The History of the Siege of Lisbon (19 page)

It is the middle of the afternoon, time to pay a visit to Dr Maria Sara who is waiting for the proofs of the book of poems. The cleaner is tidying up the kitchen, or doing the ironing, he scarcely notices her as she goes quietly about her work, perhaps thinking that writing or correcting what has been written has something to do with religion, and Raimundo Silva who has not left the house all day, went and asked her, What is the weather like, since he never has much to say to her, he seizes the slightest opportunity, or invents one, therefore he did not go to the window as usual, and he should have done, today being such a special day, perhaps they already know in the city that the crusaders are going away, espionage is not an invention of modern warfare, and Senhora Maria replies, It's fine, a synthetic expression, which only means, in fact, that it is not raining, for by constantly saying, It's fine, but cold, or, It's fine, but windy, we never say nor ever will say, It's fine, but raining. Raimundo Silva goes in search of the complementary information, whether there is any threat of rain, or wind such as yesterday, and what the temperature is like. He can go out without any protection other than what is normal, his coat, dry as can be and now quite presentable, of the two scarves he possesses, the flimsy one. He went to the kitchen to settle the weekly accounts with Senhora Maria, she looked at the money and sighed, a habit of hers, as if on receiving the money she were already beginning to be parted from it, in the beginning Raimundo Silva used to get nervous, she appeared to be putting on a sad expression to show her displeasure at being so badly paid, therefore he felt quite uneasy until he was sufficiently informed about standard rates of payment amongst the lower middle class to which he belongs, coming to the conclusion that he was reasonably well off, one could not honestly say that he was exploiting the labour of others, but just in case, he increased her wages, but he could not cure her of that sighing.

There are three main routes connecting the street in which Raimundo Silva lives to the city of the Christians, one that follows the Rua do Milagre de Santo Antonio, and depending on which street of the trifurcation he chooses, he might end up in Caldas and the Madalena, or in the Largo da Rosa and its immediate surroundings, the Costa do Castelo above, the Escadinhas da Saúde and the Largo de Martim Moniz below, and, in the middle, the steep Canada de Santo André, the Terreirinho and the Rua dos Cavaleiros, another route takes him through the Largo dos Lóios in the direction of the Portas do Sol, and finally, the most common route of all, down the Escadinhas de Sào Crispim which soon brings him to the Porta de Ferro, where the tram is waiting that will take him to the Chiado, or where he sets off, still on foot, for the Praça da Figueira, if he has to use the underground, as is the case today. The publishing house is situated near the Avenida do Duque de Loulé, much too far away for him to start climbing the Avenida da Liberdade at this late hour, he usually walks up on the right-hand side, for he has never liked the other side, he cannot explain why, although this impression of liking or disliking may not be constant, it has its ups and downs, whether it be here or there, but somehow he feels happier on the right-hand side. One day, even while telling himself that he was being obsessive, he took the trouble to mark out on a map of the city those stretches of the Avenida which he liked and those he disliked, and he discovered to his surprise, that the agreeable part on the left side was more extensive, but taking into account the degree of satisfaction, the right side prevailed in the end, so that he would often go up on this side and look across at the pavement on the other side, wishing he were there. Obviously he does not take these little obsessions too seriously, he is not a proof-reader for nothing, only a few days ago, while holding a conversation with the author of
The History of the Siege of Lisbon,
he argued that proof-readers have had wide experience of both literature and life, giving to understand that what they did not know or wish to learn about life, literature more or less taught them, especially when it comes to foibles and manias, for as everyone knows normal characters do not exist, otherwise they presumably would not be characters, which, summed up, may imply that Raimundo Silva may have looked in the books he proof-read for some striking features that, with the passage of time, would come to instil, in combination with any natural traits, this coherent and contradictory totality we normally refer to as character. Now that he is standing on the Escadinhas de São Crispim, eyeing the dog who is watching him, he might well ask himself which fictional character it most resembles at this moment, a pity it is not a wolf or some other animal, for then St Francis would immediately come to mind, or a pig, and then it might be St Antonino, or a lion, and then it might be St Mark, or an ox, and then it might be St Luke, or a fish, and then it might be St Antony, or a lamb, and then it might be St John the Baptist, or an eagle, and then it might be St John the Evangelist, we could not simply describe the dog as being man's best friend, because the way the world is going it might well be his one and only remaining friend.

On condition that its friendship is returned, Raimundo Silva thinks
to himself in the presence of this gaping mongrel, it is more than evident that the inhabitants of São Crispim have no liking for the canine species, perhaps because the people in this district are the direct descendants of the Moors who saw it as their religious duty to abhor the dogs roaming the streets at that time, although both men and dogs are the brothers of Allah. The dog, with more than eight centuries of ill-treatment in its blood and genetic legacy, raised its head from afar to give a pitiful howl, a voice of unabashed frustration and despair begging for food, howling or stretching out a hand is not so much public degradation as inner abnegation. Raimundo Silva has no fixed appointment, Until tomorrow, was all Dr Maria Sara had said, but it is already getting late, worst of all is this dog preventing him from going on his way, the howl has turned to wailing, unlike what happens to humans who weep first then start howling, and what this dog is begging, pleading, supplicating and craving for, as if this simple man were God Himself, is a morsel of bread or a bone, rubbish-bins nowadays are difficult to open or tip over, hence my desperate need for something to eat, kind Sir. Torn between going on and feeling remorseful about having done so, Raimundo Silva decides to return home to find something that a famished dog dare not refuse, as he goes upstairs he looks at his watch, It's getting late, he repeated to himself, bursting into the apartment and giving the cleaner, whom he caught watching television, the fright of her life, but without appearing to notice he made straight for the kitchen, rummaged in drawers, peered into pots and pans, opened the fridge, Senhora Maria could not summon the courage to ask, What are you looking for, or even register any surprise as well she might, for as we know, she was caught in the act, watching television when she should have been getting on with her work, and now she tries to collect herself, the television has been switched off and she is now busily moving furniture and making the most awful din as she puts on a show of frenetic activity, busying herself to no purpose, while Raimundo Silva, if he actually noticed that she was taking liberties, did not give it another thought, he was so worried about being late and making a favourable impression when he puts the fruits of his plunder before the dog, these he carries wrapped up in newspaper, a bit of cooked sausage, a slice of fatty ham, three morsels of bread, pity there is no bone to pacify the poor mongrel for there is nothing better while digesting than a bone to stimulate the salivary glands and to strengthen a dog's teeth. The door has slammed, Raimundo Silva is already descending the stairs, no doubt Senhora Maria has gone to the window to watch him leave, then gone back into the sitting-room to switch on the television, she had even lost five minutes of the soap opera, what's been happening.

The dog had not moved, but simply lowered its head, its nose almost touching the ground. Its protruding ribs, like those of some crucified Christ, tremble in the joints of its spine, this animal is an utter fool, refusing to leave the Escadinhas de São Crispim where it has suffered starvation, despising the riches of Lisbon, Europe and the World, now these are facile judgments, this is not a case of stubbornness but rather of timidity, therefore worthy of our respect, the fearless never see any difficulties, for example, what confusion there would be in this dog's mind on discovering that the familiar one hundred and thirty-four steps suddenly had one more, not that any such thing has happened, this is merely a hypothesis, how wretched the mongrel would feel confronted with this unsurmountable abyss, for we have not forgotten how difficult the dog found it to follow this man the other day all the way to the Porta de Ferro, better not to repeat certain experiences. Standing three paces away, Raimundo Silva watches the dog go up to the parcel opened out on the ground, and the animal, wary of being landed a kick, cannot decide whether it should keep an eye on him, or pounce on the food, its very smell provoking unbearable pangs of hunger, the saliva rushes to its teeth, oh god of dogs, why have you condemned so many of us to a miserable existence, it is always the same, we blame the gods for this and that, when it is we who invent and fabricate everything, including absolution for these and other crimes, Raimundo Silva can see that the dog is afraid, he moves away, the animal advances a little, its nose quivering with desire, one minute the food was there and gone the next, swallowed up in a flash, and with its long, pale tongue the dog is licking the grease soaked into the paper. Fate has confronted Raimundo Silva with this sad spectacle, Dr Maria Sara already forgotten, and suddenly he finds himself identified with the fictional character who was missing, none other than St Rock who was assisted by a dog, and it was time the saint repaid the favour, thus proving the assertion that everything is reciprocated in this life, even if in reverse, from a human angle, needless to say, for when it comes to dogs, who can tell how they see Raimundo Silva, let us say, a living being with a human face, so that we may finally complete the aforementioned collection of apocalyptic animals and let Raimundo Silva also become the St Matthew who was missing, but how will he cope with such a heavy burden.

But it cannot be all that heavy, if we observe the speed at which he began descending the steps, having suddenly remembered Dr Maria Sara who is waiting for him, now he will need to take a taxi in order to get there in time, and he cannot afford such luxuries, damn dog, me playing the Good Samaritan, you can be sure I wouldn't have gone back home to look for food had it been an old woman begging on the Escadinhas de São Crispim, well, perhaps if it were an old woman, but certainly not for an old man, interesting to see how generosity itself, assuming that is what we are talking about, varies according to the situation and the circumstances, with our frame of mind and mood at that moment, generosity, if you will forgive the comparison, is rather like a piece of elastic, it stretches, contracts, is capable of embracing all humanity or the selfish individual who only knows how to be generous with himself, however an act of charity is always good for the soul, the mongrel remained there, deeply grateful, although it was so famished that this food would barely suffice to fill a hollow tooth, poor little creature, an expression of pity, for the dog is not all that small, what breed, all of them, except for the most timid of them that never appear on the streets, and if they do they are on a leash and wearing a cache-sexe, this one at least is free, enjoys pursuing stray bitches but will not get much enjoyment if he never leaves the Escadinhas de São Crispim, if he never leaves the Escadinhas de São Crispim. At this point Raimundo Silva consciously interrupted the musings in which he had been absorbed as the taxi carried him, he had become aware of a sudden malaise, not physical, rather as if someone asleep inside him had suddenly awoken and called out on finding himself plunged into total darkness, therefore he repeated, to allow his fear to pass, If he never leaves the Escadinhas de São Crispim, who am I talking about, he asked himself, the taxi was climbing the Rua da Prata and he was inside it, after all, he belonged to the land of men, not that of dogs, and he could always leave the Escadinhas de São Crispim whenever he wanted or needed to, such as now, when he is on his way to the publisher to speak to Dr Maria Sara who is in charge of the proof-readers, to deliver the final proofs of the book of poems, and then he may decide not to go back home just yet, he has finished proof-reading the book, although such a slender little volume that it scarcely passes for a book, he will do what he usually does, eat in some restaurant, go to the cinema, although he probably does not have enough money for such an ambitious programme, he does some mental arithmetic, the taxi-meter, he tries to remember how much he has in his wallet, and he is in the middle of these calculations when he realises he will not go out this evening, he must not forget that he has started on a new book, no, no it is not the novel delivered by Costa, he looked at his watch, almost five o'clock, the taxi goes up the Avenida do Duque de Louié, stops at traffic lights, drives on, drop me off here, please, and when Raimundo takes out the money to pay, he can see at a glance that he does not have enough money to go to a restaurant and the cinema, either one or the other, but the one without the other is not much fun, I'll eat at home and get on with my work, he means
The History of the Siege of Lisbon,
at one time he would have said it outright, when he was proof-reading a book with this title, in the days when he was innocent.

The lift is ancient and cramped, perfect for intimate encounters were it not for the transparency of the glass doors and the side panels,
nevertheless there is an interval between two floors, and so long as you keep an attentive eye on the flights of stairs, going up on the one side, going down on the other, it is always possible to touch hands or even steal a furtive kiss, if you are feeling desperate. In all the years he has worked here, Raimundo Silva has used this mechanical cage, sometimes on his own, at others accompanied, and never before today, as far as he can remember, had he ever been assailed by such disquieting thoughts, it is true that in the beginning he preferred to use the stairs because he did not have the patience to wait when the lift was slow in coming, and also because he was still nimble on his feet and sound of heart, capable of competing with the junior staff in all the offices, including the staff in Editorial, although here the average age has always been on the high side. It is not much of a climb, only two floors, but bearing in mind that this is an old building where each floor is almost twice as high as those built today, similar in this respect to the very old building he inhabits in Castelo, in other words this is nothing new, the high has always been followed by the low and the low by the high, probably one of life's laws, even our own father once gave the impression of being a giant and now it is we who look over his shoulder, and he gets more and more decrepit from year to year, poor man, but let us say no more, so that he may suffer in silence. It strikes Raimundo Silva as being absurd that he should be remembering his deceased father in this elevator, just as he was beginning to be assailed by erotic thoughts, the truth is that the person who thinks only knows what he is thinking and not why he thought it, we think from the moment we are born, I suppose, but do not know what our first thought might have been, the one from which all others have subsequently come, the definitive biography of each one of us would be to ascend the river of thoughts to its primeval source, and presumably change our life, were it possible to retrace their course, to suddenly have another thought and pursue it, so that we might arrive at the day in which we find ourselves, unless by choosing another life we made it shorter, and that the life in question was not that of a proof-reader, and we would go up in another lift, perhaps to speak to someone other than Dr Maria Sara. As it happened, Raimundo Silva was standing on the side where he had seen the Editorial Director descend with the new employee appointed to supervise the work of the proof-readers, and we catch him looking at the empty space with severe disapproval, as if he were about to reprimand the woman who had stood there for her immoral conduct, for as you ought to know these are things one does not do in a hit, one does not do, I repeat, for I am well aware that there are people who do these things, and even worse, It was only a little groping, Mr Proof-reader, it was only a little kiss, Mr Proof-reader, No matter, that was more than enough, in the name of my own, incurable envy, I denounce you, during the last few centimetres of his ascent, Raimundo Silva moved to the centre of the elevator, there was no room for the others, they had to get out, thoroughly ashamed of themselves if there is any shame left in this world, most likely they are laughing at this hypocritical moralist, They're no good because they're still green, said the vixen.