The lonely navigator had dressed to go ashore, shorts, singlet, a cap on his head, sandals, everything a dazzling white, this is a point of honor with sailors. He hauled the rubber dinghy up the harbor steps, stood there watching for several seconds, waiting too to get his strength back, but above all to allow time for someone to appear from the shadows of the arcades, for the cars and buses suddenly to start moving again, and for the square to fill up with people, who knows, perhaps some woman might approach smiling, gently swaying her hips as she walks, without overdoing it, simply that insinuating appeal which affects a man's sight and speech, mainly because he has just come ashore. But the desert remained a desert. The navigator finally understood what had to be understood. Everyone had left because of the imminent collision with the islands. He looked back, saw his boat in the middle of the river, he felt certain he was seeing it for the last time, not even a battleship could withstand the tremendous head-on collision, so what chance would there be for a sailing nutshell abandoned by its owner. The navigator crossed the square, his legs still stiff from lack of exercise, he looks like a scarecrow with his tanned skin, his hair sprouting from his cap, his sandals hanging off his feet. He looks up as he approaches the great arch, reads the Latin inscription Virtutibus Majorum ut sit omnibus documento P.P.D., he had never studied Latin, but vaguely understands that the monument is dedicated to the virtuous ancestors of the people who live here, and he proceeds along a narrow street with identical buildings on either side until he comes out into another square, smaller, with a Greek or Roman build ing at one end, and in the middle of the square there are two fountains with naked women cast in iron, the water is playing, and suddenly he feels very thirsty, feels the urge to plunge his mouth into that water and his body into those naked forms. He walks with outstretched arms, as if delirious, sleepwalking or in a trance, he mutters as he goes, has no idea what he is saying, only knows what he wants.
The patrol appears on the corner, five soldiers under the command of a second lieutenant. They spotted the madman twitching in his madness, they heard him raving, there was no need to give the order. The lonely navigator lay stretched out on the ground, there is still some way to go before reaching the water. The women, as we know, are made of iron.
These were also the days of the third exodus. The first, which was fully reported at the appropriate moment, was of the foreign tourists who fled in terror from what then, how time passes, still seemed no more than the possible danger that a crack would cleave the Pyrenees as far down as sea level, and what a pity this unexpected misfortune didn't stop there, just imagine how proud Europe would have felt to find itself endowed, as it were, with a geological canyon compared to which the one in Arizona would look no bigger than a tiny ditch. The second exodus was that of the rich and powerful when the fracture became irreparable, when the peninsula's course, although still slow, seemed to be gathering speed, showing, in a manner we believe definitive, the precariousness of established structures and ideas. It then became clear how the social edifice, with all its complexity, is no more than a house of cards, solid only in appearance, we need only shake the table on which it stands and the house collapses. And the table in this instance, and for the first time in history, had moved by itself, dear God, let's save our precious possessions and precious lives and get away from here.
The third exodus, the one we were discussing before summing up the first two, had in a sense two components or parts, which some believe should be referred to, in view of their essential differences, as the third and the fourth exodus. Tomorrow, that is to say in the distant future, those historians who will devote themselves to the study of events that have changed the face of the earth, in both an alle gorical and a literal sense, will decide, let us hope with the reflection and impartiality of whoever dispassionately observes the phenomena of the past, whether or not this division should be made, as some people now maintain. The latter claim that it betrays a serious lack of critical judgment or sense of proportion to equate the retreat of millions of people from the coastal regions inland and the flight of a few thousand people abroad, simply an account of the undeniable coincidence in the timing of the one exodus and the other. And although we have no intention of taking sides in the debate or of expressing any opinions, it costs us nothing to recognize that while the two groups of people might have experienced the same fear, their methods and means of remedying this fear were quite different.
In the first case, they were nearly all people with few possessions, who, finding themselves forced to move elsewhere by the authorities and the harsh realities of their situation, hoped at most to save their lives by trusting in some miracle, luck, chance, fate, good fortune, prayer, faith in the Holy Ghost, by wearing an amulet around their neck, the Star of David, or a holy medal, and by holding onto all those other traditional beliefs and customs too numerous to mention here but which can be summed up in that other well-known saying, My hour has not yet come. In the second case, the refugees were people with assets and wealth at their disposal who had held out to see how things would go, but now there was no longer any doubt, the planes operating the new shuttle service were full, the mail boats, cargo vessels, and other smaller craft carried their maximum load. Let us draw a discreet veil over certain unedifying episodes, bribes, intrigues, and treacherous betrayals were common, even crimes, and some people were murdered for a ticket, it was a sorry sight, but, the world being what it is, we would be ingenuous to expect anything better. In short, all things considered, most likely the history books will record a fourfold rather than a triple exodus, not for the sake of precise classification, but lest we should confuse the wheat with the chaff.
But they will nevertheless exclude anything in the summary analysis given here that might reflect, however involuntarily, a certain mental attitude tainted by Manichaeism, a tendency, that is, to give an idealized picture of the lower orders and a superficial condemnation of the upper classes, who are readily but not always correctly labeled as being rich and powerful, which naturally provokes hatred and dislike, along with base feelings of envy, the source of all evils. Of course the poor exist, and their presence cannot be ignored, but we must not overrate them. Especially since they are not and never have been models of patience, of resignation, of the self-imposed discipline needed in this crisis. Anyone remote from these events and locations, who imagined that the Iberian refugees who crowded into houses, shelters, hospitals, barracks, warehouses, or whatever army tents or huts it was possible to requisition, along with those relinquished and set up by the military, and the even greater number of people without accommodation, huddled here and there under bridges and trees, inside abandoned cars, or even out in the open, anyone who imagined that these angels were visited by God may know a great deal about angels and God, but he knows little about mankind.
Without fear of exaggeration one can say that the inferno, in mythical times, distributed uniformly throughout the entire peninsula, as we recalled in the opening of this narrative, is now concentrated into a vertical strip about thirty kilometers wide, extending from northern Galicia to the Algarve, along with the uninhabited lands to the west, which few people regard as effective buffers. For example, if the Spanish government had no need to leave Madrid, so comfortably positioned inland, anyone wishing to locate the Portuguese government will now have to travel to Elvas, which is the city farthest from the coast, if you draw a straight line, more or less latitudinal, from Lisbon. Among the starving refugees, exhausted from lack of sleep, with old people dying, children screaming and crying, the men without work, the women supporting the entire family, quarrels inevitably break out, insults are exchanged, there is disorder and violence, theft of clothes and food, people are kicked out and assaulted, and also, would you believe, there is so much loose living that these settlements are transformed into mass brothels, really shameful, an appalling example for the older children who may still know their father and mother but have no idea what children they themselves will engender, or where or
by whom. This aspect of the situation is less important, clearly, than it appears at first sight, consider how little attention today's historians give to periods that, for one reason or another were somewhat similar, especially the present one. When all is said and done, perhaps in moments of crisis indulging the flesh is what best serves the deeper interests of humanity and of human beings, both habitually harassed as they are by morality. But since this is a controversial hypothesis, let's move on, the mere allusion is enough to satisfy the scruples of the impartial observer.
Amid this tumult and confusion, however, there exists an oasis of peace, these seven creatures who live in the most perfect harmony, two women, three men, a dog, and a horse, although the last of these may have to swallow several reasons for complaint regarding the distribution of labor, having to pull on its own a loaded wagon, but even this will be remedied one day. The two women and two of the men constitute two happy couples, only the third man is without a partner, perhaps he does not mind this privation given his age, so far, at least, there have been none of those unmistakable signs of edginess that betray an excess of blood in the glands. As for the dog, whether it seeks and finds other pleasures when it goes in search of food, we cannot say, for even though the dog is in this respect the greatest exhibitionist among animals, certain species are discreet. Let us hope no one takes it into his head to follow this one, certain unwholesome pryings must be curbed in the name of hygiene. Perhaps these considerations about relationships and forms of behavior would be less imbued with sexuality were not the newly formed couples, whether out of intense passion or because their love is so new, so exuberantly demonstrative, which, let it be said before anyone thinks evil, does not mean that they kiss and embrace each other without regard for their surroundings, they are restrained to this extent, what they cannot conceal is the aura that surrounds them or that they exude. Only a few days ago Pedro Orce saw the glow of the brazier from the summit of the mountain. Here on the edge of the forest where they now live, sufficiently remote from the settlements to imagine themselves alone, but sufficiently close to ensure supplies of provisions, they might believe in happiness were they not living, for who knows how much longer, under the threat of a cataclysm. But they are taking advantage of each moment, they would claim, as the poet exhorted, Carpe diem, the merit of these old Latin quotations is that they contain a world of secondary and tertiary meanings, not to mention the latent and undefined ones, so that when one starts to translate, Enjoy life, for example, it sounds feeble and insipid, not worth the effort. Therefore we insist on saying Carpe diem, and we feel like gods who have decided not to be eternal in order to be able, in the precise meaning of the expression, to take advantage of their time.
What time still remains, one cannot say. Radios and television sets are going twenty-four hours a day, there are no longer news bulletins at certain hours, programs are interrupted every second to read the latest news flash, and there are endless announcements, We're now at a distance of three hundred and fifty kilometers, We're now at a distance of three hundred and twenty-seven, We're able to report that the islands of Santa Maria and São Miguel have been completely evacuated, the evacuation of the remaining islands has been stepped up, We're at a distance of three hundred and twelve kilometers, A small team of American scientists has remained at the base in Lajes, they will leave, by plane of course, only at the last minute, in order to witness the collision from the air, let's use the word collision without any adjectives. A request from the government of Portugal that a Portuguese be included as an observer in the aforesaid team went unheeded. There are three hundred and four kilometers to go, those responsible for the recreational and cultural programs on television and radio discuss what should be broadcast, some insist on classical music given the seriousness of the situation, others argue that classical music is depressing, that it would be preferable to broadcast some light music, French chansons of the thirties, Portuguese fados, Spanish malagueñas and other popular airs from Seville, lots of rock and folk music, the top tunes from the Eurovision song contest. But surely such cheerful music will shock and upset people who are living through this terrible crisis, retort the classical buffs. It would be worse if we were to play funeral marches, the advocates of lighter music allege, and the argument raged on with neither side giving an inch, two hundred and eighty-five kilometers to go.
Joaquim Sassa's radio has been used sparingly, he has some batteries in reserve, but is reluctant to use them, No one can tell what tomorrow will bring, a popular saying that tells us a good deal, here we could almost bet on what tomorrow will bring, death and destruction, millions of corpses, half the peninsula going under. But those moments when the radio is switched off soon become unbearable, time grows tangible, viscous, it grips your throat, you sense that you are about to feel the impact at any moment although we are still far away, the tension is intolerable, Joaquim Sassa switches on the radio, E uma casa portuguesa com certeza é com certeza uma casa portuguesa, the delightful voice sings of life, Dónde vas de mantón de Manila dónde vas con el rojo clavel, the same delight, the same life, but in another language, then they all sigh with relief, they're twenty kilometers closer to death, but what does that matter, death has yet to be announced, the Azores are not in sight, Sing, girl, sing.
Seated in the shade of a tree, they have just finished eating, and they could pass for nomads in their habits and dress, they have changed so much in so short a time, the result of having no comforts, their clothes are creased and stained, the men are unshaven, but let us not reproach them or the women, whose lips are now their natural color, turned pale from anxiety, perhaps when their last hour comes they will put on some lipstick and prepare themselves to receive death with dignity, ebbing life does not warrant so much effort. Maria Guavaira is leaning against Joaquim Sassa's shoulder, she grips him by the hand. Several tears appear among her eyelashes, but not because she is afraid of what is about to happen. These are tears of love that come springing to her eyes. And José Anaiço cradles Joana Carda in his arms, kisses her on the forehead, then her eyelids close, If only I could take this moment with me where I am going, I would ask no more, only one moment, not this moment as I am speaking, but that previous one, and the one before that, now almost vanished, I failed to grasp it as I experienced it and now it is too late. Pedro Orce has got up and walks away, his white hair gleams m the sun, he too carries the aura of cold light. The dog has followed him with lowered head. But they won't go very far. They now keep together as much as possible, neither of them wishes to be alone when the disaster occurs. The horse, as the experts claim, is the only animal that does not know it is going to die, it feels contented despite the great trials it has endured on its long journey. It munches the hay, shakes off the gadflies with a shudder, sweeps its grizzled flank with the long hair of its tail, probably unaware that it had been about to end its days in the semidarkness of a dilapidated stable, among cobwebs and dung, its infected lungs gasping for breath, how true that the misfortune of some is the fortune of others, however short-lived.
The day passed, another came and went, one hundred and fifty kilometers to go. You can sense the terror growing like a black shadow, the panic becomes a flood seeking out weak spots in the dike, corroding the stone foundations until they finally give way, and those who so far had remained more or less peacefully in their camps, began to move farther eastward, now realizing that they were far too close to the coast, only some seventy or eighty kilometers away, they could visualize the islands tearing through the land as far as where they were, and the sea inundating everything, the mountain on the island of Pico like some ghostly presence, Who knows, perhaps with the impact the volcano will become active once more, But there is no volcano on Pico, but no one listened to this or any other explanation. Naturally, the roads became congested, each crossroads a knot impossible to untie, at one point one could neither advance nor retreat, people were trapped like mice, but scarcely any were willing to give up the few possessions they were carrying
in order to seek salvation by taking to the fields. In order to arrest this influx by its own good example, the Portuguese government abandoned the security of Elvas and installed itself at Evora, while the Spanish government settled more conveniently at León, whence they issued communiqués countersigned respectively by the President of our Republic and by the Sovereign of their Realm, for we should have mentioned that our President and their King have accompanied their respective Prime Ministers at every stage of the crisis, even offering to go and confront the hysterical mobs with extended arms, exposing themselves to some act of violence or aggression, and to address them once more, Friends, Romans, countrymen, and so on and so forth. No Your Majesty, no Mr. President, crowds in a state of panic, and ignorant crowds to boot, would not understand, people have to be extremely cultured and civilized to meet a king or a president with extended arms in the middle of the road and stop to ask him what he wants. But there was also one who in an outburst of anger turned around and shouted, Better to be dead than to survive so briefly, let's put an end to this once and for all, and they stayed there waiting, contemplating the serene mountains in the distance, the rosy morning, the deep blue of the hot afternoon, the starry night, perhaps the last, but when my hour comes, I won't look away.
The Collected Novels of José Saramago Page 143