off as a pallet and covering. Fumbling in total darkness, they reached out to each other, naked, he penetrated her with desire and she received him eagerly, and they exchanged eagerness and desire until their bodies were locked in embrace, their movements in harmony, her voice rising from the depth of her being, his totally submerged, the cry that is born, prolonged, truncated, that muffled sob, that unexpected tear, and the machine trembles and shudders, probably no longer even on the ground but, having rent the screen of brambles and undergrowth, is now hovering at dead of night amid the clouds, Blimunda, Baltasar, his body weighing on hers, and both weighing on the earth, for at last they are here, having gone and returned.

When the first light of day began to filter through the reeds, Blimunda, avoiding Baltasar's eyes, slipped quietly out of bed and, without attempting to dress, went up through the hatch. She shivered in the chilly morning air, she was probably chilled even more by the now almost forgotten vision of a world created from successive transparencies behind the bulwark of the machine, the net of brambles and creepers, the unreal presence of the donkey, by thickets and trees that appeared to float, and, beyond, the dense solidity of the nearby mountain, which made it impossible to perceive the creatures in the distant sea. Blimunda went up to one of the globes and peered in. A shadow moved inside like a whirlwind seen from afar. In the other globe was a similar shadow. Blimunda climbed down through the hatch once more. She plunged into the penumbra of that egg and searched among the clothes for her piece of bread, Baltasar had not awakened, his left arm was half-hidden by the foliage, so that no one would have suspected that his hand was missing. Blimunda went back to sleep. It was already day when she felt herself awakened by the instant contact of Baltasar's body. Before opening her eyes she said, You may come to me, for I have already eaten my bread. Whereupon Baltasar penetrated her without fear, for she had promised that she would never penetrate him. When they finally emerged fully dressed from the machine, Baltasar asked her, Have you been to see the wills, I've been, she replied, and they are still there, They are, Sometimes I feel that we should open the globes and set them free, If we set them free, it will be as if nothing had happened, as if we had never been born, neither you nor I, nor Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço, They still look like dark clouds, They are dark clouds.

Halfway through the morning, they finished the work. The fact that a man and a woman had taken care of its restoration was more significant than the fact that there were two of them, the machine looked as good as new and as spick and span as the day it made its maiden flight. Plucking and entwining branches of bramble, Baltasar closed off the entrance. After all, this is a fairy tale. Before the grotto there stands a forest of oak trees, unless what we are seeing is a river without barge or oars. Only from on high could one discern the singular black roof of the grotto, only a large bird passing overhead, but the only large bird that exists in this world lies here grounded, while ordinary birds, those made or ordained by God, pass and pass once more, look and look once more, and fail to understand. Even the donkey does not know why it has been led here. A beast on hire, it goes where it is taken and carries whatever is loaded on its back, one journey is much the same as any other for the poor donkey, but if only they could all be journeys like this one, the donkey has been free of baggage for most of the way and has worn a garland of lilies around his ears, so perhaps the springtime of donkeys will soon be here.

They went down into the sierra and cautiously decided to return by a different route, through Lapaduços and Vale Benfeito, which wended in continuous descent, and because they felt they would be less conspicuous if they kept close to inhabited areas, they skirted Torres Vedras, then headed south along the Ribeira de Pedrulhos, and if only there were no gloom or misery, if streams flowed over pebbles everywhere, and birds were singing, then life would be simply to sit on the grass, holding a daisy without stripping off the petals, either because one already knew the answers or because they were so unimportant that to discover them would not be worth a flower's life. There are other simple, rustic pleasures, such as when Baltasar and Blimunda bathe their feet in the stream, she hoisting up her skirts above her knees, and better that she should lower them, because for every nymph who bathes there is a faun spying nearby, and this one is dangerously close and about to pounce. Blimunda escapes from the stream laughing merrily, Baltasar grabs her by the waist and they both fall, one on top of the other, and they no longer appear to belong to this century. The donkey raises its head, pricking up its large ears, but it does not see what we are seeing, only a stirring of shadows, ash-coloured trees, for every creature's world is perceived through its own eyes. Baltasar lifts Blimunda into his arms and seats her on the saddle, Come on, little donkey, giddy-up, giddy-up. It is late afternoon, there is neither wind nor breeze nor whiff of air, you can feel the air on your skin as if it were another skin, there is no perceptible difference between Baltasar and the world, and between the world and Blimunda what difference could there be. It is already night by the time they reach Mafra. Bonfires are burning on the Alto da Vela. Where the flames fan out in all directions, you can see the irregular walls of the basilica, the empty niches, the scaffolding, the black apertures of the windows, more like a ruin than a new building, but that is always the impression when workers have left a building site.

Days of endless fatigue and sleepless nights. The men rest in these great sheds, more than twenty thousand of them accommodated on rough beds, yet for many of them the bunks are better than what they would have had at home, where they slept on a mat on the floor with only the clothes they wore and their cloak for protection, at least when it is cold here the men can keep one another warm as they huddle together, things get worse in the heat of the summer, when they are tormented by fleas and mosquitoes that suck their blood, their hair and bodies are covered with lice and they itch all over. They feel lustful and crave sex, some discharge semen in their sleep, and the fellow on the next bunk lies panting with desire, but if there are no women what can we do. Or, rather, there are some women, but not for everyone. The most fortunate are the men who have been on the site from the beginning, they have found themselves women who were either widowed or abandoned, but Mafra is a small town, and very soon there were no unattached women left and the main concern for the men was to defend their garden from would-be intruders and assailants, however few or non-existent its charms. This has led to a number of stabbing incidents. When someone is killed, the criminal magistrate arrives with his constables and, if it is considered necessary, the soldiers are asked to intervene, the culprit is sent to prison, so that one of two things ensues, if the criminal was the woman's husband he will soon have a successor, and if the dead man was the woman's husband he will have a successor in even less time.

And what about the other men. They roam the streets, covered with mud because of the constant rain, and visit certain alleyways where the houses are made of timber, perhaps because they were built by the provident Inspectorate General, which is fully aware of the men's needs, or for the benefit of some contractor of brothels, whoever built the house sold it, whoever bought it rented it, and whoever rented it also rented themselves, the donkey hired by Baltasar and Blimunda was much more fortunate, for they decked it out with waterlilies, but no one has offered any flowers to these women lingering in the doorways, all they receive is a rampant penis that enters and withdraws by stealth, often bringing syphilis with it, and the wretched fellows groan in their misery like the wretched women who infected them, as the pus trickles down their legs in an interminable flow, this is not an illness physicians admit to their infirmaries, the remedy, if such a thing exists, is to treat the infected parts with the juice of the miraculous plant already mentioned, which is good for everything and cures nothing. Strapping youths came here and now, after three or four years, they are disease-ridden from head to foot. Healthy women came here, then went to an early grave and had to be buried deep because their corpses decomposed quickly and poisoned the air. Next day the house has another tenant. The pallet is the same, the filthy bedclothes have not been washed, a man knocks at the door and enters, no questions are asked or answered, the price is known, he unbuttons his trousers, she hoists up her skirts, he moans with pleasure, and she is not required to put up any pretence, for we are among serious people.

The friars from the hospice keep their distance when they pass, for the sake of appearing virtuous, we feel no pity for them, for there has never been such a wily congregation when it comes to alternating and compensating sacrifices with consolations. They walk with lowered eyes, rattling their beads, those of the rosary they wear around their waist as well as those of their thingamajig, which they secretly give to their penitents to pray with, and if some shirt made of horsehair girds their loins, perhaps even equipped with prongs in certain extravagant cases, you can be sure that they are not worn for punishment, and read this carefully, so that you get my meaning. When the friars are not engaged in other charitable tasks and duties, they visit the sick in the hospital, cooling and holding out bowls of broth for the patients and assisting the dying, some days they die in twos and threes despite all those prayers to the saints who protect the sick, to St Cosmas and St Damiãn, the patron saints of doctors, to St Antony, who is capable of mending bones as well as mending jugs, to St Francis, who knows all about stigmata, to St Joseph, who can mend crutches, to St Sebastian, who can resist death, to St Francis Xavier, who is well versed in the medicines of the Far East, and to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the Holy Family, the rabble, however, are carefully segregated from patients of rank and military status, who have their own separate infirmary, and because of this discrimination the friars, who know perfectly well who will help them to secure their convent, administer treatment and the last rites accordingly. Let any man who has not committed similar transgressions cast the second stone, Christ Himself was guilty of favouring Peter and of spoiling John, although there were twelve apostles. One day it will be revealed that Judas betrayed Jesus because he felt jealous and unwanted.

It was about this time that João Francisco Sete-Sóis died. He waited until his son returned home from work, Álvaro Diogo was the first to arrive, eager to eat quickly and get back to the mason's workshop, he was just breaking bread into his soup when Baltasar entered, Good evening, your blessing, Father, it was an evening like any other, only the boy, who was always the last to arrive, was missing, perhaps he is already lurking in the street where the prostitutes ply their trade, but Álvaro Diogo asks himself where he would find the money to pay them, since he hands over his entire daily wage to his father without spending anything on himself, Gabriel has still not arrived, just imagine, after all these years we have known the boy, it is only now that he has grown up that we learn his name, and Inês Antónia tries to make excuses for his lateness, He'll be here any minute, it is an evening like any other, they make the same conversation, and no one notices the look of terror that has come into João Francisco's face as he sits by the hearth despite the heat, not even Blimunda, who became distracted when Baltasar entered, said good evening to his father, and asked for his blessing without waiting to see if the old man would grant it, when someone has been a son for many years, he tends to fall into these careless ways, he simply said, Your blessing, Father, and the old man responded by raising his hand with the slowness of someone who has barely the strength to do it, this was his final gesture, and before he could finish, his hand fell beside his other hand, resting on the folds of his cloak, and when Baltasar finally turned to his father to receive his blessing, he saw him leaning back against the wall with open hands, his head slumped on his chest, Are you ill, a futile question, and they would have been terrified if João Francisco had answered, I am dead, and that would have been the greatest of spoken truths. They wept natural tears, Álvaro Diogo did not return to work that day, and when Gabriel came in he felt obliged to express sorrow, even though he was still savouring the fruits of paradise, let us hope that hell has not scorched him between his legs.

João Francisco left an orchard and an old house. He had owned a plot of land on the Alto da Vela. He had spent years clearing away the stones, until he was finally able to dig into the soft earth. He laboured in vain, the stones are back now, and one might well ask why a man is born into this world.