Next day they resumed their journey. Grizzly and Chess grumbled at the good fortune of donkeys, this one is trotting behind the wagon, comfortably attached with a rope and relieved of any burden, as naked as it came into the world, with its nice silvery sheen, its master is in the driver's seat, chatting about the past with Pedro Orce, the couples are talking under the canvas, the dog walks ahead, on patrol. From one moment to the next, almost miraculously, harmony has been restored to the expedition. Yesterday, after the final deliberation, they drew up an itinerary, nothing very precise but just so as not to go blindly. First they would descend to Tarragona, then travel along the coast as far as Valencia, move inland through Albacete as far as Cordoba, go down to Seville, and finally, less than eighty kilometers away, arrive at Zufre, where we shall say, Here comes Roque Lozano, back safe and sound from his great adventure, he left poor and poor he returns, he has discovered neither Europe nor El Dorado, not everyone who has gone in search of them has found them, nor is the traveler always to blame. Time and time again, there are no riches whatsoever where, out of malice or ignorance, we were promised we would find them. Then we will look on and see how he is received, Dear grandfather, Dearest father, Beloved husband, What a pity you've returned, I thought you might have perished in the wilderness or been devoured by wolves, not everything can be said aloud.
Then at Zufre the family council will convene once more, now where are we going and what will they say about us when we arrive, where, for what, for whom, Your questions are false if you already know the answer. Within so short a time, the unknown voice had spoken twice.
After turning from east to west until a perfect semicircle had been traced, the peninsula began to incline. At that precise moment, and in the most rigorous sense, if metaphors as a vehicle of literal sense can be rigorous, Portugal and Spain were two countries with their legs up in the air. Let us leave to the Spaniards, who have always disdained our assistance, the task and responsibility of evoking to the best of their ability, the structural changes in the physical space in which they live, and let us say here, with the modest simplicity that has always characterized primitive peoples, that the Algarve, a southern region on the map since time immemorial, became in that supernatural moment the most northerly part of Portugal. Incredible but true, as a Father of the Church preached, and has continued to preach even unto the present day, not because he's alive, for all the Fathers of the Church are dead, but because people are constantly borrowing the phrase and using it indifferently, as much for spiritual profit as for human expediency. If the fates had decreed that the peninsula should be immobilized once and for all in that position, the consequences, social and political, cultural and economic, not to mention the psychological aspect, which people tend to overlook, the various consequences, as we were saying, and their aftermath would have been drastic, radical, in a word, earth-shattering. One need only remember, for example, that the famous city of Oporto would find itself stripped, with no hope of recourse, whether logical or topographical, of its precious title of Capital of the North, and if this reference in the eyes of some cosmopolites smacks of provincialism and lack of vision, then let them imagine what would happen if Milan were suddenly to end up in Calabria in southern Italy, and the Calabrians were to prosper from the commerce and industry of the north, a transformation not entirely impossible, if we bear in mind what happened to the Iberian peninsula.
But it lasted, as we were saying, only for a minute. The peninsula was falling but went on rotating. Therefore, before proceeding any further, we must explain what we mean by the word fall in the present context. The meaning here is clearly not the immediate one, as in falling bodies, which would imply that the peninsula had literally started to sink. After all, if throughout all those days at sea, often deeply troubled and overshadowed by the threat of imminent catastrophe, no such calamity occurred, nor anything comparable, it would be the greatest misfortune for the odyssey to end now in total submersion. However much it may cost us, we are now resigned to the possibility that Ulysses may not reach the shore in time to encounter sweet Nausicaa, but may the weary sailor at least be allowed to touch the coast of the island of the Phaeacians, or failing that one, some other, so that he may rest his head on his own forearm, if no woman's breast awaits him. Let us be calm, then. The peninsula, we promise, is not about to sink into the cruel sea, where, should such havoc ensue, everything would disappear, even the highest summit of the Pyrenees, such is the depth of these chasms. Yes, the peninsula is falling, there is no other way of describing it, but southward, for that is how we divide the planisphere, into north and south, top and bottom, upper and lower, even white and black, figuratively speaking, although it may seem surprising that the countries below the Equator do not use different maps, of a kind that might present an appropriately inverted image of the world, one complementary to our own. But things are what they are, they have that irresistible virtue, and even a schoolchild understands the lesson the first time around with no need for further explanation. Even the dictionary of synonyms, so easily dismissed, confirms as much, one descends or falls downward, fortunately for us this stone raft is not sinking to the bottom, gurgling through a hundred million lungs, blending the sweet waters of the Tagus and the Guadalquivir with the bitter swell of the infinite ocean.
There is no lack, there never has been, of those who affirm that poets are truly superfluous, but I wonder what would become of us if poetry were not there to help us understand how little clarity there is in the things we call clear. Even at this point, after so many pages have been written, the narrative material can be summed up as the description of an ocean voyage, albeit not an entirely banal one, and even at this dramatic moment when the peninsula resumes its route southward, while continuing to turn around on its imaginary axis, we would certainly have no way of surpassing and enhancing this simple statement of facts were it not for the inspiration of that Portuguese poet who compared the revolution and descent of the peninsula to the movement of a child in its mother's womb as it takes its first tumble in life. The simile is magnificent, although we must deplore this yielding to the temptations of anthropomorphism, which sees and judges everything in an essential rapport with human beings, as if nature had nothing better to do than to think about us. It would all be much easier to understand if we were simply to confess our infinite fear, the fear that leads us to people the world with images resembling what we are or believe ourselves to be, unless this obsessive effort is nothing other than feigned courage or sheer stubbornness on the part of someone who refuses to exist in a void, who decides not to find meaning where no meaning exists. We are probably incapable of filling emptiness, and what we call meaning is no more than a fleeting collection of images that once seemed harmonious, images on which the intelligence tried in panic to introduce reason, order, coherence.
Generally speaking, the poet's voice is not understood, but there are nevertheless some exceptions to this rule, as can be seen in that lyrical episode whose felicitous metaphor, stated and restated, was on everyone's lips, even if one cannot include in this popular enthusiasm the majority of the other poets, something that need not surprise us if we bear in mind that they are not exempt from all these human feelings of spite and envy. One of the most interesting consequences of that inspired comparison was the resurgence of the maternal spirit, of maternal influence, however mitigated by the changes modernity brought to family life. And if we reconsider the known facts, there are many reasons for believing that Joana Carda and Maria Guavaira were precursors of this broader renewal, through innate sensitivity rather than deliberate premeditation. The women undoubtedly triumphed. Their genital organs, if you'll pardon the crude anatomical reference, finally became the expression, at once reduced and enlarged, of the expulsive mechanism of the universe, of all that machinery that operates by extraction, that nothingness that will become everything, that uninterrupted progression from the small to the large, from the finite to the infinite. It is satisfying to see that at this p
oint the commentators and scholars got into deep water, but no surprise, for experience has taught us all too well how inadequate words become as we get closer to the frontiers of the inexpressible, we try to say love and the word will not come out, we try to say I want and we say I cannot, we try to utter the final word only to realize that we have gone back to the beginning.
But in the reciprocal action of cause and effect, another consequence, at once fact and factor, has come to alleviate the graveness of these discussions and to leave everyone, as it were, smiling and embracing. It so happened that from one moment to the next, allowing for the exaggeration always implicit in these simplified formulas, all, or nearly all, the fertile women of the peninsula declared themselves pregnant, although no significant change in the contraceptive practices of these women and their men had been observed, we are referring, of course, to the men with whom they slept, whether regularly or by chance. As things stand, people are no longer surprised. Several months have passed since the peninsula separated from Europe, we have traveled thousands of kilometers over this violent open sea, the leviathan just missed colliding with the terrified islands of the Azores, or perhaps, as later emerged, it was never meant to collide with them, but the men and women did not know that as they found themselves obliged to flee from one side to the other, these were only some of the many things that happened, such as waiting for the sun to rise on the left only to see it appear on the right, not to mention the moon, as if its inconstancy ever since its breaking away from the earth were not enough, and the winds that blow on all sides and the clouds that shift from all horizons and circle above our dazzled heads, yes, dazzled, for there is a living flame overhead, as if man need not, after all, emerge from the historic sloth of his animal state and might be placed once more, lucid and entire, in a newly formed world, pure and with its beauty intact. All of this having happened, and the aforementioned Portuguese poet having declared that the peninsula is a child conceived on a journey and now finds itself revolving in the sea as it waits to be born in its watery womb, why should we be astonished that the wombs of women should be swollen, perhaps the great stone falling southward fertilized them, and how do we know if these new creatures are really the daughters of men rather than the offspring of that gigantic prow that pushes the waves before it, penetrating them amid the murmuring waters, the blowing and the sighing of winds.
The travelers learned of this collective pregnancy from radio reports and newspaper stories, and television programs spoke of nothing else. Journalists had only to catch a woman on the street and they were shoving a microphone into her face and bombarding her with questions, how and when did it happen, what name was she going to give the baby, poor woman, with the camera devouring her alive, she blushed and stammered, the only thing she did not do was to invoke the constitution because she knew they would not take her seriously. Among the travelers on the wagon there was renewed tension, after all, if all the women of the peninsula are suddenly pregnant, these two women here are not saying a word about their own mishap and one can understand their silence, if they were to confess that they are pregnant, Pedro Orce would include himself on the list of possible fathers and the harmony they restored with such difficulty last time might not survive a second blow. One evening, then, as Joana Carda and Maria Guavaira were serving dinner to the men, they said with a wry smile, Just imagine, all the women in Spain and Portugal are pregnant and here we are with no hope at all. Let us accept this momentary pretense, let us grant that José Anaiço and Joaquim Sassa may disguise their annoyance, the annoyance of the male who sees his sexual potency called into question, and the worst of it is that the women's feigned sarcasm may well have struck a nerve, for if it is true that they are both pregnant, it is also true that nobody knows by whom. With so many unanswered questions, this pretense has certainly not relieved the tension, in the fullness of time it will become clear that Maria Guavaira and Joana Carda were pregnant after all, despite their denial. What explanation will they offer, for the truth always awaits us, the day arrives when it must be faced.
Visibly embarrassed, the Prime Ministers of both countries appeared on television, not that there was any reason to feel awkward when speaking of the demographic explosion that would be evident in the peninsula nine months hence, twelve or fifteen million children born almost at the same hour, crying out in chorus to the light, the peninsula transformed into maternity ward, happy mothers, smiling fathers, at least in those cases where there appears to be sufficient certainty. It is even possible to gain some political advantage from this aspect of the situation by pointing to the population figures, by appealing for austerity for the sake of our children's future, by going on about national cohesion and comparing this fertility with the sterility prevailing in the rest of the western world. One can only rejoice at the thought that the demographic explosion had been preceded by a genetic explosion, since no one can believe that this collective pregnancy is of a supernatural order. The Prime Minister now speaks of the health measures to be taken, of maternity services on a national scale, of the teams of doctors and midwives who will be hired and deployed at the appropriate time, and his face betrays conflicting emotions, the solemnity of his official statement vies with his urge to smile, he appears to be on the point of saying, any minute now, Sons and daughters of Portugal, the benefits we reap will be great and I trust that the pleasure has been just as great, for to bring forth children without indulging the flesh is the worst punishment of all. The men and women listen, exchange smiles and glances, they can read each other's thoughts, recall that night, that day, that hour, when driven by a sudden urge they came together and did what had to be done, beneath a sky that was slowly turning, a demented sun, a demented moon, the stars in turmoil. The first impression is that this might be illusion or dream, but when the women appear with swollen bellies, then it will be clear that we have not been dreaming.
The President of the United States of America also addressed the world. He declared that notwithstanding the peninsula's diversion toward some unknown place lying to the south, the United States would never abdicate its responsibility to civilization, freedom, and peace, although the nations of the peninsula cannot count, now that they are passing through contested spheres of influence, They cannot count, I repeat, on aid equal to what awaited them when it seemed likely that their future would become inseparable from that of the American nation. This was, more or less, his utterance to the wide world. In private, however, in the secrecy of the Oval Office of the White House, ice cubes clinking in his bourbon, the President would have confided to his advisers, If they were to be stranded in the Antarctic our worries would be over, but what will become of us, countries roaming from one place to another, no strategy can cope with it, take the bases we still have on the peninsula, what good will they be except for firing missiles at the penguins. One of his advisers would have then pointed out that if one considered it carefully, the new route was really not all that bad, They are moving down between Africa and Latin America, Mr. President, Yes, this route could be advantageous, but it could also encourage further insubordination in the region. And perhaps because of this annoying thought, the President thumps the table, upsetting the smiling portrait of the First Lady. An elderly adviser jumps with fright, looks around, and says, Do be careful, Mr. President, you can never tell what a thump like that might do.
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 gradually 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.
The Stone Raft (Harvest Book) Page 32