José Saramago - Skylight

Abel got to his feet and looked out through the glass panes at the back yard. It was a dark night. He opened the window. All was shadows and silence, but there were stars in the sky. From horizon to horizon the Milky Way unfurled its luminous path. And from the city, rising to the heavens, came a dull volcanic rumble.

With the natural vitality of a six-year-old, Henrique made a rapid recovery. And yet, despite the relatively benign nature of the illness, his character seemed to have undergone a radical change. Perhaps the experience of being showered with care and affection had made him more than usually sensitive. At the slightest harsh word, his eyes would well up and he would burst into tears.

The once lively, playful boy had become prudent and sensible. In his father’s company he was always serious and silent. He would gaze at him tenderly, in dumb, passionate admiration, even though this sudden interest went unreciprocated and his father was no more affectionate toward him than usual. What attracted Henrique now was exactly what had repelled him before: his father’s silence, his few words, his absent air. For reasons unknown to him, and which he would not have understood had he known them, his father had kept vigil at his bedside. His presence there, the anxious yet reserved look on his face, the hostile atmosphere filling the apartment, plus the new receptiveness and keener perception brought on by illness — all these factors, in some obscure way, drove him toward his father. One of the many doors in his small brain, which had until then remained closed, had inched open. Without being conscious of doing so, he had taken a step toward maturity. He began to notice the lack of harmony in the family.

He had, of course, witnessed violent rows between his parents on other occasions, but he had done so as an indifferent spectator, as if he were watching a game that in no way affected him. Not now, though. He was still under the influence of the illness and his weak state, and prior to that he had become, quite against his will, sensitized to the various manifestations of that latent conflict. The prism through which he viewed his parents had shifted very slightly, but enough for him to be able to see them differently. This would inevitably have happened sooner or later, but the illness had sped up the process.

His mother remained undiminished in his eyes, his view of her unchanged, but he saw his father in a different light. Henrique was far too young to realize that the change had taken place inside himself; it must, therefore, have been his father who had changed. In the absence of any real explanation, Henrique had to think back to the care his father had lavished on him during his illness. This then made sense to him. And so Henrique’s sudden interest in his father was merely a way of reciprocating his father’s interest in him, not now, but then; it was an acknowledgment, a show of gratitude. Each age in life seizes upon the easiest and most immediate explanation available.

This interest manifested itself in both sensible and nonsensical ways. At mealtimes, Henrique’s chair was always drawn slightly closer to his father’s chair than to his mother’s. When, at night, Emílio was sorting through his paperwork — the various orders and invoices he had picked up during the day — his son would stand leaning on the table, watching him. If a piece of paper fell to the floor — and Henrique longed with all his heart for this to happen — he would rush to pick it up, and if his father smiled at him gratefully, Henrique was the happiest of children. There was an even greater happiness, though, one that admitted of no comparison: this was when his father placed a hand on his head. At such moments, Henrique almost fainted.

His son’s sudden and apparently inexplicable interest provoked two different and contrary reactions in Emílio. At first he found it very touching. His life was so barren of affection, so removed from love, he felt so isolated, that these small attentions, his son’s constant presence at his side, his stubborn devotion to him, touched him deeply. Then he saw how dangerous it was: his son’s interest, his own feelings, only made his decision to leave more difficult. He hardened his heart, tried to distance himself from his son, emphasizing the character traits most likely to discourage him. Henrique, however, did not give up. Had Emílio resorted to violence, he might have driven him away, but he couldn’t do that. He had never hit him and never would, even if administering such a beating were the price he must pay for his own freedom. He felt almost sick to think that he could attack Henrique with the same hand that had caressed him and which Henrique loved because of that caress.

Emílio thought too much. His brain attached itself to all kinds of things, went over and over the same problems, plunged into them, drowned in them, so that, in the end, his own thoughts became the problem. He forgot what was really important to him and went off in search of motives, reasons. Life was rushing past him and yet he paid it no attention. The matter to be resolved was there, but he could not see it. Even if it could have shouted to him, “Here I am! Over here!” he would not have heard it. Now, instead of looking for a way of distancing himself from his son, he started pondering the reasons for his son’s sudden interest in him. And when he could find none, his brain, caught in the web of his subconscious, produced only a superstitious explanation: his son’s illness had gotten worse after he announced to him that he was planning to leave, and this was why Henrique, frightened by the prospect of losing him, was showing all this unexpected interest in him. When he emerged from this paralyzing quagmire of thoughts, Emílio realized how irrational this conclusion was: Henrique had barely heard what he had said, he had paid about as much attention to it as to a passing fly, forgotten almost as soon as it was seen. Besides, he had not heard his final, definitive, irrevocable words, because by then he had fallen asleep. Here, though, Emílio’s brain set off once more along the tightrope of his subconscious: words spoken, even if not heard, remain hanging in the air, hovering in the atmosphere, and can, so to speak, be inhaled and have as much effect as if they had found in their path ears that could hear them. A foolish, superstitious conclusion, woven out of evil omens and mysteries.

What was happening was further proof to Carmen of her husband’s perverse nature. Not content with having denied her any happiness, he was now trying to steal her one remaining possession, the love of her son. She fought against Emílio’s dastardly plans. She heaped affection on her son, but Henrique gave more importance to a simple glance from his father than to all his mother’s exuberant displays of affection. In despair, Carmen even came to believe that her husband must have bewitched him, given him some potion to drink that had changed his feelings. And once she had this idea lodged in her head, she knew what to do. In secret, she submitted the boy to prayers and incense, terrifying him with threats of beatings if he breathed so much as a word to his father.

Troubled by these weird ceremonies, Henrique became more nervous and excitable. Frightened by her threats, he drew closer to his father.

All Carmen’s efforts were in vain: no amount of witchcraft or affection could divert her son from his obstinate obsession. She became aggressive toward him. She began to find reasons to hit him. The smallest misdemeanor was rewarded with a slap. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but couldn’t help herself. When, after hitting him, she saw him crying, she would cry too, but alone and out of anger and remorse. She wanted to beat and beat him until she could beat him no more, although she knew that she would regret forever having done such a thing. She had lost all self-control. She felt like committing some monstrous act, smashing everything around her, rampaging through the apartment kicking the furniture and punching the walls, screaming at her husband and shaking and slapping him. Her nerves were constantly on edge, she had lost all sense of prudence, as well as the vague fear that married women have of their husbands.