José Saramago - The History of the Siege of Lisbon

The door of Dr Maria Sara's office is closed. Raimundo Silva opens it, peers inside and feels a knot in his stomach, not so much because of her absence as because of a dispiriting sense of emptiness, of final abandonment, suggested perhaps by the tidy arrangement of objects which, it occurred to him one day, is only tolerable when disturbed by a human presence. Over the desk drooped a withered white rose, two of its petals having already been shed. Raimundo Silva nervously shut the door, he could not stay there in case someone appeared, but this idea of an empty office, where a single life, that of a rose, was slowly withering, close to death because of a progressive depletion of cells, filled him with evil premonitions, with dark omens, all quite absurd, as he would subsequently reflect, What have I got to do with this woman, but not even this feigned detachment will put his mind at rest. Costa received him cordially, Yes, Dr Maria Sara is ill, I'm looking after things, superfluous words, all of them, Raimundo Silva already knew that Maria Sara was ill, that Costa should be dealing with her work was only to be expected, and, as for the rest, no need to worry; he could not care less about the novel's immediate or future destiny, what he needed was some information that no one was likely to give him unless he asked, after all, an employee on sick leave scarcely justifies the publication of hourly medical bulletins. So at the risk of rousing Costa's curiosity as to why he should be so interested, Raimundo Silva finally plucked up the courage to ask, Is it serious, Is what serious, the other asked in return, having failed to grasp what he was talking about, Dr Maria Sara's illness, now Raimundo Silva is worried at the thought that he might be blushing at this very moment, Oh, I shouldn't imagine so, and steering the conversation towards more professional matters, Costa added, introducing a subtle note of irony, directed both at the absent Dr Maria Sara and the proof-reader who is present, Even if she were to stay at home for a while, you may rest assured that work will proceed as normal. At this point Costa ever so slightly averted his eyes, a hint of smiling malice creeping into his expression. Raimundo Silva frowned, waiting for some further remark, but Costa had already turned to the novel, was leafing through it as if searching for something he could not quite define, but his attitude was not altogether conscious, and now it was the proof-reader's turn to smile as he remembered that day when Costa had leafed through another book, the erroneous proofs of The History of the Siege of Lisbon, their falsification finally frustrated, yet the cause of these radical changes, these outrageous alterations, a new siege, an encounter no one could have foreseen, certain feelings that slowly began to stir, like the impenetrable waves of a sea of mercury. Suddenly, Costa became aware that he was being observed, thought he understood why, and like someone carrying out tardy revenge, asked, Have you by any chance inserted the odd Not this time, and Raimundo Silva answered with tranquil irony, Put your mind at rest, this time I put in a yes. Costa abruptly pushed aside the bundle of page proofs and said drily, If there is nothing else I can do for you, he left the phrase in suspense, with invisible dots of suspension, but thanks to his lengthy experience as a proof-reader, Raimundo did not need them in order to know that it was time for him to leave.

Young Sara takes advantage of a quiet moment to give all her attention to a fingernail that had broken a few minutes earlier in that infernal bustle of inserting and pulling out plugs, she has already repaired the damage and is now deeply absorbed in gently smoothing the nail with her file, she is certainly not going to reply to Raimundo Silva as he would wish, having had the bright idea whilst walking down the corridor perhaps helped by the dialectic parrying with Costa, these are the advantages of an intellectual gymnastic exercise, but now we shall see if it will serve any purpose, the question being the following, Do you know if Dr Maria Sara is well enough to receive telephone calls, it's just that I have some business, another interrupted phrase, an anxious look, in fact, he could not have chosen a worse moment, the inevitable annoyance of someone who has just broken a long, oval-shaped fingernail, and besides the number will have to be traced in the telephone directory, assuming the telephonist is willing to divulge it, Just my luck, muses Raimundo Silva, that this should have happened, the broken nail, the file, Ah, Senhor Silva, if only you knew the trouble I have with these nails, how I wish they would get rid of this old contraption and give me a modern push-button electronic switchboard, whether she is well enough to receive telephone calls, I cannot say, but here is her number if you'd like to write it down. She knew it by heart, one of her little vanities, to memorise as many numbers as she could, to boast of her memory, Sara has a phenomenal memory, and just as well, because she had to repeat the number twice, Raimundo Silva was in such a muddle, first of all because he could not find anywhere to write, then he got the numbers mixed up, hearing six instead of three, at the same time as his brain pursued a nagging question he could not resist raising in a tone of voice feigning nonchalance, Obviously if no one has called her from here, then she isn't receiving any calls, No calls have passed through me, but, the administration may have called her on a direct line, of course, the direct line does not pass through the telephonist, one can speak at will by means of a direct line and Raimundo Silva seems to remember there having been a direct line in the Editorial Director's office. Young Sara has finished repairing her broken nail and critically appraises the result, bearing in mind the seriousness of the damage, she has done her best and is moderately satisfied, which may explain why she asks him, If you wish, I can call her from here, leaving Raimundo Silva speechless, he shook his head vigorously, and just at that moment, divine providence, the switchboard signalled an incoming call, two signals that were almost simultaneous, the world went into its routine orbit, or so it will seem to anyone who does not know that Raimundo Silva is already carrying Maria Sara's telephone number in his pocket, and this makes a vast difference to the universe.

Contrary to his habitual thriftiness, he returned home by taxi, no great surprise, for he could not wait to get back to his desk, pick up the telephone and dial Maria Sara's number, tell her, I heard you were ill, I trust it's nothing serious, I've just delivered the novel to Costa, I'm glad to know you're feeling better, you're right, you have to be healthy to succumb to illness, a silly expression, but that's life, at least half the things we say don't make much sense, no, Costa hasn't given me any more work, well, it doesn't really matter, I need a rest, yes, a rest, so that I can put my papers into some order, sort out my life, in a manner of speaking, obviously, what I do is to think that I am thinking about life and I'm not really thinking about anything, but I didn't mean to bore you with my personal problems and difficulties, yes, in coping with life, I wish you a speedy recovery and hope to see you back at work soon, goodbye for now. But Senhora Maria, despite this not being her day, has turned up for work, she explains that she has to take her nephew to the doctor tomorrow when she should have been coming here, so she decided to come today instead, Raimundo Silva had no idea that his charlady had a nephew, My sister can't afford to stay off work, That's fine, it doesn't make any difference, and he shut himself away in his study in order to use the telephone. But his courage failed him. Even with the door shut, he would feel uneasy about making a simple call to find out about the state of health of someone higher up the ranks, How have you been, Dr Maria Sara, perhaps it would be different, certainly easier, if his superior were a man rather than a woman, although Raimundo Silva would have to admit, if called to account, that whenever any of the other directors had been ill in all these years, our proof-reader had never once remembered to ring up and inquire about their precious health. In brief, what Raimundo Silva appeared not to want, for some obscure, not to say, clear reason, if we take into account what we have learned of this man's personality, withdrawn, indecisive, was that Senhora Maria should suspect that her employer was holding a telephone conversation with a woman. The outcome of this absurd conflict will be to request that his lunch should be left on the kitchen table while he goes out to rid himself of two obsessive presences, that of the telephone and that of Senhora Maria, both clearly innocent and oblivious of the war in which they have become involved. Raimundo Silva is eating the usual plate of soup with beans and greens, while a meat and potato stew, already heated up, is waiting on the stove, when the voice of Senhora Maria can be heard asking from the other room, Can I throw out this withered rose, and almost in a panic, he replies, No, no, leave it alone, I'll deal with it, he could not hear the charlady's closing remarks, but she made some comment, which may not have been resentful but sounded very much like it, a further reminder that it is impossible to deceive a woman, even if only a charlady, when a rose, a white rose if you please, suddenly appears in a man's apartment where no flower has ever been seen before, and it is just possible that what Senhora Maria said was, There's a Moorish ship on the coast, a historical and popular saying expressing grave suspicion, dating from the time when the Moors who had already been driven out of Portuguese territory were forever attacking our shores and coastal towns, and nowadays a mere rhetorical reminiscence, but serving some purpose, as has just been seen.