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  On the occasional Sunday afternoon, the women would go down to the Baixa to window-shop. They usually walked there, but sometimes took the tram, which was the worst thing that could happen to me at that age, because I soon grew queasy from the smell inside; the overheated, almost fetid atmosphere set my stomach churning and within minutes I would be throwing up. In that respect, I was a delicate child. With the passing of time that olfactory intolerance (I don't know what else to call it really) diminished, but for years afterward, I only had to board a tram for my head to start to swim. Anyway, on that particular Sunday, for whatever reason—whether because she felt sorry for me or simply wanted to stretch her legs—my mother, along with Conceição, Emília too, I think, and me, decided to walk there from Rua Fernão Lopes, along Avenida Fontes Pereira de Melo, then down Avenida da Liberdade to the Chiado, which was where Ali Baba kept his most valued treasures. I don't remember the shop windows, and that isn't what I'm here to talk about. I'm concerned with more serious matters. Next to one of the doors to the department store, Armazéns Grandella, a man was selling balloons, and whether it was because I asked (which I doubt very much because only someone who expects to be given something will run the risk of asking) or because my mother, unusually, wanted to make a public demonstration of her love for me, one of those balloons ended up in my hands. I can't remember if it was green or red, yellow or blue, or simply white. What happened afterward erased from my memory a color that should have stayed in my eyes forever, because that was neither more nor less than the first balloon I had been given in my six or seven years of life. We were walking across the Rossio, on our way home, and I was as proud as if I were dragging the whole world through the air tied to a piece of string, when, suddenly, I heard someone behind me snicker. I turned and I saw. The balloon had deflated and, without my realizing, I had been dragging it along the ground—a grubby, shriveled, shapeless thing—and two men were laughing and pointing at me. I felt, on that occasion, the most ridiculous of human beings. I didn't even cry. I simply dropped the string, grabbed my mother's arm like a drowning man a piece of wood and kept walking. That grubby, shriveled, shapeless thing was the world.

  One day, at around this time, I went on a trip to Mafra. I had been born in Azinhaga and was living in Lisbon, and there I was, possibly in response to a knowing look or an indecipherable wink from the fates, being taken to the place where, more than fifty years later, my future as a writer would be decided once and for all. I don't remember now if the Baratas came with us or not. I have a vague idea that we were driven there in the car of some acquaintance of my father's, who, as far as I know, left no other trace of his passage through our lives. My most vivid memory of that brief visit (we didn't go into the monastery, only the basilica) is of a statue of St. Bartholomew which stood, as it still does, in the second chapel on the left as you go in, on the side which I believe is called, in liturgical language, the gospel side. A combination of extreme youth, a complete ignorance of the world of statues and the dim lighting in the chapel meant that I probably wouldn't even have noticed that poor St. Bartholomew had been flayed had it not been for the guide's practiced patter and his smugly eloquent gesture as he indicated the folds of flaccid skin (flaccid even though they were made of marble) that the poor martyr was holding in his hands. Dreadful. There is no mention of St. Bartholomew in Baltasar and Blimunda, but it is quite possible that the memory of that awful moment was still lurking somewhere in my mind when, in 1980 or 1981, I once again gazed upon the vast bulk of the palace and the towers of the basilica and said to the people with me: "One day, I'd like to put all this in a novel." I can't swear to it, I'm just saying that it's possible.

  Between the ages of two and four or five, I must have made quite a few journeys to Azinhaga in my mother's arms. My father had gone from being a vulgar digger of fields to public servant, a policeman no less, with a basketful of news and novelties from the city to recount, and it was most unlikely that he would have remained in Lisbon during his annual leave, when he could enjoy showing off to his former work colleagues, talking fancy or at least trying hard not to sound too provincial and, in the intimacy of the tavern, after a couple of glasses of wine, regaling them with stories of women, a prostitute, say, who would pay with her body for a certain degree of police protection—not that he himself would admit to such things—or a market-trader of easy virtue in the Praça da Figueira. Many years later, my grandmother would tell me that, whenever I was left in her care, she would sit me in the next room, on a blanket spread on the floor, from where, after a while, she would hear me say: "Gramma, gramma." "What's wrong, sweetheart?" she would ask. And I would reply tearfully, sucking my right thumb (was it my right thumb?): "Want to poo." By the time she had rushed to my aid, it was always too late. "You were already all dirty," she would say, laughing. My mother, Francisco and I had left for Lisbon in the spring of 1924, when I was, at most, eighteen months old, so my communicative skills weren't really up to much. Presumably, though, such scatological episodes must have taken place later, on those holiday visits to Azinhaga, when my mother, leaving me in the hands of Grandmother Josefa, would go off to catch up on the latest gossip with her childhood friends, to whom she would report on her own experiences of civilization, including, if pride or shame did not tie her tongue, the frequent beatings she received from a husband disoriented by the erotic delights of the Lisbon metropolis. And perhaps it's because I was an astonished and frightened witness to some of those deplorable domestic scenes that I've never raised my hand to a woman. It served me as a vaccine.

  This was a time when women would consult the local witch when things were going wrong at home. Even during the time we were living in Rua Fernào Lopes, I remember the prayers and smoke with which my mother would fill the room as she tossed some small, dark, round seeds onto the embers in the stove, all the while intoning a spell that began thus: "Cocas, minhas cocas" I can't remember how the rest of it went, but I can recall the smell of the seeds, so intense that even now I can feel it in my nose. They gave off a sickly smoke, simultaneously sweet and nauseating, that made you dizzy. I never found out what cocas were, but they must have been something oriental. Maybe that's why I still can't stand the stench from the joss sticks with which people often contaminate their apartments in the belief that it makes them more spiritual.

  One day, on a melon patch near Mouchão de Baixo, Aunt Maria Elvira, José Dinis and I—why I can't remember, although I'm sure it can't have been mere chance—met up with Alice and her parents, and my angry cousin, seeing that the girl was paying more attention to me than to him, was, inevitably, filled with such jealousy that he flung his slice of melon at me. He aimed it at my face, but missed and hit my shirt instead. As I said earlier, we were always like cat and dog, at each other's throats over the slightest thing. But it's Alice I'm interested in now. The moment has come to speak of her in more detail than I have up to now. Some time after this incident (I think it was the following summer), the three of us went to Vale de Cavalos, where her family had moved (they had lived in Alpiarça before), and if my memory serves me right, we even visited her house. (I can't be absolutely sure that things happened exactly in this sequence, but there was one occasion, presumably this one, when I learned the shortcut from Mouchão de Baixo to Vale de Cavalos across the fields via footpaths and tracks.) Now it so happened that one or two weeks later, some festivities or other were being held in that village, and I decided that I absolutely had to see Alice. I was fifteen and this was the summer of the year in which I would turn sixteen. In the earlier pages of this book, I described certain somewhat romantic adventures, like crossing the Tejo, Graviel's boat coming in to shore, its bottom scraping over the tiny pebbles on the river bed, the crepuscular light, the long walk there and back. I won't, however, repeat them here, for now I must find the courage to turn the coin over and show you the other side. There was dancing in the village square and the local band was playing with an enthusiasm appropriate to the occasion. I talked to Alice,
who seemed quite pleased to see me, although not overly so, and I danced with her (if you can call it dancing, for she took more of a lead than I did, and I have a suspicion—not to say certainty—that, at one point, she shot a look of quiet resignation at a girlfriend of hers who was dancing nearby). Finally, when it was getting late (it was that look, I realize now, that made me renounce Alice for ever), I gave up and said goodbye. Even today I wonder how I didn't get lost in the night full of noises and shadows, when only a few years before I had lived in fear and trembling of the darkness and the monsters it engenders. Toward the end of my long walk, I was so exhausted and my legs so weary that I took shelter in a rough straw-thatched, wattle-and-daub shack, which was, as I found out later, where Uncle Francisco Dinis used to rest occasionally on his night patrols of the estate. Starving hungry, I groped around inside for something to eat and found only the aforementioned piece of cornbread, a stale and moldy piece as I discovered in the morning when I ate what was left of it. There was no mattress on the truckle bed, but the layer of corn husks on which I stretched out my weary body smelled good. I slept for what little remained of the small hours and, in the morning, my uncle appeared. I heard the barking of the dog that always accompanied him—Piloto his name was—and I emerged from the hut, still dazed with sleep and dazzled by the light. When I reached Mouchào de Baixo, I recounted my adventures to Aunt Maria Elvira and José Dinis, to the great despair of the latter, because I took the precaution of omitting any hint of the humiliation I had suffered at my romantic failure. Alice had wanted me to lead her in the dance, and I hadn't known how. The tailor had more luck. It would be interesting to know, although we never will, if she was as lucky as him.

  I was never much of a fisherman. Like any boy of my age and modest means, I used an ordinary rod with a hook, sinker and cork float tied to the fishing line, nothing that remotely resembled the modern artifacts that would appear later on and which I saw in the hands of certain local amateurs when I was already grown up and had abandoned my piscatorial dreams. Consequently, I never caught anything more than a few small carp, a young barbel (very rarely), and many hours spent in vain (well, none were spent in vain, because, without my realizing it, I was "fishing" for things that would be just as important for me in the future, images, smells, sounds, soft breezes, sensations). In the sun, if it wasn't too fierce, or in the shade of a weeping willow, waiting for a fish to bite. Seated at the water's edge, I usually fished in "our village's river," the Almonda, in the late afternoon, because when the weather was too hot, the fish disappeared into their hiding places on the riverbed and wouldn't take the bait. At other times, I would sit on one side or other of the river mouth or, on a few notable occasions, would row farther off, across to the south bank of the Tejo and stay there, in the shelter of a brake of trees as if under a canopy, and that was what I liked best. The local fishermen emeriti would boast of having their own methods, their own strategies, their own magical arts, which usually lasted for a season and then gave way to other methods, strategies and magical arts that were always better than the previous ones. I never found any of them useful. The only one I can remember was a special rose dust (I never knew at the time, and still don't know to this day, which part of the rose the cognoscenti pulverized: I assume it was the petals), thanks to which—once it had been thrown into the water like some kind of poetic bait—the fish would flock, if you'll forgive the inappropriate comparison, like pigeons to chaff. I, poor wretch, never touched that gold dust with my unworthy fingers. And that must explain my ill luck in catching, or failing to catch, the largest (although forever invisible) barbel in the entire piscine history of the Tejo. I will describe very simply the whole regrettable affair. I had gone with my fishing tackle to the mouth—as we called it—of the Almonda, where, at the time, a narrow tongue of sand reached out into the Tejo, and there I was, with the day fading fast and not a twitch from the cork float to indicate any signs of subaquatic life, when, suddenly, without even having felt the initial exciting tremor that announces a fish trying to nibble the bait, the float plunged down into the depths, almost snatching the rod from my hands. I pulled and was pulled, but the struggle was short-lived. The line must have been badly secured or rotten, because with one violent tug, the fish carried everything off, hook, line and sinker. Imagine my despair. There, on the edge of the deep water into which the rascal had disappeared, I stood staring at the now calm surface, holding the ridiculous, useless rod in my hands, not knowing what to do next. That was when I had the most absurd idea of my entire life: I decided to run home, get another line, float and sinker for my rod and return to settle accounts once and for all with the monster. Now, my grandparents' house was just over half a mile from that spot, and you would have to be a complete idiot (either that or very innocent) to nurture the ludicrous hope that the barbel would wait there killing time, quietly digesting not only the bait, but the hook, line and sinker, not to mention the float, until the next tidbit arrived. Despite this, and against all reason and good sense, I raced off along the river bank, took a shortcut through olive groves and stubble fields, and burst, panting, into the house, where, while I prepared my rod, I told my grandmother what had happened, and she asked me if I really thought the fish would still be there, not that I heard her, I didn't want to, I couldn't. I returned to the spot, even though the sun had already set, I cast my hook into the water and waited. I don't think there is a deeper silence in the world than the silence of water. I felt it then and never forgot it. I stayed until I could barely see the float bobbing gently on the current, then, finally, with a heavy heart, I rolled up my line and returned home. That barbel had obviously lived a long time and must have been a large beast, but it certainly wouldn't end up dying of old age, someone else was bound to catch it one day. In a way, though, with my hook caught in its gills, it bore my mark, it was mine.

  One day I was fishing in the Tejo estuary, for once in peace and harmony with José Dinis (I'm not sure that it really was the estuary, because we hadn't walked that far, nor in the right direction, to have come so close to the river; it was probably just a large pool, deep enough not to dry up in the searing summer heat and inhabited by a few colonies of fish that had arrived there with the floodwaters), and we had already caught two scrawny specimens, when two boys, more or less our age, appeared, who must have been from Mouchão de Cima, which is why we didn't know them (nor would that have been advisable), even though we only lived a stone's throw away. They sat down behind us, and the usual conversation began: "Had any bites?" and we said "Oh, not too bad," reluctant to give them any information. In the end, so that they wouldn't make fun of us, we told them that we'd caught two fish and that they were in the pot. The "pot" was a cylindrical tin with a tight lid and a wire handle that you could sling over your arm. These pots, usually slung from a pole carried over the shoulder, were used by the workers to carry their food to the fields, a thick tomato soup perhaps, if it was the season, or cabbage soup with beans, or whatever was within the means of each individual. Having made it clear that we weren't as green as we looked, we turned our attention to the floats sitting utterly still on the leaden surface of the water. A great silence fell, time passed, and after a while, one of us glanced behind and saw that the boys had gone. Our hearts fell when we opened the pot. Instead of the two fish, there were two twigs floating in the water. How the thieves managed, without making a sound, to take off the lid, remove the fish and escape is something I still don't understand. When we got home and described what had happened, Aunt Maria Elvira and Uncle Francisco roared with laughter. We could hardly blame them, it was all we deserved.

  It must be said that I was even less skilled as a hunter than I was as a fisherman. Only one sparrow ever fell to my catapult, but I killed it so ineptly and in such sad circumstances that one day I had to ease my conscience and express my sorrow by recounting the vile deed in a story. However, while I may have been no marksman when it came to the birds of the air, the same was not true of the frogs of the Almo
nda, which I felled with a slingshot that was as accurate as it was pitiless. The truth is that children's cruelty knows no limits (which is the real reason why adult cruelty knows no bounds either): what harm had those innocent batrachians done to me as they sat taking the sun in the shifting mud, enjoying the warmth from above and the cool from beneath? The stone whistled toward them, hitting them full on, and the poor frogs gave their last leap and lay there, belly up. The river—more charitable than the perpetrator of those deaths—washed away the few drops of spilled blood, while I, triumphant and unaware of my own stupidity, went upstream and downstream in search of new victims.

  It's odd that I've never heard anyone anywhere else mention the "seamstress." As the precocious rationalist I had already shown myself to be at a tender age (you need only recall the heretical episode at Mass, when the bell rang and I craned my neck to see what it was they didn't want me to see), I thought, and I think I even suggested as much to my mother, that it might just be woodworm or some other similar creature, a ridiculous idea because woodworm (which aren't really worms, but larvae) couldn't live inside the thick mortar used in buildings then, which was far too hard to chew, although not as hard as modern-day cement and concrete. So what was it then? In the silent house, my mother would always say at some point, as though it were the most natural thing in the world: "There's the seamstress." And I would press my ear to the place on the wall she had indicated and I could hear, I swear I could hear, the unmistakable sound of a sewing machine, the pedal-operated variety (there was no other kind then) and also, sometimes, another characteristic sound, slower, that of braking, when a seamstress raises her right hand to the wheel to stop the movement of the needle. I heard them in Lisbon, but also in Azinhaga, in my grandparents' house, where Grandmother Josefa or Aunt Maria Elvira would say: "There's the seamstress, there she is again." The sounds that emerged from the innocent blankness of the whitewashed wall were just the same. The explanation I was given was quite fantastical—how could it not be?—namely, that what we were hearing was the sad consequence of an irreverent seamstress who had worked on a Sunday and been condemned for that grave fault (there was no information about the identity of the judge) to work at her sewing-machine for all eternity inside the walls of houses. This mania for mercilessly punishing any Christian who needed to work on a Sunday had claimed another victim in the distant past, or so they told me, the man in the moon, the man you can see so clearly from here below, with a bundle of firewood on his back, and who was placed there, shouldering that eternal load, to serve as a lesson to anyone rash enough to be tempted to follow his bad example. But to go back to the "seamstress" in the walls, I don't know what can have happened in the world for her to have disappeared so completely, because it's over seventy years now since I last heard her and I can find no one else who has. Perhaps her sentence was commuted. If so, I hope the same mercy is shown to the man in the moon. The poor thing must be worn out. Besides, if they removed him from there, if they got rid of that shadow, the moon would give more light and we would all stand to gain.