José Saramago - The Stone Raft

And so the world is in a state of suspense, anxiously awaiting what is or is not about to happen to the western shores of Portugal and Galicia. But we must repeat, tiresome though it may be, that It is an ill wind that bloweth no man good, that at least is the attitude of the governments of Europe, because from one moment to the next, along with the salutary results of the repression mentioned earlier, they are seeing the revolutionary fervor of youth fade and almost disappear, youth whose wise parents are now insisting, Do you see what you were risking if you had insisted on being Iberian, repentant youth now dutifully responding, Yes, Dad. As these scenes of domestic reconciliation and social appeasement are enacted, the geostationary satellites, each kept in place over a single point on the equator as it circles the earth, transmit photographs and measurements to earth, the first of these naturally showing no variation in the form of the moving object, the second registering with every passing minute a reduction of almost thirty-five meters in the distance that separates the large island from the small ones. In an age like ours with its acceleration of particles, seeing thirty-five meters per minute as a cause for concern would be laughable, unless we remind ourselves that behind these pleasant, sandy beaches, this deeply etched and picturesque coastline, these jagged promontories overlooking the sea, over five hundred and ninety thousand square kilometers of surface area is approaching, and an incalculable, astronomical number of millions of tons, to count only the sierras, cordilleras, and mountains. Let us just try to imagine what the inertia of all the orographic systems of the peninsula now set in motion will amount to, not to mention the Pyrenees, even reduced to half their former size, then we can only admire the courage of these peoples, who unite so many ancestral strains, and applaud their existential fatalism, which, with the experience of centuries, has been condensed into that most notable precept, From among the dead and wounded, someone must get away.

Lisbon is a deserted city. Army patrols are still circulating, with air support provided by helicopters, just as in Spain and France when the breakaway occurred and during the turbulent days that followed. Until they are withdrawn, which is expected to happen twenty-four hours before the anticipated moment of collision, the soldiers' mission is to be vigilant, on the qui vive, although they were really wasting their time since all the valuables had already been removed from the banks. But no one would forgive a government for abandoning a city as beautiful as this one, perfect in its proportions and harmony, as will inevitably be said of it once the city has been destroyed. That's why the soldiers are here, serving, in the people's absence, as their symbolic representatives, the guard of honor that would fire the customary salvos, if there should still be time, at that sublime moment when the city sinks into the sea.

Meanwhile, the soldiers fire a few shots at the looters and thieves, they offer advice and guidance to the odd person who refuses to abandon his home or who has finally decided to get out, and when, as happens from time to time, they meet a harmless madman wandering through the streets, one who has had the misfortune to be allowed out of the asylum on the day of the exodus and, not having known about or understood the order to return, has ended up being left to his fate, they tend to adopt either of two courses of action. Certain officers argue that the madman is always more dangerous than the looter, on the grounds that the latter, at least, is as rational as they are. In such a case they don't think twice, but order the troops to open fire. Other officers, less intolerant and, above all, aware of the desperate need to relieve nervous tension in time of war or catastrophe, order their men to have a bit of fun at the idiot's expense before sending him on his way in peace, unless it happens to be a madwoman rather than a madman, for there is always someone, whether in the army or elsewhere, who is prepared to abuse the elementary and obvious fact that sex, instrumentally speaking, is not in the head.

But now that there is no longer a living soul to be seen in this city, along the avenues, in the roads and squares, in the neighborhoods and public parks, now that faces no longer appear at the windows, now that those canaries not yet dead of hunger and thirst sing in the deathly silence of the house or on the verandah overlooking the empty courtyards, now that the waters of the fountains and springs still sparkle in the sunlight but no hand is dipped, now that the vacant eyes of the statues look around in search of eyes that might be returning their gaze, now that the open gates of cemeteries show that there is no difference between one absence and another, now, finally, that the city is on the brink of that anguished moment when an island will come from the sea and destroy it, now let the wonderful story of the lonely navigator and his miraculous salvation unfold.

For more than twenty years the navigator had been sailing the seven seas. He had inherited or bought his ship, or it had been given to him by some other navigator who had also sailed in it for twenty years, and before him, if the memory does not finally become confused after such a long time, yet another solitary navigator had apparently ploughed the oceans. The history of ships and those who sail them is full of unexpected adventures, with terrible storms and sudden lulls as terrifying as the worst hurricanes, and, to add a touch of romance, it is often said, and songs have been composed on the theme, that a sailor will find a woman waiting for him in every port, a somewhat optimistic picture, which the realities of life and the betrayals of women nearly always contradict. When the lonely navigator disembarks, it is usually to get a fresh supply of water, to buy tobacco or some spare part for the engine, or to stock up on oil and fuel, medicine, sewing needles for the sails, a plastic raincoat to keep out the rain and drizzle, hooks, fishing tackle, the daily newspaper to confirm what he already knows and is not worth knowing, but never, never, never, did the lonely navigator set foot on land in the hope of finding a woman to accompany him on the voyage. If there really is a woman waiting for him in port, it would be foolish to turn her down, but it is usually the woman who makes the first move and decides for how long, the lonely navigator has never said to her, Wait for me, I'll come back one day, that's not a request he would permit himself to make, Wait for me, nor could he guarantee that he will be back on this or any other day, and, on returning, how often he finds the harbor deserted, or should there be a woman waiting there, she is waiting for some other sailor, although it often happens that if he does not turn up, any sailor who appears will do just as well. One has to admit that neither the woman nor the sailors are at fault, solitude is to blame, solitude can sometimes become unbearable, it can even drive the sailor into port and bring the woman to the harbor.

These considerations, however, are spiritual and metaphysical, we could not resist making them at some point, whether before or after relating these extraordinary events, which they do not always help elucidate. To put it simply, let us say that far away from this peninsula, now turned into a floating island, the lonely navigator was sailing with his sail and engine, his radio and binoculars, and with the infinite patience of someone who one day decided to divide his life into one part sky and one part sea. The wind suddenly stopped blowing and he lowered the sail, the breeze suddenly dropped, and the great billows carrying the ship gradually start losing their force, the surge dwindles, within an hour the sea will be smooth and calm, we find it incredible that this chasm of water, thousands of meters deep, should be able to maintain its balance, falling neither to one side nor to the other, the observation will seem foolish only to those who believe everything in the world can be explained by the simple fact that it is as it is, something one obviously accepts but which is not enough. The engine is running, chug-chug chug-chug, nothing but water as far as the eye can see, it corresponds sparkle for sparkle to the classical image of the mirror, and the navigator, despite many years' mastery of a strict routine of sleep and vigil, suddenly closes his eyes, drugged by the heat of the sun, and falls fast asleep, he woke up shaken by what seemed to be a mighty blast, thinking, perhaps, that he had slept for several minutes or hours but it was only seconds, in that fleeting moment of sleep he dreamt that he had collided with the corpse of an animal, with a whale. Startled, his heart beating furiously, he tried to discover where the sound was coming from, but did not immediately notice that the engine had stopped. The sudden silence had woken him, but in order to awaken more naturally, his body had invented a sea monster, a collision, thunder. Broken-down engines, on land and sea, are much more common, we know of one that is beyond repair, it has a broken heart and has been dumped under a lean-to and exposed to the elements, up north where it is gathering rust. But this navigator, unlike those motorists, is experienced and knowledgeable, he stocked up on spare parts the last time he touched land and woman, he intends to dismantle the engine as far as possible and to examine the mech anism. Such a waste of effort. The damage is right down in the piston rod, the horsepower of this engine is mortally wounded.