José Saramago - Skylight

Apparently the matter was difficult to arrange, as she remained there nearly all night.

Despite his long years of training to become a respectable gentleman of few words and measured gestures, Anselmo had one weakness: sport, or to be exact, sports statistics, or to be even more precise, soccer statistics. Entire seasons came and went without him going to a single match, although he never missed an international game, and only a grave illness or a recent bereavement would prevent him seeing a match between Portugal and Spain. He would subject himself to the worst indignities in order to buy a ticket on the black market, and if he ever had any spares, he could not resist doing a little speculation, buying them for twenty escudos and selling them for fifty. He was careful, however, not to do such deals at the office. As far as his colleagues were concerned, he was a serious fellow who listened with a wry smile to their post-match Monday-morning debates, a man who only had eyes for the serious side of life, who considered sport to be suitable entertainment for apprentices and waiters. There was no point asking him for facts and figures or about trades or famous dates in the annals of Portuguese soccer or to name the various national squads who had played between 1920 and 1930. But, he said, he had a cousin who, poor thing, was mad about the game. If they wanted, he could ask his cousin when they next met up and he would be sure to know the answer. Anselmo delighted in his colleagues’ eager anticipation. He would leave them waiting for days and days, saying that he hadn’t seen his cousin for a while or that things were a bit tense between them or that his cousin had finally agreed to consult his records, but all these lies were merely delaying tactics designed to strain his colleagues’ patience further. There were often bets at stake. Excited Benfica fans and excited Sporting fans were waiting to hear Anselmo give his ruling. At home in the evening, Anselmo would search for the desired fact among his meticulously kept statistics, his precious newspaper cuttings, and then, the following day, having first carefully positioned his glasses on his nose — for he now needed reading glasses — he would proffer, as if ex cathedra, the disputed fact or result. This admirable cousin of his did as much for Anselmo’s reputation as did his professional competence, his circumspect air and his exemplary punctuality. Had such a cousin existed, Anselmo, although always in firm control of his emotions, would have embraced him, because it was thanks to him (or so everyone thought) that he was able to give the manager a detailed report of the second Portugal — Spain match in 1922, from the number of spectators to the makeup of the teams, their respective team colors and the names of the referee and the line judges. It was thanks to that information that he had finally managed to get an advance on his wages and had in his jacket pocket the three one-hundred-escudo notes that would cover expenses until the end of the month.

Sitting between his wife and daughter, both of whom were busily sewing, Anselmo, his fact sheets spread out on the dining room table, was savoring this victory. Finding that he did not have the names of the substitutes selected for the third Portugal — Italy match, he decided that he would write the next day to the information desk of a sports newspaper and find out.

He could not, alas, forget that the three hundred escudos would be deducted from that month’s wages, and this rather soured his joy. He could, at most, hope to be allowed to pay back the debt in installments. The worst thing was that any deduction from his wages, however small, threw a large monkey wrench in the works of the household budget.

While Anselmo was pondering these thoughts, the radio was blaring out the most blatantly plangent, painful, piercing fado ever to emerge from a Portuguese throat. As everyone knew, Anselmo was no sentimentalist, but even he was profoundly moved by this lament. His feelings had much to do with the terrible prospect of that deduction from his wages at the end of the month. Rosália paused, needle in the air, and suppressed a sigh. Maria Cláudia, although apparently unmoved, was following the words of that unhappy love spilling forth from the loudspeaker and softly repeating them to herself.

What remained after the singer’s final “Ay!” resembled the atmosphere at the end of a Greek tragedy or, in more modern terms, the air of suspense to be found in certain American films. Another song like that and those three normally healthy people would be transformed into hopeless neurotics. Fortunately, the broadcast was coming to an end. There were a few bits of news from abroad, a summary of the schedule for the following day, and then Rosália turned up the volume slightly to hear the twelve chimes at midnight.

Anselmo stroked his bald head and declared, as he was putting away his papers in the china cabinet:

“Midnight. Time for bed. Tomorrow we have to work.”

At these words, everyone stood up. And this flattered Anselmo, who saw in these small things the excellent results of his methods of domestic education. He prided himself on having a model family and believed, moreover, that this was entirely his doing.

Maria Cláudia planted two smacking kisses on her parents’ cheeks. With the evening newspaper dangling from his fingertips — a little bedtime reading before lights-out — Anselmo set off down the corridor. Rosália stayed on, tidying away her and her daughter’s sewing. She straightened the chairs around the table, put a few other objects back in their proper places and, once she was certain everything was in order, followed her husband.

When she went into the bedroom, he peered at her over the top of his glasses, then continued reading. Like every good Portuguese citizen, he had his favorite soccer clubs, but was happy to read reports of all the matches, albeit only as a source of more statistical material. Whether they played well or badly was their business. What mattered was knowing who scored the goals and when. What mattered was what history would record.

According to a tacit agreement between them both, Anselmo did not lower his newspaper when Rosália was getting undressed for bed. To do so would, in his view, be undignified. She, on the other hand, might have seen nothing wrong with it. Once undressed, she lay down without her husband having glimpsed so much as her toes. That was the dignified, decent way to do things.

He turned off the bedside lamp. A fringe of light was still visible underneath the door opposite. Anselmo saw it and called:

“Lights out, Claudinha!”

Seconds later, the light went off. Anselmo smiled in the darkness. It was so good to be respected and obeyed! Darkness, however, is the enemy of smiles and always suggests grave thoughts. Troubled, Anselmo tossed and turned. Beside him, pressed against him, his wife’s body snuggled into the soft mattress.

“Whatever’s wrong?” asked Rosália.

“It’s that advance they gave me,” muttered Anselmo. “They’ll take it off my wages at the end of the month and then we’ll be back to square one.”

“Can’t you pay it off in installments?”

“The boss doesn’t like that.”

The sigh that had been trapped inside Rosália’s breast ever since the fado had ended finally burst forth and filled the apartment. Anselmo could not repress a sigh either, albeit a less exuberant, more manly one.

“But what if they were to give you a raise,” suggested Rosália.

“Oh, they’re not going to do that. They’re even talking about getting rid of people.”

“Goodness! I hope they don’t get rid of you!”

“Me?” said Anselmo, as if this were the first time he had considered such an eventuality. “No, it won’t happen to me. I’m one of the oldest employees there…”