José Saramago - Skylight

Abel could not, for the moment, find a way out of this labyrinth. That evening’s satisfying, comforting meal may have had a role in dulling his reasoning powers. He thought he might read a little before going to sleep. It was still early, just after half past ten, so he had plenty of time ahead of him. But he didn’t really feel like reading either, or going out, even though it was a warm, clear night. He knew what he would see in the street: people idling by or hurrying along, either curious or indifferent. Gloomy houses and brightly lit ones. The egotistical flow of life: greed, fear, longing, hope, hunger, vice, being approached by some woman of the streets — and, of course, the night itself, which removes all masks and shows man’s true face.

He made up his mind to go and talk to Silvestre, his friend Silvestre. He knew it wasn’t a good time, that the cobbler was busy on an urgent task, but if he couldn’t speak to him, at least he could sit near him, watch his skillful hands at work, feel his calm gaze. “Calmness is such a strange thing,” he thought.

Seeing him come out onto the enclosed balcony, Silvestre smiled and said:

“No game of checkers tonight, I’m afraid!”

Abel sat down opposite him. The low lamp lit up Silvestre’s hands and the child’s shoe he was working on.

“Well, that’s what happens when you have no fixed working hours.”

“I used to, but now that I’m an entrepreneur…”

He said this last word in a way that stripped it of all meaning. Mariana, sitting with her back against the sink and mending Abel’s shirt, joked:

“Yes, an entrepreneur with no money.”

Abel took out a pack of cigarettes.

“Would you like one?”

“Yes, please.”

However, Silvestre was too busy with his hands to take the proffered cigarette. So Abel took it from the pack, put it between Silvestre’s lips and lit it. All this was done in silence. No one mentioned the word “contentment,” but that is what they all felt. Abel’s keener sensibility noted the beauty of the moment. A pure beauty. “Virginal,” he thought.

His chair was taller than the benches on which Silvestre and Mariana were sitting. He could see their bowed heads, their white hair, Silvestre’s lined forehead, Mariana’s glossy red cheeks and the familiar light surrounding them. Abel’s face lay in shadow, the glow from his cigarette marking the spot where his mouth was.

Mariana was not one for sitting up late. Besides, her eyesight wasn’t so good at night. To her despair, her head suddenly drooped. She was definitely more lark than owl.

“You’re nodding off,” said Silvestre.

“No, I’m not. I was just resting my eyes.”

It was no good, though. Five minutes later, Mariana got to her feet and apologized to Senhor Abel, but her eyelids were as heavy as lead.

The two men were left alone.

“I still haven’t thanked you for supper,” said Abel.

“Oh, it was nothing.”

“Well, it meant a lot to me.”

“It was just poor folks’ food.”

“Offered to someone even poorer. It’s funny, that’s the first time I’ve ever described myself as poor. I’ve never thought of myself like that.”

Silvestre did not respond. Abel tapped the ash off his cigarette and went on:

“But that isn’t why I said it meant a lot to me. It’s just that I’ve never felt so happy as I do today. When I leave, I’m really going to miss you both.”

“Why do you have to leave?”

Abel smiled and said:

“Don’t you remember what I said the other day? As soon as I feel the octopus of life getting a grip, I cut off the tentacle.” After a brief silence that Silvestre made no attempt to interrupt, he added: “I hope you don’t think me ungrateful.”

“Not at all. If I didn’t know you and know about your life, then I might think that.”

Abel leaned forward, suddenly filled with curiosity.

“How is it that you’re so very perceptive?”

Silvestre looked up, blinking in the light.

“Do you mean that most cobblers aren’t?”

“Yes, maybe…”

“And yet I’ve always been a cobbler. You’re a clerk of works and have had some education. No one would think…”

“But I…”

“I know, but you have had an education, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, so have I. I finished primary school, and then I’ve read quite a lot on my own too. I learned—”

Silvestre stopped abruptly and bowed his head still lower, as if the shoe required all his attention. The lamp lit up his powerful neck and back.

“I’m distracting you from your work,” said Abel.

“No, not at all. I could do this with my eyes closed.”

He set the shoe aside, picked up three pieces of thread and began waxing them. He did so in long, harmonious movements. Gradually, with each coating of wax, the white thread took on an ever-brighter yellow tone.

“I only do it with my eyes open out of habit,” he went on. “And of course if I closed my eyes, it would take much longer.”

“Plus it wouldn’t be very good,” added Abel.

“Exactly. This only goes to show that even when we could close our eyes, we ought to keep them open.”

“That sounds rather like a riddle.”

“Not really. It’s true, isn’t it, that I could do the job with my eyes closed?”

“Up to a point. You also agreed that, if you did, you wouldn’t do a very good job.”

“Which is why I keep them open. But isn’t it also true that, at my age, I could easily close my eyes?”

“You mean die?”

Silvestre, who had picked up the awl and was piercing the leather with it in order to begin sewing, stopped what he was doing:

“Die?! What an idea! I’m in no hurry to do that!”

“What do you mean?”

“Closing your eyes just means not being able to see.”

“But not being able to see what?”

Silvestre made a sweeping gesture.

“All this… life… people.”

“The riddle continues. I really don’t know what you mean.”

“How could you? You don’t know…”

“Now you’re intriguing me. Let’s see if I can work this out. You said that even when we can close our eyes, we should keep them open, right? You also said that you kept them open so as to see life, people…”

“Exactly.”

“Well, we all have our eyes open and can see life and people, but you can do that whether you’re six or sixty…”

“That depends on how you look at things.”

“Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere. You keep your eyes open so as to see in a certain way. Is that what you mean?”

“That’s what I said.”

“But see things in what way?”

Silvestre did not answer. He was stretching the threads now, the muscles in his arm tense.

“Look, I’m bothering you,” said Abel. “If we carry on talking, you won’t have the shoes ready for tomorrow.”

“And if we don’t carry on talking, you won’t sleep all night for thinking about it.”

“That’s true.”

“You’re dying to know, aren’t you? You’re like I was the other day. After twelve years immersed in the stream of life, you’ve just discovered a very rare bird: a philosophical cobbler! It’s like winning the lottery!”

Abel had the feeling Silvestre was making fun of him, but he disguised his displeasure and said in a slightly bittersweet voice:

“Oh, I would certainly like to know, but I’ve never forced anyone to say anything they didn’t want to. Not even people I used to trust…”

“Ah, that, I think, was aimed at me! Touché.”

The tone in which he said this was so playful and mocking that Abel had to suppress the impulse to give a somewhat sour response, and since that was the only possible response, he preferred to say nothing. Deep down, he wasn’t angry with Silvestre at all, and knew that he couldn’t be angry with him even if he wanted to be.