The History of the Siege of Lisbon

...

THE LETTER WHICH Raimundo Silva wrote to the author of The History of the Siege of Lisbon contained the necessary quantum satis of excuses and a subtle touch of discreet humour which the cordial relations between the sender and the addressee permitted without any abuse of confidence, although in the end there must have been a lasting impression of genuine bewilderment, a serious questioning of the irresistible nature of certain absurd actions. The letter, like some meditation about human frailty, would break down any remaining resistance on the part of the author, who, on being informed of this damaging assault on his intellectual integrity, had replied to the Editorial Director's astonishment, It isn't the end of the world, of course, in real life you do not encounter such abnegation, but this reflection, needless to say, does not come from the historian, it is therefore merely introduced to augment the double meaning, and as relevant here as anywhere else or on any other page of this narrative. The wastepaper basket was soon filled with crumpled paper, discarded pages, drafts amended in all directions, the useless remains after having struggled all day with style and grammar, with those minute harmonies intended to balance the constituent parts of a letter, and an exasperated Raimundo Silva gave vent to his feelings, saying aloud, Is this what writers have to put up with, poor things, and he felt glad to be nothing more than a proof-reader.

Raimundo Silva was walking up the stairs to his apartment after taking his letter to the post office, when he heard the telephone ring. He made no attempt to hurry, partly because he was tired, partly because he felt indifferent and detached, most likely it was Costa wanting to know how he was getting on with the proofs of the volume of poetry or with the preliminary reading of the novel he had left him on that black day, Do you remember. He allowed enough time for Costa to give up, but the telephone went on ringing, it rang with gentle insistence, as if someone was determined to persist simply because it was his or her duty and not because they were counting on getting an answer. He was tranquilly inserting the key in the lock when he remembered it could not possibly be Costa who was calling, Costa had ceased to be his direct contact, poor Costa, an innocent victim, demoted in the hierarchy to the almost mechanical task of fetching and carrying, he who, whenever necessary, was capable of treating the proof-reading mob as equals. Raimundo Silva paused on the threshold of the study, and the telephone, as if sensing his presence, became twice as strident, like a pet dog delirious with excitement on hearing its master return, all it had to do was to jump down from the table and start leaping about, anxious to be patted and cuddled, its tongue out, panting, drooling with sheer pleasure. Raimundo has the odd acquaintance who rings from time to time, and there have been occasions when some woman or other has rung him because she wanted or pretended to want to speak to him and hear how he was getting along, but that was ages ago, calls from women were a thing of the past and there they remained, voices which, if they were to come to him now, would sound supernatural as if coming from another world.

He placed his hand on the receiver, waited a moment longer, as if giving the telephone one last chance to stop ringing, but finally picked up the receiver thinking he knew exactly what to expect, Is that Senhor Silva, asked the telephonist, and he laconically replied, Speaking, Since no one was answering I was just about to ring off, What can I do for you, I'm calling on behalf of Dr Maria Sara who wishes to have a word with you, just one moment. There was a pause, noises as the connection was being made, sufficient time to allow Raimundo Silva to gather his thoughts, She's called Maria Sara, so to some extent he had guessed correctly without knowing, for if it is true that he had fallen asleep with a revealing finger on the name Maria, it is also true that he had already forgotten and, on awakening, on raising his head from his hand spread out on the book, and then rubbing his eyes with both hands, he had culled from the page that precarious sign of orientation, he would only have those two limiting references at his disposal, and would know, at most, that what he was looking for had to be between Manuela and Marula, both names that could be ruled out immediately, because totally unsuited to the personality of this person or character. The telephonist said, I'm just connecting you, a phrase common to all telephonists, the jargon of their profession, yet they are words that promise results, as much for good as for evil. I'm just connecting you, she said, indifferent to the destiny that makes use of her services and pays no attention to what she is saying, I'm going to connect, dial, transfer, switch through, link, contact, plug in, put you in touch, in her mind it is simply a matter of making it possible for two people to communicate, but even this straightforward operation is not without its dangers and should be handled with care. But these warnings go unheeded, even though we are reminded daily that every word is a dangerous sorcerer's apprentice.

Raimundo Silva had slumped into a chair, suddenly feeling twice as tired, Trembling knees are a sign of old age, the obligatory quotation mocked him unjustly, a man who has just turned fifty is not old, perhaps in the past, but nowadays men take better care of themselves, there are lotions, dyes, creams, various skin conditioners, where, for example, would you find a man in the civilised world today, who after shaving would use alum, so severe on the skin, in this modern age cosmetics are queen, king and president, and if, as we have seen, he was unable to disguise the shaking in his legs, at least he has ways and means of contriving a look of composure in the presence of any witnesses. In their absence, Raimundo Silva's face starts twitching, while at the other end of the line, the composed Dr Maria Sara, no doubt with a graceful gesture, tosses her head to throw her hair back on the left side before putting the receiver to her ear, and at last she is ready to speak, We weren't introduced the other day, so let me introduce myself, my name is Maria Sara, yours, she was about to say, I already know, but Raimundo Silva, from force of habit, gave his name, but gave it in full, adding the Benvindo, and almost died of embarrassment there and then. Dr Maria Sara, however, despite having revealed nothing more about herself, ignored this confidence and addressed him as Senhor Silva, without ever suspecting how much balm she was pouring on to the proof-reader's wounded susceptibility, I'd like to discuss how we might organise our work, I'm having meetings with all the proof-readers in order to hear what they think, yes private meetings, I can think of no other way, tomorrow at midday, if that suits you, agreed, I'll expect you then, see you tomorrow. She then rang off but it took Raimundo Silva some time to regain his composure, now the apartment is filled with silence, only the faintest pulsation can be heard, which could be that of the palpitating city, the flowing river, or simply the proof-reader's heartbeat.

He awoke several times in the night with a start, as if someone had shaken him. He kept his eyes closed, trying to ward off insomnia, and soon he passed from uneasy torpor to another restless sleep, but without any dreams. As midnight approached it began to rain, the noise on the verandah roof was always the first sign, however light the rain, and Raimundo Silva's sleep was disturbed by the continuous patter of raindrops falling and reverberating, he slowly opened his eyes to greet the wan light that was just beginning to filter through the chinks of the shutters. As nearly always happens to anyone awakening at this hour, he went back to sleep, this time troubled by dreams, worrying if there would be enough time to dye his hair which badly needed doing, and whether he would be able to do it effectively enough to disguise the fact that it was dyed. It was after nine when he awoke, and immediately thought, I haven't time, then changed his mind. He went into the bathroom and, blinking his eyes, hair uncombed, his face wrinkled, he examined himself under the strong light of the two lamps, one on each side of the mirror. White roots were sadly visible, it would not be enough to ruffle his hair in order to hide them, the solution was really to dye them. He got through his breakfast in a matter of minutes, sacrificing his confirmed appetite for buttered toast, and went back into the bathroom, where he locked himself in to get on with the minting of false coin, in a word, to applying the product, as the instructions on the label described it. He always locked himself in, even though he might be all alone in the apartment when he dyed his hair, he did it in secret, which, as he ought to know, was no secret to anyone, and he would certainly have died of shame were he ever to be discovered carrying out what he himself considered a depressing operation. Like that of Dr Maria Sara, his hair, in more truthful times, was brown, but now it would be impossible to compare their respective hair tones, nature with nature, because that of Raimundo Silva has a uniform colour which bears a striking resemblance to a dowdy, moth-eaten wig, long forgotten then rediscovered in some attic, entangled amongst old pictures, items of furniture, ornaments, knick-knacks, the masks of another age. It was getting on for eleven-thirty before he was ready to leave, already very late, and unless he was fortunate enough to find a taxi right away, the situation would warrant another quotation, this time from an old saying, 111 often comes on the back of worse, a succinct and telling expression which could be transposed as, Out of one ill come many. He was truly fortunate to be living in the Rua do Milagre de Santo Antonio, for only a miracle could have brought an empty taxi into such a deserted street on such a rainy day and it actually stopped when he hailed it without signalling back that it was heading elsewhere. Feeling cheerful, Raimundo Silva arrived at the publishers and made for the editorial department, but later, as he was depositing his umbrella, he realised he was being idiotic, his anxiety was showing in two quite different ways, the fear of going, the desire to arrive, the publishing house for him had become a loathsome place, and, on the other hand, it was not simply to arrive at midday on the dot that he had urged the taxi-driver to go faster, I'm in a hurry, running the risk of making an enemy of someone who had just shown himself to be instrumental in the working of a miracle. Descending into the lower part of the city took some time, to make headway amidst traffic held up by the rain was like thrashing about in treacle, Raimundo Silva perspired with impatience, it was already ten minutes past midday when he walked into the office, panting for breath, and in the worst possible frame of mind for a meeting to discuss new responsibilities and, almost certainly, to reopen the question of his recent fall from grace.

Dr Maria Sara rose from her chair and cordially came to greet him, How are you, Senhor Raimundo Silva, Sorry I'm late, in this rain the taxi took some time, It doesn't matter, make yourself comfortable. The proof-reader sat down, but made to get up again as Dr Maria Sara returned to her desk, Please, don't get up, and when she came back she was carrying a book which she placed on the low table, between the two sofas upholstered in soft black leather. Then she sat down, crossed her legs, she was wearing a skirt in a heavy material, pulled in at the waist, and she lit a cigarette. The proof-reader's eyes accompanied the movement which animated her upper regions, he recognised the face, the hair hanging loosely at shoulder-length, and was shocked to discover white hairs gleaming under the ceiling lamp, She doesn't dye them, he thought to himself, anxious to get out of the place as soon as possible. Dr Maria Sara had asked him if he wished to smoke, but he only heard her when she repeated the question, No thanks, I don't smoke, he replied, lowering his eyes and carrying away the image of a blouse with a plunging neckline, in a colour he was too perturbed to identify. Now he could not take his eyes from the table, he was fascinated, there lay The History of the Siege of Lisbon, turned towards him, no doubt deliberately, clearly showing the author's name, the title in bold lettering, an illustration in the centre of the cover with medieval knights with the emblem of the crusaders and on the ramparts of the fortification, disproportionately large drawings of Moors, it was difficult to tell at this distance if it was a reproduction from some old manuscript or a modern design in medieval style, therefore, pseudo-naïf. He had no desire to go on looking at that provocative cover, yet he was so reluctant to confront Dr Maria Sara who at this moment must be staring relentlessly at him, like a cobra about to lunge and inflict one last fatal bite. But all she said, in a natural voice, with no particular intonation, deliberately neutral, as straightforward as the four words she uttered, This book belongs to you, she took a long pause and added, this time putting greater emphasis on certain syllables, Let me rephrase that, This is your book. Confused, Raimundo Silva raised his head, Mine, he asked, Yes, it's the only remaining copy of The History of the Siege of Lisbon that does not carry an erratum, the only copy which still claims that the crusaders refused to help the Portuguese, I don't understand, Don't you mean you're stalling until you decide how you should speak to me, Forgive me, that was not my intention, No need to justify yourself, you can't spend your entire life offering excuses, I was only hoping that you might ask me why I'm giving you this copy without any erratum, a book which preserves the deception, that makes no attempt to remove this error or falsehood, the choice of word is up to you, Then tell me, why are you giving me this book, Too late, I no longer feel like telling you, but she was smiling as she spoke, notwithstanding a certain tension in the way she moved her lips, I beseech you, he insisted, returning her smile, and he was surprised to find himself smiling in such a situation. To be smiling at a woman about whom I know almost nothing and who is almost certainly amusing herself at my expense. Looking somewhat nervous, Dr Maria Sara put out her cigarette and lit another, Raimundo Silva observed her closely, the scales were beginning to tip in his favour, but he could not understand why, much less the meaning of all this, he had not, after all, been summoned to discuss or simply receive instructions about new procedures for proof-readers, what was happening here made it obvious that the matter of the Siege had not been finally settled at that black hour on the thirteenth day when he had come here to be sentenced, But don't imagine you're going to subject me to any more vexation, he thought to himself, unwilling to recognise that he was misrepresenting the facts, the truth being that he had been spared the vexation of being dismissed under a cloud, and he certainly did not expect to be given a medal for good conduct or be promoted to head proof-reader, a rank that previously did not exist but had now apparently been created.

Dr Maria Sara quickly rose to her feet, it was interesting to see how she could move so quickly without losing a natural grace which eliminated any impression of brusqueness, and she went to her desk to find a sheet of paper which she handed to Raimundo Silva, From now on all the proof-reading will conform to these instructions, there is no radical departure from the way things have been done in the past and, as you will see, the most important thing is that where a proof-reader is working on his own, as in your case, the proofs will be given a final checking, which might be done by me or some other proof-reader, on the clear understanding that the criteria adopted by the first proof-reader must always be respected, all we are trying to do here is to carry out one final revision to avoid any errors and correct any inadvertent slips, Or intentional deviations, added Raimundo Silva, forcing a bitter smile, You're mistaken, that was an episode you couldn't even describe as locking the stable door after the horse has bolted, because I'm convinced that the thieves won't be back and that the door can stay unlocked, the rules you have there are based on common sense, they are not some penal code to dissuade and punish the offence of hardened criminals, Such as me, An isolated incident, which, as I've already told you, won't happen again, does not make someone into a criminal, Thanks for being so trusting, You don't need my trust, it's a question of basic logic and elementary psychology, something even a child would understand, But I do have my limitations, So does everyone else. Raimundo Silva made no reply, went on staring at the sheet of paper he was holding in his hands, but without reading it, because for an experienced proof-reader like him, it would be difficult to invent any surprise likely to make an impact beyond the time it would take to enunciate. Dr Maria Sara remained seated, but she had straightened up and was leaning ever so slightly forward, making it clear that for her part, the conversation was over, and that any second now, unless there was some good reason to act otherwise, she would be on her feet to say those final words, the ones we usually disregard, those phrases on parting which repetition and habit have robbed of any meaning, a comment which is no less repetitive, introduced here to echo a comment made elsewhere at some other time and not worth any further elaboration, see Portrait of the Poet in the Year of his Death.

Raimundo Silva carefully folded the sheet of paper twice, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He then moved in such a way that he misled Dr Maria Sara, he appeared to be getting up, but no, he was simply preparing himself, so as not to half-finish the phrase he was about to utter, which, in a nutshell, more or less means that these moments, and moments are always many, even though the seconds of which they consist may be few, they have both lived with unstable equilibrium, the proof-reader compelled against his will to follow Dr Maria Sara's movement, as she herself changed her mind on realising that she had misunderstood his intention. Even more effectively than the theatre, the cinema would know how to show this subtle choreography of gestures, able even to decompose and recompose them successively, but our experience of communication has shown that this seeming wealth of visual images has not lessened the need for words, any words, even in the knowledge that they tell us so little about the actions and interactions of the human body, about the volition implied or actually there, about what we call instinct for want of a better name, about the chemistry of emotions, and all those other things, which precisely for lack of words, we shall refrain from mentioning. But since we are not dealing here with cinema or theatre, or even with life, we are forced to waste more time saying what we have to, especially since we are aware that after a first, second, and sometimes third attempt, only a minimum of the essentials will have been spoken, and even then subject to interpretations, inasmuch as, in a laudable attempt to communicate, we go back to the beginning in dismay, to the point of becoming incapable of getting near or distancing ourselves from the plane of focus, at the risk of blurring the outlines of the central motive, thus making it, let us say, unidentifiable. Fortunately in this case, however, we had not lost sight of Raimundo Silva, we left him in that vacillating movement that was to carry the phrase, not even Dr Maria Sara, rather subdued, if you will forgive the exaggeration, not through any loss of willpower, but because of one last and perhaps benevolent hope, the question is knowing whether the proof-reader is about to speak the right words, avoiding, above all, any cacophony, which arises when the word does not harmonise with the sound nor both word and sound with the intention, let us see how Raimundo Silva will solve the problem, Please, he said, and he had certainly made a good start, my reaction on receiving this book, my surprise on hearing that it carries no erratum, all of this is like having a sore, the whole body instinctively flinches if anyone touches the spot where it hurts, all I can say is that I want to erase this entire episode from my mind, You seem much less edgy than when you were here last time, Fires die out, victories lose their meaning, one gets tired of confrontation, and as I said, I'd like to forget what has happened, I'm afraid that may not be possible if you accept the suggestion I am about to make, A suggestion, Or a proposal, if you prefer. Dr Maria Sara took from a low bookshelf by her side a dossier which she placed on her lap, and told him, Here are all the filed reports about books which the firm has published or rejected in the past, This is ancient history, Tell me about it, Do you think there is any point, Yes, I have my own good reasons for believing so, Well, in those days the publishing house was only beginning to get established, any help they could get was welcome, and someone at that time thought that I could do more than only proof-read, for example being asked to write reviews and reports about manuscripts, I must confess it never occurred to me that these papers would still be here today. I came across them when I was inspecting the section of the archives related to my duties, After all this time, I can scarcely remember them, I've read all of them, You must have been amused by some of the rubbish I used to write, Not at all, on the contrary, your reports are excellent, carefully considered and nicely written, I hope you didn't find not constantly being substituted for yes, and Raimundo Silva was brave enough to smile, he could not resist it, but out of the side of his mouth so as not to appear over-confident. Dr Maria Sara also smiled, No, there were no such changes, everything was as it should be. She paused, casually leafed through the dossier, appeared to be still hesitating, and then went on to say, These were reports, and the fact that they are so well written and reveal, in addition to your flair for perceptive criticism, a kind of, how can I put it, lateral thinking is altogether rare, Lateral thinking, Don't ask me to explain, it's something I can sense rather than explain, and this is what made me decide to make a proposal, And what is it, That you yourself should write a history of the siege of Lisbon in which the crusaders do not help the Portuguese, therefore taking your deviation literally, the word I heard you use a moment ago, Forgive me, but I don't quite see what you're proposing, It couldn't be clearer, Perhaps that is why I can't see it, You still haven't got used to the idea, so naturally, your first reaction is to refuse, It's not a question of refusal, rather that the idea strikes me as being absurd, Tell me, do you know of any greater absurdity than this deviation of yours, Let's say no more about my deviation, Even if we were never to mention it again, even if this copy I've just given you were to carry the same erratum as all the others, even if this edition were to be completely destroyed, even so, the Not you slipped in that day will prove to be the most important act in your life, What do you know about my life, Nothing, apart from this, Then how can you have any opinion about the importance of the rest, True, but what I said wasn't meant to be taken literally, these are emphatic expressions which rely on the intelligence being addressed, I'm not very intelligent, There's another emphatic expression, which I accept for what it is worth, that is, nothing, Can I ask you a question, Go ahead, Tell me frankly, are you or are you not amusing yourself at my expense, Frankly, I am doing no such thing, Then why this interest, this proposal, this conversation, Because it isn't every day that you come across someone who has done what you did, I was in a state of agitation, Come on, Without wishing to be rude, I'm convinced your idea doesn't make sense, Then forget I ever mentioned it, Raimundo Silva got to his feet, adjusted his coat which he had never removed, Unless there is something else you wish to discuss, I'll be going, Take your book, it's the only copy of its kind. Dr Maria Sara wears no ring to suggest that she is married. As for her blouse, chemise, or whatever it is called, it looks like being made of silk, in a pale shade difficult to describe, beige, old ivory, off-white, whether it is possible that fingertips tremble differently according to the colours they touch or caress, we cannot say.

The rain had not subsided. At the front entrance of the publishing house, a bad-tempered Raimundo Silva glanced at the sky through the naked branches of the trees, but the sky was one great mass of cloud without any intervals of blue sky, and the rain was coming down in a steady drizzle, nothing more, nothing less. There will be no tomorrow, he murmured, repeating an old adage used by people acquainted with practical meteorology, but in which we must not put too much faith, because that day was followed by others, and for Raimundo Silva this is certainly not his last. As he awaited thè unlikely respite promised by the meteorologists, employees were leaving the building on their way to lunch, it was already after one, the meeting had taken longer than expected. He was hoping Costa would not suddenly appear, forcing him to speak to him, listen to him, watch those accusing eyes, and at that moment it struck him that there was someone else whom he wanted to see even less, Dr Maria Sara, who, as it happens, is already descending in the elevator, and who on seeing him standing in the doorway, might think he is hovering there on purpose, using the rain as an excuse, in order to be able to carry on with their conversation elsewhere, in a restaurant, for example, where he would invite her, or the much more terrifying hypothesis, should she offer him a lift and take him home as an act of kindness, given this incessant rain, really, it's no trouble at all, get in, get in, you're getting soaked. Obviously Raimundo Silva does not know whether she possesses a car, but all the signs suggest that she does, she has that unmistakable air, the modern, outgoing woman, you only have to observe the controlled, methodical gestures of someone who knows how to handle the gears at just the right moment and who has learned how to assess distance and the size of a parking space at a glance. He heard the elevator stop and looked back quickly, to see the Editorial Director himself holding the door to allow Dr Maria Sara to pass, they were having a lively conversation, no one else was in the elevator, Raimundo Silva tucked the book in between his jacket and shirt, a protective reflex, and quickly opening his umbrella, scurried off, keeping as close as possible to the buildings, cowering like a dog being stoned, its tail between its legs, They must be going out to lunch together, he thought to himself. He could not get the thought out of his mind as he went down the street, trying to fathom why the thought had ever occurred to him, but he only met with a blank wall, without inscriptions, he himself an interrogation.

To get home he used two buses and a tram, none of which left him at the door, needless to say, but there was no other way of getting there, not an empty taxi in sight. In any case, the rain did not spare him, after all, you don't get any wetter falling into the ocean or into the village brook, that is to say that if Raimundo Silva had made the entire journey on foot he would not have got any wetter than he is at this moment, drenched from head to foot, soaked to the skin. During the journey, there was one unpleasant, not to say terrifying moment, should we prefer to dramatise the situation, when he began to imagine Dr Maria Sara in the restaurant, telling the Editorial Director the amusing story about the proof-reader, So I told him to write his own version of the siege and he was horrified at the idea, then he tried to assure me that the Not he introduced into The History of the Siege of Lisbon was not the outcome of any mental disorder, would you believe it, The man's a clown with that deadpan expression of his, but he's good at his job, there's no denying, and once he had committed this act of charity and forbearance with remarkable impartiality, the Editorial Director treats the matter as closed and passes to something closer to his heart, I say, Maria Sara, why don't we have dinner together one evening, then we might go on somewhere to dance and have a drink. On turning a corner, a sudden treacherous gust of wind turned the umbrella inside out, and Raimundo Silva got the full blast of the rain on his face, and that wind was a veritable cyclone, maelstrom, hurricane, it all happened so quickly, but terrifying while it lasted, only his book unharmed, safely tucked away between his jacket and his shirt. The whirlwind subsided, calm was restored, and the umbrella, despite the fact that one of the ribs is broken, can still be used, admittedly more as a symbol than adequate protection. No, thought Raimundo Silva, and stopped there, but we shall never know if this is the word Dr Maria Sara used to respond to the Editorial Director's invitation, or if this man who is climbing the Escadinhas de'São Crispim, where there is no sign of the stray dog, is finally persuaded that there are people in this world so cruel as to exploit a poor, defenceless proof-reader in this way. Not to mention, that Dr Maria Sara might well be having her lunch at home.

Having changed his clothes, and more or less dried off, Raimundo Silva set about preparing lunch, he boiled some potatoes to accompany the tinned tuna for which he had opted after considering the few alternatives available, and, supplementing this frugal meal with the usual plate of soup, he felt more cheerful, his energy restored. As he ate, he had a curious feeling of alienation, as if, a purely imaginary experience, he had just arrived after a lengthy, drawn-out journey through distant lands where he encountered other civilisations. Obviously, in an existence so little given to adventures, any novelty, however insignificant for others, can seem like a revolution, even if, to cite only this recent example, his memorable desecration of the almost sacred text of The History of the Siege of Lisbon had not affected him in the slightest, but now he has the impression that his home belongs to someone else, and that he himself is the stranger, the very smell is different, and the furniture seems out of place or distorted by means of a perspective governed by other laws. He prepared a piping hot coffee, as usual, and with the cup and saucer in his hand, taking tiny sips, he went round the apartment to see if he could familiarise himself with it once more, he began with the bathroom, where there were still vestiges of the dyeing operation he had carried out, never imagining that it would later cause him embarrassment, then the sitting-room which he rarely used, with the television, a low table, a divan, a tiny sofa and a bookcase with glass-panelled doors, and then the study which brought him back into contact with things he had seen and touched a thousand times, and finally the bedroom with its bed made of old mahogany, a matching wardrobe, and the bedside table, furniture designed for a larger room and unsuited to this confined space. On top of the bed, where he had thrown it down on entering the apartment, lies the book, the last Iroquois of that decimated tribe, taking refuge in the Rua do Milagre de Santo Antonio because of the inexplicable deference of Dr Maria Sara, inexplicable, say we, because it is not sufficient to have proposed, Write a book, only out of irony, for any connivance, with all the intimacy that word implies, makes no sense here, or could it be that Dr Maria Sara simply wants to see how far he is capable of going down the path of madness, since he himself spoke of mental disturbance. Raimundo Silva put the cup and saucer on the bedside table, Who knows, perhaps one of the symptoms is this impression of alienation, as if this were not my home and this place and these things meant nothing to me, the question remained in suspense, unanswered, like all questions that begin with the words, Who knows. He picked up the book, the cover illustration had actually been copied from an old manuscript, French or German, and at that moment, obliterating everything, he was invaded by a sense of fulfilment, of strength, he was holding something that was exclusively his, admittedly despised by others, but for that very reason, Who knows, prized all the more, after all this book is loved by nobody else, and this man has no one to love except this book.

As everyone knows, we spend a third of our short lives sleeping, and we can confirm this from our own experience, between going to bed and getting up, counting is easy, allowing for the wakeful hours of those who suffer from insomnia and, in general, the time devoted to the nightly sessions of the art of loving, still enjoyed and practised as a rule at dead of night, despite the increasing popularity of more flexible timetables which, in this and other particulars, appear to be guiding us towards the fulfilment of the golden dreams of anarchy, namely, that desired age in which each one of us can do as we please, provided we do not prejudice or restrict what pleases others. Yes, there is nothing simpler, but the fact that up to the present we have not succeeded in even identifying our neighbours amidst a multitude of strangers with any lasting certainty, goes to prove, were such proof necessary, what tradition has taught us, that the difficulty of achieving the simple is infinitely more complicated than any other task or skill, that is to say, it is less difficult to conceive, create, construct and manipulate an electronic brain than to find in our own the wherewithal to be happy, but, in the words of Jesus, one age succeeds another, and hope is the last thing to be lost, Alas, we might start losing it right away, because the time it will take to achieve universal happiness has to be counted in astronomical measurements, and this generation does not aim to live that long, disheartened as it clearly is.

Such lengthy circumlocution, made irresistible by the way in which words bring others in their wake, thus giving the impression that all they do is to obey the will of someone who will finally have to answer for them, but misleading him, to the extent of frequently leaving the point of the narrative abandoned somewhere without name or history, pure discourse, without reason or objective, whose fluctuation will transform it into the perfect stage set or backdrop for any old drama or fiction, this circumlocution, which began by probing the hours of sleep and wakefulness in order to finish off with a feeble reflection on the transience of human life and the longevity of hope, this circumlocution, let us conclude, will be justified if we suddenly ask ourselves how often in life a person goes to the window, how many days, weeks, months has that person spent there and for what reason. We usually go to the window to see what the weather is like, to examine the sky, to follow the clouds, to dream with the moon, to respond to someone's cry, to observe the neighbours, and also to occupy our roving eyes by distracting them, while our thoughts accompany the images they capture, born just as words are born, just like them. They are mere glimpses, instants, and lengthy musings about what cannot be seen, a smooth, blank wall, a city, the grey river or the water dripping from the eaves.

Raimundo Silva has not opened the window, he is watching through the window-panes, and is holding the book in his hands, opened at that false page, just as one speaks of false coinage minted by some forger. The dull patter of rain plays on the zinc roof of the verandah, and he does not hear it, although we would describe it, in an attempt to find a suitable comparison, as being like the distant sound of a cavalcade, a stamping of hooves on the soft, damp soil, a splashing of water from the marshes, a strange occurrence, inasmuch as wars were always suspended in winter, otherwise what would become of the men on horseback, scantily clad beneath their leather corslets and sleeveless coats of mail, with the drizzle penetrating the holes, rents and gashes, and the less said about the foot-soldiers the better, tramping practically barefoot in the mud and with their hands so frostbitten that they can scarcely hold the puny weapons with which they have come to conquer Lisbon, what a memory the king must have, to go to war in this appalling weather, But the siege took place in summer, murmured Raimundo Silva. Although less heavy, the rain on the verandah roof could now be heard clearly, as the sound of trotting horses returning to barracks grew fainter. With a rapid movement, surprising in someone not given to gestures, Raimundo Silva threw the window wide open, some of the drizzle sprinkled on to his face, but got nowhere near the book since he had taken the necessary precautions, and the same impression of brimming vitality took possession of him, body and soul, this is the city that was besieged, the ramparts descend over there all the way down to the sea, a name worthy of a river as wide as this one, and then they rise sharply until lost from sight, this is the Lisbon of the Moors, were the atmosphere less grey than on this winter's day we should have a better view of the olive-groves on the slope that goes down to the estuary, and also those on the other bank, at present invisible, as if covered by a cloud of smoke. Raimundo Silva looked and looked again, the universe murmuring beneath the rain, dear God, such sweet and gentle sorrow, may we never be without it, not even in moments of happiness.