Yann Martel - The High Mountains of Portugal

“Come,” says Simão.

Tomás joins him at the front of the automobile. This notion of pushing the automobile is preposterous. Still, to be polite to the man who has so obligingly helped him and is now ready beside him to push, he places a shoulder against the automobile.

“One — two — three!” cries Simão, and he pushes, and Tomás too, though not very hard.

To his amazement, the automobile moves. He’s so amazed, in fact, that he forgets to move with it and he falls flat on his face. In a matter of seconds, the vehicle stands three lengths from the tree.

Simão is beaming. “What an astonishing machine!”

“Yes, it is,” says Tomás, incredulous.

As he picks himself up off the ground, he discreetly takes hold of the axe. Placing it close to his leg, he returns it to the cabin. Simão is still gazing at the automobile with unbounded admiration.

Tomás would like nothing better than to stay where he is for the night, but the prospect of Casimiro arriving on the scene, and having to explain the attack on his quarter-millennium olive tree, strongly advises against the option. Besides, he’s lost. If he stays the night, he will still be lost in the morning.

“Simão, I was wondering if you might help me find my way out of here. I seem to have got lost.”

“Where do you want to go? To Nisa?”

“No, I’ve just come from there. I’m heading for Vila Velha de Ródão.”

“Vila Velha? You have got very lost. But it’s no problem. I know the way.”

“That’s wonderful. Might you help me start the automobile?”

With the condition his hands are in, the idea of having to turn the starting handle makes Tomás feel faint. He supposes Simão will take pleasure in it. He’s right. The peasant’s face breaks into a wide grin.

“Yes, of course. What do you want me to do?”

Tomás shows him the starting handle and the direction in which to turn it. As the machine explodes to life, Simão might as well be struck by lightning — the effect is the same. Tomás waves at him to get into the driving compartment and Simão scampers aboard. Tomás puts the vehicle into first gear, and as it moves forward he glances at his passenger. His face confirms what Tomás already suspected from watching his uncle: The machine turns grown men into little boys. Simão’s weathered features are transformed by delight. If he shrieked and giggled, Tomás would not be surprised.

“Which way should I go?” he asks.

Simão points. Every few minutes Simão corrects his course and soon the trace of a track appears. Then a proper track, smoother and verged. The driving becomes easier and faster. Simão’s delight continues undiminished.

After a good half hour of driving, they reach a true, blessed road. Tomás stops the automobile.

“I never thought I’d be so happy to see a road. So which way is Vila Velha de Ródão?” he asks.

Simão indicates to the right.

“Thank you very much, Simão. You’ve been of invaluable help. I must reward you.” Tomás reaches into the pocket of his charred jacket.

Simão shakes his head. With a struggle, as if his tongue has been lost deep inside his body, he speaks. “My reward is having been in this amazing carriage. It is I who thank you.”

“It’s nothing. I’m sorry I’ve taken you so far out of your way.”

“It’s not so far on foot.”

Simão reluctantly vacates the passenger seat, and Tomás prods the machine onward. “Thank you, thank you again,” he shouts.

Simão waves until he disappears from view in the side mirror.

Shortly thereafter, with a dragging to one side and a fluf-fluf-fluf-fluf sound, Tomás realizes that something is wrong. He presses on one pedal, then another.

It takes a few walkabouts around the vehicle before he sees that the front right tire is — he searches for the word— flat . The roundness of the wheel is no longer so round. There were some pages in the manual about this eventuality. He skipped them when it became apparent that the wheels, in their roundness, at least, did not require lubrication. He retrieves the manual and finds the appropriate section. He blanches. This is serious engineering work. He can see that even before he has translated the details from the French.

Understanding the nature and operation of the jack; assembling it; finding where it must be placed under the automobile; jacking the automobile up; unbolting and removing the wheel; replacing it with the spare wheel from the footboard; tightly bolting the fresh wheel into place; returning everything to its proper place — an experienced motorist might do it in half an hour. It takes him, with his raw hands, two hours.

At last, his hands sullied and throbbing, his body sweaty and aching, the task is done. He should be pleased that he can proceed again, but all he feels is mortal exhaustion. He retreats to the driving compartment and stares out in front of him. His head is prickly, as is the unwanted beard that is growing on his face. “Enough! Enough!” he whispers. What does suffering do to a man? Does it open him up? Does he understand any more as a result of his suffering? In the case of Father Ulisses, for the longest time it seems the answer to these questions was no. Tomás remembers a telling incident:

Today I saw a fight on a plantation. Two slaves clashed. Others stood about, with stupefied expressions. A female slave, the object of contention, looked on, impassive, indifferent. Whoever won, she would lose. Continually shouting in their native gibberish, the two fought, at first with words & gestures, then their fists, then their tools. The matter proceeded swiftly, from injured prides to injured bodies, from bruising & bleeding to frenzied hacking, till the end was reached: a dead slave with a torso cleft with deep cuts & a half-severed head. Whereupon the other slaves, the female included, turned & got back to their work lest the overseer arrive on the scene. The victor slave, his visage apathetic, threw some soil on the body, then returned to cutting cane. None of the slaves will come forward to acknowledge or explain, to accuse or defend. Just silence & the hoeing of sugar cane. The dead man’s decay will be rapid, started by insects & predatory birds & beasts & accelerated by the sun & rain. Soon nothing but a lump will be left of him. Only if the overseer directly steps onto this lump will its gashed blackness reveal white bones & decaying red flesh. Then the overseer will know the whereabouts of the slave who went missing.

Of this appalling scene, Father Ulisses has only one significant comment to make:

Such were the Lord’s wounds, like that dead slave’s injuries. His hands, his feet, his forehead where the crown of thorns pierced his skin & especially the wound on his side from the soldier’s spear — carmine red, very, very bright, a pull on the eyes.

Such was the suffering of Christ: “carmine red” and a “pull on the eyes”. But the suffering of the two men who fought to death before his very eyes? They are not worth a word. No more than the spectator slaves would Father Ulisses come forward to acknowledge or explain, to accuse or to defend. He seems to have been deaf and dumb to the suffering of the slaves. Or, to be more accurate, he seems to have seen nothing peculiar about it: They suffer, but so do I — so what of it?

The land begins to change as Tomás drives on. The Portugal that he knows is a land solemn in its beauty. A land that prizes the sound of work, both human and animal. A land devoted to duty. Now an element of wilderness begins to intrude. Great outcrops of round rocks. Dark green vegetation that is dry and scrubby. Wandering flocks of goats and sheep. He sees the High Mountains of Portugal foreshadowed in these extrusions of rocks, like the roots of a tree that break above ground, heralding the tree itself.