The Collected Novels of José Saramago (394 page)

AT TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING ON THIS SAME DAY, TWO PLAIN-CLOTHES
policemen went up to the fourth floor and rang the bell. The doctor’s wife answered and asked, Who are you, what do you want, We’re policemen and we have orders to take your husband away to be questioned, and there’s no point telling us he’s gone out, the building is being watched, which is why we know he’s here, You have absolutely no reason to question him, up until now, I’ve been the one accused of all the crimes, That’s not our business, we’ve received strict orders to take the doctor and not the doctor’s wife, so, unless you want us to force our way in, go and call him, and keep that dog under control too, we wouldn’t want anything to happen to it. The woman closed the door. She opened it again shortly afterward, and this time her husband was with her, What do you want, To take you in for questioning, we’ve told your wife already, we’re not going to stand here all day repeating it, Do you have any credentials with you, a warrant, We don’t need a warrant, the city’s under a state of siege, and as for credentials, here’s our identification, will that do, Can I change my clothes first, One of us will go with you, Are you afraid I’ll run away or commit suicide, We’re just following orders, that’s all. One of the policemen went inside, they did not take long. Wherever my husband’s going, I’m going with him, said the woman, Like I said, you’re not going anywhere, you’re staying here, don’t make me have to get nasty with you, You couldn’t be any nastier than you already are, Oh, believe me, I could, you can’t imagine how nasty I can be, and then to the doctor, You’ve got to be handcuffed, hold out your hands, Please, don’t put those things on me, please, I give you my word of honor that I won’t try to escape, Come on, put your hands out, and forget about words of honor, right, that’s better, you’re safer like that. The woman embraced her husband and kissed him, weeping, They won’t let me come with you, Don’t worry, I’ll be back home tonight, you’ll see, Come home soon, I will, my love, I will. The lift started to go down.

At eleven o’clock, the man in the blue tie with white spots went up onto the flat roof of the building almost opposite the back of the building where the doctor’s wife and her husband live. He is carrying a box of varnished wood, rectangular in shape. Inside is a dismantled weapon, an automatic rifle with a telescopic sight, which he will not use because at such a short distance no good marksman could possibly miss his target. He will not use the silencer either, but, in this case, it is for reasons of an ethical order, the man in the blue tie with white spots feels that the use of such apparatus shows a gross disrespect for the victim. The weapon has been assembled now and loaded, with each piece in its place, a perfect instrument for the job it is intended to do. The man in the blue tie with white spots chooses the place from which he will fire and prepares himself to wait. He is a patient man, he has been doing this for years and always does his work well. Sooner or later, the doctor’s wife will come out onto the balcony. Meanwhile, just in case the waiting should go on for too long, the man in the blue tie with white spots has brought with him another weapon, an ordinary catapult, the sort that is used for hurling stones, especially for the purpose of breaking windows. No one hears the glass breaking and no one comes running to see who the childish vandal was. An hour has passed, and the doctor’s wife has still not appeared, she has been crying, poor thing, but now she will go and get some fresh air, she doesn’t open one of the windows that give onto the street because there are always people watching, she prefers the back of the house, so much quieter since the advent of television. The woman goes over to the iron balustrade, places her hands on it and feels the coolness of the metal. We cannot ask her if she heard the two successive shots, she is lying dead on the ground and her blood is sliding and dripping onto the balcony below. The dog comes running out, he sniffs and licks his mistress’s face, then he stretches out his neck and unleashes a terrifying howl which another shot silences. Then a blind man asked, Did you hear something, Three shots, replied another blind man, But there was a dog howling too, It’s stopped now, that must have been the third shot, Good, I hate to hear dogs howl.

Death with Interruptions

We will know less and less what it means to be human.

—Book of Predictions

If, for example, you were to think more deeply about death, then it would be truly strange if, in so doing, you did not encounter new images, new linguistic fields.

—W
ITTGENSTEIN

THE FOLLOWING DAY, NO ONE DIED. THIS FACT, BEING
absolutely contrary to life’s rules, provoked enormous and, in the circumstances, perfectly justifiable anxiety in people’s minds, for we have only to consider that in the entire forty volumes of universal history there is no mention, not even one exemplary case, of such a phenomenon ever having occurred, for a whole day to go by, with its generous allowance of twenty-four hours, diurnal and nocturnal, matutinal and vespertine, without one death from an illness, a fatal fall, or a successful suicide, not one, not a single one. Not even from a car accident, so frequent on festive occasions, when blithe irresponsibility and an excess of alcohol jockey for position on the roads to decide who will reach death first. New year’s eve had failed to leave behind it the usual calamitous trail of fatalities, as if old atropos with her great bared teeth had decided to put aside her shears for a day. There was, however, no shortage of blood. Bewildered, confused, distraught, struggling to control their feelings of nausea, the firemen extracted from the mangled remains wretched human bodies that, according to the mathematical logic of the collisions, should have been well and truly dead, but which, despite the seriousness of the injuries and lesions suffered, remained alive and were carried off to hospital, accompanied by the shrill sound of the ambulance sirens. None of these people would die along the way and all would disprove the most pessimistic of medical prognoses, There’s nothing to be done for the poor man, it’s not even worth operating, a complete waste of time, said the surgeon to the nurse as she was adjusting his mask. And the day before, there would probably have been no salvation for this particular patient, but one thing was clear, today, the victim refused to die. And what was happening here was happening throughout the country. Up until the very dot of midnight on the last day of the year there were people who died in full compliance with the rules, both those relating to the nub of the matter, i.e. the termination of life, and those relating to the many ways in which the aforementioned nub, with varying degrees of pomp and solemnity, chooses to mark the fatal moment. One particularly interesting case, interesting because of the person involved, was that of the very ancient and venerable queen mother. At one minute to midnight on the thirty-first of december, no one would have been so ingenuous as to bet a spent match on the life of the royal lady. With all hope lost, with the doctors helpless in the face of the implacable medical evidence, the royal family, hierarchically arranged around the bed, waited with resignation for the matriarch’s last breath, perhaps a few words, a final edifying comment regarding the moral education of the beloved princes, her grandsons, perhaps a beautiful, well-turned phrase addressed to the ever ungrateful memory of future subjects. And then, as if time had stopped, nothing happened. The queen mother neither improved nor deteriorated, she remained there in suspension, her frail body hovering on the very edge of life, threatening at any moment to tip over onto the other side, yet bound to this side by a tenuous thread to which, out of some strange caprice, death, because it could only have been death, continued to keep hold. We had passed over to the next day, and on that day, as we said at the beginning of this tale, no one would die.

It was already late afternoon when the rumor began to spread that, since the beginning of the new year, or more precisely since zero hour on this first day of January, there was no record in the whole country of anyone dying. You might think, for example, that the rumor had its origins in the queen mother’s surprising resistance to giving up the little life that was left to her, but the truth is that the usual medical bulletin issued to the media by the palace’s press office not only stated that the general state of the royal patient had shown visible signs of improvement during the night, it even suggested, indeed implied, choosing its words very carefully, that there was a chance that her royal highness might be restored to full health. In its initial form, the rumor might also have sprung, naturally enough, from an undertaker’s, No one seems to want to die on this first day of the new year, or from a hospital, That fellow in bed twenty-seven can’t seem to make up his mind one way or the other, or from a spokesman for the traffic police, It’s really odd, you know, despite all the accidents on the road, there hasn’t been a single death we can hold up as a warning to others. The rumor, whose original source was never discovered, although, of course, this hardly mattered in the light of what came afterward, soon reached the newspapers, the radio and the television, and immediately caused the ears of directors, assistant directors and editors-in-chief to prick up, for these are people not only primed to sniff out from afar the major events of world history, they’re also trained in the ability, when it suits, to make those events seem even more major than they really are. In a matter of minutes, dozens of investigative journalists were out on the street asking questions of any joe schmo who happened by, while the ranks of telephones in the throbbing editorial offices stirred and trembled in an identical investigatory frenzy. Calls were made to hospitals, to the red cross, to the morgue, to funeral directors, to the police, yes, all of them, with the understandable exception of the secret branch, but the replies given could be summed up in the same laconic words, There have been no deaths. A young female television reporter had more luck when she interviewed a passer-by, who kept glancing alternately at her and at the camera, and who described his personal experience, which was identical to what had happened to the queen mother, The church clock was striking midnight, he said, when, just before the last stroke, my grandfather, who seemed on the very point of expiring, suddenly opened his eyes as if he’d changed his mind about the step he was about to take, and didn’t die. The reporter was so excited by what she’d heard that, ignoring all his pleas and protests, No,
senhora,
I can’t, I have to go to the chemist’s, my grandfather’s waiting for his prescription, she bundled him into the news car, Come with me, your grandfather doesn’t need prescriptions any more, she yelled, and ordered the driver to go straight to the television studio, where, at that precise moment, everything was being set up for a debate between three experts on paranormal phenomena, namely, two highly regarded wizards and a celebrated clairvoyant, hastily summoned to analyze and give their views on what certain wags, the kind who have no respect for anything, were already beginning to refer to as a death strike. The bold reporter was, however, laboring under the gravest of illusions, for she had interpreted the words of her interviewee as meaning that the dying man had, quite literally, changed his mind about the step he was about to take, namely, to die, cash in his chips, kick the bucket, and so had decided to turn back. Now, the words that the happy grandson had pronounced, As if he’d changed his mind, were radically different from a blunt, He changed his mind. An elementary knowledge of syntax and a greater familiarity with the elastic subtleties of tenses would have avoided this blunder, as well as the subsequent dressing-down that the poor girl, scarlet with shame and humiliation, received from her immediate superior. Little could they, either he or she, have imagined that these words, repeated live by the interviewee and heard again in recorded form on that evening’s news bulletin, would be interpreted in exactly the same mistaken way by millions of people, and that an immediate and disconcerting consequence of this would be the creation of a group firmly convinced that with the simple application of will-power they, too, could conquer death and that the undeserved disappearance of so many people in the past could be put down solely to a deplorable weakness of will on the part of previous generations. But things would not stop there. People, without having to make any perceptible effort, continued not to die, and so another popular mass movement, endowed with a more ambitious vision of the future, would declare that humanity’s greatest dream since the beginning of time, the happy enjoyment of eternal life here on earth, had become a gift within the grasp of everyone, like the sun that rises every day and the air that we breathe. Although the two movements were both competing, so to speak, for the same electorate, there was one point on which they were able to agree, and that was on the nomination as honorary president, given his eminent status as pioneer, of the courageous veteran who, at the final moment, had defied and defeated death. As far as anyone knows, no particular importance would be given to the fact that grandpa remained in a state of profound coma, which everything seems to indicate is irreversible.