The Collected Novels of José Saramago Page 18

  Nor will there be any stealing of wills. It is time for the new moon, for the moment, Blimunda's eyes are no different from those of other people, no matter whether she eats or fasts, and this makes her tranquil, content to allow wills to do as they please, to remain in the body or depart, hoping this will bring some rest, but suddenly she is troubled by a fleeting thought, What other dark cloud shall I perceive in the Body of Christ, in His carnal body, she whispered to Baltasar, and he replied in the same hushed tones, It must be that and that alone which would get the Passarola off the ground and into the skies, and Blimunda added, Who knows, perhaps all we really see is nothing but the dark cloud of God.

  These are the words exchanged by a disabled man and a clairvoyant, one must forgive them their eccentricities and this conversation about transcendental things, while night has already fallen as they stroll through the streets between the Rossio and the Palace Square, amid the crowds who will not sleep this night and who, like them, tread the blood-red sand and the grass brought in by peasants to carpet the pavements, the city has never looked cleaner, this city that on most days has no equal in filth and squalor. Behind the windows the ladies are putting the finishing touches to their coiffures in elaborate rituals of pomp and artifice, soon they will be exhibiting themselves at their windows, none of these ladies wishes to be the first to appear, for while she is certain to attract the immediate attention of passers-by, no sooner does she start to enjoy this success than all is lost as the window opposite opens and another woman, her neighbour and rival, appears to divert the gaze of the admiring spectators, jealousy tortures me, especially when the other woman is so offensively ugly while I am divinely beautiful, her mouth is enormous, mine but a rosebud, and before my rival has time to speak, I call out, Away with you, flatterer. In these tournaments among the ladies, those who live on the lower floors enjoy certain advantages, without further ado the gallants beat out the metre and the rhyme of some conceit in their empty heads, while from the upper floors of the building descends another conceit, declaimed for all to hear, the first poet responds by reciting his lines while the others eye him coldly, betraying their rage and contempt that he should win the lady's favours, thus confirming their suspicions that this coupling of epigraph and gloss hints at coupling of another order. These suspicions remain unspoken, because they are all equally at fault.

  The night is warm. People stroll to and fro, playing and singing, street urchins chase one another, this is a plague without remedy that has been with us since the world began, the little wretches hide behind the women's skirts and receive a kick in the pants or cuff on the ear from the men accompanying the women, which merely sends them scampering off to make a nuisance of themselves elsewhere. They improvise mock bullfights with a simple little bull made out of two ram's horns, perhaps ill-matched, and the branch of an aloe tree fixed to a wooden board with a handle in front, held against the body like a shield, the urchin who plays the bull attacks with great panache and receives the wooden banderillas embedded in his shield with cries of feigned torment, but if the banderillero misses his aim and is butted by the bull, all nobility of caste is lost and another chase ensues, which soon gets out of hand, the tumult unsettles the poets, who ask to have the conceit repeated, calling up, What did you say, and grinning, the ladies reply, A thousand little birds bring me tokens of love, and so, with these intrigues, frolics, and scamperings, the crowd whiles away the night on the streets, and indoors there is revelry and cups of chocolate, as dawn breaks, the troops who will flank the procession start to assemble once more in ceremonial dress in honour of the Blessed Sacrament.

  In Lisbon, no one has slept. The frolickings are over, the women have withdrawn from their windows to renew their smudged or faded cosmetics, they will be back at their windows shortly, once more resplendent with rouge and powder. The crowd of whites, blacks, and mulattos of every hue, these, those, and all the others line the streets in the hazy morning light, only the Palace Square, open to the river and the sky, reveals a blue patch amid the shadows, which unexpectedly turns to red in the direction of the Palace and patriarchal church as the sun breaks over the terrain beyond and dispels the mist with a luminous puff. The procession is about to begin. It is led by the Masters of the House of the Twenty-Four Guilds, first come the carpenters, carrying the banner of their patron, St Joseph, then come the other insignia, huge banners depicting the patron saint of each guild, made from damask brocade and trimmed with gold, are so enormous that it takes four men to support them, who alternate with four others so that they may rest in turn, fortunately, there is no wind, and as they proceed the silk cords and gilt tassels hanging from the tips of the poles sway to the rhythm of their gait. Next comes the statue of St George with all due solemnity, drummers on foot, buglers mounted, the former drumming, the latter blowing, rataplan tarara ta tara, Baltasar is not among the spectators in the Palace Square, but he hears the bugles in the distance, he breaks out in goose-pimples as if he were back on the battlefield, watching the enemy prepare to attack before our forces retaliate, and suddenly he feels a sharp pain in his stump, he has not felt such pain in a long time, perhaps it is because he has not attached his hook or spike, for the body registers these things, as well as other memories and illusions, Blimunda, were it not for you, whom would I have at my right-hand side to embrace with this arm, it is you I hold tight by the shoulder or waist with my good hand, something people find strange, unaccustomed as they are to seeing a man and a woman being so demonstrative in public. The flags have disappeared, the sounds of the bugles and drums fade into the distance, and now comes the standard-bearer of St George, the king-at-arms, the armoured knight, clad from head to foot in armour, with plumed helmet and lowered visor, the saint's adjutant in battle, who carries his flag and lance and precedes him to ascertain whether the dragon is roused or asleep, an unnecessary precaution now, because the dragon is unlikely to appear or to be caught napping when he has been eliminated, alas, from the Corpus Christi procession, this is no way to treat dragons, serpents, and giants, and it is a sad world that allows itself to be deprived of such attractions, in the end, some will be preserved or will prove to be so attractive that those responsible for transforming the procession will be reluctant to retain them, in case people speak of nothing else, for horses either have to be kept in their stables or left like miserable lepers to pasture as best they can in the open fields, and here come forty-six black and grey horses with opulent saddle-cloths, so help me God if these animals are not better dressed than the spectators who watch them go past, this being the feast of Corpus Christi, everyone dresses up in his Sunday best, in clothes worthy to witness the Lord, who, having made us naked, only admits us to His presence when we are dressed, what is one to make of such a God, or the religion that represents Him, it is true that not many of us are beautiful to behold when we are naked, as you can tell from certain faces without cosmetics, let us imagine what St George, who is now looming into sight, would look like if we were to remove his silver armour and plumed helmet, a puppet on hinges, without a wisp of hair where men are hirsute, a man should be able to be a saint and still have what other men possess, and there should be no conceivable sanctity that has not experienced a man's strength plus the weakness that is often inherent in that strength, how can one explain these things to St George, who comes mounted on a white horse, if such an animal can be called a horse, for it lives in the royal stables with its own groom to brush and exercise it, a horse kept solely for the saint to ride, never mounted by the devil or by man, a sad beast that will die without ever having lived, may God grant that once it is dead and flayed, its skin will be used for a drum and that whosoever plays that drum will rouse its savage heart, now aged and spent, everything in this world, however, is ultimately balanced and recompensed, as was seen with the death of the child in Mafra and that of the Infante Dom Pedro, and today that conviction is reaffirmed, St George's page is a young squire riding a black steed, with raised lance and plumed helmet, and how many
mothers lining those streets, watching the procession over the shoulders of the soldiers, will dream this night that it is their own son who rides that horse, St George's page on earth and perhaps even in heaven, for such an honour it would be worth bearing a child, and once more St George approaches, this time depicted on a huge banner carried by the Confraternity of the Royal Church of the Royal Hospital, and to conclude this opening highlight come timpanists and trumpeters dressed in velvet with white plumes in their caps, and now there is the briefest pause as the confraternities exit from the Royal Chapel, thousands of men and women according to rank and sex, here Adams do not mingle with Eves, look, there goes António Maria, and Simão Nunes, and Manuel Caetano, and José Bernardo, and Ana da and António de Beja, and the somewhat less important José dos Santos, and Brás Francisco, and Pedro Caim, and Maria Caldas, names as varied as the colours of their cloaks of red, blue, white, dark crimson, green, and black, just as some of the passing brethren are black, but sadly, this confraternity, even while participating in the procession, is unlikely to arrive at the steps of the altar of Our Lord Jesus Christ, unless one day God disguises Himself as a black man and proclaims in every church throughout the land that a white man is worth half a black one, so it is up to you if you want to enter the gates of paradise, which explains why the beaches of this garden, planted, as it so happens, on the seashore, will one day become crowded with aspirants trying to darken their skin, an idea that would cause amusement, some do not even frequent the beaches, but stay at home and use various oils to darken their complexions, so that when they go out they are no longer recognised even by their neighbours, who comment, What's this fellow doing here, and this is the great difficulty faced by the coloured confraternities, meanwhile the following appear, more or less in this order, the confraternity of Our Lady of Holy Doctrine, that of Jesus and Mary, of the Holy Rosary, of St Benedict, a portly figure despite much abstinence, of Our Lady of All Graces, of St Crispin, of the Mother of God from São Sebastião of Pedreira, where Baltasar and Blimunda live, of the Via Sacra of St Peter and St Paul, another confraternity of the Via Sacra but this time from Alecrim, of Our Lady of Succour, of Jesus, of Our Lady of Remembrance, and of Our Lady of Good Health, for without her how will Rosa Maria keep her virginity, and what virtue can Severa hope to preserve, then comes the Confraternity of Our Lady da Oliveira, under whose shade Baltasar once ate, that of St Antony of the Franciscan Nuns of St Martha, of Our Lady of Repose of the Flemish Nuns from Alcântara, of the Holy Rosary, of Holy Christ, of St Antony, of Our Lady of the Penitentiary, and of St Mary the Egyptian, and if Baltasar were a soldier in the royal guard, he would be entitled to belong to this particular confraternity, and it is a great pity that there is no confraternity for the disabled, next comes the Brotherhood of Charity, which might be a suitable confraternity for Baltasar, and yet another Confraternity of Our Lady of the Penitentiary, but this time from the Carmelite Convent, for the previous one was that of the Tertiaries of St Francis, the procession appears to have run out of invocations, so the participants start repeating them, the Confraternity of Holy Christ reappears, this time from the Holy Trinity, whereas the previous one came from the Convent of St Paul, then the Brotherhood of Eternal Rest, then that of St Lucy, of Our Lady of a Good Death, if there is such a thing as a good death, and of Jesus of the Forgotten, then the Confraternity of the Souls of the Church of the Immaculate Conception, come rain or shine, that of Our Lady of the City, of the Souls of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, of Our Lady of Mercy, of St Joseph, Patron Saint of Carpenters, of Holy Succour, of Compassion, of St Catherine, of the Lost Child, some lost, others forgotten, neither found nor remembered, for not even remembrance does them any good, that of Our Lady of the Purification, another Confraternity of St Catherine, the previous one was for booksellers, this one is for road pavers, the Confraternity of St Anne, that of St Eloi, the rich little patron saint of the goldsmiths, that of St Michael and the Holy Souls, of St Martial, of Our Lady of the Holy Rosary, of St Justa, of St Rufina, of the Souls of the Martyrs, of Wounds, of the Mother of God and St Francis of the City, that of Our Lady of Sorrows, as if we did not already have enough sorrows, and finally of the Holy Remedies, for remedies always come afterwards and nearly always when it is much too late, so any remaining hopes are placed in the Blessed Sacrament, which is now arriving, the image is depicted on a banner and preceded by the precursor St John the Baptist, who appears as a child, dressed in skins and accompanied by four angels who scatter flowers as they advance, and it is difficult to believe that there could be another land where more angels roam the streets, you need only stretch out a finger to perceive at once that they are real, it is true they do not fly, but that goes to show that to be able to fly is not sufficient proof of the angelic state, if Padre Bartolomeu de Gusmão, or simply Lourenço, should start to fly one day, he will not suddenly find himself transformed into an angel, other qualities are essential, but it is much too soon to pursue these inquiries, for we still need to collect many more wills and we are only halfway through the procession, the heat becomes more intense as the morning advances on the eighth of June in the year seventeen hundred and nineteen, what comes next, the religious communities, but the crowd pays little attention, friars pass and are ignored, and no one seems interested in identifying the different orders, Blimunda was looking up at the sky and Baltasar was looking at Blimunda, she doubting whether there would be a new moon until she saw some sign above the Carmelite Convent, that first tapered crescent, a curved blade, a pointed scimitar capable of prising open all those bodies before her very eyes, just at that moment the first religious order passed, which one, I didn't notice, they were friars, tertiaries of St Francis of Jesus, Capuchins, monks from the Convent of St John of God, Franciscans, Carmelites, Dominicans, Cistercians, Jesuits from St Rock and St Antony, with so many colours and names that heads begin to spin and memories to wander, and now it is time to eat the food one has either provided or bought, and as we eat, we comment on the habits of the religious orders who have just passed, the gold crosses, the mutton sleeves, the white kerchiefs, the long cloaks, the high stockings, the buckled shoes, the puffs and gatherings, the full skirts, the colourful mantles, the lace collars and long jackets, only the lilies of the field do not know how to thread or weave and are therefore naked, and if God had wanted us to go around naked, He would have made men lilylike, fortunately, women do look like lilies, but with clothes on, Blimunda looks like one, with or without clothes, what thoughts are these, Baltasar, what sinful memories to be having when the cross from the Patriarchal Basilica is arriving, immediately behind the communities of the Congregation of Missions and the Oratory, and innumerable members of the clergy from the parishes, ah, dear friends, so many people anxious to save our souls, which still have to be found, do not imagine, Baltasar, because you are a soldier, even though disabled, that you belong to the confraternity now passing, one hundred and eighty-four men from the Military Order of St James of the Sword, one hundred and fifty from the Order of Aviz, and about the same number from the Order of Christ, the last of these is formed by monks who decide for themselves who can join their confraternity, although God has no wish to see defective animals on His, altars, especially if they are of the lower orders, so let Baltasar stay where he is, watching the procession go by, the pages, the choristers, the chamberlains, two lieutenants of the royal guard, one, two, in full dress uniform, which nowadays we would probably refer to as ceremonial dress, then the patriarchal cross, with blood-red whips hanging from one side, the chaplains carrying staffs crested with posies of carnations, ah, the sad destiny of flowers, for one day they will be attached to the barrels of rifles, then the choirboys of the Basilica of St Mary Major, which is both umbrella and basilica, with alternate sections in red and white, and in two or three hundred years people will start referring to umbrellas as basilicas, and you will hear them say, My basilica has a broken rib, I've left my basilica on the bus, I've had a new handle made for my basilica, When will my basilic
a at Mafra be ready, the King muses as he walks behind, holding one of the poles supporting the canopy, but first comes the cathedral chapter, the deacons in their white dalmatics, then the priests wearing chasubles of the same colour, and finally the church dignitaries with amice, cope, and silver plaque, what are the masses likely to know about these names, when it comes to the mitre, they are familiar with both the word and the form, for mitre is the pope's nose you find in the chicken's arse and the hat stuck on the canon's head, each canon in the procession is assisted by three members of his household, one with a lighted torch, another carrying the canon's hat, and both in court dress, while his train-bearer is dressed in coat of mail, now the Patriarch's entourage appears, first come six relatives of noble birth carrying lighted torches, then his beneficed assistant with the crozier, accompanied by another chaplain with the incense boat, followed by the acolytes swinging thuribles in wrought silver, two masters of ceremonies, and twelve pages who also carry torches, ah, you sinners, you men and women who spend your ephemeral lives courting perdition by fornicating and eating and drinking in excess, neglecting the sacraments, omitting to pay tithes, and speaking of hell with contempt and bravado, you men who at the slightest opportunity fondle women's buttocks in church, you shameless women who do everything in church short of fondling men's private parts, look at what is passing, the canopy supported by eight poles and I, the Patriarch beneath it, holding up the sacred monstrance, kneel, kneel, you sinners, you should castrate yourselves at once and fornicate no more, you should gag your mouths at once rather than contaminate your souls with so much food and drink, you should empty your pockets at once, because you will have no use for escudos in paradise or in hell, and in purgatory debts are honoured with prayers, your escudos are needed here on earth to purchase gold for another monstrance, to keep all these church dignitaries in silver, the two canons who raise the corners of my cape and carry the mitres, the two subdeacons who raise the hem of my vestments in front, and the train-bearers behind, which explains why they grovel so, this intimate friend who has the rank of count and carries the train of my cape, the two esquires with the flabella, and the mace-bearers with their silver staffs, the first subdeacon carries the veil of the golden mitre, for it must not be touched by hand. Christ was foolish never to have worn a mitre on His head, He may have been the Son of God, but He was somewhat gauche, for it is common knowledge that no religion can prosper without the wearing of a mitre, tiara, or bowler hat, had Christ worn any one of these three, He would have been made a high priest and been appointed governor instead of Pontius Pilate, just think what I should have escaped, and what a better world this might have been, had it turned out otherwise and they had not made me Patriarch, render unto Caesar what belongs to God, and render unto God what belongs to Caesar, then we shall settle accounts and share the money, one piece of silver for me and one for you, truly I say unto you, as say I must, Behold how I, your sovereign King of Portugal, the Algarves and all the rest, walk devoutly in the procession holding one of these gilded poles, and how a sovereign strives to protect his homeland and people both temporally and spiritually, I could have just ordered a footman to take my place, or have appointed a duke or marquis to take my place, but here I am in person and accompanied by the Infantes, my relatives and your masters, kneel, kneel, for the sacred monstrance is about to pass and I am passing, and Christ the King is inside the monstrance, and inside me is the grace of being king on earth, the king made of flesh, in order to feel, for you well know how nuns are regarded as the spouses of Christ, and that is the holy truth, for they receive me in their beds as they receive the Lord, and it is because I am their Lord that they sigh in ecstasy, clutching their rosary in one hand, mystical flesh, mingled and united, while the saints in the oratory strain their ears to hear the words of passion whispered under the canopy, a canopy stretched over heaven, for this is heaven and there is none better, and Christ crucified droops His head to one side, wretched fellow, perhaps overwhelmed by suffering, perhaps to get a better look at Paula as she removes her clothes, perhaps consumed with jealousy that He should be robbed of this spouse, a flower of the cloister perfumed by incense, adorable flesh, but that's that, I then depart, leaving her behind, and if she ends up pregnant the child is mine, no need to announce it a second time, there come the choristers behind, singing motets and hymns, and this gives me an idea, for kings are a veritable mine of ideas, how could they govern otherwise, so let the nuns of Odivelas come to sing the Benedictus in Paula's chamber as we lie in each other's arms, before, during, and after intercourse, amen.