Then it happened. About seventy-five kilometers away from the easternmost point of the island of Santa Maria, with no warning, no one felt the slightest shock, the peninsula began to sail in a northerly direction. For several minutes, while observers in all the geographical institutes of Europe and America analyzed in disbelief the satellite data and hesitated about making them public, millions of terrified people in Portugal and Spain had already been saved from death, without knowing it. During those minutes, tragically, some began quarreling in the hope of being killed, and perhaps had their wish granted, and some, frightened out of their wits, committed suicide. Some implored pardon for their sins, while others, thinking there was no time for repentance, inquired of God and the Devil what new sins they might still commit. There were women who gave birth hoping that their offspring would be stillborn, and others who knew they were carrying children they would never deliver. And when a universal cry echoed throughout the world, They're saved, they're saved, some would not believe it and went on lamenting the approaching end until there could be no more doubt, governments swore to it in every tone, the experts started giving explanations, the reason advanced for their salvation was a mighty current, artificially produced, and a great debate ensued as to whether the Americans or the Russians were responsible.
Rejoicing spread like wildfire, filling the entire peninsula with laughter and dancing, especially on that great strip of land where millions of displaced persons had gathered. Fortunately, this occurred at midday, when those who still had some provisions were about to eat, the confusion and chaos would otherwise have been dreadful, the authorities maintained, but they were soon to regret this hasty judgment, for no sooner had the news been confirmed than thousands and thousands of people began the long trek home. It became necessary to circulate the cruel hypothesis that the peninsula might revert to its original route, now a little farther north. Not everyone believed the news, especially since another worry was quietly creeping into people's thoughts, in their mind's eye they could see abandoned cities, towns and villages, their own native city, town, or village, the street and the house where they once lived, their home ransacked by opportunists who didn't believe in old wives' tales or who accepted the hypothetical risk with the naturalness of the acrobat who must attempt a triple somersault night after night, these visions were not the fantasies of a sick mind, for throughout all those deserted places thieves, robbers, and scoundrels of every age were warily mustering, ready to pounce, and passing the word along. The first to arrive helps himself and anyone who comes later must look for another house to loot, don't start bickering, there's plenty for everyone. But let no one, say we, be tempted to break into Maria Guavaira's house, it's the worst thing anyone could do, for the man inside is armed with a shotgun, and he will open the door only to the mistress of the house to assure her, I've guarded your property, now marry me, unless, dazed and exhausted after so many nights of vigil, he might have fallen asleep on a pile of blue wool, and thus have wasted the best years of his manhood.
Exercising prudence, the inhabitants of the Azores still had not returned to their homes on the islands, let us try to put ourselves in their shoes, it is true that any immediate danger has passed, yet it continues to lurk there, this is like a new version of the tale about the iron pan and the clay pan, with the important difference that the clay in this case was only good for making the mugs typical of these islands, there was not enough to make the pan of a continent, which, if it ever existed, sank to the bottom and was called Atlantis. We would be very foolish were we not to learn from experience, or our memory of it, however false both may be. But the sentiment that causes the five people under that tree to linger is not prudence, now that everyone has set off in the direction of the coasts of Portugal and Galicia, in triumphant reentry, as it were, bearing branches and flowers, with bands playing, fireworks exploding, bells pealing as they pass in procession, families return to their homes, perhaps there are things missing, but they have brought life with them and that is the most important thing, life, the table where we eat, the bed where we sleep and where this night, out of sheer happiness, we will make the most wonderful love in the world. Underneath the tree, their wagon waiting and the horse's strength restored, the five who have remained behind look at the dog as if expecting some sign or mandate, You who came from we know not where, you who turned up one day so weary from your travels that you collapsed into my arms, you who passed and stared as I was showing the men where I drew a line on the ground with a stick, you who waited for us beside the car we parked beneath the lean-to, you who had a blue thread hanging from your mouth, you who guided us along so many roads and paths, you who accompanied me to the sea where we found the stone ship, tell us by some movement, gesture, or sign, since you cannot even bark, tell us where we must go, for none of us wishes to return to the house in the valley, for all of us it would mean the beginning of that final return, the man who wants to marry me would say, Marry me, the office manager where I work would tell me, 1 need that invoice, my husband would say to me, So you've finally come back to me, the father of my worst pupil would inform me, Schoolmaster, I've given him a few paddlings, the notary's wife who complains of headaches would plead, Give me some pills for my headache, so do tell us where we should go, arise and walk and that will be our destination.
The dog, who was lying under the wagon, lifted its head as if hearing voices, jumped up briskly, and ran to Pedro Orce, who held its head between his hands, Would you like to come with me, he asked the dog, and these were the only words he spoke. Maria Guavaira owns the horse and wagon and she still has not made up her mind, but Joana Carda looked at José Anaiço, who read her thoughts, Whatever you may decide, I'm not going back. Then Maria Guavaira said in a loud, clear voice, There's a time for staying and a time for leaving, the time hasn't yet come to return, and Joaquim Sassa asked, Where do we want to go. Nowhere in particular. Let's go to the other side of the peninsula, Pedro Orce suggested, I've never seen the Pyrenees. Nor are you likely to see them now, half of them were left behind in Europe, José Anaiço reminded them. What difference does it make, you can recognize a giant by looking at his finger. They were delighted with this decision, but Maria Guavaira warned them, The horse has carried us all this way on its own, but it can't do the rest of the journey by itself, the horse has seen better days and the wagon should really be drawn by a pair, with only one horse, it's lopsided. So what are we going to do, asked Joaquim Sassa. We'll need to find another horse, It can't be easy to find horses around here, besides a good horse costs a lot of money, and we probably can't afford it.
The problem appears to be insoluble, but here we will see further evidence of how adaptable the human spirit can be. Only a few days ago, Maria Guavaira flatly rejected the idea of spending the night in an abandoned house, her words still echo in the ears of those with a good memory, yet such is the force of circumstance that Maria Guavaira is about to turn her back on a lifetime of moral integrity, let us hope no one will taunt her with this lapse from grace, We won't buy it, we'll steal it, those were her very words, and now Joana Carda, concerned not to offend their sensibilities, tries indirectly to ease their conscience, I've never stolen anything in my life. There was sin awkward silence, people need time to adapt to new codes of morality, here the first move was made by Pedro Orce, contrary to the custom of the elderly, such staunch believers in traditional values, We've never stolen anything in our life, it's always in the life of others, this could be the maxim of a cynical philosopher, but is merely a statement of fact, said Pedro Orce with a smile, but the words had been spoken. All right, we've made up our minds, let's steal a horse, but how do we go about it, let's toss a coin to see who should go on this expe dition. I'd better go, said Maria Guavaira, you don't know anything about horses, and you'd never be able to get it here. I'll come with you, said Joaquim Sassa, but perhaps we should take the dog with us to protect us from any danger we might encounter.
That night the three of them left the encam
pment and set out for the east, a region that had remained relatively tranquil and where there was greater likelihood of finding what they wanted. Before departing, Joaquim Sassa said, We don't know how long we'll be, wait for us here. Come to think of it, perhaps we should have brought a bigger car with room for everyone and the luggage and the dog too, commented José Anaiço. There are no such cars, what we need is a truck, besides don't forget that we didn't find a single vehicle that was running and fit to put on the road, and now that we have a horse we can't just abandon it somewhere. In their time the musketeers declared, One for all and all for one, they were four, now they are five, without counting the dog. Or the horse.
Maria Guavaira and Joaquim Sassa set off, the animal trotting in front, sniffing out the winds and investigating the shadows. The expedition is faintly absurd, chasing off in search of a horse. A mule would do just as well, Maria Guavaira had said, without knowing if such an animal existed within five leagues, perhaps it would be easier to find an ox, but you don't hitch an ox and a horse to a wagon together, or a donkey, with such a heavy load it would be like trying to make something strong from combined weakness, something that happens only in parables, like the one about the rushes we quoted earlier. They walked and walked, left the road whenever they glimpsed any dwellings or farmhouses amid the fields, if there were any horses around that is where they would find them, for what we need are beasts of burden rather than horses bred for show or for bullfighting. The moment they approached dogs started barking, but they were soon quiet again, we will never know what secret powers the Dog possessed to make even the loudest and most excitable watchdog suddenly fall silent, and not because some wild beast from the underworld had savaged it, in that case there would have been signs of a struggle, cries of pain, the silence is not sepulchral simply because no one is dying.
By the early hours of morning, Maria Guavaira and Joaquim Sassa could scarcely lift their feet, they were so tired, he had said, We must go on searching, and they searched so hard that they found rather than discovered what they were looking for, and it came about in the simplest way imaginable. Dawn was already breaking, the night sky to the east had turned a deep blue, when they heard a muffled neigh coming from a hollow by the road, a sweet miracle, I'm here, they went to look and found a tethered horse, it was not the Good Lord who had put it there to enhance His catalog of miracles, but the beast's rightful owner, whom the blacksmith had instructed, Put this ointment on the sore and leave the horse out to catch the morning dew, do this for three consecutive nights starting on a Friday, and if the horse isn't cured, I'll give you back your money and stake my reputation. A fettered horse, unless one has a sharp knife to cut the rope, cannot be carried off on one's shoulders, but Maria Guavaira knows how to deal with animals, and despite the beast's nervousness at being handled by a stranger, she succeeded in coaxing it into the shadows of the trees, where at the risk of being trampled or receiving a mighty kick, she managed to untie the awkward knot. Usually in such cases one makes a simple knot, one easily undone, but perhaps that's a skill people do not practice in these parts. Fortunately, the horse also realized that they were trying to free it, and freedom is always welcome, even when we're facing the unknown.
They returned by roads well off the beaten track, trusting more than ever in the dog's ability to foresee anything suspicious coming in their direction, and in its effectiveness in dealing with any inopportune visitors. When day broke, already remote from the scene of the crime, they began meeting people in the fields and along the roads, but no one appeared to recognize the horse, and even if they did, perhaps they would not have given it another thought, for they made such a lovely and innocent picture, the damsel sidesaddle on the palfrey, to put it in medieval terms, and the knight-errant walking ahead, laboriously leading the horse by the reins they had fortunately remembered to bring. The mastiff completed this heavenly vision, which some mistook for a dream, others as a sign of the change of life, the former and latter both unaware that all they are seeing go past are two wicked horse thieves, how true that appearances can deceive, what is generally overlooked is that they can deceive twice, perhaps a reason for trusting first impressions and inquiring no further. That's why some will be claiming before the day is out, Why, this morning I saw Amadís and Oriana, she on horseback, he on foot, and they had a dog with them, It can't have been Amadís and Oriana, for they were never seen with a dog, Well, I saw it, and that's a fact, one witness is as good as a hundred, But in the lives, loves, and adventures of those two, no dog is ever mentioned, Then let their stories be rewritten, and as often as may prove necessary until nothing has been left out. Nothing, Well, almost nothing.
They reached the encampment early that evening and were received with much hugging and laughter. The gray horse looked askance at the sorrel, which was gasping for breath. It has a sore on its back that is almost dry, they've obviously rubbed on some ointment and left it outdoors for three nights, starting on a Friday, an infallible remedy.
As people return to their homes and life gradually returns, as one is wont to say, to normal, the arguments rage on among the scientists about possible causes for the peninsula's deviation at the very last minute, just when it appeared that nothing could avert the catastrophe. The theories vary, nearly all of them irreconcilable, thus contributing mathematically to the irreducibility of experts locked in controversy.
A first theory considers the peninsula's new course to be entirely random, forming as it does a perfect right angle with the previous one, and thus rules out any explanation that might assume, shall we say, an act of volition. Besides, to whom could such an act be attributed, since no one is likely to suggest that the incessant swarming, on an enormous mass of stone and earth, of tens of millions of people could somehow be added or multiplied to engender an intelligence or power capable of acting with a precision one can only describe as diabolical.
Another theory maintains that the peninsula's advance or, to put it more accurately, its progression, and we shall soon see why this is the better word, will result time and time again in another right angle, which ipso facto allows for the amazing possibility that the peninsula will return to its point of departure after a succession or, we repeat, progression of displacements, which after a certain point could be less than a millimeter in length, until it finally settles in precisely the right place.
The third theory advances the existence on the peninsula of a magnetic field, or some other force, capable on approaching an alien body of sufficient volume of unleashing an aversive process of a rather special nature, since as we have seen the aversive motion does not reverse the direction of the original movement, but is instead essentially a skid, to borrow a mundane example from the familiar realm of the automobile, but what determines whether this should be to the north or to the south is something the experts forgot to consider.
Finally, a fourth and more heterodox theory has recourse to what it terms metapsychic powers, affirming that the peninsula was diverted from collision by a vector formed in less than a tenth of a second from the concentration of the stricken population's sheer terror and the desire for salvation. This explanation gained wide popularity mainly because its author, in his efforts to make the theory accessible to simple minds, borrowed an example from physics and demonstrated how the incidence of solar rays on a biconvex lens causes those rays to converge on a focal point, resulting, as one would expect, in heat, combustion, and fire, the intensifying effect of the lens having an obvious parallel in the power of the collective mind, through which so many chaotic individual thoughts are stimulated, concentrated, and worked up in a moment of crisis to a state of paroxysm. The incongruity of this explanation troubled no one, on the contrary, many people began proposing that all problems concerning man's psyche, spirit, soul, will, and creation should henceforth be explained in physical terms, even if only by simple analogy or dubious inference. The theory is even now being studied and developed with a view to applying its fundamental principles to daily lif
e, in particular to the functioning of political parties and competitive sports, to cite two familiar examples.
Some skeptics argue, however, that the real test of all these hypotheses, since that is all they are, will be seen in a few weeks' time, if the peninsula continues to follow its present route, which will cause it to stall between Greenland and Iceland, inhospitable territories for Portuguese and Spaniards accustomed to the mildness and languor of a temperate climate that is generally warm for the greater part of the year. If this were to happen, the only logical conclusion to be drawn from all we have witnessed so far is that the journey was not worthwhile. Which, on the other hand, would, or will, be much too simple a way of confronting the problem, for no journey is but one journey, each journey comprises a number of journeys, and if one of them seems so meaningless that we have no hesitation in saying it was not worthwhile, our common sense, were it not so often clouded by prejudice and idleness, would tell us that we should verify whether the journeys within that journey were not of sufficient value to have justified all the trials and tribulations. Bearing all this in mind, we will refrain from making any final judgments or assumptions. Journeys succeed each other and accumulate like generations, between the grandson you were and the grandfather you will be, what father will you have been. Therefore a journey, however futile, is necessary.
The Collected Novels of José Saramago Page 144
