The Collected Novels of José Saramago (15 page)

Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço must already be on the open sea, so how should we amuse ourselves now, until we can fly, let’s go to a bullfight, they can be very entertaining, In Mafra there are no bullfights, Baltasar explains, and since we don’t have enough money to attend the entire four-day event, because the Palace has demanded an exorbitant fee for leasing the Palace Square this year, let’s go on the last day for the grand finale, with tiered stands erected all around the square, even on the side where the river is, which makes it difficult to see anything except the upper decks of the ships anchored beyond, Sete-Sóis and Blimunda have found themselves good seats, not because they arrived earlier than anyone else but simply because an iron hook stuck to the end of an arm clears one’s path just as quickly as the cannon that came from India and is preserved in the Tower of St Julian, someone feels a tap on the shoulder and turns around to find he might just as well be looking into the mouth of a cannon. The square is surrounded by masts that have tiny flags on top and are covered with streamers trailing all the way down to the ground and fluttering in the breeze, at the entrance to the arena is a wooden portico painted in simulated marble, and the columns are painted to look like stone from Arrábida with gilded cornices and friezes. The main pillar is supported by four enormous figures painted in a variety of colours and with a lavish display of gold leaf, the flag, made of tin plate, depicts on both sides the glorious St Antony standing on fields of silver, and the fittings are also gilt, the enormous crest of multicoloured plumes is so skilfully painted that the plumes look real, they give a nice finishing touch to the flagpole. The stands and terraces are swarming with people, spectators of rank and influence are seated in specially reserved seats, while the Royal Family watches from the palace windows, stewards are still watering the square, some eighty men dressed in the Moorish style with the arms of the Senate of Lisbon embroidered on their capes, the crowd is growing impatient as it eagerly waits for the bulls to appear, the preparations are now over, and the stewards withdraw from the arena, the square is as clean as a pin, and a fresh smell comes from the moistened ground, it is as if the world had been created anew, the spectators eagerly await the onslaught, soon that same ground will be covered with the blood, excrement, and urine of the bulls, or the droppings of the horses, and if some spectator should wet himself with excitement, let us hope that his breeches will protect him from the shame of making a fool of himself in the presence of all the inhabitants of Lisbon and of His Majesty Dom João V.

The first bull entered the arena, then the second, and then the third, then the eighteen bullfighters on foot whom the Senate had contracted in Castela at vast expense, then the picadors cantered into the arena and stabbed with their pikes, while those on foot embedded darts festooned with coloured papers in the necks of the bulls, one of the picadors showed his anger at a bull that had pulled his cape to the ground by charging at the animal and wounding it with his lance, which is one way of avenging tarnished honour. The fourth bull charges in, then the fifth, and the sixth, and on and on up to ten, twelve, fifteen, twenty bulls, until the square is like a blood-bath, the women laugh, screech with joy, and clap their hands, the palace windows look like branches in full blossom, while down below the bulls expire one after another, their corpses being removed on low wagons drawn by six horses, the same number as are used for members of the Royal Family and the titled aristocracy, and if the six horses are not a sign of the majesty and dignity attributed to the bulls, they do show how much the bulls weigh, just ask those horses groomed and resplendent, their embroidered trappings in crimson velvet and their saddles and caparisons trimmed with silvered fringes while the poor bulls are riddled with darts and pierced with lance wounds and their entrails dragging along the ground, in their frenzy, the men grope the frenzied women, who brazenly snuggle up against them, including Blimunda, who clings to Baltasar, and why not, he can feel all that blood being shed in the arena rush to his head, those rivulets on the flanks of the bulls pour out the blood of living death and make his head spin, but the image that imprints itself on his mind and brings tears to his eyes is the bull’s drooping head, its gaping mouth, its great tongue hanging out, a tongue that will never again taste pastures, except those mythical pastures in the other world of bulls, whether it be paradise or hell.

If there is any justice, it will be paradise, for there could scarcely be a greater hell than what they have already experienced, for instance, those mantles of fire, which consist of various types of fireworks tied to the bulls and lit from both ends, and as the mantle of fire starts to burn, the fireworks go on exploding for a considerable time, lighting up the entire arena, it is as if the bull were being roasted alive, maddened and enraged, the wretched creature races to and fro across the arena, rearing and bellowing, while Dom João V and his subjects applaud its miserable death, and the bull is given no opportunity to defend itself or to kill while being slaughtered. The place smells of burned flesh, but this odour gives no offence to nostrils accustomed to the great barbecue of the auto-da-fé, besides, the bull ends up on somebody’s plate and is put to good use in the end, whereas all that remains of a Jew burned at the stake is whatever property he may have left behind.

The stewards now carry in some gaudily painted figures in terracotta, larger than life-size, with arms raised to heaven, and put them in the centre of the arena, What kind of show is this, ask those who have never seen it before, perhaps the spectators are giving their eyes a rest after so much carnage, for if the figures are made of terra-cotta, the worst that one is likely to see is a pile of rubble which can easily be swept up, The feast has been ruined, the sceptical and violent will protest, Bring on another mantle of fire so we can laugh with the King, there are not all that many occasions when we can enjoy a good laugh together, and now two bulls emerge from their pen and are startled to find the arena deserted except for those terracotta figures with raised arms and no legs, with bulging paunches and sinister pockmarks. The bulls decide to avenge all the wrongs they have suffered and they charge, shattering the figures with a dull explosion that sends dozens upon dozens of rabbits scampering frantically in all directions, only to be pursued and clubbed to death by the bullfighters and spectators who dart into the arena, one eye on the rabbit they are pursuing, the other on the bull that might start to pursue them, the crowds hoot with laughter, hysterical mob that they are, and suddenly the uproar assumes another pitch, from two of the exploding terracotta figures emerge flocks of pigeons flapping their wings, disoriented by the shock and dazzled by the harsh light, some of them losing all control fail to gain altitude and end up crashing into the upper stands, where they are seized by avid hands, not so much interested in having a tasty meal of stuffed pigeon, as in reading the quatrains written on the pieces of paper attached to the birds’ necks, like the following, Freed from captivity, I should welcome falling into certain hands, In fear and trembling, I await my fate for those who soar highest suffer the greatest fall, Tranquil in the face of death, I watch my assassins die in my pursuit for when bulls charge, pigeons also try to run, but not all of them, for some circle skywards thus escaping the vortex of hands and cries, and soaring ever higher, they capture the sunlight and shimmering like birds of gold, they disappear over the rooftops.

Early next morning, before sunrise, Baltasar and Blimunda, taking no more luggage than a bundle of clothes and some food in their knapsack, left Lisbon and headed for Mafra.

T
HE PRODIGAL SON
has returned and brought his wife, and if he does not come empty-handed, it is because he left one of them on the battlefield and the other is clasped in Blimunda’s hand, whether he comes richer or poorer is a question one does not ask, for every man knows what he possesses without knowing what it is worth. When Baltasar pushed the door open and appeared before his mother, Marta Maria, she embraced him with a vehemence that seemed almost virile, such was the strength of her emotion. Baltasar was wearing his hook, and it was painful and moving to see a crooked iron resting on the old woman’s shoulder instead of that human cradle of fingers which follows protectingly the contours of the person it embraces. His father was not at home, for he was labouring in the fields and Baltasar’s only sister is married and already has two children, her husband is named Álvaro Pedreiro, a name chosen to match his trade as a bricklayer, a fairly common practice in those days, and there must have been some good reason for calling certain people Sete-Sóis, even if it was only a nickname. Blimunda stayed at the door waiting for her turn, and the old woman could not see her because she was hidden behind the much taller Baltasar and besides, it was dark inside the house. Baltasar stepped aside to introduce Blimunda, that was his intention, at least, but Marta Maria was distracted by something she had not noticed at first, perhaps forewarned by the sense of something cold and empty resting on her shoulder, an iron hook instead of a human hand, nevertheless, she could now perceive a face in the doorway, poor woman, her emotions torn between sorrow at the sight of her son’s maimed limb and disquiet at the sudden appearance of this other woman while Blimunda stood aside, allowing things to take their course, and from the entrance she could hear the old woman’s tears and questions, My dear son, how did it happen, who did this to you, and it was already growing dark when Baltasar finally came to the door and called to Blimunda, Enter, an oil lamp had been lit, Marta Maria was still sobbing quietly, Mother, this is my wife, and her name is Blimunda of Jesus.

It ought to be sufficient to state what someone is called and then wait for the rest of your life to find out who he or she is, if you can ever know, but the custom is otherwise, Who were your parents, where were you born, what is your trade, and once you know these facts, you think you have learnt everything about the person. As dark began to fall, Baltasar’s father arrived home, he was named João Francisco, the son of Manuel and jacinta, and was born here in Mafra, where he had always lived in this same house, in the shadow of the Church of St Andrew and the Viscounts’ Palace, and to fill in a few more details, João Francisco is as tall as his son, although now somewhat bent by age as well as by the weight of the bundle of wood he has carried home. Baltasar helped him to unload the bundle, and the old man looked at him and exclaimed, Ah, my son, noticing at once that Baltasar’s left hand was missing but simply saying, We must resign ourselves, after all, you’ve been fighting a war, then he saw Blimunda and, aware that she was his son’s wife, allowed her to kiss his hand, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law were soon preparing supper, while Baltasar spoke of the battle in which he had lost his hand and of the years spent away from home, but said nothing of the two years he had passed in Lisbon without sending them any news of his whereabouts, when the first and only word they had received from him had been some weeks previously, a letter written by Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço at the request of Sete-Sóis, informing his parents that he was alive and well and about to return home, ah, how cruel children can be when they are alive and well and transform their silence into death. He had still not told them whether he had married Blimunda while he was in the army or after the war had ended, or explained what kind of marriage he had contracted or in what circumstances, but either the old couple did not remember to ask him or they preferred not to know, for they were
perplexed by the girl’s strange appearance, that sand-coloured hair of hers, a somewhat unkind description, for it was honey-coloured, and those pale eyes that could have been green, grey, or blue when she looked into the light, only to become suddenly very dark, the colour of earth, of murky waters, even black as coals, if so much as tinged by shadows, so they all sat there in silence when it would have been opportune for them to speak, I never knew my father, I think he was already dead when I was born, my mother has been exiled to Angola for eight years, only two of those years have passed and I don’t know if she is still alive, for there has been no news, Blimunda and I intend to stay here in Mafra, Baltasar declared, and I hope to find a house, There’s no need to look for a house, this one is big enough for four people, and it has sheltered many more in the past, his father said, then asked, Why was Blimunda’s mother sent into exile, Because, Father, they denounced her to the Holy Office of the Inquisition, Blimunda is neither Jewish nor converted, and this trouble with the Holy Office of the Inquisition and her sentence to imprisonment and exile came about because of certain visions and revelations, Blimunda’s mother claimed to have had, and voices she had heard, There isn’t a woman alive who hasn’t had visions and revelations, or who doesn’t hear voices, we women hear mysterious voices all day long, and one doesn’t have to be a sorceress to hear them, My mother was no more a sorceress than I am, Do you have visions, too, Only those visions that all women experience, Mother, You will be as a daughter to me, Yes, Mother, Swear, then, that you are neither Jewish nor converted, Baltasar’s father intervened, I swear it, Father, Welcome, then, to the home of Sete-Sóis, Blimunda is also known as Sete-Luas, Who gave you that name, The priest who married us, Any priest with so much imagination is scarcely a product of the sacristy, and at these words they all laughed heartily, some knowingly, the others less so. Blimunda and Baltasar exchanged glances and perceived the same thoughts in each other’s eyes, the Passarola lying in pieces on the floor, Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço mounted on his mule as he disappeared through the gates of the estate on the start of his journey to Holland. Hovering in the air was the falsehood that Blimunda had no trace of Jewish blood, if it can be called a falsehood, for we know that this couple tended to disregard such matters, in order to safeguard greater truths, one often resorts to deception.