Baltasar and Blimunda

...

HEADING THE PROCESSION because of their enormous size, which makes it seem natural that they should have pride of place, are the statues of St Vincent and St Sebastian, both martyrs, although of the former's martyrdom there is no sign other than the symbolic palm, the rest being simply the emblems of his diaconate and the heraldic raven, whereas the other saint is characteristically represented in the nude, lashed to a tree, and with the perforations of those ghastly wounds from which the arrows have been prudently removed in case they should get broken during the journey. Immediately behind come the ladies, three virtuous beauties, and most beautiful of all St Isabel, the Queen of Hungary, then St Clare, and finally St Teresa, who was an extremely passionate woman consumed by spiritual ardour, at least that is what one assumes from her actions and words, and we could assume much more if we understood the souls of the saints. The saint right next to St Clare is St Francis, and this preference comes as no surprise, for they have known each other from their days in Assisi and now they have met up with each other again on the road to Pintéus, their friendship, or whatever it was that brought them together, would count for little if they were not to resume their dialogue at the point where they left off, as we were saying. If this is the most fitting place for St Francis, since of all the saints who are represented in this parade he has the most feminine of virtues, with that soft heart and cheerful disposition, equally well placed are St Dominic and St Ignatius, both Iberian and austere, subsequently demonic, if that does not offend the Demon, if it would not be just, in the end, to say that only a saint could have invented the Inquisition and another saint the spiritual formation of souls. It is evident to anyone familiar with these subtleties, that St Francis is under suspicion.

When it comes to sanctity, however, there is something for everyone. For those who prefer a saint who devotes his time to working the land and cultivating the written word, there is St Benedict. For those who prefer their saint to lead a life of austerity, wisdom, and mortification, bring forth St Bruno. For those who admire a saint of crusading zeal capable of reviving the missionary spirit, there is none to surpass St Bernard. The three saints are placed together, perhaps because they bear a striking resemblance to one another, perhaps because their combined virtues would make an honest man, or perhaps because the names of all three saints begin with the same letter of the alphabet, it is not uncommon for people to come together because of such coincidences, this could also explain why some people known to us, like Blimunda and Baltasar, should come together, and speaking of Baltasar, he is in charge of the yoke of oxen that is carrying the statue of St John of God, the only Portuguese saint among the confraternity that disembarked from Italy at Santo António do Tojal, and is heading for Mafra, like almost everyone else we have mentioned so far in this story.

Behind St John of God, whose house in Montemor was visited more than eighteen months ago by Dom João V when he accompanied the Princess to the frontier, although we omitted to say so earlier, which shows our lack of respect for national shrines, and may the saint forgive this omission, behind St John of God, as we were saying, come half a dozen more saints of lesser glory whose many laudable attributes and virtues we do not wish to disdain, but daily experience teaches us that unless assisted by fame in this world, one cannot achieve glory in heaven, a flagrant disparity to which all of these saints are subjected and who, because of their inferior status, have to be content with names like John of Matha, Francis of Paola, Cajetan, Felix of Valois, Peter Nolasco, Philip Neri, names that sound like those of ordinary men, but they cannot complain, for each saint has his own cart and is carefully transported horizontally, like the others with five stars on a soft bed of flock, wool, and sackfuls of husks, this prevents the folds in their robes from becoming creased or their ears from getting bent, for these marble statues are fragile, despite their solid appearance, and it takes only two knocks for Venus to lose her arms. We begin to lose our memory as we confuse Bruno, Benedict, and Bernard with Baltasar and Blimunda, and we forget Bartolomeu de Gusmão or Lourenço, whichever form you prefer, but who is never to be readily dismissed. For, as the saying truly goes, Woe to the man who dies, twice woe, unless there be some true or false sanctity to save him.

We have already passed Pintéus, and we are on our way to Fanhões with eighteen statues loaded on eighteen carts and the appropriate number of oxen, and a vast number of men handling the ropes, as already mentioned, but this expedition cannot be compared to the one that transported the Benediction stone, the stone for the balcony from where the Patriarch will give his blessing, these things can happen only once in a lifetime, and if human ingenuity did not invent means of rendering difficult things easy, it would have been preferable to leave the world in its primitive state. The people line the route to greet the procession as it passes, they are all surprised to see the saints lying down, and with good reason, for surely it would have been much nicer and more edifying to see the holy statues standing upright on the carts, as if they were on litters, then even the smallest of the statues, which are under three metres high, our own height, in fact, would have been seen from a distance, and you can imagine the impact of the two statues in front, St Vincent and St Sebastian, which are almost five metres high, two mighty giants, two Christian Hercules and champions of the faith, looking down from their great height over the terraces and crests of the olive groves at the vast world, for them this would truly be a religion comparable with those of ancient Rome and Greece. The procession came to a halt in Fanhões because the local inhabitants insisted upon knowing, name by name, who the various saints were, for it was not every day that they received, even if only in transit, visitors of such corporeal and spiritual stature, the daily transport of building materials is one thing, but quite another was the sight witnessed several weeks ago, when an interminable convoy of bells went past, over a hundred of which will ring out from the bell towers of Mafra, the imperishable memory of these events, and yet another is this sacred pantheon. The local parish priest was summoned to identify the saints, but his answers were not entirely satisfactory, because not all of the statues had the saint's name clearly inscribed on the pedestal, and in many instances the name was all the parish priest could provide, it is one thing to recognise immediately that this is St Sebastian and quite another to recite from memory, Beloved brethren, the saint you see here is St Felix of Valois, who was a disciple of St Bernard, who is up there in front, and who established, together with St John of Matha who is at the back there, the Order of Trinitarians, which was founded to rescue slaves from the clutches of the infidels, just think of the edifying tales that help strengthen our holy faith, Ha ha ha, laugh the inhabitants of Fanhûes, And when will orders be given to rescue slaves from the clutches of the faithful, Reverend Prior.

Anxious to extricate himself, the priest went to the governor in charge of the expedition and asked to be allowed to consult the documents of exportation that had come from Italy, a cunning move that helped him recover his shaken confidence, and soon the inhabitants of Fanhûes were watching their ignorant pastor mounted on the churchyard wall and heard him read aloud the blessed names of the saints in the order they went past on the carts, right down to the very last saint, who chanced to be St Cajetan, on a cart drawn by José Pequeno, who smiled as much at the applause as at those who were applauding. But, then, José Pequeno is a mischievous fellow who has been justly punished, by God or the devil, with that hump he carries on his back, but it must have been God who punished him, because there is no proof that the devil has any such powers over the human body in this life. The spectacle is over and the procession of saints is now on its way to Cabeço de Monte Achique, Have a good journey.

Less good is the journey made by the novices from the Convent of St Joseph of Ribamar, over there toward Algés and Carnaxide, who are even now trudging along the road to Mafra on account of the pride or transposed mortification of their Provincial Superior. It happened that, as the day approached for the consecration of the convent, trunks were carefully packed and dispatched from Lisbon with the vestments and linen required for the religious ceremonies, along with all the essential supplies for the community of friars assigned to the aforesaid convent. These orders were given by the Provincial, who at the appropriate hour gave fresh orders, namely, that the novices should proceed to their new quarters, and when the King was informed, this compassionate sovereign was so deeply concerned that he invited them to use his own merchant vessels as far as the port of Santo António do Tojal, thus lessening the burden and fatigue of their journey. The waves, however, were so high and turbulent because of the fierce wind that it would have been suicidal madness to attempt any such sea voyage, so the King suggested that the novices might travel in his carriages, whereupon the Provincial Superior, aflame with holy scruple, protested, Surely Your Majesty is not providing comforts for those who should be wearing hairshirts, encouraging leisure for those who should be constantly on their guard, feathering cushions for those preparing for a bed of thorns, I would prefer to give up being provincial superior, Your Majesty, rather than condone such laxity, let them travel on foot so they can give a good example to the people, for they are no better than Our Lord Jesus Christ, who rode on a donkey only once.

Persuaded by these sound arguments, Dom João V withdrew his offer of carriages, just as he had withdrawn his offer of merchant vessels, and the novices, carrying nothing except their breviaries, set out from the Convent of St Joseph of Ribamar in the morning, thirty apprehensive and dispirited adolescents with their novice master, Friar Joseph of St Teresa. Poor boys, poor little fledglings, as if it were not enough that novice masters should, by some infallible rule, be the most awful tyrants, with a mania for daily floggings of six, seven, eight strokes of the lash until the wretched creatures had their backs covered in raw flesh, as if all this and worse were not enough, the novices also had to carry on their festering and lacerated backs the heaviest loads imaginable, so that their wounds refused to heal, and now they were being ordered to walk barefoot for six leagues across hill and dale, over stone and mud, along roads so bad that the path trodden by the ass that carried the Virgin when she made her flight into Egypt was a pleasant meadow by comparison, as for St Joseph, we have deliberately avoided saying anything about him, for he is a model of patience.

Haifa league on, because of some injury to a big toe, some treacherous stone, or the continuous rubbing of their soles on the rough ground, the more delicate novices had bleeding feet, leaving a trail of pious crimson flowers, it would make a lovely religious picture were it not so cold, were the little snouts of the novices not quite so frostbitten, and their eyes not smarting so badly, it costs dearly to gain heaven. They recited their breviaries, a palliative recommended for all spiritual torments, but these are physical torments and a pair of sandals would be a welcome substitute for any form of prayer, however efficacious, Dear God, if You really insist upon this penance, lead me not into temptation, but first of all remove this stone from my path, since You are the Father of stones and friars, and not their Father and my Stepfather. There is nothing worse than the life of a novice, save perhaps that of a shop assistant in years to come, we were about to say that the novice is the shop assistant of God, as a certain Friar John of Our Lady can testify, a former novice of this very same Franciscan Order, who will go as preacher to Mafra on the third day of the religious solemnities to mark the consecration of the convent but will not be given an opportunity to preach, for he is merely a substitute, as can also be attested by Friar John the Paunch, who was given this name because of his corpulence once he became a friar, although as a scrawny, underfed novice he had tramped throughout the Algarve collecting lambs for the convent, for three whole months, dressed in tatters, barefoot, and starving, just imagine what he suffered collecting those animals, which he had to herd from one village to another as he begged for one more newborn lamb to increase his flock, taking them out to pasture, and carrying out his various religious duties which had to be observed, suffering the pangs of hunger, nothing but bread and water, and with that tempting vision of lamb stew before his eyes. A life of sacrifice always comes to the same thing, whether it be that of a novice, a shop assistant, or a conscript.

There are many roads but sometimes they repeat themselves. Departing from St Joseph of Ribamar, the novices travelled in the direction of Queluz, then to Belas and Sabugo, stopped to rest for a while in Morelena, where they patched up the sores on their aching feet in the local infirmary, and then, suffering twice as much pain as they resumed their journey, they gradually got used to this new torment as they headed for Pêro Pinheiro, the worst stretch of all, because the road was strewn with marble chips. Farther ahead, as they made their descent to Cheleiros, they saw a wooden cross at the roadside, a clear sign that someone had died there, probably the victim of a crime and whether this was the case or not, one should always say a paternoster for the repose of the dead person's soul, the friars and novices knelt down and prayed together, God bless them, for it is a supreme act of charity to pray for a person one does not even know, and as they knelt there, you could see the soles of their feet, which were in such a pitiful state, covered in blood and grime, clearly the most vulnerable part of the human body, and turned toward a heaven they would never tread. Having finished their paternoster, the novices descended into the valley and crossed the bridge, once more absorbed in reading their breviaries, they had no eyes for the woman at her front door, nor did they hear her mutter, Cursed be all friars.

Fate, that agent of good and evil, ordained that the statues should come face to face with the novices where the road from Cheleiros joins up with the one from Alcainça Pequena, and this fortuitous omen was seen as an occasion for much rejoicing on the part of the congregation. The friars moved up to the front of the convoy of carts and acted as scouts and exorcists, intoning sonorous litanies as they went but raising no cross, for they had none, even though the liturgy required that it be held aloft. And so they entered Mafra to a triumphant welcome, tortured by the pain in their feet and transported by a faith that makes them look delirious, or could it be hunger, for since leaving St Joseph of Ribamar, they have had nothing to eat except stale bread softened in water from some well or other, but they are hoping for some respite at the hospice where they will spend the day, they can hardly take another step, like bonfires whose flames are reduced to ashes, their elation has given way to melancholy. They even missed seeing the statues being unloaded. The engineers and manual labourers arrived armed with windlasses, pulleys, hoists, cables, pads, wedges, and chocks, treacherous implements that easily slip and cause serious accidents, which explains why the woman from Cheleiros muttered, Cursed be all friars, and with much sweating and gnashing of teeth, the statues were eventually unloaded and set upright in the form of a circle, facing inwards, they look as if they are taking part in some reunion or game, between St Vincent and St Sebastian stand St Isabel, St Clare, and St Teresa, the latter look like midgets by comparison, but women should not be measured in spans, even when they are not saints.

Baltasar goes down into the valley and makes for home, it is true there is still work to be done before the convent is finished, but since he has had such a long and arduous journey, having come all the way from Santo António do Tojal, remember, in a single day, he is entitled to stop earlier, once the oxen have been unyoked and fed. There are moments when time appears to be slow in passing, like a swallow building its nest in the eaves, it enters and leaves, comes and goes, but always within sight, and both we and the swallow might think that we are bound to go on like this for all eternity, or at least half of it, which would be no bad thing. But suddenly the swallow is there, then gone, it is no longer there, yet I saw it a moment ago, so where can it have disappeared to, as when we look into the mirror and think, Dear God, how time has passed, how I have aged, only yesterday I was the darling of the neighbourhood, and now both darling and neighbourhood are in decline. Baltasar possesses no mirrors, save for these eyes of ours, which watch him descend that mud track leading to the town, and it is they that tell him, Your beard is full of white hairs, Baltasar, your forehead is covered with wrinkles, Baltasar, your neck has become scraggy, Baltasar, your shoulders are beginning to droop, Baltasar, you are a shadow of your former self, Baltasar, but surely this is a question of our failing eyesight, because it is a woman, in fact, who is coming towards us, and where we saw an old man, she sees a young man, who is none other than the soldier whom she once asked, What is your name, perhaps it is not even him she sees but simply this dirty, white-haired, one-handed man, nicknamed Sete-Sóis, coming down the mud track, who, despite his haggard look, is a constant sun in this woman's life, not because he always shines, but because he is so forcefully alive, hidden by clouds and screened by eclipses, but alive, dear God, as arms are outstretched, Whose arms, you may ask, Why, his to her and hers to him, this ageing couple are the scandal of the town of Mafra as they hug each other in the public square, but perhaps because they have never had any children they still think of themselves as being younger than they are, poor deluded creatures, or perhaps they are the only two human beings who see themselves as they really are, which is the most difficult thing of all, and now watching them together, even we can perceive that they have suddenly become physically transformed.

During supper, Álvaro Diogo reveals that the statues must remain where they have been unloaded, for there is no time to set them in their respective niches, the consecration is due to take place on Sunday, and, however carefully they plan or hard they work, there is simply not enough time to put the finishing touches to the basilica, the sacristy has been completed, but the vaults still have to be plastered, and since they look bare it has been decided that they should be covered with hessian dipped in gesso to create the illusion that they have already been plastered and whitewashed, in this way the overall effect will be much more impressive, and even the absence of the dome will scarcely be noticed. Álvaro Diogo knows a great deal about these details, having been promoted from mason to stonecutter, then from stonecutter to carver, and he is held in esteem by his masters and foremen, for he is invariably punctual, hardworking, and reliable, and as capable with his hands as he is willing to please, in no sense can he be compared to the rabble of drovers who disobey orders on the slightest pretext, smell of dung and sweat, while he is covered in marble dust which whitens one's hands and beard and sticks to a man's clothing for the rest of his life. As in the case of Álvaro Diogo, and precisely for the rest of his brief life, because shortly he will fall from a wall that he need never have climbed, since it was not part of his job, to straighten a stone which he himself had dressed and therefore must surely have been cut properly. He will fall to his death from a height of almost thirty metres, and Inês Antónia, who at this moment is so proud of the favourable position her husband holds, will soon turn into a sorrowing widow who will live in fear lest her son meet a similar fate, the afflictions of the poor are never-ending. Álvaro Diogo also informs them that, prior to the consecration of the convent, the novices will be moved to two wings that have already been built over the kitchens, and this piece of news led Baltasar to point out that, since the plaster was still damp and the weather so cold, there was every likelihood of illness among the friars, whereupon Álvaro Diogo replied that there were braziers already burning night and day in the cells that had been completed, but even so, water was running down the walls, And what about the statues of the saints, Baltasar, were they difficult to transport, Not really, the greatest problem was actually loading them, but, with know-how and brute force as well as the patience of the oxen, we finally made it. Their conversation waned as the fire turned to embers in the hearth, Álvaro Diogo and Inês Antónia retired to bed, and we shall say nothing of Gabriel, who was already dozing off as he chewed his last mouthful of food, then Baltasar asked, Would you like to go to see the statues, Blimunda, the sky ought to be clear, and the moon will be up soon, Let's go, she replied.

The night was clear and cold. While they were climbing the slope to the Alto da Vela the moon appeared, enormous and blood-red, outlining first the bell towers, then the irregular projections of the upper walls, and in the distance the crest of the mountain that had been the cause of so much labour and cost so much gunpowder. Baltasar told Blimunda, Tomorrow I'm off to Monte Junto to see how the machine is faring, six months have passed since I was last there, and who knows what I shall find, I'll go with you, It's scarcely worth it, I'm leaving early, and if there's not much to repair, I shall be back before nightfall, I'd better go now, for later there will be festivities to mark the consecration, and if the rain persists the roads will be much worse, Be careful, Don't worry, I shall not be attacked by thieves or savaged by wolves, I'm not speaking about thieves or wolves, About what, then, I'm speaking about the machine, Stop fussing, woman, I shall go and come straight back, you can't ask more than that, Promise me you'll be careful, Don't fret, woman, my time has not yet come, I cannot help fretting, husband, for our time comes sooner or later.

They had walked up to the large square in front of the church, a massive structure that appeared to burgeon from the earth and rise into mid-air as if quite separate from the other buildings. Of the future palace there was nothing but the ground floor, and on either side stood wooden constructions where the religious ceremonies were to be held. It seems incredible that thirteen years of constant toil should have produced so little, the church unfinished, the convent rising to the second floor on two wings of the projected building, but the rest barely to the height of the doorways, and only forty cells ready for occupation whereas three hundred are needed. So little appears to have been achieved, yet it is a great deal, perhaps even too much. An ant advances across the threshing floor and seizes a beard of corn. From there to the ant-hill is a distance of ten metres, less than twenty paces if covered by a man. However, it is not a man making this journey but an ant. Now, the unfortunate thing about this construction at Mafra is that the work is being done by men rather than by giants, and if with this and similar projects, both in the past and the future, the idea is to prove that men are capable of doing the work of giants, then one must accept that it will take them as long as it takes the ant to cross the threshing floor, everything must be seen in its proper perspective, whether it be ant-hills or convents, a foundation stone or a beard of corn.

Baltasar and Blimunda enter the circle of the statues. The moon shines directly on the two large effigies of St Sebastian and St Vincent and the three saints set between them, then the forms and faces ranged on either side are cast in encroaching shadows until total darkness conceals the statues of St Dominic and St Ignatius, a grave injustice since St Francis of Assisi has already been cast into total darkness, when he deserves to be illumined at the feet of his St Clare, not that any hint of carnal union is intended here, and even if it were, what harm would be done, this does not prevent people from becoming saints, and it does help make saints more human. Blimunda inspects the statues at length and tries to establish the identity of each saint, some she recognises at a glance, others she identifies after much thought, while still others baffle her completely. She is aware that those letters and markings on the base of the statue of St Vincent clearly indicate the saint's name for anyone who is capable of reading them. With her finger she traces out the curves and the straight lines like a blind man who is still trying to cope with Braille, Blimunda cannot ask the statue, Who are you, the blind man cannot ask the page in front of him, What are you saying, only Baltasar was able to answer, I am called Baltasar Mateus, alias Sete-Sóis, on the fateful day when Blimunda had asked him, What is your name. Everything in this world can volunteer some reply, what takes up time is posing the questions. A solitary cloud wafted in from the sea, alone in that vast expanse of clear sky, and for one long minute it covered the moon. The statues were transformed into amorphous spectres, without form or feature, like blocks of marble before they take shape under the sculptor's chisel. They are no longer saints but simply primitive relics without voice or design, as diffuse in their solidity as that of the man and woman in their midst who dissolve in the shadows, for the latter are not made of marble but merely living matter, and, as we know, nothing merges more readily with its shadow on the ground than human flesh. Beneath the enormous cloud that was slowly drifting past one could distinguish more clearly the glow of the bonfires that accompanied the vigil of the soldiers. In the distance, the Ilha da Madeira was a blurred mass, a huge dragon in repose, snorting through forty thousand nostrils, so many men sleeping there as well as the paupers from the hospices where there is not a bed to spare unless the nurses shift some of the corpses, the one whose internal ulcers burst, the one who bled from the mouth, and this one who was left paralysed after an apoplectic stroke and died when it recurred. The cloud retreated inland, which is another way of saying away from the sea, towards the interior of the country, although we can never be sure what a cloud is doing once we take our eyes away or it hides behind that mountain, it might have gone underground or settled on the surface of the earth in order to fertilise who knows what strange existences and rare powers, Baltasar said, Let's go home, Blimunda.

They left the circle of statues, which were once more bathed in light, and just as they were about to descend into the valley, Blimunda looked back. The statues glistened like crystallised salt. By listening attentively one could hear the sound of conversation from that direction, some council perhaps, or debate or tribunal, probably their first since they had been shipped from Italy, travelling in damp, rat-infested holds or brutally tied down on the decks, and probably the last conversation they would ever enjoy like this under the moonlight, for soon the statues will be placed inside their niches, where some of them will no longer be able to face one another but will only be able to look sideways, while others will go on looking up at the sky, as if they were being punished. Blimunda said, The saints must be unhappy, as they were made, so they remain, and if this is sanctity, what must damnation be like, They're only statues, I'd like them to come down from those plinths and be human like us, for you can't hold a conversation with a statue, Perhaps they speak to one another when they're alone, That's something we don't know, but if they speak only to each other, and without witnesses, I can't help asking myself why we need them, I've always heard it said that the saints are necessary for our salvation, They didn't save themselves, Who told you that, That's what I feel deep inside me, What do you feel deep inside you, That no one is saved, and no one is lost, It's sinful to think such things, Sin doesn't exist, there is only death and life, Life comes before death, You're deceiving yourself, Baltasar, for death comes before life, who we were has died, who we are is being born, and that's why we do not die all at once, And when we go under the earth, and when Francisco Marques is crushed beneath the cart carrying the stone, is that not death without recourse, If we're talking about Francisco Marques, he is born, But he doesn't know it, Just as we don't really know who we are, yet we are alive, Blimunda, where did you learn these things, My eyes were open when I was still inside my mother's womb, and from there I saw everything.

They entered the yard. The moon was already the colour of milk. More clearly defined than if they had been outlined by the sun, the shadows were black and impenetrable. There was an old hut covered in withered bulrushes where in happier times a donkey could rest from the chore of fetching and carrying. It was known as the donkey's hut, although its occupant had died many years ago, so many that even Baltasar could no longer remember, I used to ride that donkey, no, I didn't, and whenever he vacillated in this way or said, I'll store my rake in the donkey's hut, he was agreeing with Blimunda, it was as if he were seeing the beast standing there before him with its baskets and pack saddle, and were hearing his mother call out from the kitchen, Go help your father unload, he could not offer much help, for he was still a little boy, but as he grew up he gradually got used to heavy work, and since every endeavour brings its rewards, his father would lift him on to the donkey, which was damp with sweat, and take him for a little ride around the yard, and in the end I looked upon that donkey as if it were mine. Blimunda led him inside the hut, it was not the first time that they had gone in there at night, sometimes to please him, sometimes to please her, they went there when they could no longer repress their urgent need, when they could no longer resist giving way to passion with moans and cries likely to provoke a scandal when compared with the discreet embraces of Álvaro Diogo and Inês Antónia and the anguished restlessness of their nephew, Gabriel, who was driven to relieve himself by sinful means. The huge, old-fashioned manger, which had once been attached to supports at a convenient height from the ground, was now lying on the floor, badly cracked but as comfortable as a royal couch once furnished with straw and two old blankets. Álvaro Diogo and Inês Antónia knew what took place there but said nothing. They themselves felt no desire to experience such novelties, being tranquil creatures whose sexual needs were modest, only Gabriel will come here for amorous encounters after their fortunes have altered, which will be sooner than anyone imagines. Save perhaps someone like Blimunda, not because she pulled Baltasar towards the hut for, after all, she was always the sort of woman who made the first move, uttered the first word, and made the first gesture but because of a sudden anxiety that catches at the throat, because of the violence with which she embraces Baltasar, because of her eagerness to kiss him, poor mouths, their bloom gone, with some teeth missing and others broken, but in the end it is love that prevails.

Contrary to their custom, they spent the night there. When dawn broke, Baltasar announced, I am going to Monte Junto, and Blimunda got up and went into the house, the kitchen was plunged in semi-darkness as she rummaged and eventually found some food, her in-laws and nephew were still asleep when she left, closing the door behind her, she also brought Baltasar's knapsack, into which she packed the food and his tools, taking care not to forget the spike, for no one can be certain of avoiding some evil encounter. They left together, and Blimunda accompanied him until they were outside the town, in the distance, the white towers of the church were visible against the clouds in the sky, quite unexpected after such a clear night. They embraced each other sheltered by the branches of a tree and the burnished leaves of autumn, while treading those that had fallen until they merged with the soil, thus providing nourishment for another verdant spring. This is not Oriana in courtly dress bidding Amadis farewell, or Romeo gathering juliet's kiss as he descends from her balcony, it is only Baltasar on his way to Monte Junto to repair the ravages of time, it is only Blimunda trying in vain to arrest the fleeting hours. In their dark clothing they look like two restless shadows, no sooner do they part than they come together, who can tell what these two perceive, or what new intrigues they are preparing, perhaps it will all turn out to be illusory, the fruit of a certain time and a certain place, for we know that happiness is short-lived, that we fail to cherish it when it is within our grasp and value it only when it has vanished forever, Don't stay away too long, Baltasar, You must sleep in the hut, it will probably be dusk by the time I get back, but if there are many repairs to be done, don't expect me before tomorrow, Of course, Farewell, Blimunda, Farewell, Baltasar.

There is little point in narrating journeys that have already been described. Enough has been said about the considerable changes in those who made those journeys, and as for the locations and settings, one need only observe that men and seasons pass, the former in gradual stages, as that house, roof, plot of land, wall, palace, bridge, convent, carriage, street, and mill, the latter more abruptly, as if never to return, spring, summer, autumn as at present, then winter, which is fast approaching. Baltasar knows these roads like the palm of his right hand. He rests on the riverbank at Pedrulhos, where he once relaxed with Blimunda in a season of flowers, of marigolds in the woodlands, of poppies in the cornfields and muted colours in the copses. Along the route he meets people making their way down to Mafra, throngs of men and women who roll drums both large and small and play the bagpipes, sometimes accompanied by a priest or a friar and often by a cripple on crutches, could this be the day of consecration, marked by one or more miracles, one can never tell when God may decide to apply His remedies, which helps explain why the blind, the lame, and the paralytic walk in perpetual pilgrimage, Will Our Lord appear today, perhaps I have deceived myself with this false hope, probably I shall make the journey to Mafra only to discover that it is the Lord's day for resting, or that He has sent His Mother to Our Lady of the Cape, it is impossible to fathom this distribution of powers, but in the end our faith will save us, Save us from what, Blimunda would inquire.

Early that afternoon, Baltasar reached the foothills of the Serra do Barregudo. In the background towered Monte Junto, bright in the sunlight, which had just emerged from clouds. Shadows flitted over the sierra like great nocturnal beasts roving the hills and creasing them as they went, until the sun brought warmth to the trees and was reflected in the puddles. The wind beat against the stationary vanes of the windmills and whistled in the clay pots, these are details observed by those who stroll without care in the world, who are content just to stroll and contemplate that cloud in the sky, the sun as it begins to set, the wind that blows up here only to die down over there, the leaf shaken from its branch or dropping to the ground when it withers, that an old and cruel soldier has eyes for such details, a soldier who has a man's death on his conscience, a crime perhaps redeemed by other episodes in his life, such as to have been marked with a cross signed in blood over his heart, and has perceived how huge the world is and how small all that inhabits it, and speaks to his oxen in a low and gentle voice, this may seem little, but someone will know if it is enough.

Baltasar was already tackling the rugged slopes of Monte Junto and searching out amid the undergrowth the almost invisible path that would lead him to the flying machine, he invariably feels tense as he approaches the spot, afraid that someone might have discovered its presence, that it might have been damaged or even been stolen, and with every visit he is surprised to find it sitting there as if it had just landed, still vibrating after its rapid descent as it nestles in shrubs and wondrous creepers, truly wondrous, because this is not their natural habitat. The flying machine has not been stolen or damaged, it stands in the very same spot, its wings sagging, its birdlike neck entangled with the tallest branches, its dark head like a nest suspended in mid-air. Baltasar drew near, threw his knapsack to the ground, and sat down to rest a while before setting to work. He ate two fried sardines on a slice of bread, using the tip and the blade of the knife with the dexterity of someone carving ivory miniatures, when he had finished, he cleaned the blade on the grass, wiped his hand on his breeches, and went up to the machine. The sun was fierce, the heat stifling. Climbing on to the wing and treading carefully so as not to disturb the camouflage of willow canes, Baltasar entered the Passarola. Some of the timber planks on deck had rotted. He would have to fetch the necessary materials and stay here several days to replace them, or, and only now did he think of this, he would have to dismantle the machine section by section, take the pieces back to Mafra, and conceal them under some haystack or in an underground passage of the convent, provided he could enlist the help of a few close friends by confiding part of his secret, he was amazed that he had not thought of this solution before, when he got back home, he would talk to Blimunda. Lost in thought, he scarcely noticed where he was putting his feet, suddenly two planks gave way and caved in. He made a desperate attempt to break his fall, causing the hook attached to his arm to get caught in the metal ring used to tie back the sails, hanging there in mid-air, Baltasar watched the sails slip away to one side with a resounding thud, Sunlight flooded into the machine, the amber balls and globes started to gleam. The machine turned on itself twice, broke free of the surrounding shrubs, and rose into the air. There was not a cloud to be seen in the sky.