José Saramago - Baltasar and Blimunda

When the weather cleared up, after a week, Baltasar Sete-Sóis and Blimunda left for Lisbon, in this life everyone has something to build, the labourers remain here to build walls so that once everything is assembled and ready we shall take off, for men are angels born without wings, nothing could be nicer than to be born without wings and to make them grow, this much we have achieved with our minds, and if we have succeeded in making our minds grow, we shall grow wings, too, So farewell, dear Father, farewell, dear Mother. They simply said farewell, nothing more, for Baltasar and Blimunda did not know how to compose pretty speeches, nor were the old couple capable of understanding them, but with the passage of time you will always find yourself imagining that you might have said this or that, even believing that you actually said those words, so that what one narrates often becomes more real than the actual events narrated, however difficult it may be to put real events into words, such as when Marta Maria says, Farewell, I shall never see you again, and she never spoke truer words, for the walls of the basilica will not have risen one metre above the ground before Marta Maria is laid to rest in her grave. With her death, João Francisco will suddenly become twice as old, and take to sitting under the roof of the oven, his eyes devoid of expression, just as they are at this moment, as his son, Baltasar, and his daughter Blimunda, for daughter-in-law is a cheerless word, make their departure, however, he still has Marta Maria here beside him, even though she is alienated from life and has one foot in the grave already, her hands clasped over her womb, which begot life and is now begetting death. Her children emerged from the mine of her body, some to perish, though two survived, this one will not be born, for it is her own death, We cannot see them any more, let's go inside, says João Francisco.

It is December, and the days are short, heavy clouds hasten the encroaching darkness, so Baltasar and Blimunda decide to take refuge for the night in a hayloft at Morelena, they have explained they are travelling from Mafra to Lisbon, the farmer can see they are decent folk and loans them a blanket to cover themselves, such is his confidence. We already know how much these two love each other with their bodies, their souls, and their wills as they lie in each other's arms, their wills and souls witness their enraptured bodies, and possibly cling to them even more closely, in order to share their pleasure, difficult to know which part resides where, if the soul is losing or gaining when Blimunda lifts her skirts and Baltasar undoes his breeches, whether the soul is gaining or losing as they lie there sighing and moaning, or if the body conquers or is vanquished when Baltasar reposes inside Blimunda and she gives him repose, their bodies at rest. There is no more satisfying smell than that of turned hay, of bodies under a blanket, of oxen feeding at the trough, the scent of cold air filtering through the chinks in the hayloft, and perhaps the scent of the moon, for everyone knows that the night assumes a different smell when there is moonlight, and even a blind man, who is incapable of distinguishing night from day, will say, The moon is shining, St Lucy is believed to have worked this miracle, so it is really only a question of inhaling, Yes, my friends, what a splendid moon this evening.

In the morning, before sunrise, they got up, Blimunda had already eaten her bread. She folded the blanket, simply a woman respecting an ancient gesture, opening and closing her arms, securing the folded blanket under her chin, then lowering her hands to the centre of her own body, where she makes one final fold, no one looking at her would ever suspect that Blimunda has strange visionary powers, that if she could step outside her body this night, she would see herself lying underneath Baltasar, and it can truly be said of Blimunda that she can see her own eyes seeing. When the farmer comes to the hayloft he will find that the blanket has been folded as a sign of gratitude, and, being a mischievous fellow, he will cross-examine the oxen, Tell me, was Mass celebrated here last night, they will turn their heads with serene indifference, men always have something to say, and sometimes hit the nail on the head, for there was no difference whatsoever between the ritual of those lovers and the sacrifice of Holy Mass, and if there were, the Mass would surely lose out.

Blimunda and Baltasar are already on their way to Lisbon, skirting the hills, where windmills suddenly loom up from nowhere, the sky is overcast, the sun momentarily appears, only to vanish from sight once more, a southerly wind brings the threat of heavy rain, and Baltasar thinks, If it begins to rain we shall have nowhere to shelter, He then looks up at the cloud-ridden sky, one great sombre plaque, the colour of slate, he tells her, If wills are dark clouds, perhaps they're trapped in these thick, black clouds shutting out the sun, and Blimunda replies, If only you could see the dark cloud inside you, Or inside you, Or inside me, but if only you could see it, then you would realise that a cloud in the sky is nothing compared with the cloud inside man, But you've never seen my cloud or yours, No one can see his own will, and I swore that I would never look inside you, my mother was not mistaken, Baltasar Sete-Sóis, for when you give me your hand, when you embrace me, I do not need to see inside you, If I should die before you, I beg of you to look inside me, When you die, your will takes leave of your body, Who knows.

There was no rain throughout the journey, just that grey, dark roof extending southwards and hovering over Lisbon, level with the hills on the horizon, and this gave the impression that by raising one hand you might touch its surface, at times nature is a perfect companion, a man is journeying, a woman is journeying, and the clouds say among themselves, Let's wait until they are safely home, then we can turn to rain. Baltasar and Blimunda arrived at the estate and entered the coach-house, and at last the rain began to fall, and because some of the tiles were cracked, the water trickled in discreetly, whispering softly, I'm here, now that you've arrived safely. And when Baltasar went up to the shell of the flying machine and touched it, the metal frame and wires creaked, but it is more difficult to know what they were trying to say.

T HE WIRES AND irons have started to rust, the cloths have become covered in mildew, the dried out canes have started to untwine, a half-finished job does not need to grow old in order to disintegrate. Baltasar walked around the flying machine twice and was much put out by what he saw, with the hook on his left arm he tugged violently at the metallic skeleton, rubbing iron against iron to test its resistance, which he found to be poor, It strikes me that it would be better to dismantle the entire machine and start again, Dismantle it, by all means, but is it worth starting to rebuild it before Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço arrives, We could have remained in Mafra a little longer, If Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço said that we should come at once, then he is likely to arrive soon, who knows, perhaps he has already been here while we were waiting for the inauguration, there are no signs that he has been here, I hope you're right, So do I.

Within a week the machine was no longer a machine and bore no resemblance to its former self, what remained might have been mistaken for a thousand different things, men do not make use of all that many materials, and much depends on the way they are produced, arranged, and combined, just think of the hoe and the plane, a little metal and a little wood, and what the one implement does the other does not. Blimunda suggested, While we're waiting for Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço to arrive, let's build the forge, But how can we make the bellows, You must go to a blacksmith and see how it's done, if it doesn't work at first, try a second time, and if that doesn't work, try a third time, that's as much as anyone can expect of us, There's no need to take so much trouble, for Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço has left us enough money to buy the bellows, But someone is bound to ask why Baltasar Sete-Sóis needs bellows when he is neither a blacksmith nor an ironsmith, better to make them yourself, even if it means trying a hundred times.