José Saramago - Skylight

Henrique was looking at his father curiously. He had never seen him like this or known him to ask such questions.

Emílio’s hands rose slowly, confidently this time. Palms uppermost, they were confirming what his mouth was saying:

“Of course you would forget me. .”

He paused for a second, but an irrepressible desire to speak drove out all hesitancy. He wasn’t sure if his son would understand him, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t even want him to understand. He would not necessarily choose words that were within his grasp. What he needed to do was talk and talk until he had said everything or had nothing more to say.

“Of course you would forget me, I’m sure of that. In a year from now, you would no longer remember me. Or perhaps it would take less time than that. After three hundred and sixty-five days of absence, my face would be a thing of the past. Later on, even if you saw a photo of me, you still wouldn’t remember my face. And after still more time had passed, you wouldn’t recognize me if I were standing right in front of you. Nothing about me would tell you that I am your father. For you I’m just a man you see every day, someone who gives you water when you’re thirsty, a man your mother calls by his first name, a man your mother shares a bed with. You love me because you see me every day. You don’t love me for who I am, you love me because of what I do or don’t do. You don’t know who I am. If I had been swapped for another man when you were born, you wouldn’t even notice and you would love him just as you love me. And if I were to come back one day, it would take a very long time for you to get used to me. Indeed, despite the fact that I am your real father, you might still prefer the other one. You would see him every day too, and he’d take you to the movies like I do…”

Emílio had spoken almost without stopping, not looking at his son’s face. Then, unable to resist the desire to smoke any longer, he lit a cigarette. He glanced at his son. He saw the look of astonishment on his face and felt sorry for him. But he still hadn’t finished:

“You don’t know who I am and you never will. No one knows… I don’t know who you are either. We don’t know each other. I could leave, and all you would lose are my wages…”

No, that wasn’t what he really wanted to say. He breathed in the smoke and continued talking. As he spoke, the smoke emerged along with the words in short, articulated bursts. Henrique was watching the smoke intently, oblivious to what his father was saying:

“When you grow up, you’ll want to be happy. You don’t give a thought to that now, which is why you are happy. The moment you think about it, the moment you want to be happy, you will cease to be happy. Forever. Possibly forever. Do you hear? Forever. The stronger your desire to be happy, the unhappier you will be. Happiness isn’t something you can conquer. People will tell you that it is. Don’t believe them. Happiness either is or isn’t.”

This, too, led him far away from his objective. He again looked at his son and saw that his eyes were closed, his face calm, his breathing easy and regular. He had fallen asleep. Then, very softly, his eyes fixed on his son’s face, Emílio murmured:

“I’m unhappy, Henrique, very unhappy. One day I will leave. I don’t know when, but I know that I will. Happiness isn’t something you conquer, but I want to try to conquer it anyway. I can’t do that here. Everything has died. My life is a failure. I live in this house as if I were a stranger. I love you and possibly even your mother, but there’s something missing. It’s like living in a prison. Then there are all these rows, all this… Yes, one day I’ll leave.”

Henrique was sleeping deeply. A lock of fair hair lay across his forehead. His half-open mouth revealed small, bright teeth. His whole face was lit by a faint smile.

Suddenly Emílio felt his eyes fill with tears, quite why he didn’t know. Then, distracted by the cigarette burning his fingers, he went back to the window. It was still raining, quietly, monotonously. When he thought about what he had said, he felt ridiculous. And imprudent too. His son would doubtless have understood something. He might tell his mother. He wasn’t afraid of that, of course, but he didn’t want any more scenes, more scoldings, more tears, more protests. He was tired, so tired. Yes, Carmen, I’m tired.

In the street, outside the window, he saw his wife pass by, barely protected from the rain by her umbrella. Emílio said again, out loud this time:

“Do you hear that, Carmen? I’m tired.”

He went into the dining room to fetch his sample case. Carmen came in. They bade each other a cold goodbye. It seemed to her that her husband was leaving with suspicious haste, and she feared that something might have happened. Finding nothing untoward in her son’s bedroom, she went into their bedroom and immediately spotted what it was. On the dressing table, next to the ashtray, lay the stub of a cigarette. When she brushed away the ash, she saw the burn mark on the wood. Her anger burst forth in the form of violent words. She overflowed with misery. She bemoaned the fate of the dressing table, her own fate, her own sad life. She mumbled these complaints in between sobs and sniffs. She looked around her, afraid she might find further signs of damage. Then, casting one fond, despairing look at the dressing table, she went back into the kitchen.

While she was preparing lunch, she was imagining what she would say to her husband. He needn’t think it would stop there. Oh, she would tell him a thing or two, all right. If he wanted to spoil things, then he should spoil something that belonged to him, not the bedroom furniture bought with money given to them by her parents. So this was his way of saying thank you, was it, the ungrateful wretch!

“He always has to spoil everything,” she was muttering as she walked back and forth between stove and table. “That’s the only thing he knows how to do!” Senhor Emílio Fonseca, always so full of fine words! Her father had been quite right; he had never approved of the marriage. Why hadn’t she married her cousin Manolo, who owned a brush factory in Vigo? She would be a lady now, the owner of a factory, with maids to do her bidding! Silly fool! She cursed the hour she had decided to come to Portugal to spend some time with her aunt Micaela! She had caused quite a sensation there. All the men had wanted to court her, and that had been her downfall. She had gloried in being so much more sought-after than she had been at home, and this was where her blindness had led her. Her father had told her: “ Carmen, eso no es hombre bueno! ” He’s not a good man, Carmen. But she had refused to listen to his advice, had dug in her heels and rejected cousin Manolo and his brush factory.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen and wiped away a tear. She hadn’t seen cousin Manolo for nearly six years and suddenly she missed him. She wept for all the good things she had lost. She would be the owner of a factory now, and Manolo had always been so smitten with her. Ay, desgraciada, desgraciada!

Henrique called out from his room. He had woken up. Carmen ran to his side.

“¿Qué tienes? ¿Qué tienes?”

“Has Papa gone?”

“Yes.”

Henrique’s lips began to tremble and, to his mother’s astonishment — half resentful, half concerned — he began to weep slow, silent tears.

On the bench a pair of eviscerated shoes were crying out to be mended, but Silvestre pretended not to notice them and went and read the newspaper instead. He always read it from first page to last, from the editorial to the crime reports. He liked to keep up with international affairs and follow their development, and he had his own particular views on things. Whenever he turned out to be wrong, when what he had said was white turned out to be black, he would lay the blame squarely on the newspaper, which never published the most important items and altered or neglected others, with who knows what intentions! Today the newspaper was neither better nor worse than usual, but Silvestre could hardly bear to read it. He kept glancing impatiently at the clock. Then he would laugh at himself and go back to the paper. He tried to take an interest in the political situation in France and the war in Indochina, but his eyes slid over the lines and his brain refused to take in the meaning of the words. In the end, he flung down the paper and called to his wife.