The Collected Novels of José Saramago (17 page)

There are various ways of bringing a man and a woman together, but since this is neither a guide nor a handbook for the marriage-broker, only two ways will be recorded here, the first of which is when he and she are standing close to each other, two complete strangers watching an auto-da-fé, from the sidelines, of course, as the penitents go past, and the woman suddenly turns to the man and asks him, What is your name, prompted neither by divine inspiration nor by her own free will, it was a mandate instilled by her own mother, that mother who walked in the procession, and who had experienced visions and revelations, and if, as the Holy Office of the Inquisition insists, she had shammed, she was not shamming then, not at all, for she truly saw the maimed soldier, the man destined to wed her daughter, and by these means she brought them together. Another way is for the man and the woman to be distant from each other and oblivious of each other’s existence, both installed in their own court, his in Lisbon, hers in Vienna, he nineteen years of age, she twenty-five years of age, married by proxy negotiated by their respective ambassadors, and the betrothed had their first glimpse of each other from portraits that were suitably flattering, he cutting a fine figure with his dark good looks, she plump and fair, as befitted an Austrian princess, and whatever their private inclinations, they were persuaded they were perfect for each other and that their marriage had been sealed in heaven, he will succeed in recouping his losses, she, poor thing, being an honest woman and incapable of raising her eyes so much as to look at another man, will resign herself to her fate, what happens in her dreams does not count.

In the war of Dom João, Baltasar lost his hand, in the War of the Holy Inquisition, Blimunda lost her mother, João gained nothing, for once peace had been declared things reverted to normal, the Inquisition gained nothing, because with every sorceress burned at the stake another ten appeared, not to mention the sorcerers of whom there were also many. Each man has his own system of accounts, his own ledger and day-book, the names of the dead are entered on one side of the page, the living on the other, there are also different ways of paying and imposing taxes, with the money of blood and with the blood of money, but there are those who favour prayers, such as the Queen, a natural and dedicated mother who came into the world solely to bear children, she will give birth to six children altogether, but her prayers should be calculated in millions, she is constantly making pilgrimages to the Jesuit Novitiate or the Parish Church of St Paul, or making a novena at the Shrine of St Francis Xavier, then she visits the shrine of Our Lady, Consoler of the Afflicted, then she goes to the Monastery of St Benedict run by the friars of St John the Evangelist, then she visits the Parish Church of the Incarnation, then the Convent of the Holy Conception at Marvila, then the Convent of St Benedict the Healer, then the Shrine of Our Lady of Light, then the Church of Corpus Christi, then the Church of Our Lady of All Graces, then she goes to the Church of St Rock, then to the Sanctuary of the Holy Trinity, then to the Royal Convent of the Mother of God, then she visits the Shrine of Our Lady of Remembrance, then the Churches of St Peter of Alcântara and Our Lady of Loreto, and the Convent of Good Counsel, and the moment she is about to leave the Palace to fulfil her religious devotions, there is a drum roll and the shrill sound of flutes, not emanating from her, good heavens, as if a queen would play a drum or a flute, and the halberdiers line up, and since the roads are perpetually filthy, despite numerous warnings and edicts demanding that they be cleaned up, porters run ahead of the Queen carrying wooden planks on their shoulders, when she steps from her carriage, the planks are set on the ground, there is quite a stir, no sooner does the Queen step over the planks than the porters move them forward, so that while she remains clean they are forever walking in the mire, our mistress, the Queen, is like our Lord Jesus Christ when He walked over the waters, and in this miraculous fashion she proceeds to the Convents of the Trinitarians, of the Cistercian Nuns, of the Sacred Heart and of St Albert, the Church of Our Lady of Mercy, whose mercy we implore, to the Church of St Catherine, to the Convent of the Sisters of St Paul, and that of the Holy Hour, which is looked after by the discalced Augustinians, and to that of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, to the Church of Our Lady of Martyrs, for we are all martyrs in our own way, to the Convent of Princess Joan the Saint, to the Convent of Christ the Saviour, to the Convent of the Sisters of St Monica, to the Royal Convent of Holy Redress, and to that of the Beneficiaries, but we know where she dare not go, to the Convent of Odivelas, and we can all guess why, a sad and deceived queen who is undeceived only by praying every hour of each day, sometimes for a good cause, at other times for no apparent reason, sometimes for her wayward husband, for her family so far away, for this country which is not hers and the children who are only partly hers, and perhaps not even that, as the Infante Dom Pedro swears in heaven, for the Portuguese Empire, for deliverance from imminent plague, for the war that has just finished and that which is about to break out, for the Infantas and Infantes, for her royal in-laws, and for Dom Francisco, too, and to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph for the trials of the flesh, for the delights glimpsed or visualised between a man’s legs, for arduous salvation, for the hell that covets her soul, for the torture of being a queen, for the sorrow of being a woman, and for those two inseparable woes, transient life and approaching death.

Dona Maria Ana will now have other, more urgent motives for praying. The King is far from well these days and is subject to sudden bouts of flatulence, a debility from which he has long suffered but is rapidly worsening, the fainting fits now last much longer than usual, and it teaches one humility to see such a mighty king reduced to a state of unconsciousness, what good does it do him to be Lord of India, Africa, and Brazil when we are nothing in this world and must leave all our possessions behind. Custom and caution dictate that the last rites should be administered without delay, His Majesty must not die unconfessed like any common soldier on the battlefield where chaplains are not to be seen and have no desire to be seen, yet from time to time certain problems arise, such as when the King is in Setubal watching a bullfight from the windows of his apartments and suddenly, without any warning, goes into a deep swoon, a doctor is hastily summoned, who checks the King’s pulse and summons a blood-letter, the father confessor comes with the holy oils, but no one can tell what sins Dom João V may have committed since he made his last confession, and that was only yesterday, how many evil thoughts could he have had, how many wicked acts could he have committed within the past twenty-four hours, and on top of everything, this awkward situation whereby bulls are dying in the arena while the King, his eyes staring upwards, may or may not be close to death, and if he should die it will not be from some wound, like those being inflicted on the animals below, who nevertheless succeed now and then in taking their revenge on the enemy, which is precisely what happened a moment ago to Dom Henrique de Almeida, he was tossed into the air with his horse and is being carried away on a stretcher with two fractured ribs. The King has finally opened his eyes, and he has escaped death after all, but his legs are still wobbly, his hands tremble, and his face is deathly pale, he no longer resembles that gallant gentleman who conquers nuns at a glance and for nuns substitute another word, as recently as last year, a French girl gave birth to a child he had fathered, and if those women of his, whether locked up or on the loose, were to see him now, they would not recognise this shrivelled, pathetic little man as the royal and indefatigable seducer they once knew. Dom João V makes the journey to Azeitão to see if a cure and good country air will rid him of this illness, which the doctors have diagnosed as melancholy, in all probability, His Royal Highness is suffering from a disturbance of the humours, which often results in bouts of flatulence and bilious attacks, infirmities that stem from black melancholy, for that is the King’s real problem, so let us hope that he is not suffering from any diseases in his private parts, despite his amorous excesses and those traces of gallic acid, which are treated with extracts of comfrey, an excellent remedy for mouth ulcers and any infection of the testicles and upper appendages.

Dona Maria Ana has remained in Lisbon to pray and then gone on to continue her prayers at Belem. It is rumoured that she is peeved because Dom João V refuses to entrust her with governing the kingdom and it really is wrong for a husband to be so mistrustful of his wife’s capacity to govern, he will soon relent, and eventually the Queen will be appointed regent while the King pursues his cure amidst the rural delights of Azeitão, where he is nursed by the Franciscan friars from Arrábida and the lapping of the waves, the colour of the sea, the tang in the air remain unchanged, the magic spell is the same, and nature exudes the same intoxicating odours as before while the Infante Dom Francisco remains alone in Lisbon, wooing the Queen, and the plot starts to thicken and events to unfold, calculating the death of his brother and his own life, If no remedy should be found for the melancholy that cruelly torments His Royal Highness, and if God were to decide to end his mortal life prematurely so that he might embark upon eternal life all the sooner, then it would be possible for me as next in line, as a close member of the Royal Family, as Your Majesty’s brother-in-law, and a deeply devoted admirer of your beauty and virtue, to presume to suggest that I might succeed to the throne and to your bed on the way, by wedding you in holy matrimony, and when it comes to manly attributes I can assure you that I am not inferior to my brother, Good heavens, such an unseemly conversation between a brother- and sister-in-law, the King is still alive, and should God hear my prayers, His Majesty’s life will be saved for the greater glory of the kingdom and, most of all, for the sake of those six children I am destined to bear him, for there are three more still to come, Yet I know that Your Majesty dreams about me nearly every night, I cannot deny that I have such dreams, these are weaknesses of womanhood, which I conceal in my heart and do not even discuss with my father confessor, although others may clearly surmise our dreams by looking into our eyes, Well, then, when my brother dies let us wed, If such a union were to bring prosperity to the realm, give no offence to God, and safeguard my honour, then I should consent, How I wish my brother would die, for I want to be king and to sleep with Your Majesty, I’m tired of being simply the Infante, And I’m tired of being queen, but I cannot aspire to anything else, so I resign myself and pray that my husband will live, lest I find myself saddled with an even worse fate, Is Your Majesty suggesting, then, that I would be worse than my brother, All men are evil in their own way, and on this astute and cynical note their conversation in the Palace ends, the first of many such conversations with Dom Francisco, who would importune the Queen on every possible occasion, in Belem, where she is in residence at present, in Belas, where she will journey at her leisure, and in Lisbon when she finally becomes regent, at court and in the country, until Dona Maria Ana’s dreams are no longer as enjoyable as before, so uplifting for the spirit if distressing for the body, for now the Infante only appears in her dreams to tell her that he wants to become king, and much good may it do him, he is wasting his time, say I who am queen. The King became so gravely ill that Dona Maria Ana’s dream vanished, but the King will eventually recover his health while the Queen’s dreams will never be revived.

B
ESIDES THE CONVERSATION
of women, it is dreams that keep the world in orbit. But dreams also form a diadem of moons, therefore the sky is that splendour inside a man’s head, if his head is not, in fact, his own unique sky. Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço has returned from Holland, whether he succeeded or failed to solve the mystery of ether we shall know later, it is even possible that the secret cannot be resolved with the alchemy of ancient times, perhaps a mere word will suffice to fill the globes of the flying machine, Almighty God, after all, did nothing more than speak and yet He succeeded in creating everything with such little effort, that is what the priest had been taught in the Seminary of Belem in Bahia, and it was further confirmed by learned debates and advanced studies in the Faculty of Theology at Coimbra, long before he ever launched his first balloon into the air, and now that he has come back from the Netherlands, he intends to return to Coimbra, a man might be a great flier, but he would be well advised to study for his master’s degree and doctorate, and then, even if he should never fly, he will be deemed worthy of respect.

Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço went to the estate at São Sebastião da Pedreira, three whole years had passed since he had been there, he found the coach house abandoned, the materials were lying scattered around the floor, which nobody had seen fit to tidy up, since nobody knew what was going on there. Inside the large building sparrows flitted to and fro having found their way in through a hole in the roof where two tiles had cracked, the sparrows were unremarkable creatures, and it was unlikely that they would ever soar higher than the tallest of the ash trees on the estate, the sparrow belongs to the soil and the loam, the dungheap and the cornfield, to observe a dead sparrow is to realise that it was never intended to scale great heights, its wings are so fragile, its bones so minute, in comparison, my Passarola will soar as high as the eye can reach, just look at the solid frame of this shell that will carry me through the air, with time, the irons have rusted, a bad sign, suggesting that Baltasar has not been looking after things as I asked, but surely these footprints made with bare feet must be his, yet he does not appear to have brought Blimunda with him, perhaps something has befallen her, Baltasar has obviously slept on the pallet, for the blanket is drawn back as if he just got out of bed, I shall lie down on this same pallet and cover myself with this same blanket, I, Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço, newly returned from Holland, where I went to confirm whether people in other parts of Europe know how to fly with wings, and whether they are more advanced in the science of flying than I am, coming as I do from a land of mariners, and in Zwolle, Ede, and Nijkerk, I studied with highly respected alchemists and scientists, learned men who are capable of creating suns in retorts, and yet they die from mysterious causes, withering up until they become as hollow as a sheaf of broken straw and burn just as easily, for this is what all of them ask at the hour of death, that they leave nothing but ashes as they set themselves alight, and here, awaiting my return, was this flying machine, which still cannot fly, and these are the globes I must fill with celestial ether, for people should know what they are saying when they look up at the sky and exclaim, Celestial ether, of course I know what it is, it’s as straightforward as God’s saying, Let there be light, it’s a manner of speaking, meanwhile, night has fallen, I am lighting this oil lamp Blimunda left behind, I extinguish this tiny sun, and it depends on me whether it is to be lit up or extinguished, I refer to the oil lamp, not to Blimunda, no human being can achieve all he or she desires in this life except in dreams, so good night all.