José Saramago - Baltasar and Blimunda

He then descends by the same path he came up. The building site and Ilha da Madeira are hidden behind the slope and were it not for the stones and gravel that are continually being tipped down the slope, one would not suspect there will ever be a basilica, convent, or royal palace on that site, simply Mafra as before, the same small place that has existed for centuries and has scarcely altered from the time of the Romans, who made decrees, and of the Moors, who came after them and planted vegetable gardens and orchards that have virtually disappeared, up to the present, when we became Christians by the will of whosoever ruled us, for if Christ walked on earth, He never visited these parts, otherwise the Alto da Vela would have been His Calvary, now they are building a convent there, which probably amounts to the same thing. Pondering these holy matters more deeply, if they really are Baltasar's thoughts, but what would be the point in asking him, he remembers Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço, but not for the first time, because when he is alone with Blimunda, he scarcely speaks of anything else, he remembers him and is suddenly filled with remorse, he regrets having treated him so harshly and with such brutality in the sierra on that dreadful night, it was as if he had mistreated his own brother when the fellow was ailing, I know very well that he is a priest and I am no longer even a soldier, nevertheless, we are both the same age, and we worked together on the same invention. Baltasar repeats to himself that one day he will return to the Serra do Barregudo and to Monte Junto, to find out if the machine is still there, the priest might have secretly made his way back to the spot, flown off on his own to lands more favourably disposed to inventions, to Holland, for example, a country much devoted to the wonders of flying, as would be confirmed by a certain Hans Pfaall, who, because he was not pardoned for a number of petty crimes, continues to live on the moon to this day. The last thing Baltasar needed to know were these future events and even more impressive ones such as that of two men ascending to the moon and being seen there by everyone, and if they found no trace of Hans Pfaall, that was probably because they did not look hard enough. For those paths are difficult to find.

Down here, they are much easier. From dawn until dusk, Baltasar, along with some seven hundred, one thousand, twelve hundred others, load their carts with earth and stones, in Baltasar's case, the hook secures the handle of the shovel, for during the last fifteen years, his right hand has trebled in strength and dexterity, and then an interminable procession of Corpus Homini in single file wends its way to dump the rubble down the embankment, covering not only the shrubs but also cultivated land. A kitchen garden from Moorish times is about to be wiped out after centuries of yielding cabbages, plump, tender lettuces bursting with freshness, oregano, parsley, mint, vegetables, and fruit in prime condition, and now farewell, water will no longer stream along these paths, the gardener will no longer turn over the soil to water this parched flower-bed while the adjacent one rejoices in the thirst that killed its neighbour. And just as the world goes around and around, the men who inhabit it revolve even more, perhaps that fellow up there who has just emptied a cartload of rubble, bringing down a torrent of stones and soil, with the heaviest of the stones descending first, was the man in charge of the vegetable garden, but it seems unlikely, for he does not even shed a tear.

The days pass, and the walls do not appear to be getting much higher. Cannon-fire blasts the solid rock that the soldiers are just about to storm, their efforts would be better rewarded if this type of rock could be used like other stones to fill in the walls, but, deeply embedded in the hillside, it can be quarried only with considerable difficulty, and once exposed to the atmosphere, it soon disintegrates and turns to dust unless loaded into the handcarts and dumped. Also used for transport are larger carts with wooden wheels and drawn by mules, some of them overloaded, and because of the heavy rain in recent days, the animals got trapped in the mud and had to be whipped to get them out, the poor beasts were given strokes of the lash on their rumps and, when God was not looking, on their heads, although all this labour is meant to serve and glorify the same God, and so one cannot be sure that He is not deliberately averting His gaze. The men pushing the handcarts have a lighter load to carry, and are in less danger of getting stuck, they can improvise cat-walks from wooden planks that were left scattered around when the scaffolding went up, but since there are never enough planks to go round, there is a constant battle of hide-and-seek to see who can get there first and, should they arrive simultaneously, to see who can push the hardest, and you can be sure that punching and kicking soon follow and missiles fly through the air, until a military patrol arrives, a manoeuvre which is usually sufficient to cool tempers, otherwise they receive a couple of blows with the flat edge of a sword, two strokes of the lash on their rumps like the mules.

It starts raining, but not heavily enough to bring the work to a halt, except in the case of the stone-masons for the rain loosens the mortar and seeps into the broad surfaces on top of the walls, so the workers take refuge in the sheds until the weather clears up, while the stone-cutters, whose task is somewhat more refined, work at their marble under cover, no matter whether they are cutting or sculpting it, but no doubt they, too, would rather take a rest. For the latter it is all the same whether the walls go up quickly or slowly, their work goes on regardless, tracing out the grain of the marble and carving out flutes, acanthus leaves, festoons, pedestals, and garlands and the minute the job is finished, the porters transport the stone with poles and ropes to the shed where it is stored along with the rest, when the time comes they will fetch the various pieces in the same manner, unless they are so heavy that tackle and ramps are required. The stone-cutters are fortunate in having their work guaranteed, whatever the weather, constantly under shelter and covered in white marble dust, they look like gentlemen in powdered wigs as they tap-tap, tap-tap, with their chisels and hammers, a job that needs two hands. Today the rain has not been heavy enough to force the overseers to suspend operations, and even the men pushing the handcarts are allowed to go on working, less fortunate than the ants, which at the first sign of rain raise their heads to pick up the scent of the stars and then scurry to their ant-hills, unlike men, who go on working in the rain. Coming in from the sea, a dark sheet of rain soon spreads over the countryside, the men abandon their handcarts at random and, without waiting for orders, make for the sheds or huddle behind the walls, if they think it will do any good, for they could not be more soaked. The harnessed mules stand placidly under the downpour, accustomed to being covered with perspiration, they are now soaked by rain, the yoked oxen chew their cud with apparent indifference, when the rain is at its fiercest, the animals shake their heads, who can tell what they are feeling, what nerves are twitching in their bodies, or whether those shiny horns touch, as if to say, So you're there. When the rain goes away or has become bearable, the men return to the site and the work starts up again as they load and unload, heave and push, drag and lift, there is no blasting today because of the general humidity, and so much the better for the soldiers, who can relax in the sheds in the company of the sentries, who are also sheltering from the rain, this is the happiness of peace. And since the rain is back again, pouring down from a glowering sky, and it looks as if it will continue for some time, orders are given for the men to put down their tools, only the stone-cutters go on chiselling at the stone, tap-tap, tap-tap, the sheds are spacious, nor will the spatterings of rain blown in by the wind mark the grain of the marble.