The History of the Siege of Lisbon

...

IT WAS NOT YET EIGHT O'CLOCK when Costa rang the doorbell. The proof-reader, who had slept badly as one disturbing dream followed another, was at last sleeping heavily, at least this was what that part of him which had reached a level of consciousness that allowed him to think concluded, namely that this deep sleep finally prevailed, given the difficulty of awakening the other part, despite the insistent ringing of the doorbell, four times, five, now a prolonged ringing which went on and on, as if the mechanism of the button had jammed. Raimundo Silva realised, naturally, that he would have to get up, but he could not leave one half of himself in the bed, perhaps even more, what would Costa say, in all certainty it is Costa, now that the police no longer drag us out of bed in the middle of the night, yes, what will Costa have to say if he sees only half of Raimundo Silva appear, perhaps the Benvindo half, a man should always go in his entirety wherever he is called, he cannot allege, I've come with part of myself, the rest got delayed on the way. The bell went on ringing, Costa starts to get worried. Such silence in the house, finally the awakened part of the proof-reader manages to call out in a hoarse voice, I'm just coming, and only then does the part which is asleep begin to stir, but with reluctance. Now, precariously reunited, unsteady on legs which could belong to anyone, they cross the room, the door on the landing is at a right angle to this one, and both could almost be opened with a single gesture, it is Costa, clearly sorry to have disturbed him at this hour, Forgive me, then it dawns on him that he has not said good morning, Good morning, Senhor Silva, I do apologise for calling so early, but I've come to collect those little proofs, Costa genuinely wishes to be forgiven, the deprecating tone can imply nothing else, Yes, of course, says the proof-reader, go through to the study.

When Raimundo Silva reappears, tightening his belt and pulling up the collar of his dressing-gown, which is in shades of blue with a tartan design, Costa already has the bundle of proofs in his hand, he holds them as if he were weighing them, and even comments sympathetically, This really is enormous, but he does not actually leaf through the pages, simply asks somewhat nervously, Did you make many more corrections, and Raimundo Silva replies, No, while smiling to himself, fortunately no one can ask him why, Costa does not know that he is being deceived by that tiny word, No, which in a single utterance both masks and reveals, Costa had asked, Did you make many more corrections, and the proof-reader replied, No, with a smile, now on edge as he says, If you wish, take a look for yourself, Costa is surprised at such benevolence, a vague sentiment which soon dispersed, It isn't worth the bother, I'm going straight to the press from here, they promised me the book would go to press the moment the proofs arrived. If Costa were to leaf through the pages and spot the error, the proof-reader is convinced he would still be able to persuade him with two or three concocted phrases about context and denial, contradiction and appearance, nexus and indétermination, but Costa is now anxious to be off, they are waiting for him at the press, he is delighted because the Production team has achieved one more victory in the battle against time, Today is the first day of the rest of your life, he should, of course, be more severe, it is not acceptable that problems should always be solved at the last moment, we must work within wider and safer margins, but the proof-reader has such a helpless expression as he stands there in that pseudo-tartan dressing-gown unshaven, his hair grotesquely dyed and in sad contrast with his pale complexion, that Costa, who is in his prime, despite belonging to a generation that has made a mockery of kindness, suppresses his justified complaints and almost with affection, removes from his briefcase the manuscript of a new book for revision. This one is short, little more than two hundred pages, and there is no real urgency. What he means by this gesture and these words is not lost on Raimundo Silva, he can decipher that semitone added or removed from a vowel, his hearing attuned to reading as clearly as his eyes, and this makes him almost remorseful that he should be deceiving the ingenuous Costa, envoy and messenger of an error for which he is not responsible, as happens to the majority of men, who live and die in all innocence, affirming and denying on account of others, yet settling accounts as if they were their own, but Allah is wise and the rest a figment of the imagination.

Costa departed, happy to have made such a good start to the day, and Raimundo Silva goes into the kitchen to prepare some coffee with milk and buttered toast. Toasted bread for this man of norms and principles is almost a vice and truly a manifestation of uncontrollable greed, wherein enter multiple sensations, both of vision and touch, as well as of smell and taste, beginning with that gleaming chrome-plated toaster, then the knife cutting slices of bread, the aroma of toasted bread, the butter melting, and finally that mouth-watering taste, so, difficult to describe, in one's mouth, on one's palate, tongue and teeth, to which that ineffable dark pellicle sticks, browned yet soft, and once more that aroma, now deep down, the person who invented such a delicacy deserves to be in heaven. One day, Raimundo Silva spoke these very words aloud, at a fleeting moment when he had the impression that this perfect creation made from bread and fire was being transfused into his blood, because, frankly, even the butter was superfluous and he would happily have done without, although only a fool would refuse this final addition to the essential which only serves to increase one's appetite and enjoyment, as in the case of this buttered toast we were discussing, the same could be said of love, for example, if only the proof-reader were more experienced. Raimundo Silva finished eating, went into the bathroom to shave and do something about his appearance. Until his face is well covered in foam, he avoids looking at himself directly in the mirror, he now regrets having decided to dye his hair, he has become the prisoner of his own artifice, because, more than the displeasure caused by his own image, what he cannot bear is the idea that, by no longer dyeing his hair, the white hairs he knows to be there will suddenly come to light, all at once, a cruel incursion, instead of that naturally slow progression which out of foolish vanity he decided one day to interrupt. These are the petty misfortunes of the spirit which the body, although blameless, has to pay for.

Back in his study and curious about this new assignment, Raimundo Silva examines the manuscript Costa has left him, heaven forbid that it should turn out to be A Comprehensive History of Portugal, bringing further temptations as to whether it should be Yes or No, or that even more seductive temptation to add a speculative note with an infinite Perhaps which would leave no stone unturned or fact unchallenged. After all, this is simply another novel amongst so many, he need not concern himself with introducing what is already there, for such books, the fictions they narrate, are created, both books and fictions, with a constant element of doubt, with a reticent affirmation, above all the disquiet of knowing that nothing is true, and that it is necessary to pretend that it is, at least for a time, until we can no longer resist the indelible evidence of change, then we turn to the time that has passed, for it alone is truly time, and we try to reconstitute the moment we failed to recognise, the moment that passed while we were reconstituting some other time, and so on and so forth, from one moment to the next, every novel is like this, desperation, a frustrated attempt to save something of the past. Except that it still has not been established whether it is the novel that prevents man from forgetting himself or the impossibility of forgetfulness that makes him write novels.

Raimundo Silva has the salutary habit of allowing himself a free day whenever he finishes the revision of a manuscript. It gives him respite, or as he would say, relief, and so he goes out into the world, strolls through the streets, lingers before shop-windows, sits on a park bench, amuses himself for a couple of hours in a cinema, enters some museum on a sudden impulse to take another look at a favourite painting, in a word leads the life of someone who is paying a visit and will not be back all that soon. Sometimes, however, he does not fit all these things in. He often returns home in mid-afternoon, neither tired nor bored, simply because summoned by an inner voice with whom there is no point arguing, he has the manuscript of a book waiting for him, another one, because the publisher who values and esteems his work has never so far left him without work. Despite so many years of this monotonous existence, he is still curious to know what words might be waiting for him, what conflict, thesis, opinion, what simple plot, the same thing happened with The History of the Siege of Lisbon, nor is it surprising, for since his time at school neither chance nor inclination had aroused any further interest in such remote events.

This time, however, Raimundo Silva foresees that he will return home late, most likely he will even go to a midnight session at the cinema, and we do not need to be very perceptive in order to realise that he is anxious to keep out of the immediate reach of Costa, should the latter discover the deception, of which he is both author and accomplice, for as the author he erred and as the proof-reader he failed to correct the mistake. Besides, it is almost ten o'clock, at the press they must already be setting up the first frames, the printer, with slow and cautious movements which distinguish the specialist, will make any necessary adjustments after assembling the pages and locking them into the chase, any minute now the sheets of paper narrating the spurious History of the Siege of Lisbon will rapidly begin to appear, just as at any minute now the telephone might ring, strange that it should not have rung already, with Costa bellowing at the other end, An inexplicable error, Senhor Silva, fortunately I noticed it just in time, grab a taxi and get yourself here at once, this matter is your responsibility, I'm sorry but this is not something we can deal with over the telephone, I want you here in the presence of witnesses, Costa is so agitated that his voice sounds shrill, and Raimundo Silva, who is feeling just as nervous, or even more so, driven by these imaginings, gets dressed in haste, goes to the window to check the weather, it is cold but the sky is clear. On the other side, tall chimneys send up spirals of smoke which rise vertically at first, until broken by the wind and reduced to a slow cloud that heads southwards. Raimundo looks down at the roof-tops covering the ancient foundations of Lisbon. His hands are resting on the parapet of the verandah, he can feel the cold, rough ironwork, he is now tranquil, simply gazing, no longer thinking, feeling somewhat empty, when it suddenly occurs to him how he can spend his free day, something he has never done before, and those who complain of life's brevity only have themselves to blame if they have failed to take advantage of whatever life they have been given.

He left the verandah, looked amongst his papers for the first proofs of The Siege, still in his possession along with the second and third proofs, but not the original manuscript, that remains with the publishers once the first revision has been completed, he put them into a paper bag, and now the telephone starts ringing. Raimundo Silva shuddered, his left hand, raised out of habit, reached out, but stopped halfway and drew back, this black object is a time-bomb about to explode, a quivering rattlesnake ready to attack. Slowly, as if afraid that his footsteps might be heard where the call is coming from, the proof-reader moves away, muttering to himself, It's Costa, but he is wrong, and he will never find out who wanted to speak to him at this hour of the morning, who or for what reason, Costa will not say to him, within the next few days, I telephoned your home, but no one answered, not even some other person, but who, will repeat the statement, Such a pity, I had some good news to give you, the telephone rang and rang, and no one answered. It is true, the telephone is ringing and ringing, but Raimundo Silva will not reply, he is already in the passageway, ready to go out most likely, after so many doubts and worries, it must have been someone who dialled the wrong number, such things can happen, but this is something we shall never know, it is simply an assumption, although he would like to take advantage of this hypothesis, it would give the proof-reader greater peace of mind, which, all things considered, is a somewhat flippant way of putting it, given that any such peace of mind in the present circumstances, would be no better than the uncertain relief of a mere postponement, Let this cup pass from me, Jesus said, but to no avail, because the command would be repeated.

As he descends the steep, narrow stairway, Raimundo Silva is thinking that he might still be in time to avoid the evil hour awaiting him when his reckless behaviour is discovered, he need only take a taxi and rush to the press, where Costa is certain to be on hand, delighted at having proved once more that efficiency is his hallmark, Costa, who represents Production, loves coming to the press in order to give, as it were, the word to start printing, and he is just on the point of doing so when Raimundo Silva bursts through the door, shouting, Stop, hold on, as in that fictional episode about the breathless messenger who brings a royal pardon to a condemned man at the eleventh hour, such relief, but short-lived, for there is a vast difference between knowing that we shall die one day and having to confront the end of everything, the firing squad about to aim, and who knows it better than he who, having earlier made a miraculous escape, now finds himself in a hopeless predicament, Dostoevsky got away the first time, but not the second time. In the bright, cold light on the street, Raimundo appears to be still pondering what he will finally do, but this pondering is misleading, mere appearances, the proof-reader inwardly imagines a debate with a foregone conclusion, here prevailed that familiar saying of intransigent chess-players, once handled, a pawn has been played, my dear Alekhine, what I have written, I have written. Raimundo Silva gives a deep sigh, he looks at the two rows of buildings to the left and right, with a strange feeling of possession that embraces the very ground he treads, he who has no worldly goods under the sun nor any hope of ever acquiring them, having lost ages ago the illusory inheritance expected from his godmother Benvinda, God rest her soul, if she is being comforted by the prayers of her legitimate and rewarded heirs, no less or more grasping than nature generally ordains, and much the same everywhere. But it is true that the proof-reader, who has been living in this district close to the castle for more yeats than he cares to remember, and has all the reference he needs to find his way home, now experiences, along with the aforementioned pleasure of being the new owner, an open and liberating sense of pleasure which might even last beyond the next corner, when he turns into the Rua Bartolomeu de Gusmão, in the zone of shadows. As he walks along, he asks himself where this reassurance is coming from, when he knows full well that he is being pursued by the sword of Damocles, in the form of a letter of formal dismissal, for reasons more than justified, incompetence, deliberate fraud, premeditated malice, incitement to perversion. He asks, and imagines receiving a reply from the very offence that he committed, not from the offence in itself, but from the inevitable consequences, that is to say, Raimundo Silva, who finds himself at the precise location of the ancient Moorish city, has a multiple and kaleidoscopic awareness of this historical and topographical coincidence, no doubt thanks to his formal decision to have the crusaders refusing to help the Portuguese, thus leaving the latter to get along as best they could with their own meagre national forces, if they could already be described as national, since it is certain that seven years earlier, despite the assistance of other crusaders, they came face to face with the ramparts and did not even attempt to get any closer, simply carrying out forays, destroying orchards and kitchen-gardens, and doing other damage to private property. Well now, the only purpose of these minute considerations is to make it clear, however much it may cost to admit it in the light of crude reality, that for Raimundo Silva, until there is proof to the contrary or God Our Lord disposes otherwise, Lisbon continues to belong to the Moors, because, if you'll bear with the repetition, twenty-four hours have not elapsed since that fatal moment when the crusaders uttered that damaging refusal, and in such a short time it would have been impossible for the Portuguese to plan on their own the complicated tactics and strategies of siege, blockade, battle and assault, let us hope in diminishing order of duration when the time comes.

Obviously, the Café Graciosa, where the proof-reader is heading for at this moment, did not exist here in the year one thousand one hundred and forty-seven in which we find ourselves, under this June sky, magnificent and warm notwithstanding the fresh breeze coming in from the sea through the mouth of the straits. A café has always been the ideal place to catch up on the news, the customers sit there at their leisure, and this being a working-class district, where everybody knows each other and daily contact has reduced any formalities to the minimum, apart from a few simple pleasantries, Good morning, How are you, All well at home, said without paying much attention to the real meaning of these questions and answers, and soon moving on to the concerns of the day, which are wide-ranging and all of them serious. The city has become one great chorus of lamentations with the arrival of so many fugitives, ousted by the troops of Ibn Arrinque, the Galician, may Allah punish him and condemn him to darkest hell, and the wretched fugitives arrive in a pitiful state, the blood gushing from their wounds, crying out and weeping, many of them with stumps instead of hands, their ears or noses cut off with the most wanton cruelty, an advance warning from the Portuguese king. And it would appear, says the café-owner, that the crusaders are on their way by sea, damn them, rumour has it that two hundred ships are about to arrive, this time the situation is really serious, mark my words, Oh, the poor creatures, says a fat woman, wiping away a tear, for I've just come this minute from the Porta de Ferro, a wilderness of misery and misfortune, the doctors don't know where to turn, I saw people with their faces battered into blood and pulp, one poor fellow had his eyes gouged out, horrible, horrible, may the Prophet's sword fall on the assassins, It will, interrupted a youth who was leaning against the counter with a glass of milk in one hand, if left to us, We shall never surrender, said the café-owner, the Portuguese and the crusaders were here seven years ago and were sent packing with their tails between their legs, Too true, the youth continued, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but then Allah is not in the habit of helping those who do not help themselves, and as for those five ships carrying crusaders anchored in the river for the last six days, I ask myself what we're waiting for before we attack and sink them, That would be just punishment, said the fat woman, in payment for all the misery they have caused our people, Scarcely in payment, rejoined the café-owner, since for every outrage committed against us, we have paid back in kind at least a hundredfold, But my eyes are like the dead doves that will never more return to their nests, said the muezzin.

Raimundo Silva entered, said good morning to no one in particular, and sat at a table behind the showcase where the usual tempting delicacies were on display, sponges, mille feuilles, cream cornets, tartlets, rice cakes, mokatines and, those inevitable croissants, in the shape dictated by the French word, a pastry that has risen only to collapse at the first bite and disintegrate until there are nothing but crumbs left on the plate, tiny celestial bodies which the huge wet finger of Allah is lifting to his mouth, then all that remains will be a terrible cosmic void, if being and nothingness are compatible. The fellow behind the counter, who is not the owner, puts aside the glasses he is washing and brings the coffee the proof-reader ordered, he knows him even though he does not patronise the café every day, only now and then, and he always gives the impression of whiling away the time, today he seems more relaxed, he opens a paper bag and takes out a thick bundle of loose pages, the waiter tries to find some space to deposit the cup of coffee and glass of water, he places the wrapped lump of sugar on the saucer, and before withdrawing, repeats the observation he has been making all morning that it has turned very cold, Fortunately, there isn't any fog today, the proof-reader smiles as if he had just received some good news. It is true, fortunately there is no fog, but a fat woman at the next table who is eating a mille feuille with her white coffee informs him that according to the weather report given by the Meteorological or Metrological Office, as the woman insists on pronouncing it, the mist will probably reappear by evening, who would have thought it, the sky now being so clear, this bright sunshine, a poetic observation not made by him, but inserted here because irresistible. Time, like fortune, is inconstant, said the proof-reader, conscious of the banality of those words. Neither the waiter nor the woman made any reply, this being the most prudent attitude to adopt when confronted with definitive statements, to listen and say nothing, waiting for time itself to tear them to shreds, although they often become even more definitive, like those of the Greeks and Romans, until finally consigned to oblivion when time finally comes to an end. The waiter turned back to washing glasses, the woman to what remained of her mille feuille, any minüte now, furtively, because it is impolite, although irresistible, she will pick up the crumbs on her plate with her wet forefinger, but she will not lift all of them, one by one, because the crumbs of mille feuilles, as we know from experience, are just like particles of cosmic dust, endless, droplets of perpetual mist without remission. In this same café, we would find another youth, had he not died in the war, and as for the muezzin, we need only recall that we were just about to find out how he died of merciful fright, when the crusader Osbern, but not the same Osbern, came down on him, with raised sword, spilling fresh blood, may Allah take pity on his own creatures, wretched as they are notwithstanding.

While drinking his coffee, Raimundo Silva began searching for the pages of The History of the Siege of Lisbon that interested him, not the king's speech, nor the battle scenes, he has lost all interest whether balear or balearic is the correct adjective for those slings, and wants to know nothing more about capitulation and sacking. He has found what he was looking for, four sheets of paper which he separates from the pile and re-reads attentively, running a line over the more important references with a fluorescent yellow marker. The fat woman watches this strange operation with wary respect, and then quite unpredictably, with no direct relationship of cause and effect between another's action and one's own thoughts, she suddenly gathers the crumbs together into a little pile and with five chubby fingertips she scoops them up, squeezes them together and bringing them to her mouth, avidly devours them, smacking her lips. Disturbed by the noise, Raimundo Silva looked away, no doubt, disapprovingly, thinking to himself that the temptation to regress to certain childish habits is a constant trait in the human species, if Dom Afonso Henriques eats voraciously with his fingers, so what, it is the custom of the time, although certain innovations can now be seen, such as sticking a knife into a chunk of beef and bringing it to one's mouth, all that remains now is for someone to have the bright idea to add prongs to the tip of the knife, the invention is long overdue, after all, those absent-minded inventors need only take note of those pitchforks in rough wood with which farmers harvest and gather in their wheat and barley and load them on to carts, besides as experience has all too clearly shown, no one will progress in art or life if they succumb to the comforts of the court. But the woman in the café has no such excuse since her parents took great pains to teach her how to behave at table, yet here she is relapsing into her old habits which probably go back to those primitive times when Moors and Christians had similar habits, a somewhat controversial opinion, for some would argue that the followers of Mohammed were much more civilised, and that the others, out-and-out rustics who rejoiced in their stubbornness, knew little or nothing about good manners, but everything will change one day when they start to worship the Virgin Mary with such fervour that they soon forget Her Divine Son, not to mention their insulting disregard for the Eternal Father. And so we can see how, quite naturally, and without any effort, by passing quietly from one episode to another, we soar from that mille feuille eaten by a woman in the Café Graciosa, to Him who feels no hunger, yet who has endowed us with a thousand desires and needs.

Raimundo Silva puts the proofs of The History of the Siege of Lisbon back into the paper bag, with the exception of the four pages of interest which he folds and carefully tucks into the inside pocket of his jacket, he then goes up to the counter where the waiter is serving a glass of milk and a pastry to a young man who looks as if he is in search of work and whose earnest expression is that of someone who anticipates that this is the most substantial meal he is likely to have all day. The proof-reader is a sufficiently astute and sensitive observer to be able to take in all these details at a single glance, we might even speculate that one day he saw a similar expression in his own eyes when looking into the mirror at home, but no point in asking him, because we are much more interested in the present, and, from the past only some memory, not so much his as of the past in general, the part modified by that reckless word. Now it only remains to be seen where it will lead us, undoubtedly, in the first place, to Raimundo Silva, for the word, any word, has this facility or virtue to lead to the person who used it, and then, perhaps, who knows, to us who pursue it like hounds on the trail, considerations which are obviously premature, since the siege has not yet started, the Moors who come into the café sing in chorus, We shall conquer, we shall conquer, with the weapons we carry it is possible, but to achieve so much Mohammed will have to help as he best knows how, because we can see no weapons, and the arsenal, if the voice of the people is truly the voice of Allah, is not sufficiently stocked in proportion to their needs. Raimundo Silva says to the waiter, Look after this parcel for me, I'll collect it before you close, meaning the Café, of course, and the waiter sticks the parcel between two covered jars on the shelf behind him, It'll be quite safe here, he says, and it never occurred to him to ask why Raimundo Silva does not leave the parcel at home, since he lives so near, in the Rua do Milagre de Santo Antonio which is only round the corner, but waiters, contrary to general opinion, are discreet fellows, they listen with saintly patience to the rumours going round, day in, day out, every day of their life, and it becomes tedious, while out of professional courtesy and rather than offend the clients who are their raison d'être, they show the greatest interest and listen attentively, but at heart, they are always thinking of something else, such as, for example, of what interest the proof-reader's reply might be if he were to give one, I'm afraid someone might ring. The young man has finished eating his cake and is now unselfconsciously using what remains of the milk to rinse out any crumbs still sticking to his teeth and gums, waste not want not, as our dear parents would say, but these words of sublime wisdom brought them no riches and, as far as we know, this was not the source of the lamented possessions of Godmother Benvinda, God forgive her if He can.

The waiter in the café is wise not to pay any attention to gossip. It is well known that when there are serious tensions on the international front, the first signs of instability and financial ruin are to be seen in the tourist industry. Now if the situation here in this city of Lisbon were one of imminent siege and attack, these tourists would not be arriving, the first this morning, transported in two buses, one full of Japanese with their binoculars and cameras, the other with Americans wearing anoraks and shorts in garish colours. They assemble behind the interpreters, and side by side, in two separate columns, they start climbing the slope, they are about to enter the Rúa do Chão da Feira by the gate with the niche of St George, they will marvel at the saint and the terrifying dragon, ridiculously small in the eyes of the Japanese who are accustomed to somewhat more prodigious monsters of the species. As for the Americans, they will be deeply ashamed when forced to acknowledge that a cowboy from the Far West lassoing a wild heifer cuts a poor figure when compared with this knight in shining armour, invincible in every battle, although there is some suspicion that he abandoned these latest conflicts and is now living on past laurels. The tourists had already moved on and the street suddenly went quiet, we are even tempted to say into a state of torpor, if the word, which irresistibly insinuates into one's spirit and body the lassitude of a torrid summer, were not to sound incongruous on such a cold morning, however tranquil the place and quiet the people. From here the river can be seen over the merlons of the cathedral which resemble a game of ninepins above the bell-towers which the unevenness of the terrain has made invisible, and despite the great distance, you can sense the serenity out there and imagine the throbbing flight of seagulls over the gleaming highway of the waters. If it were true that there are five ships carrying crusaders out there, they would almost certainly have started to bombard the defenceless city, but no such thing will happen, because we know very well that from this side no harm will come to the Moors, once it has been said and subsequently written for posterity, that the Portuguese on this occasion cannot rely on help from those who have entered port simply to replenish their supply of drinking water and rest from the hardships of navigation and the agonies of tempests, before continuing their journey to oust the infidels, not in any old city such as Lisbon, but on that hallowed ground where God once walked, leaving the divine traces of his bare feet where no other has passed, and which the rain and wind have left undisturbed.

Raimundo Silva turned the corner leading into the Rua do Milagre de Santo Antonio and passing in front of his house, perhaps because he was only semi-consciously listening to the sounds around him, had the fleeting impression that he could hear a telephone ringing, Could it be mine, he wondered, but the sound was coming from nearby, it might have been in the barber's shop on the other side of the street, and just then another possibility comes to mind, how careless of him, how utterly stupid to imagine that Costa would necessarily use the telephone, Who knows, he might be about to arrive at any minute, and his imagination, ever obliging, conjured up the scene, Costa at the wheel of his car, driving at full speed up the Rua do Limoeiro, the screeching of his tyres still hovering in the air as he takes the bend round the cathedral, unless Raimundo Silva gets out of the way, Costa will loom into sight with his engine roaring, braking abruptly at the entrance to his apartment and say breathlessly, Get in, get in, we must have a chat, no, I can't discuss these matters here, for despite everything Costa is well-mannered, incapable of creating a scene in public. The proof-reader waits no longer, he rapidly descends the Escadinhas de'São Crispim and only pauses for breath after turning the bend where he is concealed from Costa's searching eyes. He sits on a step to recover from his fright, shoos away a dog that has come up to him, its nose outstretched to catch his scent, and removes from his inside pocket the four pages he has extracted from the bundle of proofs, he unfolds them and smooths them out on his lap.

The idea, which came to him as he watched the roof-tops descending like steps as far as the river, is to follow the lay-out of the Moorish fortifications according to the scant and rather dubious information provided by the historian, as he himself had the good grace to acknowledge. But here, right before Raimundo Silva's eyes is a fragment, if not of the indestructible rampart itself, at least of a wall occupying the same space where the other stood, and descending all the way down the steps beneath a row of broad windows surmounted by tall gables. Raimundo Silva, therefore, is on the outer side of the city, he belongs to the besieging army, and it would only take one of those windows to open for a Moorish girl to appear and start singing, This is proud Lisbon, Impregnable, Here the Christian will meet his perdition, and on finishing her song, she taps disdainfully on the window, but unless the proof-reader's eyes are deceiving him, the muslin curtain has been drawn back ever so discreetly, and this simple gesture was enough to mitigate any threat in those words, if we take them literally, for it might well be that Lisbon, contrary to all appearances, was not a city but a woman, and the perdition simply amorous, assuming that the restrictive adverb has some meaning here, and that this is not the only blissful perdition. The dog drew near once more, now Raimundo Silva looks at it nervously, who knows it might have rabies, for he once read, he no longer remembers where, that one of the signs of the dreaded disease is a drooping tail, and this one looks rather limp, probably because it has been ill-treated, for the animal's ribs are sticking out, another sign, but this one decisive, is that unsightly saliva trickling down the fauces and fangs, but this mongrel, is only drooling because of the smell of food being cooked here on the Escadinhas de'São Crispim. The dog, let us rest assured, does not have rabies, perhaps if we were living in the time of the Moors, but nowadays, in a city like this, modern, hygienic, organised, even the sight of a stray dog comes as a surprise, it has probably escaped the net because of its preference for this remote, uphill route, which calls for nimble feet and the vigour of youth, blessings which do not necessarily coincide in dog-catchers.

Raimundo Silva goes on consulting the pages, mentally following the itinerary, and a stealthy glance at the dog suddenly reminds him of the historian's description of the horrors of famine endured by the beleaguered for months on end, neither dog nor cat survived, even the rats disappeared, but if this was so, then surely the man was right who said that a dog barked that serene dawn when the muezzin climbed the minaret to summon the faithful to morning prayers, and the man was mistaken who argued that because the dog was unclean, the Moors could not bear to have the animal in their sight, now let us concede that they banned dogs from their houses and deprived them of caresses and feeding-bowls, but never from vast Islam, for truly, if we are capable of living in harmony with our own impurities, why should we so vehemently reject the impurities of others, in this case, of the canine species, therefore, much more innocent than those of humans, who so thoroughly abuse the term dog, an insult hurled right and left at enemies, by Christians abusing Moslems, by Moslems abusing Christians, and by both parties abusing the Jews. Not to mention those whom we know best, those Portuguese noblemen coming yonder, so preoccupied and besotted with their hounds and mastiffs that they are given to sleeping with them, with as much or even greater pleasure than with their concubines, and yet, as you will see, the worst name they can call their most implacable enemy is Dog, there would appear to be no greater insult, except for Son of a Bitch. And all this has come about through the arbitrary criteria of men, they are the ones who create words, the animals, poor things, are unaware of these semantic subtleties as they listen to the quarrelling, Dog, says the Moor, You're the dog, retorts the Christian, and next minute they are fighting with lance, sword and dagger, while the hounds and mastiffs say to each other, We are the dogs, nor does it bother them in the least.

Having decided the route he must take, Raimundo Silva gets to his feet, shakes the dust from his breeches and begins to descend the steps. The dog has followed him, but keeps his distance, like someone accustomed to being stoned, and the man only has to bend down and pretend he is picking up a stone and the dog takes fright. At the bottom of the steps, the dog hesitated, and appeared to be asking himself, Should I or should I not go any further, but decided to carry on following the proof-reader who is making his way down the Calçada do Correio Velho. Somewhere around here, or a little further on, corresponding to the borders of the district of'Sâo Crispim, the rampart descended on the right, presumably as far as the famous Porta de Ferro, attributed by some to a certain Ferro, but of which no trace remains, perhaps if we were to remove this modern paving in the Largo de Santo Antonio in front of the Cathedral, and dig deep down, we should discover the foundations of the period, the rusted remains of ancient weapons, the stench of a tomb, the entangled skeletons of warriors, not lovers, who shouted in unison, Dog, and then proceeded to kill each other. Cars pass up and down, the trams creak round the bend of the Madalena, they are on the 28 route, particularly esteemed by film directors, and yonder, turning in front of the Cathedral, goes another bus full of tourists, they must be French and imagine they are in Spain. The dog is wary about crossing, the world best known to him are those streets further up the hill, and although he can see the man looking back as he descends the Rua da Padaria, along which the walls of the rampart would have extended, centuries ago, as far as the Rua dos Bacalhoeiros, he does not dare to go on, perhaps the fear he now experiences is too unbearable as he recalls some terrifying event in the past, cats doused with cold water take fright, and dogs as well. The dog returns by the same route, returns to the Escadinhas de'São Crispim, waiting for someone else to turn up.

The proof-reader is taking another look, he enters by the Arco Escuro in order to examine the stairway which the historian claims was one of the points of access to the battlements of the stockade, or rather, this stairway, the steps of which have only been in existence for three generations, is located where the original one stood. Raimundo Silva carefully examines the dark windows, the grimy façades eroded by saltpetre, the tiled insets, this one dated one thousand seven hundred and sixty-four, with St Anne teaching her daughter Mary how to write, and medallions on either side depicting St Martial, who wards off fire, and St Antony who restores earthenware jugs and is something of a wizard when it comes to finding lost objects. The inscription, in the absence of any authentic certificate, is the next best thing, if the date it carries, which we have no reason to doubt, is that of the year when the edifice was built, nine years after the earthquake. The proof-reader studies the information he has gathered and finds it has been much enriched, so when he returns to the Rua dos Bacalhoeiros, he will look with disdain upon those ignorant passers-by, who show no interest in the curiosities of the city and life, and who are quite incapable of making any connection between these two explicit dates. But shortly, when he arrives before the Arco das Portas do Mar, thinking to himself that the ñame deserved some other architectural commemoration, and not the prosaic name-plate of customs officials, reflecting at that moment on the discrepancy between the word and its meaning, he observed himself and disapproved of what he saw, After all, what right do I have to pass judgment on others, I have lived in Lisbon all my life and it has never occurred to me to come and see with my own eyes things described in books, things that I have often looked at time and time again, without actually seeing them, as blind as the muezzin, and were it not for this threat from Costa, I should probably never have thought of checking the lay-out of the wall, the gates, which I now recognise as belonging to the fortress of Dom Fernando, obviously by the time I have finished my stroll I shall know more, but it is also true that I'll know less, in other words, let's see if I can explain myself, this awareness of knowing more, brings me to an awareness of knowing little, besides, one is tempted to ask what it means to know, the historian was right, I ought to have been a philosopher, one of those admirable philosophers who can pick up a skull and spend the rest of their lives probing its importance in this world and wondering if there is any good reason why the world should concern itself with a skull, and now we come, ladies and gentlemen, tourists, travellers, or those of you who are merely curious, says the indispensable guide, to the Arco da Conceiçao, where once stood the celebrated fountain known as the Preguiça, whose refreshing waters have abated the thirst and any desire to work of so many people right up to the present day.

Raimundo Silva is not in a hurry. He studies the itinerary seriously, for his own satisfaction he makes detailed mental notes, complementary as it were, which attest to his own contemporaneity, there in the Calçada do Correio Velho a gloomy undertaker's office, white spume in the blue sky coming from a jet plane, like the extended backwash of a speed-boat on the blue sea, the Pensâo Casa Oliveira Bons Quartos in the Rua da Padaria, the Restaurante Come Petisca Paga Vai Dar Meia Volta, right beside the Portas do Mar, the Cervejaria Arco da Conceiçao, nearby, the coat of arms of the Mascarenhas engraved on a cornerstone of one of the buildings of the Arco de Jesus, where there must have been a gate in the Moorish ramparts, as attested by the inscription on the wall, the Neoclassical entrance to the Palace of the Condes de Coculim, who were Mascarenhas, arsenals of weaponry, so much for all their achievements, a world of fleeting, transitory things, as all things without exception inevitably prove to be, for the white trail of the plane has evaporated and time will take care of the rest in due course, we need only have the patience to wait. The proof-reader entered the Alfama by the Arco do Chafariz d'El-Rei, he will lunch somewhere nearby, in an eating-house in the Rua de'Sâo João da Praça, over by the tower of St Peter, a traditional Portuguese meal of fried fish and rice with tomato sauce and salad, and with any luck, the tender leaves of a lettuce heart, where, something not many people know, nestles the incomparable freshness of the morning, the dew and mist, which are one and the same, but warrant repetition for the simple pleasure of writing both words and savouring the sound. At the entrance to the restaurant stood a gypsy girl, probably about twelve, with outstretched hand and saying never a word, simply staring at the proof-reader, who, lost in thought, did not recognise a gypsy but only a Moorish girl, when hunger was first making itself felt and when there was still someone to ask for alms, and cats and vermin felt their existence was assured until they died a natural death from disease or warfare amongst the species, after all, progress is a reality, nowadays no one in Lisbon hunts such animals for food, But the expression in the gypsy girl's eyes warns him that the siege is not yet over.

Raimundo Silva will peruse more slowly whatever remains to be inspected, another section of the wall in the Patio do Senhor da Murça, the Rua da Adiça, where the wall rose up, and that of Norberto de Araújo, as the street was recently baptised, at the summit an imposing stretch of wall, eroded at the base, these are truly living stones, they have been here for nine or ten centuries, if not longer, from the time of the barbarians, and they survive, they intrepidly support the bell-tower of the church of St Lucy or St Bras, it makes no difference, at this spot, ladies and gentlemen, opened the ancient Portas do Sol, facing eastward, the first to receive the rosy breath of dawn, now all that remains is the square which took its name from this landmark, but the special effects of the aurora have not changed, for the sun, a millennium is like a tiny human sigh, sic transit, needless to say. The wall continued along these parts, at an obtuse angle, wide open, and continued right up to the walls of the fortress, thus enclosing the entire city, from the edge of the waters below to the point where it joins the fortress, head erect and strong joints, arms bent and fingers firmly clasped, like a woman supporting her pregnant womb. Feeling weary, the proof-reader goes up the Rua dos Cegos, enters the Patio de Dom Fradique, time divides into two strands rather than disturb this village made of rock, it has been like this, in a manner of speaking, since the time of the Goths, Romans, or Phoenicians, then came the Moors, the first Portuguese, their children and their grandchildren, from whom we are descended, the power and the glory, the subsequent phases of decline, first, second and third, each of them divided into genera and subgenera. At night, in this space between the low-lying houses, the three ghosts gather, the ghost of the past, the ghost of the future and the ghost of things that might happen, they do not speak, they look at each other as if they were blind, and remain silent.

Raimundo Silva sits on a stone bench in the cool evening shade, he examines the pages for the last time and confirms that there is nothing more to see, he knows enough about the castle not to have to return there today, even if he is making a full inventory. The sky is beginning to turn white, perhaps a warning of that mist promised by the meteorological office, and the temperature drops rapidly. The proof-reader leaves the patio and heads for the Rua do Chão da Feira, in front of the Porta de'São Jorge, even from here people can still be seen taking photographs of the saint. Less than fifty metres away, although invisible from here, is his house, and as this thought crosses his mind, he realises for the first time that he lives at the very spot where the Porta de Alfofa stood, whether on the inside or outside it is no longer possible to tell, so we cannot be sure whether Raimundo Silva is one of the besieged or an assailant, a future conqueror or hopeless loser.

There was no irate message from Costa awaiting him under the door. Darkness fell and the telephone did not ring. Raimundo Silva spent a peaceful evening searching his shelves for books that might tell him more about the city the Moors named Lissibona. It was late when he went out on to the verandah to check the weather. Mist, but not as dense as that of yesterday. He could hear two dogs barking, and for some reason, this made him feel even more tranquil. Dogs had been barking for centuries, therefore, the world was unchanged. He went to bed. Tired out from his exertions that day, he slept soundly, but he woke up several times, whenever he dreamt and went back to dreaming about a rampart with nothing inside, like a sack with a tight opening spreading its belly to the edge of the river, and all around, forested slopes, woods and valleys, streams, a scattering of houses, orchards, olive-groves, a broad estuary advancing inland. In the distance, the clear outline of the towers of Amoreiras.