José Saramago - The Collected Novels of José Saramago

One day in mid-September, Baltasar was walking home from work when he saw Blimunda waiting for him on the road as she so often did, but somehow this time she looked anxious and distressed, which was most unlike her, for anyone who knew Blimunda could see that she went through the world as if she had gathered knowledge and experience from previous lives, and on reaching her, he asked, Is Father worse, No, she replied, and then in whispered tones confided, Signor Scarlet is with the Viscount, what can he be doing here, Are you sure, have you seen him, With these very eyes, It could be someone who looks like him, It’s him, all right, I only have to see a person once to remember him, and I’ve seen Signor Scarlet lots of times. They went into the house and joined the others for supper, then everyone settled down for the night, each couple on their own pallet, and old João Francisco with his grandson, the boy is a restless sleeper and tosses and turns all night, but his grandfather does not mind, it is always company for the old man, who finds it difficult to sleep. This explains why he was the only person to hear, very late that same night, that is to say, late for someone who goes to bed early, gentle strains of music penetrating the cracks in the door and the roof of the house, there must have been a deep silence in Mafra that night, if music played on the harpsichord in the Viscounts’ palace when the doors and windows were shuttered on account of the cold, and even when it was not cold, for the sake of decorum, was heard by an old man growing deaf with age, had Blimunda and Baltasar heard it, one might well have expected them to comment, It’s Signor Scarlet who is playing, for it is quite true to say that the giant is recognised by his finger, this we would not argue with, since the proverb exists and is altogether apt. Next morning, as dawn broke, the old man sat down by the hearth and told them, I heard music last night, neither Inês Antónia nor Álvaro Diogo nor his grandson paid any heed, for old people are always hearing something or other, but Baltasar and Blimunda felt envious to the point of sadness, if anyone there had the right to hear that music, it was them, no one else. When Baltasar went off to work, Blimunda spent the morning prowling around the palace.

Domenico Scarlatti had requested the King’s permission to go and inspect the future convent. He was offered hospitality by the Viscount, not because the latter was particularly fond of music, but, since the Italian was music-master of the Royal Chapel and tutor to the Infanta Dona Maria Bárbara, he was regarded by the Viscount as a corporeal emanation from the palace itself. One can never tell when hospitality might be generously rewarded, the residence of the Viscount is no lodging-house, so just as well to choose one’s guests with care. Domenico Scarlatti played the Vicount’s harpsichord, which was sadly out of tune, the Viscountess listened to him playing in the evening with her three-year-old daughter, Manuela Xavier, on her lap and of all those present in the room, the child was the most attentive, she kept moving her little fingers in imitation of Scarlatti until she exhausted her mother’s patience and was entrusted to her governess. There would not be much music in the child’s life, tonight she would be asleep while Scarlatti played, and ten years from now she would die and be buried in the Church of St Andrew, where she still lies, if there is any place for such wonders on this earth, perhaps she will hear the music played by the water on the harpsichord that was thrown into the well of São Sebastião da Pedreira, if the well is still there, for sources of water are destined to become exhausted and filled in.

The musician made his way to the site of the convent and caught sight of Blimunda but they pretended not to know each other, for it would have aroused surprise and suspicion in Mafra if the wife of Sete-Sóis were to be seen socialising with the musician who is staying as a guest at the Viscount’s residence, What can he be doing here, perhaps he’s come to inspect the building, but why, if he is neither a mason nor an architect, and there is no organ as yet for any organist to play, no, there must be some other reason. I’ve come to tell you and Baltasar that Padre Bartolomeu de Gusmão has died in Toledo which is in Spain, to where he had escaped, and according to some, he was mad, and since no one mentioned you or Baltasar, I decided to come to Mafra to find out if you were still alive. Blimunda joined her hands, not as if she were praying, but like someone about to strangle her own fingers, Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço is dead, This is the news that reached Lisbon, On the night when the machine crashed into the sierra, Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço ran off and left us and returned no more, And the machine, It’s still there, what shall we do with it, Guard and protect it, perhaps one day it will fly again, When did Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço die, They say it was on the nineteenth of November, and his death was marked in Lisbon that day by a great tempest, if Padre Bartolomeu de Gusmão were a saint, it could be a sign from heaven, What is it to be a saint, Signor Scarlet, You tell me, Blimunda.

The next day, Domenico Scarlatti departed for Lisbon. At a bend in the road outside town, Blimunda and Baltasar were waiting for him, the latter had forfeited a quarter of his daily wage to be able to bid the musician farewell. They went up to his carriage like beggars about to ask for alms, Scarlatti ordered the driver to stop and stretched out his hands to them, Farewell, farewell. In the distance, cannon fire could be heard, as if some feast were being celebrated, the Italian looks sad, and that is not surprising if he is coming away from the feast, but the others, too, look sad, and why should this be since they are going back to the feast.

SITTING ON HIS throne amid the radiance of the stars, with his mantle of night and solitude, and with the new sea and dead eras at his feet, is the only emperor who truly holds the globe of the universe in his hand, these are the words with which the Infante Dom Henrique will be acclaimed one day by a poet who is not yet born, everyone has his own preferences, but if we are speaking of the globe of the universe and of the empire and of the riches that empires yield, then Dom Henrique is a feeble monarch when compared with Dom João, the fifth sovereign with that name on the roster of kings, sitting in a chair with arms made from lignum vitae, where he can rest with greater comfort and pay closer attention to the accountant who is drawing up an inventory of the realm’s possessions and riches, silks, fabrics, porcelain, lacquered goods, tea, pepper, copper, ambergris, and gold from Macao, unpolished diamonds, rubies, pearls, cinnamon, bales of cotton, and saltpetre from Goa, rugs, furniture upholstered in damask, and embroidered bedspreads from Diu, ivory from Melinde, slaves and gold from Mozambique, from Angola more black slaves but not so sturdy as those from Mozambique, and the best ivory to be found in Western Africa, timber, manioc flour, bananas, yams, poultry, sheep, goats, indigo, and sugar from São Tomé, some black slaves, wax, hides, ivory, for not all ivory comes from elephant tusks, from Cabo Verde, woven materials, wheat, liqueurs, dry wines, spirits, crystallised lemon peel, and fruits from the Azores and Madeira, and, from the various regions of Brazil, sugar, tobacco, copal, indigo, wood, cotton, cacao, diamonds, emeralds, silver, and gold, which alone gives the realm twelve to fifteen million cruzados annually in the form of gold dust or minted coins, not to mention the bullion lost at sea or stolen by pirates, and though it is true that not all of this represents income for the crown, which is rich but not all that rich, more than sixteen million cruzados all told go into the royal coffers, the tax alone, which is levied for navigating the rivers that lead to Minas Gérais, yields thirty thousand cruzados, the Good Lord worked so hard to open up channels where waters might flow, and along comes a Portuguese king to impose a profitable toll.