Skylight

by José Saramago

  “Plus,” he said to his wife, “she was used to her old job and might find it hard to adapt. She had a certain seniority there, which always counts for something. Not in my case, it’s true, but there are some decent bosses.”

  “But how do you know Senhor Morais isn’t one of them? And you’re forgetting that we have an ally in Dona Lídia. Besides, Claudinha’s no fool!”

  “She’s certainly her father’s daughter in that respect . . .”

  “Exactly.”

  But Anselmo still did not rest easy. He wanted to free his daughter from a commitment she had taken on without first seeking his advice, and the only reason he refrained from doing so was seeing how much Claudinha was enjoying her new job. She had promised him that she would work hard at learning shorthand and that, in three months’ time, her wages would be increased. She had said this with such confidence that Anselmo had refrained from mentioning his own anxieties.

  In the evenings, while Rosália darned socks and Anselmo filled up columns with soccer-related names and numbers, Claudinha was becoming initiated into the mysteries of shorthand.

  He did not say as much, but Anselmo was filled with admiration for his daughter’s abilities. No one knew shorthand at his office, which was an old-fashioned place, with no modern metal furniture and where they had only recently acquired an adding machine. Claudinha’s apprenticeship cheered their evenings together at home, and there was general rejoicing when she managed to teach her father to write his name in shorthand. Rosália wanted to learn too, but, being illiterate, she took far longer.

  Once he had gotten over the novelty of the situation, Anselmo resumed his interrupted task, that of selecting the national team, his own personal selection. He had worked out a sure and simple method: in goal he would place the player who had let in the fewest balls during the season, and as strikers, logically enough, he quite rightly chose those players who had scored the most goals. The remaining positions he filled with his personal club favorites, deviating from this only when it came to players who were, according to newspaper reports, essential components of any team. This was an ongoing project, because week by week the best scorers would move up and down the ranks. However, since those changes, which he noted on a diagram of his own invention, were not particularly radical, he felt he was very close to choosing the perfect team. Once he had done this, he would await the decision of the official selection committee.

  Two weeks into her new job, Maria Cláudia returned home one evening aglow with happiness. Her boss, Paulino Morais, had called her into his office for a long chat, which had lasted more than half an hour. He had told her how pleased he was with her work and that he was sure they would get on famously. He had asked various questions about her family, about her parents and if she got on well with them, if they lived comfortably, and other things that Cláudia had now forgotten.

  Rosália saw in all this the beneficent influence of Dona Lídia and said that she would thank her the next time she saw her. Anselmo appreciated the interest Senhor Morais had taken in the family and was flattered when his daughter told him that she had taken the opportunity to praise her father’s qualities as an office worker. Anselmo began to savor the seductive possibility of moving to a post in an important company like that of Senhor Morais. That would certainly be one in the eye for his present colleagues. Unfortunately, Claudinha added, there were currently no vacancies, nor any hope of there being any. This fact presented no obstacle to Anselmo: after all, life is full of surprises, and he saw no reason, therefore, to doubt that a cushier future awaited him. It seemed to him that life owed him a great many things and he had the right to expect payment.

  That night, there was no darning, no shorthand, no selecting of the national team. After Maria Cláudia’s enthusiastic account, her father felt it appropriate to give her some advice:

  “You must be very careful, Claudinha. There are envious people everywhere, and I speak from painful experience. If you start getting promoted too quickly, your colleagues will get jealous. So be careful!”

  “But everyone there is so nice!”

  “They are now, but they won’t be later on. You must try to stay on good terms with your colleagues and with your boss. If not, they’ll start plotting against you and might harm your chances of success. Believe me, I know that world well.”

  “Yes, but you don’t know the people in my office. They’re all really decent. And Senhor Morais couldn’t be nicer!”

  “Maybe, but have you never heard anything bad about him?”

  “Nothing of any importance!”

  Rosália wanted to join in the conversation:

  “Your father has a lot of experience of office life! The only reason he hasn’t risen further up the ladder is because they cut the legs from under him!”

  This reference to such a violent act did not provoke the surprise one might expect when one considers that Anselmo’s lower limbs were still firmly attached to their owner. A foreigner unfamiliar with Portuguese idioms and taking this expression literally would assume he must be in a madhouse when he saw Anselmo nodding gravely and saying earnestly:

  “It’s true. That’s exactly what happened.”

  “Please, just let me deal with things my own way.”

  And with these words Claudinha brought the conversation to a close. Her confident smile could only possibly have its source in a thorough knowledge of how to “deal with things,” although what those “things” were, no one, possibly not even Maria Cláudia, really knew. She probably thought, as was only natural, that along with being young and pretty, having a ready wit and a ready laugh, would come the solution to all those “things.” In any case, the family let the matter drop.

  As Maria Cláudia herself discovered, those attributes turned out not to be enough. She was making no headway with her shorthand. Studying from a book was fine for learning the rudiments, but then the subject grew more complicated, and Maria Cláudia’s progress came to a halt. Insurmountable difficulties arose on every page. Anselmo tried to help. True, he knew nothing about shorthand, but he had thirty years’ experience and practice of office work behind him. He was a past master when it came to writing business letters, and, for heaven’s sake, what could possibly be so hard about shorthand? Hard or not, he made a complete and utter mess of it. Claudinha burst into tears, and Rosália, upset to see her husband so defeated, blamed the shorthand.

  It was Maria Cláudia who saved the day, which spoke well for her declared ability to deal with things. She announced that what she needed was a teacher who could give her lessons in the evening. Anselmo immediately saw in this yet another expense, but then decided to view it as a capital investment that would, in just over two months, begin to pay dividends. He took it upon himself to find a teacher. Claudinha mentioned various private schools, all of which had imposing names in which the word “Institute” was de rigueur. Her father rejected all these suggestions. First, because they were expensive; second, because he didn’t think it would be possible to join a course at that time of year; and third, because he had heard talk of “mixed classes,” and he didn’t want his daughter going to one of those. After a few days, he found just the right person: a retired teacher, eminently respectable, with whom a nineteen-year-old girl would be perfectly safe. As well as charging very little, he had the inestimable advantage of giving lessons at times that would not involve Claudinha being out on the city’s streets late at night. If she left the office at six, she could get the tram to São Pedro de Alcântara where the teacher lived, a thirty-minute journey. The lesson would go on until half past seven, when it was just beginning to grow dark, and it would then take her forty-five minutes to get home. Allowing another quarter of an hour for possible delays, Claudinha should be safely home by half past eight. And, initially, that is precisely what happened. When it was half past eight by Anselmo’s watch, Claudinha would just be coming in through the front door.

  She made great strides with her shorthand, and it was this that provi
ded her with an excuse the first time she arrived home late, saying that the teacher, pleased by her keenness to learn, had decided to give her another quarter hour of instruction at no extra cost. Anselmo was pleased by this and believed her, especially when his daughter repeated the teacher’s willingness not to charge more for his time. From Anselmo’s utilitarian viewpoint, had he been the teacher, he would have milked the situation for all it was worth, but, he reminded himself, there were still some good, honest people in the world, which is just as well, especially when that same goodness and honesty favors those who, not being good or honest themselves, have the necessary nous to use them to their own advantage. Anselmo’s nous consisted solely in having found just such a teacher.

  However, when his daughter started arriving home at nine o’clock, he began to find that lack of self-interest on the part of her tutor excessive, not to say incomprehensible. He asked questions and received answers: Claudinha had been kept at the office until after half past six, finishing an urgent piece of work for Senhor Morais. Since she was still only on probation, she couldn’t possibly have refused or alleged personal reasons for doing so. Anselmo agreed, but felt suspicious. He asked his boss to let him leave work a little early and waited outside his daughter’s office. From six until twenty to seven he was forced to acknowledge that he had been wrong: Claudinha really was leaving work later than usual, doubtless kept behind by some other urgent task.

  He considered abandoning his spying mission, but decided instead to follow his daughter, more because he had nothing else to do than in order to dispel any lingering suspicions. He followed her to São Pedro de Alcântara and installed himself in a café opposite the teacher’s house. He had barely finished drinking the coffee he had ordered when he saw his daughter coming out again. He hurriedly paid the bill and followed her. A bareheaded young man smoking a cigarette was standing on a corner, and Claudinha went straight over to him. Anselmo froze when he saw her link arms with the young man and walk off down the street with him, chatting. He thought for a moment that he should intervene, but was prevented from doing so by his deep-seated horror of causing a scene. He followed the couple for a while at a distance; then, when he was sure his daughter was heading homeward, he jumped onto a tram in order to arrive before her.

  When Rosália opened the door, she was shocked to see the distraught expression on her husband’s face.

  “Whatever’s wrong, Anselmo?”

  He went straight into the kitchen without saying a word and slumped down on a bench. Rosália thought that the worst must have happened:

  “Oh, no, they haven’t given you the sack, have they?”

  Anselmo was still too distressed to speak. He shook his head. Then, in a hollow voice, he said:

  “Your daughter has been deceiving us! I followed her. She only stayed with the teacher for about a quarter of an hour and then off she went with some good-for-nothing who was waiting for her outside!”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything. I followed them. Then I came home. She should be here at any moment.”

  Furious, Rosália blushed to the roots of her hair:

  “Well, if I’d been you, I’d have gone over to them . . . and sorted them out good and proper!”

  “Think of the scandal, though!”

  “What do I care about scandal! I’d have given him a couple of slaps around the face that would have knocked him sideways, and as for her, I’d have dragged her home by the ear!”

  Anselmo said nothing, but got up and went to change his clothes. His wife followed him:

  “So what are you going to say to her when she arrives?”

  There was a hint of insolence in her voice, or so it seemed to Anselmo, who was used to being lord and master of the household. He shot his wife a piercing glance, then, holding her gaze for a few seconds, said:

  “That’s entirely up to me. And by the way, I am not accustomed to being spoken to in that tone, here or anywhere else!”

  Rosália bowed her head:

  “But I didn’t say anything . . .”

  “Well, I didn’t like the way you said it.”

  Relegated to her role as the weaker vessel, Rosália returned to the kitchen from which there came a faint smell of burning. As she struggled to save the supper, the doorbell rang. Anselmo went to open it.

  “Evening, Papa,” said Claudinha cheerily.

  Anselmo did not answer. He let his daughter in and closed the front door. Only then did he speak, ushering her into the dining room:

  “In you go.”

  Surprised, she obeyed. Her father told her to sit down and then, standing before her, fixed her with a fierce, stern gaze.

  “What did you do today?”

  Maria Cláudia tried to smile and act naturally:

  “The usual. Why do you ask?”

  “That’s my business. Answer me.”

  “Well, I went to the office. I left just after half past six and . . .”

  “And . . .”

  “Then I went to my shorthand lesson, and because I’d arrived late, I left later than usual as well . . .”

  “What time did you leave?”

  Clearly embarrassed, Claudinha took a while to respond, then:

  “Just after eight . . .”

  “That is false!”

  She shrank back. Anselmo savored the effect of his words. He could have said “That’s a lie,” but had opted for “That is false” as being more dramatic.

  “Oh, Papa . . . ,” she stammered.

  “I very much regret this present situation,” said Anselmo, his voice shaking. “It’s unworthy of you. I saw everything. I followed you. I saw you walking along with that . . . that ne’er-do-well.”

  “He’s not a ne’er-do-well,” retorted Claudinha resolutely.

  “What does he do, then?”

  “He’s a student.”

  Anselmo snapped his fingers, intending to express the insignificance of such an occupation. And as if that were not enough, he cried sarcastically:

  “Oh, wonderful, a student!”

  “But he’s a really nice boy!”

  “Why, then, has he not been to see me?”

  “I told him not to come. I know how fussy you are . . .”

  Someone knocked lightly on the door.

  “Who is it?” asked Anselmo.

  This was rather a pointless question given that there was only one other person in the apartment. The answer was equally pointless, but was given nonetheless:

  “It’s me. Can I come in?”

  Anselmo did not bother to give his consent, because while he would have preferred not to be interrupted, he was aware that he could hardly deny his wife access. He chose instead to say nothing, and Rosália joined them:

  “So, have you told her off?”

  If Anselmo had been in the mood to tell his daughter off, that mood had passed. For some reason even he could not understand, his wife’s intervention made him feel that he should take his daughter’s side.

  “Yes, we’ve finished now.”

  Rosália put her hands on her hips and angrily shook her head, saying:

  “I can’t believe it, Claudinha! How could you? Just when we were feeling so pleased about your new job, you go and do this to us!”

  Maria Cláudia sprang to her feet:

  “But, Mama, how am I ever going to get married if I don’t have a boyfriend?”

  Father and mother were dumbstruck. The question was perfectly logical, but hard to answer. Anselmo thought he had found the right riposte:

  “But a student . . . I mean, what does a student amount to?”

  “He might not amount to much now, but he’s studying so that he can become someone!”

  Claudinha was regaining her composure. She could see that her parents were wrong and that reason was on her side. She went on:

  “Don’t you want me to marry? Tell me!”

  “It’s not that we don’t want you to marry, child,” said Anselmo
. “But we want you to marry well. A girl with your qualities deserves a good husband.”

  “But you don’t even know him!”

  “No, I don’t, but it doesn’t matter. Besides . . .” And here his voice grew stern again: “Look, I don’t have to explain myself to you. I forbid you to meet that . . . that student ever again. And so that you don’t go trying to pull the wool over my eyes, from now on I’m going to take you to your lesson and bring you back. It means more work for me, but if that’s how it has to be . . .”

  “But, Papa, I promise . . .”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Maria Cláudia stiffened as if she had been struck. She had frequently lied to her parents, scornfully toyed with them as often as she liked, but now she felt they were treating her unfairly. She was furious. Taking off her coat, she said:

  “Do as you please, but I warn you, you’ll have to hang around outside the office. Senhor Morais always has jobs to do that require me to stay late.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t mind.”

  Claudinha opened her mouth to speak. From the look on her face, it seemed as if she were about to answer back, but she changed her mind and said nothing, a vague smile playing on her lips.

  26

  Ever since he had begun to live freely and independently, Abel had sometimes asked himself: “Why?” The answer was always the same comfortable negative: “No reason.” But when his thoughts repeated the question, he would say: “No, there is a reason. Otherwise, there would be no point,” adding: “I’m just going to let life happen. It’s sure to lead somewhere.”

  He could see perfectly well that “it,” his life, was leading nowhere, that he was behaving like a miser who hoards gold simply for the pleasure of looking at it, except that in his case it wasn’t gold but experience, which was the one thing he took from life. And yet experience, unless applied to something, is just like that hoard of gold, for it neither produces nor bears fruit and is utterly useless. There is no point in a man accumulating experience the way someone else might collect stamps.