Skylight

by José Saramago

  Paulino came in. He was wearing a raincoat and didn’t bother to remove his hat. When he saw Lídia’s mother, he cried:

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m—”

  “Get out!”

  He almost shouted these words. Lídia intervened:

  “Whatever’s gotten into you, Paulino? You’re not yourself. What’s wrong?”

  Paulino glared at her:

  “What do you think?” He turned around again and bawled: “Are you still here? Didn’t I tell you to leave? No, wait, now you’ll find out what a sweet little thing your daughter is. Sit down!”

  Lídia’s mother fell back onto her chair.

  “And you can sit down too!” Paulino said to Lídia.

  “I’m not used to being spoken to in that tone. I don’t want to sit down.”

  “Do as you please, then.”

  He removed his hat and coat and threw them on the bed. Then he turned to Lídia’s mother and said:

  “You’re a witness to the way I’ve always treated your daughter . . .”

  “Yes, Senhor Morais.”

  Lídia broke in:

  “So is this a matter for me or for my mother?”

  Paulino wheeled around as if he’d been bitten by something. He took two steps toward Lídia, expecting her to draw back, but she didn’t. Paulino took a letter from his pocket and held it out to her:

  “Here’s the proof that you’ve been cheating on me!”

  “You’re mad!”

  Paulino clutched his head:

  “Mad? Mad? You have the nerve to call me mad? Read it, read what it says!”

  Lídia opened the letter and read it in silence. Her face remained utterly impassive. When she reached the end, she asked:

  “And you believe what it says in this letter, do you?”

  “Do I believe it? Of course I do!”

  “So what are you waiting for?”

  Paulino stared at her, uncomprehending. He found Lídia’s coolness disconcerting. Mechanically, he folded the letter and put it away. Lídia was looking him straight in the eye. Embarrassed, he turned to her mother, who was watching, mouth wide in amazement:

  “Your daughter has been unfaithful to me with a neighbor, the young man who lodges with the cobbler and his wife, a mere boy!”

  “Oh, Lídia, how could you?” exclaimed her mother, horrified.

  Lídia sat down on the sofa, crossed her legs, took out a cigarette and put it between her lips. Out of sheer habit, Paulino offered her a light.

  “Thank you,” she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I don’t know what you’re both waiting for. Paulino, you say you believe what’s in that letter, and you, my mother, find me accused of having an affair with a young man who, I imagine, hasn’t a cêntimo to his name. So why don’t you both just leave?”

  Paulino went over to her and spoke more calmly:

  “Tell me if it’s true or not.”

  “I have nothing further to add.”

  “It’s true, then, it must be! If it wasn’t, you would protest your innocence and—”

  “If you really want to know what I think, I’ll tell you. That letter is just an excuse.”

  “An excuse for what?”

  “You know as well as I do.”

  “Are you suggesting that I wrote it?”

  “Some people will do anything to get what they want . . .”

  “That’s an out-and-out lie!” roared Paulino. “I would never do such a thing!”

  “Possibly . . .”

  “Don’t push me too far!”

  Lídia stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and got to her feet, trembling with rage:

  “You burst in here like some kind of savage, make some ridiculous accusation and expect me not to react?”

  “So it’s not true, then?”

  “Do you honestly expect me to answer that? It’s up to you whether you choose to believe what the letter says rather than believe me, but you’ve already said that you believe the letter, so what are you waiting for?” She gave a sudden laugh and added: “Men who think they’ve been deceived usually either kill the woman or leave. Or pretend they know nothing. What are you going to do?”

  Paulino slumped down on the sofa, defeated:

  “Just tell me it’s a lie . . .”

  “I’ve said what I had to say. I only hope you don’t take too long to come to a decision.”

  “You’re making things very awkward for me . . .”

  Lídia turned her back on him and went to the window. Her mother followed her and whispered:

  “Why don’t you tell him it’s a lie? He’d feel better then . . .”

  “Leave me alone!”

  Her mother sat down again, gazing at Paulino with a commiserating look on her face. Paulino, still sitting hunched on the sofa, was beating his head with his fists, unable to find a way out of the labyrinth into which he had been plunged. He had received the letter after lunch and almost had a heart attack when he read it. The letter was unsigned. It gave no indication of where the illicit meetings took place—which meant he had no chance of catching Lídia in flagrante—but it did go into long, detailed descriptions and urged Paulino to be a man. When he reread it (shut up in his office so as not to be disturbed), it occurred to him that the letter had its good side. He was still intoxicated by Maria Cláudia’s freshness and youth. He was always finding pretexts to call her into the office, and this was already setting tongues wagging among the other employees. Like any self-respecting employer, he had a trusted employee who kept him informed of everything that was said and done in the company. Paulino, however, had gone on to provoke still more gossip by redoubling his attentions to Maria Cláudia. The letter could not have come at a better time. A violent scene, a few insults, and goodbye, I’m off to pastures new! There were, of course, obstacles in his path: Maria Cláudia’s age, her parents . . . He had considered keeping both irons in the fire, so to speak: continuing his relationship with Lídia, who was, after all, a very tasty morsel, and wooing Claudinha, who promised to be an even more tasty morsel. But that was before he had received the letter. It was a formal accusation and called upon him to be a man and take a stand. The worst thing was that he wasn’t entirely sure about Claudinha and feared losing Lídia. He had neither the time nor the inclination to find another mistress. But what to do about the letter? Lídia was cheating on him with some poor wretch obliged to live in rented rooms: that was the worst possible insult, a slur on his manhood. Young woman, old man, young lover. He could not possibly let such an insult pass. He called Claudinha into his office and spent the whole afternoon talking to her, without, of course, mentioning the letter. He very carefully tested the waters and was quite pleased with the result. When she left, he reread the letter and decided to take whatever radical steps the case demanded. Hence the present scene.

  Lídia, however, had reacted in a completely unforeseen way. He had explained the dilemma to her as coolly as possible: to stay or to leave, reserving for himself the right to proceed as he saw fit should he decide on the former option. But why had she not answered his question? Why would she not just say yes or no?

  “Lídia, why can’t you just give me a yes or a no?”

  She eyed him haughtily:

  “Are you still harping on about that? I thought the matter was settled.”

  “This is ridiculous. We’ve always been such good friends . . .”

  Lídia gave a sad, ironic smile.

  “How can you smile at a time like this? Answer my question!”

  “If I tell you it’s true, what will you do?”

  “Well, I don’t know . . . leave you, I suppose!”

  “Fine. And I assume you’ve already considered that if I tell you it’s not true, you’re liable to receive more such letters? How long do you think you could stand that? Do you expect me to wait here at your beck and call until the time comes when you stop believing me?”

  Her mother said:

  �
�Surely you can see it’s a lie, Senhor Morais. You just have to look at her.”

  “Shut up, Mother!”

  Paulino shook his head, perplexed. Lídia was right. When the person who had written the letter saw that nothing had come of it, he would write more letters, giving more details, more information. He might become still more insolent, calling him the worst names a man can be called. How long would he be able to stand that? And what guarantee was there that Claudinha would be prepared to play second fiddle? He sprang to his feet.

  “Right, that’s it! I’m leaving. Now.”

  Lídia turned pale. Despite all she had said, she had not expected her lover to leave her. She had been totally honest with him, but, she realized, she had also been imprudent. Feigning serenity, she answered:

  “Fine, if that’s the way you want it.”

  Paulino put on his raincoat and picked up his hat. He wanted to end the matter honorably, as befitted his dignity as a man.

  “You shouldn’t have done what you did. I didn’t deserve to be treated like that. I hope things work out well for you.”

  He headed for the door, but Lídia stopped him:

  “Hang on. The things in this apartment that belong to you, which is just about everything, are yours for the taking. You can send for them whenever you choose.”

  “I don’t want anything. You can keep them. I have money enough to set up another woman in her own apartment. Good night.”

  “Good night, Senhor Morais,” said Lídia’s mother. “I still think—”

  “Shut up, Mother!”

  Lídia went to the door that gave onto the corridor and said to Paulino as he was about to turn the handle and leave:

  “I wish you every happiness with your new mistress. Take care they don’t make you marry her!”

  Paulino left without answering. Lídia turned around and sat down on the sofa. She lit another cigarette. She looked scornfully at her mother and said:

  “What are you waiting for? There’ll be no more money, so go! Wasn’t I just saying that all good things come to an end?”

  Wearing an expression of wounded dignity, her mother went over to her. She opened her handbag, took the money from her purse and placed it on the bed:

  “Here you are. You might need it yourself.”

  Lídia did not move:

  “Keep the money! I can always earn more the same way I earned that. Now go!”

  Her mother took the money and left, as if this had been her intention all along. She was not very pleased with herself. Her daughter’s last words reminded her that she could have continued to count on that financial support had she been less aggressive, had she taken her daughter’s side and been more affectionate . . . But then the filial bond is a strong one . . . and so she left, hoping that, sooner or later, she might still be able to come back.

  The noise of the door slamming shut startled Lídia. She was alone. Her cigarette was slowly burning out between her fingers. Yes, she was alone again, as she had been three years ago when she had first met Paulino Morais. It was over. She had to start again. Start again. Start again.

  Two slow tears welled up in her eyes. They trembled for a moment on her lower lid, then fell. Just two tears. That’s all life is worth.

  32

  Not being the most persistent of men, Anselmo soon wearied of keeping watch over his daughter. What got him down most was not just having to hang around from six o’clock on for Maria Cláudia to leave the office, but then having a further wait while she was at her shorthand class. On the first day, he had the pleasure of seeing her student boyfriend flee as soon as he saw him. On the second, he enjoyed that same pleasure again. But when the boy did not reappear, Anselmo grew bored with his role as guardian angel. His daughter, possibly out of resentment, said nothing during the tram journey, and that troubled him too. He tried to talk to her, asked questions, but received such terse replies that he gave up. Besides which, accustomed as he was to being domestic royalty, the mission he had set himself seemed rather undignified. And while there can be no possible comparison—and with all due respect—it was as if the President of the Republic were to be found standing in the street directing traffic. Anselmo just needed an excuse to bring his guardianship to an end: for example, a promise from his daughter to behave like a respectable young woman. Or some other excuse.

  The excuse duly turned up, albeit not in the form of that hoped-for promise. At the end of the month, Claudinha handed him about seven hundred and fifty escudos, which meant that her boss had increased her wages to eight hundred escudos. This unexpected rise in salary cheered the whole family, especially Anselmo, who, given that Claudinha had proved her worth, felt a “moral obligation” to be magnanimous. And since his precarious economic situation only allowed him to be morally rather than financially magnanimous, he announced to his daughter that he would no longer accompany her from work to her shorthand lessons and home again. Claudinha’s response was only lukewarm, and thinking that she had not fully understood, he repeated what he had said. Her response remained lukewarm. Despite her ingratitude, however, Anselmo kept his word, although, just to make sure that his daughter did not abuse the freedom granted to her, he did follow her for a few days more, at a distance. There was not a sign of the boyfriend.

  Reassured, Anselmo returned to his beloved daily routine. By the time Claudinha came home, he would already be poring over his tables of sports statistics. He had also begun to create an album of photographs of soccer stars, to which end he bought a weekly adventure magazine for boys, which, in order to bump up sales, always included a full-color insert bearing the face of some celebrated player. When he bought the magazine, he always made a point of saying that he was buying it for his son, and carried it home wrapped in a sheet of paper so that the neighbors would not discover his weakness. He went so far as to buy back numbers too, which meant that, in one fell swoop, he became the owner of some dozens of photographs. Claudinha’s raise could not have come at a more opportune moment, for Rosália had boldly protested the expense and waste involved in buying the magazine, but Anselmo, once more enthroned in power, was immediately able to silence her.

  At last they were all contented. Claudinha was free, Anselmo busy and Rosália her usual self. The family machinery resumed its normal rhythm, only to be disturbed one evening when Rosália commented:

  “I think there’s been some change in Dona Lídia’s situation.”

  Father and daughter glanced at each other.

  “Do you know anything, Claudinha?” asked her mother.

  “Me? No, I don’t know anything.”

  “Or do you just not want to tell us . . .”

  “I’ve already told you: I don’t know anything!”

  Rosália slipped the darning egg into the sock she was working on. She did this very slowly, as if hoping to fan the curiosity of husband and daughter. Then she said:

  “Haven’t you noticed that more than a week has gone by since Senhor Morais visited her?”

  Anselmo hadn’t noticed and said so at once. Claudinha had, but said nothing. Then:

  “Senhor Morais hasn’t been well. He told me so himself.”

  Somewhat disappointed, Rosália thought that not feeling well was hardly reason enough.

  “You might be able to find out, Claudinha . . .”

  “Find out what?”

  “Well, if they’ve had a falling-out, because that’s what I think must have happened.”

  Claudinha gave a bored shrug:

  “I’m hardly going to ask that, am I?”

  “Why not? You owe Dona Lídia a big favor, so it’s only natural you should take an interest.”

  “What favor do I owe Dona Lídia? If I owe anyone anything, it’s Senhor Morais.”

  “Be fair now, dear,” said Anselmo. “If it hadn’t been for Dona Lídia, you wouldn’t have gotten this job . . .”

  Claudinha did not answer. She turned to the radio and started twiddling the dial in search of a station broadcasting t
he kind of music she liked. She found a commercial station. A singer with a “romantic” voice was lamenting his amorous misfortunes in music and words that were equally banal. Once the singer had finished, and seduced perhaps by that silly song, Claudinha said:

  “All right. If you like, I can try to find out. Besides,” she added after a long pause, “if I ask him, Senhor Morais is sure to tell me.”

  Claudinha was right. When she got home the next evening, she knew the whole story. They hadn’t expected her so early. It was just after half past seven. Having greeted her parents, she announced:

  “OK, I know everything.”

  Before allowing her to continue, however, Anselmo wanted to know what she was doing home at that hour.

  “I didn’t go to my lesson,” she said.

  “So you’re late, then.”

  “I stayed behind so that Senhor Morais could tell me all about it.”

  “So?” asked Rosália eagerly.

  Claudinha sat down. She seemed somewhat nervous. Her bottom lip was trembling slightly, her breast heaving, although this could have been the result of the brisk walk home from the office.

  “Come on, dear, we’re dying to hear.”

  “They’ve split up. Senhor Morais received an anonymous letter saying . . .”

  “Saying what?” asked husband and wife, impatient with the delay.

  “Saying that Dona Lídia was deceiving him.”

  Rosália clapped her hands to her thighs:

  “I thought as much.”

  “There’s worse to come,” Claudinha went on.

  “Worse?”

  “The letter said she was deceiving him with Senhor Silvestre’s lodger.”

  Anselmo and Rosália were duly horrified.

  “That’s disgraceful!” exclaimed Rosália. “But I can’t believe Dona Lídia would do such a thing!”

  Anselmo disagreed:

  “It seems perfectly possible to me. What else can you expect from someone living the kind of life she lives?” And more quietly, so that his daughter would not hear, he added his favorite phrase: “Well, you know what I always say: birds of a feather . . .”

  Claudinha heard the muttered comment and blinked rapidly, pretending that she hadn’t. Rosália said: