The Collected Novels of José Saramago Page 6

  There stood Lisbon, presented on the palm of the earth, a façade of high walls and tall houses. The ship landed at Ribeira, the boatswain manoeuvred the vessel alongside the quay, the sail having been lowered beforehand, and with one concerted movement the oarsmen on the mooring side raised their oars, while those on the other side of the ship strained to keep the vessel steady, one final turn of the rudder, a rope was thrown over their heads, and it was as if the two banks of the river had suddenly been joined together. Because of the receding tide, the quay was rather high, and Baltasar assisted the woman with the basket and her husband, while the witty fellow got to his feet smartly and without a word took one leap and landed safely.

  There was a confusion of fishing boats and caravels unloading cargo, the foremen hurled insults and bullied the black stevedores, who worked in pairs and were drenched by the water trickling from the baskets and bespattering their faces and arms with fish scales. It looked as if the entire population of Lisbon had congregated in the market place. Sete-Sóis could feel his mouth watering, it seemed as if all the hunger accumulated during the four years of war was now bursting the dykes of resignation and self-control. He felt his stomach contract in knots, and his eyes searched instinctively for the woman who had offered him food, where could she have gone with that passive husband of hers who was probably staring at the women in the crowd and trying to catch a glimpse of the English whores, for every man is entitled to his dreams.

  With little money in his pocket except for a few copper coins that jingled far less than the irons in his knapsack, Baltasar had to decide where to go next, to Mafra, where he would find it difficult to wield a hoe with only one hand, or to the Royal Palace, where he might receive alms because of his disability. Someone had made this suggestion in Évora, while warning him that you had to beg with insistence and at great length and to be sure to flatter your benefactors, for even when you adopted these tactics, you could still become hoarse or drop dead without seeing so much as the colour of a coin. When all else failed, you could turn to the guilds, who dispensed charity, or the convents, where you were always certain of a bowl of soup and a slice of bread. Besides, a man who has lost his left hand does not have much to complain about, if he still has his right hand to extend to passers-by or a sharp spike with which to intimidate them.

  Sete-Sóis strolled across the fish market. The fishwives hollered at potential buyers, vying for their attention with waving arms that jangled with gold bracelets, and screaming oaths, hands on hearts, bosoms heaving with necklaces, crosses, charms, and chains, all made from Brazilian gold, as were the large earrings they wore in every conceivable shape, valued possessions that enhance a woman's beauty. In the middle of this filthy rabble, the fishwives looked remarkably clean and tidy, as if untainted even by the smell of the fish they handled. At the door of a tavern standing next to a jeweller's shop, Baltasar bought three grilled sardines on top of the indispensable slice of bread, and blowing and nibbling as he went, he headed for the Palace. He entered the slaughterhouse that looked on to the square, to feast his eyes on the gaping carcasses of pigs and oxen, on whole sides of beef and pork hanging from hooks. He promised himself a banquet of roast meats just as soon as he could afford it, little suspecting that one day soon he would come here to work, thanks to his godfather's good offices but also to the hook he carried in his knapsack, which was to prove useful for heaving carcasses, draining tripe, and tearing away layers of fat. Apart from the blood, the slaughterhouse was a clean establishment with white tiles on the walls, and unless the butcher cheated on the scales, there was no other danger of being cheated, for in terms of quality and protein there is nothing to compare with meat.

  The building that looms in the distance is the Royal Palace. The Palace is there but not the King, for he has gone off to hunt at Azeitão with the Infante Dom Francisco and his other brothers, accompanied by the footmen of the royal household and two Jesuit fathers, the Reverend João Seco and the Reverend Luis Gonzaga, who certainly were not in the party simply to eat and to pray, perhaps the King wished to brush up his knowledge of mathematics or Latin and Greek, subjects the good fathers had taught him when he was a young prince. His Majesty also carried a new rifle made for him by João de Lara, master of arms in the royal arsenal, a work of art embellished with gold and silver, which were it to be lost en route, would soon be returned to its rightful owner, for along the barrel of the rifle, in bold lettering and written in Latin, as on the pediment of the Basilica of St Peter's in Rome, are inscribed the words, I BELONG TO THE MONARCH, MAY GOD PROTECT DOM JOÃO v, yet some people continue to insist that rifles can speak only through the mouth of the barrel and solely in the language of gunpowder and lead. That is certainly true of ordinary rifles, such as the one used by Baltasar Mateus, alias Sete-Sóis, who at this very minute is unarmed and standing quite still in the middle of the Palace Square as he watches the world go by, a constant procession of litters and friars, ruffians and merchants, and watching bales and chests being weighed, he feels a sudden nostalgia for the war, and if he did not know that he is not wanted any more, he would return to Alentejo without a moment's hesitation, even if it meant certain death.

  Baltasar took the broad avenue leading to the Rossio, after attending Holy Mass in the Church of Our Lady of Oliveira, where he engaged in mild flirtation with an unaccompanied woman who obviously fancied him, a fairly common pastime, for since the women are on one side of the church and the men on the other, they soon start to exchange billets-doux, make signs with their hands and handkerchiefs, twitching their lips and giving knowing winks, but when the woman took a close look at Baltasar, who was worn out after his long journey and had no money to spend on trifles and silk ribbons, she decided not to pursue the flirtation, and leaving the church, she took the broad avenue in the direction of the Rossio. This seemed to be a day for women, he thought, as a dozen or so emerged from a narrow side street, surrounded by black street-urchins who jostled them with sticks, nearly all of the women fair, with eyes that were pale blue, green, or grey, Who are these women, Sete-Sóis inquired, and by the time a man standing nearby told him, Baltasar had already surmised that they were probably the English whores being taken back to the ship from which they had been disembarked by the wily captain, and there was no other solution but to send them to the island of Barbados, rather than allow them to wander this fair land of Portugal, so greatly favoured by foreign whores, for here is a profession that defies the confusion of Babel, and you can enter these workshops as silent as a deaf-mute, so long as your money has spoken first. Yet the ferryman had said that there were some fifty whores in all, but here there were no more than twelve, What happened to the others, and the man explained, Most have already been recaptured, but some found means of hiding, and no doubt have by now discovered the difference between English and Portuguese men. Baltasar continued on his way, promising St Benedict a heart fashioned from wax if he would grant him the favour of being able to sample, at least once in his lifetime, a fair English wench, preferably tall and slender with green eyes, for if on the Feast of St Benedict the faithful knock at the church doors and pray that they might never go without bread, and women who are anxious to find a good husband have Masses celebrated every Friday in the Saint's honour, why should a soldier not pray to St Benedict for the favours of an English whore, just once, before he meets his Maker, rather than die in ignorance.

  Baltasar Sete-Sóis wandered around the city's quarters and squares all afternoon. He drank a bowl of soup at the gates of the Convent of St Francis of the City, asked which of the guilds were most generous in distributing alms and made a careful note of three of them for further investigation, the Guild of Our Lady of Oliveira, the patron saint of pastry-cooks, which he had already tried, the Guild of St Eloi, the patron saint of silversmiths, and the Guild of the Lost Child, which aptly described his own situation, although he could scarcely recall ever having been a child, lost yes, if they will ever find him.

  Dusk fell, and Sete-Só
is went off to find a place to sleep. He had already struck up a friendship with another former soldier, older and more experienced, João Elvas who now made his living as a pimp, a profession he pursued by night, and now that the weather was warmer, he made good use of some abandoned sheds against the walls of the Convent of Hope, near the olive grove. Occasionally Baltasar visited João Elvas, with whom you could always be certain of meeting a new face or of finding someone to talk to but rather than take any risks, Baltasar, on the pretext that he wanted to give his right hand a rest after carrying his knapsack all day, attached the spike to his stump, anxious not to alarm João Elvas and the other rogues for it is a deadly weapon as we well know. There were six of them huddled under the shed, but no one tried to do him any harm and he had no intention of harming them.

  To while away the hours before falling asleep, they reminisced about crimes that had been committed. Not their own, the crimes of their leaders, which nearly always went unpunished, even when the guilty parties could easily be identified, the powerful had no fear of being discovered and brought to justice. But the common thieves, bullies, or petty criminals, since there was no danger of anyone betraying the leaders, soon found themselves in Limoeiro prison, where they could be sure of a bowl of soup, not to mention the excrement and urine fouling the cells. Recently they released a hundred and fifty petty criminals from Limoeiro, who were joined by more than five hundred men, who had been recruited for India and then dismissed because they were no longer required, and there were so many of them, and so much hunger, that a plague broke out, threatening to kill all of us, so that the recruits were disbanded, and I was one of them. Another man said, This country is a hotbed of crime, more people are murdered in this city than are killed in war, as anyone who has ever fought will tell you, What do you say, Sete-Sóis, whereupon Baltasar replied, I can tell you how men die in war, but I don't know how men die in Lisbon, so I can't make any comparison, ask João Elvas, for he knows as much about military strongholds as he does about city slums, but João Elvas, merely shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

  The conversation turned back to the previous topic, and they listened to the story of the gilder who stabbed a widow whom he wanted to marry but she refused to satisfy his desire, so he murdered her and sought sanctuary in the Convent of the Holy Trinity, and then there was the tale of the unfortunate woman who rebuked her philandering husband, whereupon he slashed her from head to foot with his sword, and that of the clergyman who, because of some amorous intrigue, was rewarded with three magnificent scars, all these misadventures occurring during Lent, a season of hot blood and dark passions. But August is not much better, as we saw last year, when the dismembered body of a woman was discovered cut into fourteen or fifteen pieces, the precise number of pieces was never verified, but there was no doubt that she had been flogged with great violence about the vulnerable parts of her body, such as the buttocks and the calves, the flesh had been stripped from the bones and abandoned in Cotovia, one half of her limbs had been scattered near the fortifications of Conde de Tarouca and the rest down in Cardais, but scattered so blatantly that they were soon discovered, no attempt had been made to bury her remains or dump them at sea, so we can only conclude that they were deliberately left exposed to arouse public outrage.

  Then João Elvas took up the story saying, It was a terrible slaughter, and the poor woman must have been dismembered while she was still alive, because no one could have treated a corpse so badly, the remains that were discovered came from some of the most sensitive parts of her body, and only a man whose soul was a thousand times cursed and damned could have committed such a crime, nothing like it has ever been seen in war, Sete-Sóis, although I can't vouch for what you may have seen on the battlefield, and the ruffian who had begun the story-took advantage of this pause and picked up the thread of his narration, Not until much later were the woman's missing limbs discovered, why, only the other day her head and one of her hands were found in Junqueira, and then a foot at Boavista, and to judge from her hand, foot, and head, she was an attractive, well-bred woman, not much older than eighteen or twenty, and in the sack where her head was discovered, there were also her intestines and her breasts, which had been peeled like oranges, and the body of a child some three or four months old, which had been strangled with a silken cord, even in a city like Lisbon, where so many crimes have been committed, nothing quite like this has ever been witnessed.

  João Elvas added some final details about the episode, The King ordered notices to be posted promising a thousand cruzados to anyone who finds the culprit, but almost a year has passed and the culprit, alas, has not been found, people soon realised that the search was hopeless, the murderer was no ordinary shoemaker or tailor, for they only cut holes in your pocket, and the lacerations on this woman's body had been made with expert knowledge, her flesh and bones were carved with professional skill, and the surgeons ordered to inspect the evidence agreed that the crime was the work of a man professionally trained in anatomy, without daring to confess that they themselves could not have done such a skilful job. From behind the convent wall, the nuns could be heard intoning their hymns, little do they know what they are spared, to conceive a child is something that has to be paid for at great cost, then Baltasar asked, Did anyone ever discover the identity of the murdered woman, No, neither that of the woman nor of her assassins, they hung her head from the door of the Alms house to see if anyone might recognise her, but to no avail and one of the ruffians there, whose beard was more white than black and who had said nothing so far, interrupted, They must have been strangers, for had they been from these parts, a missing wife would soon have caused people to gossip, it could have been a father who decided to kill his daughter because of some dishonour and who ordered the body to be cut into pieces and concealed in a mule pack or litter and then scattered throughout the city, and, no doubt, near his home he has buried the carcass of a pig so he can pretend that it is the murdered girl, and has informed his neighbours that his daughter died of smallpox or from some virulent disease, rather than have to open up the shroud, for some people are capable of anything.

  The men fell silent, unable to conceal their indignation, from the nuns over the wall not even a whimper could be heard, and Sete-Sóis exclaimed, In war you find greater charity, War is still a child, João Elvas said suspiciously. And since there was nothing more to be said, they all settled down to sleep.

  DONA MARIA ANA will not attend the auto-da-fé which is to be held today. She has gone into mourning upon receiving the news of the death of her brother Joseph, the Emperor of Austria who, stricken by virulent smallpox, died within days at the relatively young age of thirty-three, but this is not the Queen's only reason for remaining in her apartments, it will be a sad day for nations if a queen allows a family bereavement to interfere with her royal duties, when she has been brought up to face much greater misfortunes. Although now in her fifth month of pregnancy, she still suffers from morning sickness, but even this would scarcely excuse her from fulfilling her obligations and from participating in the solemn ceremonies with her faculties of sight, touch, and smell, besides the auto-da-fé is spiritually elevating and constitutes an act of faith, with its stately procession, the solemn declaration of the sentences, the dejected appearance of those who have been condemned, the plaintive voices, and the smell of charred flesh as their bodies are engulfed by the flames and whatever little fat remains after months of imprisonment starts to drip on to the embers. Dona Maria Ana will not attend the auto-da-fé because, despite her pregnancy, the physicians have bled her three times and left her feeling extremely weak, in addition to all the other humiliating symptoms of pregnancy that have troubled her for months. The physicians delayed the blood-lettings, just as they delayed giving her the news of her brother's death, because they were anxious to take every precaution at this early stage of pregnancy. To be frank, the atmosphere in the Palace is not at all healthy, the foul air has just provoked a resounding belch from the King, for whic
h he has begged everyone's pardon, and this has been readily granted, because it always does the soul so much good, but he must have been imagining things for once they purged him he felt fine and had simply been suffering from constipation. The Palace seems even gloomier than usual now that the King has decreed court mourning and stipulated that it be observed by all the palace dignitaries and officials, after eight days of strict seclusion, there is to be a further six months of formal mourning, long black cloaks are to be worn for three months, followed by short black cloaks for the following three months, as a token of the King's deep sorrow upon receiving the news of the death of his brother-in-law, the Emperor.

  Today, however, there is an air of general rejoicing, although that might not be the right expression, because the happiness stems from a much deeper source, perhaps from the soul itself, as the inhabitants of Lisbon emerge from their homes and pour into the city's streets and squares, crowds descend from the upper quarters of the city and gather in the Rossio to watch Jews and lapsed converts, heretics, and sorcerers being tortured, along with criminals who are less easily classified, such as those found guilty of sodomy, blasphemy, rape and prostitution, and various other misdeeds that warrant exile or the stake. One hundred and four condemned men and women are to be put to death today, most of them from Brazil, a land rich in diamonds and vices, fifty-one men and fifty-three women in all. Two of the women will be handed over naked to the civil authorities by the Inquisition after being found guilty of obdurate heresy, of having steadfastly refused to comply with the law, and of persistently upholding errors they accept as truths, although denounced in this time and place. And since almost two years have passed since anyone was burned at the stake in Lisbon, the Rossio is crowded with spectators, a double celebration, for today is Sunday and there is to be an auto-da-fé, and we shall never know what the inhabitants of Lisbon enjoyed more, autos-da-fé or bullfights, even though only the bullfights have survived. Women cram the windows looking on to the square, dressed in their Sunday best, their hair groomed in the German fashion as a compliment to the Queen, their faces and necks are rouged, and they pout their lips to make their mouths look dainty, so many different faces and expressions trained on the square below as each lady wonders if her make-up is all right, that beauty spot at the corner of her mouth, the powder concealing that pimple, while her eye observes the infatuated admirer below, while her confirmed or aspiring suitor paces up and down clutching a handkerchief and swirling his cape. The heat is unbearable and the spectators refresh themselves with the customary glass of lemonade, cup of water, or slice of water-melon, for there is no reason why they should suffer from exhaustion just because the condemned are about to die. And should they feel in need of something more substantial, there is a wide choice of nuts and seeds, cheeses and dates. The King, with his inseparable Infantes and Infantas, will dine at the Inquisitor's Palace as soon as the auto-da-fé has ended, and once free of the wretched business, he will join the Chief Inquisitor for a sumptuous feast at tables laden with bowls of chicken broth, partridges, breasts of veal, pâtés and meat savouries flavoured with cinnamon and sugar, a stew in the Castilian manner with all the appropriate ingredients and saffron rice, blancmanges, pastries, and fruits in season. But the King is so abstinent that he refuses to drink any wine, and since the best lesson of all is a good example, everyone accepts it, the example, that is, not the abstinence.