The Collected Novels of José Saramago

by José Saramago

  It is no longer the flayed skin of the bull but a gigantic stone in the shape of one of those flint artifacts used by men in prehistoric times, chipped away patiently, blow by blow, until it becomes a working tool, the upper part compact and rounded to fit into the palm of the hand, the lower part pointed for the tasks of scraping, digging, cutting, marking, and designing, and also, because we have not yet learned to resist the temptation, to wound and kill. The peninsula has stopped rotating and is now falling southward, passing between Africa and Central America, as the President's adviser would have explained, and its form, to the surprise of anyone who might still have in mind or on his map its former position, matches that of the two continents on either side, we see Portugal and Galicia to the north, occupying the entire width from west to east, then the great mass starts becoming narrower, Andalusia and Valencia still jutting out on the left, the Cantabrian coast on the right, and continuing the line, the great wall of the Pyrenees. The tip of the stone, the cutting edge, is the Cape of Croesus, carried from Mediterranean waters to these threatening seas, so far from the native sky of one who was the neighbor of Cerbère, that little French town so often mentioned at the beginning of this narrative.

  The peninsula is descending, but descending slowly. The experts, albeit with the utmost caution, predict that the movement is about to stop, trusting in the obvious and universal truth that if the whole, as such, never stops, the constituent parts must stop at some time, this axiom being demonstrated by human life itself, which abounds as we know in potential comparisons. With this scientific statement, the game of the century got under way, with an idea that must have emerged practically at the same time everywhere in the world, and that consisted of establishing a system for placing a double wager, on the time and place in which the suspension of movement would be verified. To take a hypothetical case to clarify the point, at 5:33:49 A.M., local time of the person betting, obviously, and the day, month, and year, and the position, this being limited to the latitude in degrees, minutes and seconds, the aforementioned Cape of Croesus serving as a point of reference. There were trillions of dollars at stake, and if someone were to guess both answers correctly, that is to say, the precise moment and the exact place, which according to the calculation of probabilities was little short of unthinkable, that person endowed with almost divine foresight would find himself in possession of greater wealth than has ever been gathered on this earth, which has seen so many riches. Nor has there ever been a more terrible game than this one, for with each passing moment, with each kilometer covered, the number of gamblers with any chance of winning is grad ually reduced, although one should note that many of those eliminated come back to wager once more, thus increasing the prize money to an astronomical figure. Of course not everyone manages to raise the money for another bet, clearly many of them find no way out of their financial ruin but suicide. The peninsula is falling southward leaving behind a trail of deaths of which it is innocent, while in the wombs of its women are growing millions of children that it innocently engendered.

  Pedro Orce goes around looking restless and ill at ease. Scarcely speaks, spends hours away from the encampment, comes back exhausted and refuses to eat, his companions inquire if he's feeling ill and he tells them, No, no, I'm not ill, without further explanation. Any conversation he makes is reserved for Roque Lozano, they are always reminiscing about their native parts as if there were no other topic of conversation. The dog accompanies him everywhere and one senses that the man's restlessness has affected this animal, once so placid. José Anaiço has already commented to Joana Carda, If he thinks that history is about to repeat itself, the poor man alone and abandoned who finds compassionate women ready to comfort him and bring him sexual relief, he's sorely deceived, and she answered with a wan smile, You're the one who's deceived, Pedro Orce's trouble, if that's the right word, is something quite different. What trouble. I don't know, but I can assure you he's not yearning for us this time, a woman is never in any doubt about these things. Then we should talk to him, make him speak, perhaps he really is ill. Perhaps, but even that isn't certain.

  They travel along the Sierra de Alcaraz, today they will set up camp near a village that, according to the map, is called Bienservida. At least in name, it is indeed well served. Perched in the driver's seat, Pedro Orce tells Roque Lozano, From here we should soon be arriving in the Province of Granada, if that's where we're heading. But my land is still far away, You'll get there, Oh yes, I'll get there, but the question is whether there's much point, These are things we only discover afterwards, give the gray horse a prod, it's slowing down. Roque Lozano shook the reins, flicked his whip over the horses' rumps, the merest graze, whereupon Grizzly obediently adjusted its trot. The couples travel inside the wagon, they converse in whispers, and Maria Guavaira says, Perhaps he'd rather go back home but doesn't like to say so in case we take offense. You could be right, replied Joaquim Sassa, we'd better ask him straight out, tell him we understand, no hard feelings, no promise or agreement need last a lifetime, after all, friends we are and friends we remain, one day we'll come back and visit him. God forbid, Joana Carda muttered under her breath. Have you something else in mind. No, not at all, just a premonition. What premonition, Maria Guavaira asked her. That Pedro Orce is going to die. We can all expect to die sooner or later. But he'll be the first to go.

  Bienservida lies off the main road. They had gone there to sell their wares, they bought some provisions, renewed their supply of water, and returned to the road still early, But they did not get far, stopping a little farther on at a small country church known as Turruchel, a pleasant spot to spend the night. Uncharacteristically, José Anaiço and Joaquim Sassa jumped down from the wagon as it came to a halt and went to assist Pedro Orce in his descent from the driver's seat, making him say, as he held on to their outstretched hands, What's this, my friends, I'm not an invalid. He failed to notice that the word friends immediately brought tears to the eyes of these men who harbor the sorrow of mistrust in their hearts even while they receive this weary body, which falls into their arms despite the old man's proud statement, for there comes a time when pride has nothing but words, is nothing but words. Pedro Orce puts his feet on the ground, takes a few steps, and pauses with an expression of amazement on his face, in his every gesture, as if intense light were paralyzing and blinding him. What's wrong, asked Maria Guavaira, who had drawn near. Nothing, it's nothing. Do you feel unwell, Joana Carda asked him. No, it's something else. He bent down, spread out his hands on the ground, then summoned the dog Constant, placed one hand on its head, ran his fingers along its neck, its spine, back, and rump. The dog did not move, it stood stock-still as if trying to dig its paws into the earth. Now Pedro Orce had stretched out, his head resting on a tuft of grass, his white hair mingling with fresh shoots, flowering at a time when it should have been winter. Joana Carda and Maria Guavaira knelt beside him and held his hands, What's the matter, tell us what you feel, for he was clearly suffering some great pain, to judge from the expression on his face. He opened his eyes wide and stared at the sky, at the passing clouds. Maria Guavaira and Joana Carda did not need to look up to see them, they floated slowly in Pedro Orce's eyes just as the street lamps of Oporto had played in the dog's eyes so long ago, in some other existence, perhaps, and now they are together, reunited with Roque Lozano who has as much experience of life as of death. The dog appears to be hypnotized by Pedro Orce's expression, it stares at him, head lowered and hairs bristling, as if it were about to confront all the wild beasts in the world, and then Pedro Orce said distinctly, word by word, I no longer feel the earth, I can no longer feel it. His eyes darkened, a gray cloud, the color of lead, passed slowly across the sky, slowly, very slowly. With the utmost delicacy Maria Guavaira lowered his eyelids and announced, He's dead, whereupon the dog came running and let out a howl that was almost human.

  A man dies, and then what. His four friends weep, even Roque Lozano, whom he had known for such a short time, rubs his eyes furious
ly with clenched fists, and the dog, which has howled only once, now stands beside the corpse, soon it will lie down and rest its enormous head on Pedro Orce's chest. But we must decide what to do with the body, José Anaiço remarked. Let's take it to Bienservida and inform the authorities, we can do no more for him. But Joaquim Sassa reminded him, You once told me that the poet Machado must have been buried under a holm oak, let's do the same with Pedro Orce, but Joana Carda had the last word, Neither to Bienservida nor underneath a tree, let's take the body to Venta Micena, let's bury him in the place where he was born.

  Pedro Orce lies on the bier stretched crosswise in the wagon. Beside him kneel the two women holding his cold hands, those same eager hands that scarcely became familiar with their bodies, and in the driver's seat are the two men. Roque Lozano leads the horses by the reins, they thought they were going to have a rest, and here they are on the road, after all, and in the middle of the night, such a thing has never happened to them before, perhaps the sorrel remembers another night, perhaps it was asleep and dreaming that it was shackled so that a painful sore might be cured with ointment and the morning dew, a man and a woman came looking for it accompanied by a dog, they untied it from its trappings and the horse did not know if the dream began or ended there. The dog walks underneath the wagon and below Pedro Orce as if it were carrying him, such is the weight it feels pressing down on its neck. There is a burning oil lamp hanging from the steel arch that supports the canvas in front. They still have one hundred and fifty kilometers to go.

  The horses can feel death pursuing them and need no other whip. The silence of night is so deep that the wagon's wheels can scarcely be heard as they turn on the rough surface of these old roads, and the horses' trot sounds muffled as if their hooves were clad in rags. No moon will appear. They travel among shadows, there is a total blackout, an apagón or negrum, like the first night of all before those words were spoken, Let there be light, to no great wonder, for God knew that the sun would inevitably appear two hours hence. Joana Carda and Maria Guavaira have been weeping since they set out. Out of compassion they had given their bodies to this man whose corpse they all now escort, with their own hands they had drawn him to them, shown him what to do, and perhaps the unborn children forming inside their wombs and being made to tremble by their sobs are his offspring, dear God, how all things in this world are linked together, and here we are thinking that we have the power to separate or join them at will, how sadly mistaken we are, having been proved wrong time and time again, a line traced on the ground, a flock of starlings, a stone thrown into the sea, a blue woolen sock, but we are showing them to the blind, preaching to the deaf with hearts of stone.

  The sky was still covered in darkness as they reached Venta Micena. Not a soul had they met along the entire route, almost thirty leagues, and slumbering Orce was a ghost, its houses like the walls of a labyrinth, their windows and doors firmly closed. Rising above the rooftops, the Castle of the Seven Towers was like a mirage. The street- lamps flickered like stars about to disappear, the trees in the square, reduced to trunks and thick boughs, might well have been the remnants of a petrified forest. The travelers passed in front of the pharmacy, this time there was no need to stop, the details of the route were still fresh in their memories, Go straight in the direction of Maria, continue for three kilometers after the last houses, you'll come to a little bridge there with an olive tree nearby, I'll catch up with you shortly. He has already arrived. After the last bend they saw the cemetery with its whitewashed walls and enormous cross. The gate was locked, they had to force it open. José Anaiço went in search of a crowbar, pushed the claw between the gate and the post, but Maria Guavaira grabbed him by the arm, We're not going to bury him here. She pointed toward the white hills in the direction of the Cueva de los Rosales where the skull of the most ancient man in Europe had been excavated, the one who had lived more than a million years ago, and she said, The body will rest over there, that's the spot Pedro Orce himself might have chosen. They took the wagon as far as possible, the horses could scarcely walk, their hooves dragging in the loose dust. There is no one living in Venta Micena to attend the funeral, all the houses have been abandoned, nearly all of them are in ruins. On the horizon the shadowy outline of the mountains can scarcely be seen, those same mountains that Orce Man must have watched as he lay dying. It is still night, Pedro Orce is dead, in his eyes only a dark cloud remains and nothing more.

  When the wagon could go no farther, the three men removed the corpse. Maria Guavaira helps them while Joana Carda carries the elm branch in one hand. They climb a flat-topped hill, and the dry soil crumbles under their feet, scattering down the slope. The corpse of Pedro Orce sways, comes close to slipping and taking its bearers with it, but they manage to hoist it to the top, where they rest it on the ground. They are bathed in sweat, covered in white dust. Roque Lozano starts digging the grave, having asked the others to leave the job to him. The soil comes away easily, the crowbar serves as a spade and their hands as shovels. Light begins to dawn to the east, the blurred form of the sierra has turned black. Roque Lozano emerges from the hole, shakes the soil from his hands, kneels and starts to lift the corpse with the help of José Anaiço, who takes it by the arms. They lower the body slowly into the ground, the grave is not deep, should anthropologists ever return to these parts they would have no difficulty in finding it. Maria Dolores will say, Here's a skull, and the leader of the expedition will take a quick look, It's of no interest, we have plenty of those. They covered the body and smoothed out the ground until it merged with the rest of the terrain, but they had to remove the dog, which was trying to scratch at the grave with its claws. Then Joana Carda stuck the elm branch into the ground where Pedro Orce's head lay buried. It is not a cross, as one can see, nor a sign of mourning, it is only a branch that has lost any value it ever had, yet it can still be put to this simple use, a sundial in a fossilized wilderness, perhaps a resuscitated tree, if a piece of dry wood stuck in the ground is capable of working miracles, of creating roots, of ridding Pedro Orce's eyes of that dark cloud. Tomorrow the rain will fall over these fields.

  The peninsula has stopped. The travelers will rest here until tomorrow. It is raining as they are about to leave, they have called the dog, which has not left the grave all this time, but it will not come. It's only to be expected, observed José Anaiço, dogs cannot bear to be separated from their master, sometimes they actually pine away. He was mistaken. The dog Ardent looked at José Anaiço, then moved off slowly, head lowered. They would never see it again. The journey continues. Roque Lozano will remain in Zufre, he will knock on the door of his house saying, I've come back, that's his story and perhaps someone will tell it one day. As for the others, they will travel on their way, who knows what future awaits them, how much time, what destiny. The elm branch is green. Perhaps it will flower again next year.

  THE HISTORY OF THE SIEGE OF LISBON

  Translated from the Portuguese by

  Giovanni Pontiero

  A HARVEST BOOK

  HARCOURT, INC.

  Orlando Austin New York San Diego Toronto London

  © José Saramago and Editorial Caminho, SA Lisbon 1989

  English translation © Giovanni Pontiero 1996

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  This is a translation of História do Cerco de Lisboa.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data


  Saramago, José.

  [História do cerco de Lisboa. English]

  The history of the siege of Lisbon/José Saramago; translated

  from the Portuguese by Giovanni Pontiero.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-15-100238-2

  ISBN 978-0-15-600624-8 (pbk.)

  1. Proofreading—Portugal—Fiction.

  2. Lisbon (Portugal)—History—Fiction.

  I. Pontiero, Giovanni. II. Title.

  PQ9281.A66H5713 1997

  869.3'42—dc21 96-46826