The History of the Siege of Lisbon

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THE KING SLEPT BADLY, his restless sleep constantly interrupted, yet heavy and gloomy as if he should never forget it, and it was a sleep without dreams or nightmares, no old man of venerable aspect announcing some pleasant miracle, I am here, no woman crying out, Don't ill-treat me, I'm your mother, nothing except a dense, mysterious blackness that seemed to enshroud and quell his heart. He awoke feeling thirsty and asked for water which he drank in great gulps, and then looked out of the tent to study the night sky, impatient with the slow movement of the stars. There was a full moon, one of those moons that transform the world into a ghosdy apparition, when all things, living and inanimate, whisper mysterious revelations, each expressing its own, and all of them discordant, therefore we never come to understand them and we suffer the anguish of almost but never quite knowing. The estuary shone between the hills, the river carried the gleaming waters as if ablaze, and the bonfires burning on the terraces of the castle and the huge torches distinguishing the various ships of the crusaders were like dying flames in that luminous darkness. The king looked to one side, then to the other, he tried to visualise those Moors and Franks watching the bonfires of the Portuguese encampment, to imagine their thoughts, fear and scorn, to fathom their next move and military strategy. He lay down once more on the bearskin with which he usually covered his pallet, and tried to sleep. The voices of men on patrol could be heard, now and then, the sound of weapons, the lantern inside the tent cast dancing shadows, then the king sank into silence and infinite darkness, he was asleep.

The hours passed, the moon descended and disappeared, night turned to night. Then the stars covered the entire sky, sparkling like reflections on the water, creating space for the Milky Way leading to Santiago, later, much much later, the first light of morning broke through behind the city, black against the light, little by little the minarets faded, and when the sun appeared, still invisible from this spot where we are standing, familiar voices could be heard echoing amongst the hills, those of the muezzins summoning the followers of Allah to prayer. The Christians are not such early risers, aboard the ships there is no sign of life, and the Portuguese encampment, save for the weary sentinels who are nodding off, continues to be immersed in a deep sleep, a lethargy interrupted by grunts, sighs, murmurings, which only much much later when the sun is already up, will free their limbs and untie their voices, the contrite and irrepressible morning yawn, the interminable stretching causing bones to creak, one day more, one day less. The fires have been lit and the cauldrons are now suspended over the flames, the men draw near, each with his wooden bowl, the guards arrive in a state of exhaustion, others who have rested disperse throughout the encampment as they chew one last mouthful of food, while at the same time, near the tents, the nobles nourish themselves on much the same food, unless we are talking about meat which is the main difference in their diet. They eat from large wooden platters along with the priests who have celebrated Mass before breaking their fast, and together they try to predict what the crusaders will decide to do, someone suggests they will not join them unless they are promised more generous rewards, another feels they might be content simply to serve for the greater glory of God, if compensated for their labours with a token sum of money. They keep a watchful eye on the ships in the distance, probe the manoeuvres óf the sailors, look out for any signs, in the hope of discovering whether the crusaders are planning to stay or, on the other hand, are already weighing anchor.

The king is waiting. He fidgets impatiently on the seat placed in front of his tent, he is fully armed, with only his head uncovered, and he sits there in silence, looking and waiting, nothing more. It is mid-morning, the sun is high in the sky, beads of sweat trickling down under his armour. The king is visibly annoyed yet anxious not to show it. A canvas awning erected over his head flaps gently in the breeze, in harmony with the royal standard. A silence different from that of night, but perhaps even more disquieting because during the day we expect movement and noise, a silence of foreboding hovers over the city, the river and the surrounding hills. The crickets are chirping but this is a sound from another world, the grating of the invisible saw cutting away at the world's foundations. Up on the walls, behind the battlements, the Moors are also watching and waiting.

At last there is a movement of boats between the three main galleys anchored at the mouth of the estuary, from each of them descend people who step into the boats, and now they are heading this way, you can hear the beating of oars on the smooth water, the splashing of spade oars, the general picture is almost one of pure lyricism, a clear blue sky, two small boats approaching without haste, all we need is a painter to record these subtle colours of nature, the dark city rising up the hill and surmounted by the castle, or, changing our perspective, the Portuguese encampment against a background of irregular hills, ravines, slopes, scattered olive-groves, some stubble, the vestiges of recent fires. The king is no longer there, he returned to his tent, because, being a royal personage, he does not have to wait for anyone, the crusaders have to assemble, waiting respectfully and then Dom Afonso Henriques, armed from head to foot, will appear to hear their message. Some of the high-ranking warriors who had conferred with the king now began to approach, their demeanour forbidding and impenetrable, we can already tell that they are about to refuse to help the Portuguese, but the latter are still in a state of holy ignorance, they nourish, as the saying goes, high hopes, it is difficult to imagine how they can justify such a grave decision, for there must have been a reason, otherwise they will be accused of being thoughtless and inconsiderate. The delegation includes Gilles de Rolim, Ligel, Lichertes, the La Corni brothers, Jordão, Alardo, also a German hitherto unmentioned, whose name is Heinrich, a native of Bonn, a knight of high repute and moral standing, as he will come to prove, and a learned English monk whose first name is Gilbert, and as spokesman, Guillaume Vitulo, he of the Long Sword or the Long Arrow, fear struck in the hearts of the Portuguese when they saw that he would do the talking, for they were well aware of his hostility towards the king, there are such enmities, for no good reason we take a dislike to someone and nothing will change our mind, I can't stand the fellow, I can't stand the fellow, and there is nothing more to be said.

Dom Afonso Henriques emerged from his tent accompanied by his advisers Dom Pedro Pitões and Dom João Peculiar, and it was the latter, who after consulting the king, extended words of welcome to the emissaries, speaking in Latin, of course, with no detriment to the words themselves, and told them the king was anxious to hear the answer they had brought, which he had no doubt would be most profitable for the greater glory of Our Lord Jesus Christ. An astute form of words for since we obviously do not know what most befits God, we leave it to His judgment to choose, while we humbly resign ourselves if that choice is not in our best interests, and, on the other hand, not to overstate our gratitude if it turns out to be everything we could have wished for. The eventuality that God might be indifferent to yes and no, good and evil, cannot enter heads such as the ones we were given, for when all is said and done, God always has to serve some purpose. However this is not the moment to be pursuing such tortuous meanders, because Guillaume of the Long Sword, already adopting an attitude of blatant insolence quite out of keeping with his subordinate rank, is insisting that since the King of Portugal can count on so much favour and assistance from Our Lord Jesus Christ, such as, for example, during those critical moments during the battle of Ourique, then surely the Lord would take it amiss if the crusaders, who were after all in transit, should presume to take His place in this new enterprise, therefore the Portuguese would be well-advised to go alone into battle, for their victory was assured and God would appreciate this opportunity to show His might, as and when it might be sought. Guillaume Vitulo having spoken in his native language, the Portuguese listened throughout, pretending to understand as happens on such occasions, never suspecting for a moment that the decision was contrary to their own interest and advantage, but they found out soon enough when the friar accompanying the Knight of the Long Sword reluctantly began translating, his lips refusing to articulate words of such sarcasm, and others which demand a second hearing, given the undertones of blasphemous doubt cast on the divine power to quell or curtail wars, to propose or dispose, to grant or withhold victory, to allow one man to overcome a thousand, things only become difficult when Christians are fighting Christians, or Moors are struggling against Moors, although in the second case, this is a problem for Allah to resolve, so let him get on with it.

The king listened in silence, and silent he remained, his hands grasping the hilt of his sword, held to the right, the tip of the blade resting firmly on the ground as if he had already taken possession of this territory. And it was Dom João Peculiar who, crimson With holy indignation, uttered the phrase that ought to have shamed the provocateur, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God, a phrase understood by all, even by those weak in matters of doctrine, because rather than simply show his contempt for the Portuguese, Guillaume Vitulo, in other circumstances and with different words, had, in fact, done nothing more than repeat Satan's wicked ploy when he said to Jesus, If you be the Son of God, cast yourself down, for the angels will protect you and you will come to no harm, whereupon Jesus replied, You shall not tempt the Lord your God. These words ought to have shamed Guillaume but he felt no remorse, and even appeared to be sneering with contempt. Then Dom Afonso Henriques asked, Is this the crusaders' final decision, It is, replied the other, Then be gone, and may God accompany you to the Holy Land, where, unless I am mistaken, you will no longer have any excuse for evading battle as on this occasion. It was now Guillaume Vitulo's turn to raise his hand to the sword that gave him his name, and this might have had the most dire consequences if his companions had not intervened, not so much physically as with the words spoken by one of them, this was Gilbert, the only member of the delegation who could outshine the interpreters when it came to expressing himself in Latin, as fluent as any learned high-ranking prelate, and these were his words, Your Majesty, Guillaume Vitulo is telling the truth when he says that the crusaders refuse to stay here, but he has failed to mention the material considerations which have prompted their refusal, after all, it's up to them, however some have decided to remain and these are the men you see here who have come with the delegation, Gilles de Rolim, Ligel, Lichertes, the La Corni brothers, Jordão, Alardo, Heinrich, and myself, the most insignificant and lowly of all and at your service. Dom Afonso Henriques was so pleased that his wrath soon passed, and, there and then, ignoring any niceties of protocol, he went up to Gilbert and embraced him, showing his disdain in passing for the insolent Guillaume who is truly well-named, and said aloud, This being your decision, I promise that you will be the first Bishop of Lisbon once the city becomes Christian, and as for you others who have chosen to stay with me, I can assure you that you will have no cause to complain of my magnanimity, whereupon he turned away and entered his tent. Here the waters parted, that is to say, Guillaume remained isolated, even the friar accompanying him moved three cautious paces away, looking suspiciously for any signs of a cloven hoof or goat's horns on this rash fanatic who had been put in his place.

Combining what was effectively written with what for the moment only exists in his imagination, Raimundo Silva arrived at this crucial climax, and he has made considerable progress, if we recall that besides his more than once confessed lack of preparation for anything other than the meticulous task of proof-reading, he is a man who writes slowly, forever conscious of agreements, sparing in the use of adjectives, painstaking in matters of etymology, punctilious in observing the rules of punctuation, which goes to show that everything that has been read here in his name, in the final analysis, is nothing more than a free version and adaptation of a text which probably has little in common with this one and that as far as we can foresee, will be kept back until the very last line, and out of reach of the lovers of naive history. Besides, we only have to see that the version at our disposal already consists of twelve extremely compact pages, and it is obvious that Raimundo Silva who has none of the characteristics of the writer, neither the vices nor the virtues, could not possibly within thirty-six hours have written so much with so many variations, as for the literary merits of what he wrote, there is nothing to be said, because this is history, consequently science, and because of the lack of what might strictly be called authoritative sources. These precautions are worth repeating so that we may bear in mind the importance of not confusing appearances with reality, but we do not know how or why we should doubt, when we thought we were certain of some reality which looks and sounds convincing, that it might simply be another version among many, or, worse still, be the only version and proclaimed as such.

It is the middle of the afternoon, time to pay a visit to Dr Maria Sara who is waiting for the proofs of the book of poems. The cleaner is tidying up the kitchen, or doing the ironing, he scarcely notices her as she goes quietly about her work, perhaps thinking that writing or correcting what has been written has something to do with religion, and Raimundo Silva who has not left the house all day, went and asked her, What is the weather like, since he never has much to say to her, he seizes the slightest opportunity, or invents one, therefore he did not go to the window as usual, and he should have done, today being such a special day, perhaps they already know in the city that the crusaders are going away, espionage is not an invention of modern warfare, and Senhora Maria replies, It's fine, a synthetic expression, which only means, in fact, that it is not raining, for by constantly saying, It's fine, but cold, or, It's fine, but windy, we never say nor ever will say, It's fine, but raining. Raimundo Silva goes in search of the complementary information, whether there is any threat of rain, or wind such as yesterday, and what the temperature is like. He can go out without any protection other than what is normal, his coat, dry as can be and now quite presentable, of the two scarves he possesses, the flimsy one. He went to the kitchen to settle the weekly accounts with Senhora Maria, she looked at the money and sighed, a habit of hers, as if on receiving the money she were already beginning to be parted from it, in the beginning Raimundo Silva used to get nervous, she appeared to be putting on a sad expression to show her displeasure at being so badly paid, therefore he felt quite uneasy until he was sufficiently informed about standard rates of payment amongst the lower middle class to which he belongs, coming to the conclusion that he was reasonably well off, one could not honestly say that he was exploiting the labour of others, but just in case, he increased her wages, but he could not cure her of that sighing.

There are three main routes connecting the street in which Raimundo Silva lives to the city of the Christians, one that follows the Rua do Milagre de Santo Antonio, and depending on which street of the trifurcation he chooses, he might end up in Caldas and the Madalena, or in the Largo da Rosa and its immediate surroundings, the Costa do Castelo above, the Escadinhas da Saúde and the Largo de Martim Moniz below, and, in the middle, the steep Canada de Santo André, the Terreirinho and the Rua dos Cavaleiros, another route takes him through the Largo dos Lóios in the direction of the Portas do Sol, and finally, the most common route of all, down the Escadinhas de'Sào Crispim which soon brings him to the Porta de Ferro, where the tram is waiting that will take him to the Chiado, or where he sets off, still on foot, for the Praça da Figueira, if he has to use the underground, as is the case today. The publishing house is situated near the Avenida do Duque de Loulé, much too far away for him to start climbing the Avenida da Liberdade at this late hour, he usually walks up on the right-hand side, for he has never liked the other side, he cannot explain why, although this impression of liking or disliking may not be constant, it has its ups and downs, whether it be here or there, but somehow he feels happier on the right-hand side. One day, even while telling himself that he was being obsessive, he took the trouble to mark out on a map of the city those stretches of the Avenida which he liked and those he disliked, and he discovered to his surprise, that the agreeable part on the left side was more extensive, but taking into account the degree of satisfaction, the right side prevailed in the end, so that he would often go up on this side and look across at the pavement on the other side, wishing he were there. Obviously he does not take these little obsessions too seriously, he is not a proof-reader for nothing, only a few days ago, while holding a conversation with the author of The History of the Siege of Lisbon, he argued that proof-readers have had wide experience of both literature and life, giving to understand that what they did not know or wish to learn about life, literature more or less taught them, especially when it comes to foibles and manias, for as everyone knows normal characters do not exist, otherwise they presumably would not be characters, which, summed up, may imply that Raimundo Silva may have looked in the books he proof-read for some striking features that, with the passage of time, would come to instil, in combination with any natural traits, this coherent and contradictory totality we normally refer to as character. Now that he is standing on the Escadinhas de'São Crispim, eyeing the dog who is watching him, he might well ask himself which fictional character it most resembles at this moment, a pity it is not a wolf or some other animal, for then St Francis would immediately come to mind, or a pig, and then it might be St Antonino, or a lion, and then it might be St Mark, or an ox, and then it might be St Luke, or a fish, and then it might be St Antony, or a lamb, and then it might be St John the Baptist, or an eagle, and then it might be St John the Evangelist, we could not simply describe the dog as being man's best friend, because the way the world is going it might well be his one and only remaining friend.

On condition that its friendship is returned, Raimundo Silva thinks to himself in the presence of this gaping mongrel, it is more than evident that the inhabitants of'São Crispim have no liking for the canine species, perhaps because the people in this district are the direct descendants of the Moors who saw it as their religious duty to abhor the dogs roaming the streets at that time, although both men and dogs are the brothers of Allah. The dog, with more than eight centuries of ill-treatment in its blood and genetic legacy, raised its head from afar to give a pitiful howl, a voice of unabashed frustration and despair begging for food, howling or stretching out a hand is not so much public degradation as inner abnegation. Raimundo Silva has no fixed appointment, Until tomorrow, was all Dr Maria Sara had said, but it is already getting late, worst of all is this dog preventing him from going on his way, the howl has turned to wailing, unlike what happens to humans who weep first then start howling, and what this dog is begging, pleading, supplicating and craving for, as if this simple man were God Himself, is a morsel of bread or a bone, rubbish-bins nowadays are difficult to open or tip over, hence my desperate need for something to eat, kind Sir. Torn between going on and feeling remorseful about having done so, Raimundo Silva decides to return home to find something that a famished dog dare not refuse, as he goes upstairs he looks at his watch, It's getting late, he repeated to himself, bursting into the apartment and giving the cleaner, whom he caught watching television, the fright of her life, but without appearing to notice he made straight for the kitchen, rummaged in drawers, peered into pots and pans, opened the fridge, Senhora Maria could not summon the courage to ask, What are you looking for, or even register any surprise as well she might, for as we know, she was caught in the act, watching television when she should have been getting on with her work, and now she tries to collect herself, the television has been switched off and she is now busily moving furniture and making the most awful din as she puts on a show of frenetic activity, busying herself to no purpose, while Raimundo Silva, if he actually noticed that she was taking liberties, did not give it another thought, he was so worried about being late and making a favourable impression when he puts the fruits of his plunder before the dog, these he carries wrapped up in newspaper, a bit of cooked sausage, a slice of fatty ham, three morsels of bread, pity there is no bone to pacify the poor mongrel for there is nothing better while digesting than a bone to stimulate the salivary glands and to strengthen a dog's teeth. The door has slammed, Raimundo Silva is already descending the stairs, no doubt Senhora Maria has gone to the window to watch him leave, then gone back into the sitting-room to switch on the television, she had even lost five minutes of the soap opera, what's been happening.

The dog had not moved, but simply lowered its head, its nose almost touching the ground. Its protruding ribs, like those of some crucified Christ, tremble in the joints of its spine, this animal is an utter fool, refusing to leave the Escadinhas de'São Crispim where it has suffered starvation, despising the riches of Lisbon, Europe and the World, now these are facile judgments, this is not a case of stubbornness but rather of timidity, therefore worthy of our respect, the fearless never see any difficulties, for example, what confusion there would be in this dog's mind on discovering that the familiar one hundred and thirty-four steps suddenly had one more, not that any such thing has happened, this is merely a hypothesis, how wretched the mongrel would feel confronted with this unsurmountable abyss, for we have not forgotten how difficult the dog found it to follow this man the other day all the way to the Porta de Ferro, better not to repeat certain experiences. Standing three paces away, Raimundo Silva watches the dog go up to the parcel opened out on the ground, and the animal, wary of being landed a kick, cannot decide whether it should keep an eye on him, or pounce on the food, its very smell provoking unbearable pangs of hunger, the saliva rushes to its teeth, oh god of dogs, why have you condemned so many of us to a miserable existence, it is always the same, we blame the gods for this and that, when it is we who invent and fabricate everything, including absolution for these and other crimes, Raimundo Silva can see that the dog is afraid, he moves away, the animal advances a little, its nose quivering with desire, one minute the food was there and gone the next, swallowed up in a flash, and with its long, pale tongue the dog is licking the grease soaked into the paper. Fate has confronted Raimundo Silva with this sad spectacle, Dr Maria Sara already forgotten, and suddenly he finds himself identified with the fictional character who was missing, none other than St Rock who was assisted by a dog, and it was time the saint repaid the favour, thus proving the assertion that everything is reciprocated in this life, even if in reverse, from a human angle, needless to say, for when it comes to dogs, who can tell how they see Raimundo Silva, let us say, a living being with a human face, so that we may finally complete the aforementioned collection of apocalyptic animals and let Raimundo Silva also become the St Matthew who was missing, but how will he cope with such a heavy burden.

But it cannot be all that heavy, if we observe the speed at which he began descending the steps, having suddenly remembered Dr Maria Sara who is waiting for him, now he will need to take a taxi in order to get there in time, and he cannot afford such luxuries, damn dog, me playing the Good Samaritan, you can be sure I wouldn't have gone back home to look for food had it been an old woman begging on the Escadinhas de'São Crispim, well, perhaps if it were an old woman, but certainly not for an old man, interesting to see how generosity itself, assuming that is what we are talking about, varies according to the situation and the circumstances, with our frame of mind and mood at that moment, generosity, if you will forgive the comparison, is rather like a piece of elastic, it stretches, contracts, is capable of embracing all humanity or the selfish individual who only knows how to be generous with himself, however an act of charity is always good for the soul, the mongrel remained there, deeply grateful, although it was so famished that this food would barely suffice to fill a hollow tooth, poor little creature, an expression of pity, for the dog is not all that small, what breed, all of them, except for the most timid of them that never appear on the streets, and if they do they are on a leash and wearing a cache-sexe, this one at least is free, enjoys pursuing stray bitches but will not get much enjoyment if he never leaves the Escadinhas de'São Crispim, if he never leaves the Escadinhas de'São Crispim. At this point Raimundo Silva consciously interrupted the musings in which he had been absorbed as the taxi carried him, he had become aware of a sudden malaise, not physical, rather as if someone asleep inside him had suddenly awoken and called out on finding himself plunged into total darkness, therefore he repeated, to allow his fear to pass, If he never leaves the Escadinhas de'São Crispim, who am I talking about, he asked himself, the taxi was climbing the Rua da Prata and he was inside it, after all, he belonged to the land of men, not that of dogs, and he could always leave the Escadinhas de'São Crispim whenever he wanted or needed to, such as now, when he is on his way to the publisher to speak to Dr Maria Sara who is in charge of the proof-readers, to deliver the final proofs of the book of poems, and then he may decide not to go back home just yet, he has finished proof-reading the book, although such a slender little volume that it scarcely passes for a book, he will do what he usually does, eat in some restaurant, go to the cinema, although he probably does not have enough money for such an ambitious programme, he does some mental arithmetic, the taxi-meter, he tries to remember how much he has in his wallet, and he is in the middle of these calculations when he realises he will not go out this evening, he must not forget that he has started on a new book, no, no it is not the novel delivered by Costa, he looked at his watch, almost five o'clock, the taxi goes up the Avenida do Duque de Louié, stops at traffic lights, drives on, drop me off here, please, and when Raimundo takes out the money to pay, he can see at a glance that he does not have enough money to go to a restaurant and the cinema, either one or the other, but the one without the other is not much fun, I'll eat at home and get on with my work, he means The History ofthe Siege of Lisbon, at one time he would have said it outright, when he was proof-reading a book with this title, in the days when he was innocent.

The lift is ancient and cramped, perfect for intimate encounters were it not for the transparency of the glass doors and the side panels, nevertheless there is an interval between two floors, and so long as you keep an attentive eye on the flights of stairs, going up on the one side, going down on the other, it is always possible to touch hands or even steal a furtive kiss, if you are feeling desperate. In all the years he has worked here, Raimundo Silva has used this mechanical cage, sometimes on his own, at others accompanied, and never before today, as far as he can remember, had he ever been assailed by such disquieting thoughts, it is true that in the beginning he preferred to use the stairs because he did not have the patience to wait when the lift was slow in coming, and also because he was still nimble on his feet and sound of heart, capable of competing with the junior staff in all the offices, including the staff in Editorial, although here the average age has always been on the high side. It is not much of a climb, only two floors, but bearing in mind that this is an old building where each floor is almost twice as high as those built today, similar in this respect to the very old building he inhabits in Castelo, in other words this is nothing new, the high has always been followed by the low and the low by the high, probably one of life's laws, even our own father once gave the impression of being a giant and now it is we who look over his shoulder, and he gets more and more decrepit from year to year, poor man, but let us say no more, so that he may suffer in silence. It strikes Raimundo Silva as being absurd that he should be remembering his deceased father in this elevator, just as he was beginning to be assailed by erotic thoughts, the truth is that the person who thinks only knows what he is thinking and not why he thought it, we think from the moment we are born, I suppose, but do not know what our first thought might have been, the one from which all others have subsequently come, the definitive biography of each one of us would be to ascend the river of thoughts to its primeval source, and presumably change our life, were it possible to retrace their course, to suddenly have another thought and pursue it, so that we might arrive at the day in which we find ourselves, unless by choosing another life we made it shorter, and that the life in question was not that of a proof-reader, and we would go up in another lift, perhaps to speak to someone other than Dr Maria Sara. As it happened, Raimundo Silva was standing on the side where he had seen the Editorial Director descend with the new employee appointed to supervise the work of the proof-readers, and we catch him looking at the empty space with severe disapproval, as if he were about to reprimand the woman who had stood there for her immoral conduct, for as you ought to know these are things one does not do in a hit, one does not do, I repeat, for I am well aware that there are people who do these things, and even worse, It was only a little groping, Mr Proof-reader, it was only a little kiss, Mr Proof-reader, No matter, that was more than enough, in the name of my own, incurable envy, I denounce you, during the last few centimetres of his ascent, Raimundo Silva moved to the centre of the elevator, there was no room for the others, they had to get out, thoroughly ashamed of themselves if there is any shame left in this world, most likely they are laughing at this hypocritical moralist, They're no good because they're still green, said the vixen.

To look, see and observe are different ways of using the organ of sight, each with its own intensity, even when there is some deterioration, for example, to look without seeing, when someone is distracted, a common situation in traditional novels, or to see and not notice, when the eyes out of weariness and boredom avoid anything likely to tax them. Only by observing can we achieve full vision, when at a given moment or successively, our attention becomes concentrated, which may just as easily result from a conscious decision as from an involuntary state of synesthesia, whereby what is seen pleads to be seen once more, thus passing from one sensation to another, arresting, slowing down the process of looking, as if the image were about to be produced in two different places in the brain with a temporal discrepancy of a hundredth of a second, first the simplified sign, then the exact design, the clear, imperious definition of a thick handle in polished brass on a dark varnished door which suddenly becomes an absolute presence. Time and time again, Raimundo Silva has stood at this door waiting for them to open up from within, the click of the buzzer, and never as today has he been so keenly and almost terrifyingly aware of material things, a handle that is not simply a smooth polished surface, but an object whose density can be perceived until coming up against this other density, that of wood, and it is as if all of this were sensed, experienced, felt inside the brain, as if the senses, this time all of them and not just his vision, were observing the world after finally observing a handle and a door. The buzzer has clicked, fingers have pushed the door, inside the light seems overpowering, and although not true, Raimundo Silva feels as if he were floating in space without any bearings, just like those sets saturated with light that are much in vogue in films about the supernatural and extra-terrestrial apparitions with dazzling lighting effects, he waits for the telephonist to shriek in terror or fall into an ecstatic trance if he should manifest himself outwardly in a proliferation of sensitive tentacles or bright rays of ineffable beauty, the kaleidoscopic vibration into which, for a fleeting instant, his sensibility has been transformed. But the telephonist, whose duties, in addition to managing the switchboard, include pressing the button to release the lock and receiving anyone who arrives, gives him a little wave while she finishes a conversation on the telephone, and then friendly, familiar and unsurprised, greets him with, Hello, Senhor Silva, she has known him for many years and each time she sees him she finds him no different than one might expect with the passage of time, if asked within the next few minutes how she found the proof-reader, she would reply, although not with total conviction, Difficult to say, perhaps a little nervous, this is what she would say and nothing more, either she is not very observant or Raimundo Silva is his old self again, if anyone could really tell from outward appearances what was going on inside a person, even by observing them closely, I'd like to speak to Dr Maria Sara, he said, and the telephonist, who is also called Sara but without the Maria and who feels very proud of this semi-coincidence, informs him that Dr Maria Sara is in the director's office, she does not even have to say which director, she means the Editorial Director, it has always been the same, the others, from the Managing Director down to Costa, are people of no importance, and Raimundo Silva, somewhat brusquely for him, tells her to ask whether she can see him or whether he should leave the proofs of the book of poems here at the reception desk, she will know what he is referring to. Sara listens to what Dr Maria Sara is saying, nods her head, the dialogue is brief, but perhaps because of whatever keen vision he still possesses, although now only a pale shadow of what it was on the other side of the door, Raimundo Silva observes, strand by strand, the telephonist's blonde hair, a colour resembling that of crushed straw, she keeps her head lowered, she cannot imagine the ferocity in his expression, ferocity is perhaps too strong a word, obviously the man bears the woman no malice, it is his eyes that are being irresponsible, he is simply waiting to be given instructions, he has come quite some distance and in haste, perhaps only to be told to leave the proofs in reception, as if he were an errand boy delivering a letter that requires no answer, Dr Maria Sara would like you to wait in her office, the telephonist has raised her head and is smiling, Many thanks, Sarita, she has always been called Sarita, and the name stuck even after she married and became a widow, some people are extremely fortunate, the women, of course, for as a rule, men have had little time to be boys and some never were, as is known and has been written, while others have never stopped being boys but dare not admit it.

Raimundo Silva did not have long to wait, three or four minutes at most. He had remained standing, looking around him, with the strange impression of entering this office for the first time, it is not surprising, he had no memory of being in this office before, most likely it had been used by the administration before the recent alterations, nor, as he now noticed to his amazement, had he retained those images when summoned by Dr Maria Sara, he could no longer remember, for example, if that vase with a white rose had been standing on the desk or that work-schedule on the wall where he could read his own name on the top line and below it the names of all the other proof-readers who worked for the publishing house, their names marked alongside the abbreviated tides of books, dates, coloured symbols, a simple geometrical square, a map, as it were, of the city of proof-readers, some six in all. We can picture them, each in his own home, in Castelo, in Avenidas Novas, perhaps in Almada or Amadora, or Campo de Ourique, or Graça, poring over the proofs of some book, reading and correcting, and Dr Maria Sara thinking about them, changing a date, substituting a green symbol for a blue one, very soon now the names themselves will no longer matter, be no more than a little diagram that will provoke ideas, associations, reflections, but for the moment each of these names represents an item of information that has to be assimilated, first Raimundo Silva, then Carlos Fonseca, Albertina Santos, Mario Rodrigues, Rita Pais, Rodolfo Xavier, this being an office one might expect them to be arranged in alphabetical order, but not at all, no Sir, Raimundo Silva appears on the top line, and perhaps there is a simple explanation, namely, that when the work-schedule was drawn up, he was Dr Maria Sara's main concern.

Whereupon, she walks in, and says, Sorry to have kept you waiting, the sound of the door and her voice startled Raimundo Silva, caught unawares, and he turned round hastily, It doesn't matter, I only came to, he does not finish the sentence, it is as if he were also seeing this face for the first time, how often had he thought about Dr Maria Sara in recent days, and in the end, he had no image of her in his mind, her name alone had occupied all the available space in his memory, progressively displacing her hair, eyes, features, the gestures she made with her hands, all he could remotely recognise was the softness of that silk, not because he had ever touched it, as we know, nor was he having recourse to former sensations in order to imagine morbidly what touching it might be like, impossible as it may seem, Raimundo Silva knows everything about this silk, its sheen, the soft texture of the material, the floating pleats, like sand dancing, although its present colour is not as before, it, too, immersed in the mists of memory, at the risk of being disrespectful by citing the national anthem. I've brought you the proofs, as we agreed, said Raimundo Silva, and Dr Maria Sara took them from him, in passing as it were, now she is seated at her desk, having invited the proof-reader to be seated, but he replied, No, I won't bother, and averted his gaze to the white rose, so close to her that it can see into her most tender heart, and, since one word leads to another, he is reminded of a verse he had once revised, a line that spoke of the intimate murmur that makes roses bloom, he had been struck by the beauty of those words, one of those felicitous expressions to be found even in mediocre poets, Thè intimate murmur that makes roses bloom, he repeated to himself, and he could hear, incredible as it may seem, the ineffable caress of petals, or was it a sleeve rubbing against the curve of her breast, dear God, take pity on men who spend their lives imagining things.

Dr Maria Sara replied, As you wish. Only these three words, in a tone of voice that did not augur any further conversation, and Raimundo Silva, who could probe the meaning even of words half-spoken, understood, on hearing these three words, that he had no more business here, he had come to deliver the proofs, he had handed them over, all he had to do now was to take his leave, Good afternoon, or to ask, Do you need anything more of me, a common enough expression, as capable of expressing humble subordination as restrained impatience, and which, in this instance, using the appropriate tone of voice, might be turned into an ironic gibe, the unfortunate thing is that the person addressed often hears the phrase without noticing the intention behind it, they only have to be leafing through published proofs with a professional eye, even more attentive when checking the proofs of verses which require special care. No, I cannot think of anything more at present, she said, rising from her chair, and it was just then that Raimundo Silva, without meditating or premeditating, detached as he was from the act and its consequences, gently touched the white rose with two fingers, and Dr Maria Sara looked at him in astonishment, she could not have been more startled had he caused that flower to appear in an empty vase or pulled off some similar sleight of hand, but most unexpected of all, is that a woman so sure of herself should suddenly become perturbed to the point of blushing, it happened in a flash, but flagrant, it seems quite incredible that anyone should blush so in this day and age, what could she have thought, if she thought anything, it was as if the man, on touching the rose, had brought out a hidden intimacy in the woman, spiritual rather than physical. But the most extraordinary thing of all is that Raimundo Silva also blushed, and for much longer than she did, he felt so utterly ridiculous. How shameful, he said or is about to say to himself. In similar situations, when courage is lacking, and don't let's ask, Courage for what, the only salvation is to escape, our instinct for self-preservation is a wise counsellor, the worst comes afterwards, when we repeat those horrible words, How shameful, we have all experienced these horrors and punched the cushion with rage and humiliation, How could I have been so stupid, and there is no answer, probably because we would have to be very intelligent to be able to justify our stupidity, just as well that we are hidden by the darkness in the room, no one can see us, even though night possesses, and that is why we fear it so much, this evil power of making even the most petty irritations seem monstrous and irremediable, let alone a disaster of this order. Raimundo Silva turned away abruptly, with the vague idea that he had nothing more to live for and that he would never again return to this establishment, It's absurd, absurd, he repeated in silence and he had the impression of saying it a thousand times as he made for the door, In two seconds I'll be out of this place, gone, far away, when at the very last moment he was detained by Maria Sara's voice, surprisingly calm, in such stark contrast to what is happening here this very moment, that it was as if the meaning of her words had vanished into thin air, had he not been so conscious of the absurdity of it all, he might have pretended that he had misunderstood, however he had no choice but to accept that she really had said, I'm leaving in five minutes, I only have to settle some business with the Editorial Director, can I offer you a lift. With his hand gripping the door-handle, he tried desperately to appear natural, and how much effort it cost him, one part of him commanded, Be off with you, the other eyed him like a judge and decreed, You won't get a second chance, all the blushings and surprises had lost any importance in comparison with the dramatic step taken by Maria Sara, but in which direction, dear God, in which direction, and this is how we humans are made, for notwithstanding the confusion of sentiments with which he was struggling, it is clear that he was still sufficiently indifferent to be able to recognise the annoyance the expression, can I offer you a lift, had caused him, a trite colloquialism altogether unsuited to the occasion and reminding him of some popular ditty, a spontaneous and irresistible jingle, lift, ride, ditty, Maria Sara could have said, I'll take you wherever you like, but she probably did not remember, or thought the better of using such an ambiguous phrase, I'll take you wherever you like, I'll take you wherever I like, how true that an elevated style tends to elude us when we need it most. Raimundo Silva managed to let go of the door and stand firm, an observation which might appear to be in dubious taste were it not the expression of an amicable irony as we wait for him to reply, Many thanks, but I don't want to take you out of your way, now here it should be said the sonnet is about to suffer with the correction and it only remains to the ill-starred proof-reader to bite his tongue if this tardy sacrifice would serve any purpose, fortunately, Maria Sara paid no attention, or pretended not to have understood the mischievous duplicity of the phrase, at least her voice was not trembling when she said, I won't be a minute, do take a seat, and he did his best to prevent his voice from trembling when he replied, I won't bother, I prefer to stand, from the way he had spoken earlier it seemed that he was refusing the offer, now he appears to be accepting. She goes out only to return within five minutes, meanwhile it is to be hoped that both of them recover the rhythm of their breathing, their sense of appraising distances, the regularity of their pulse, which will certainly be no small feat after such perilous exchanges. Raimundo Silva looks at the rose, it is not only people who do not know why they are born.

One day, perhaps because of some lighting effect reminiscent of this bright chilly afternoon which is already fading, someone will say, Do you remember, first the silence inside the car, awkward words, a tense and expectant glance, protestations and avowals, Drop me off in the Baixa, please, I'll catch a tram from there, Whatever next, I'm taking you home, it isn't any trouble, But you're going out of your way, The car is, not me, It's quite a climb up to the district where I live, At the foot of the castle, So you know where I live, In the Rua do Milagre de Santo Antonio, I saw the address on your file, afterwards a certain but still hesitant sense of relief, body and soul semi-relaxed, but his words ever cautious until the moment Maria Sara said, I think we're where the Moorish city once stood, and Raimundo Silva pretending not to notice the allusion, replied, Yes, we are, and tried to change the subject, but she persisted, Sometimes I try to imagine what it must have been like, the people, the houses, their way of life, and he remained silent, now obdurately silent, feeling that he hated her as one detests an invader, and he was on the point of saying, I'll get out here, my apartment is nearby, but she neither stopped nor replied, and they kept silent for the remainder of the journey. When the car came to a halt outside the front door, Raimundo Silva, although unsure as to whether this was an act of politeness, felt he ought to invite her up, and then repented, It is rather tactless, he thought, besides I mustn't forget that she is my boss, whereupon she said, Perhaps another time, it's getting late. We could debate for hours about this historic phrase, for Raimundo Silva could swear that the words she spoke just then were different, and no less historic, It is not yet time.