Skylight

by José Saramago

  “It just doesn’t seem possible.”

  An awkward silence ensued, broken by Claudinha:

  “Senhor Morais showed me the letter. He said he had no idea who had sent it.”

  Anselmo thought it proper to condemn all anonymous letters, describing them as “vile,” but Rosália leapt in with all the holy indignation of someone defending a just cause:

  “If it wasn’t for anonymous letters, a lot of things would remain hidden. You wouldn’t want poor Senhor Morais playing the cuckold, would you?”

  They were heading toward the decision that the events cried out for. Anselmo agreed:

  “Naturally, if I was in the same situation, I’d certainly want to know . . .”

  Scandalized at such a hypothesis, his wife broke in:

  “So that’s what you think of me, is it? Our daughter is here listening, you know!”

  Claudinha got up and went to her room. Still bristling, Rosália commented:

  “Honestly, the things you come out with! How could you?”

  “All right, all right. Isn’t it about time we ate?”

  The decision was postponed for the time being. Claudinha returned from her room and, shortly afterward, they were seated at the supper table. During the meal, husband and wife talked of nothing else, while Claudinha remained silent throughout, as if this were too scabrous a conversation for her to take any part in. Rosália and Anselmo examined the matter from all angles, except one, the one that would require them to make a decision. They both knew it was necessary, but tacitly put it off until later. Rosália declared that she had never liked Senhor Silvestre’s lodger and reminded her husband that the very first time she’d clapped eyes on the man, she had commented on his shabby appearance.

  “What I don’t understand,” said Anselmo, “is why Dona Lídia would get involved with some vagrant who has to live in rented rooms. Whatever can have possessed her?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? As you yourself said just now: what can you expect of someone living the life she lives?”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  When supper was over, Claudinha said she had a headache and was going to bed. Feeling able at last to talk more freely, husband and wife looked at each other, shook their heads and simultaneously opened their mouths to speak, then promptly closed them again, each waiting for the other to begin. In the end, it was Anselmo who spoke:

  “Well, what can you expect of a whore?”

  “Shameless hussy!”

  “I don’t blame him, of course. He’s a man, after all, and simply took what was offered. But her, when she’s so well set up at home!”

  “Nice dresses, lovely furs, beautiful jewelry . . .”

  “That’s what I mean, but once you’ve stumbled, it’s easy enough to stumble again. It’s in the blood. People like her are only happy when they’re thinking shameless thoughts.”

  “If only they were just thoughts!”

  “And with Senhor Silvestre’s lodger too, right under Senhor Morais’s nose!”

  “The woman has no shame at all!”

  All these things had to be said, because the decision could only be made when blame had been duly allotted. Anselmo picked up his knife and, using the blade, began carefully shepherding the crumbs on the table into a neat pile. His wife observed him intently, as if the very foundations of the building depended on the successful outcome of this task.

  “Well, in the circumstances,” said Anselmo, once all the crumbs were safely gathered in, “we have to take a stand.”

  “Indeed.”

  “We have to act.”

  “I agree.”

  “Claudinha must have nothing more to do with her. She’s a bad influence.”

  “I wouldn’t let Claudinha near her. In fact, it’s been on my mind for a while now.”

  Anselmo picked up his plate to reveal more crumbs, which he added to the others, declaring:

  “And as for us, we will never again speak to that woman, not even to say good morning or good afternoon. We’ll just pretend she doesn’t exist.”

  They were in complete agreement. Rosália began clearing the table and Anselmo took his photo album out of a drawer in the sideboard. They did not linger long after supper, though. High emotion is always draining. Husband and wife went to their bedroom, where they continued their harsh assessment of Lídia’s behavior. Their conclusion was this: some women—women whose mere existence is a blot on the lives of honest folk—simply deserve to be wiped from the face of the earth.

  Claudinha could not sleep, but it wasn’t the alleged and very real headache that prevented her from sleeping. She kept thinking about her conversation with Senhor Morais, which had not been quite as straightforward as she had given her parents to understand. She’d had no difficulty finding out what had happened between him and Lídia, but what had followed was less easy to describe. Nothing very terrible had occurred, nothing that could not or should not be told, but it was complicated. Not everything is as it seems, and not everything that seems is. Between being and seeming there is always a point of agreement, as if being and seeming were two inclined planes that converge and become one. There is a slope and the possibility of sliding down that slope, and when that happens, one reaches a point at which being and seeming meet.

  Claudinha had asked her question and been given an answer, but not immediately, because Paulino had a lot of work to do and could not give her the desired explanation there and then. She had to wait for six o’clock. Her colleagues left, and she stayed. Paulino called her into his office and told her to sit in the armchair reserved for the company’s more important clients. The armchair was a well-padded affair and rather low-slung. Claudinha had not given in to the latest fashion for long skirts, and so when she sat down, her skirt rode up above her knees. The soft upholstery held her there as if she were seated on a warm lap. Paulino paced up and down the office, then perched on one corner of his desk. He was wearing a light gray suit and yellow tie, which made him look more youthful. He lit a cigarillo, and the already stuffy atmosphere grew still heavier. It would soon become suffocating. Long minutes passed before Paulino spoke. Maria Cláudia found the silence, broken only by the tick-tock of the solemn grandfather clock, increasingly awkward. Paulino, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease. He had already smoked half his cigarillo when he said:

  “So you want to know what’s going on, do you?”

  “I realize, Senhor Morais”—that is how Maria Cláudia had responded—“I realize that I probably have no right to ask, but given my friendship with Dona Lídia . . .”

  That is what she said, as if she knew already that a quarrel was the only possible explanation for Paulino’s absence. She may have been under the influence of her mother, who could think of no other motive. Her response would have appeared foolish in the extreme if it turned out that there had been no such quarrel.

  “And does your friendship with me not count?” asked Paulino. “If your only reason for coming to talk to me about the matter is your friendship for her, I’m not sure I should . . .”

  “It was wrong of me to ask. Your personal life is none of my business. Please forgive me . . .”

  This show of disinterest could have provided Paulino with an excuse not to explain what had happened, but Paulino had been expecting Maria Cláudia to ask and had even considered how he might respond.

  “You haven’t answered my question. Is it just your friendship for her that makes you ask that question? Does the friendship you feel for me not count at all? Are you not my friend as well?”

  “You’ve always been very kind to me, Senhor Morais . . .”

  “I’m kind to the other employees too, and yet I’m not about to reveal details of my private life to them, nor do I invite them to sit in that armchair.”

  Maria Cláudia said nothing. She found his remark embarrassing and bowed her head, blushing. Paulino pretended not to notice. He drew up a chair and sat down opposite Claudinha. Then he told her what had happe
ned: the letter, the conversation with Lídia, the breakup. He omitted any episodes that might show him in an unfavorable light and presented himself with a dignity that would have been fatally compromised had he included them. When he faltered in his account of events, Maria Cláudia sensed that this was because he might well have emerged from the encounter as the less dignified of the two. However, as to the crux of the matter, there was no room for doubt once she had read the letter that Paulino showed to her:

  “I’m really sorry I asked you, Senhor Morais. I realize now that I had no right to.”

  “You had more right than you might think. We’re good friends, and there can be no secrets between friends.”

  “But . . .”

  “Naturally I’m not going to ask you to tell me yours. We men confide much more in women than they do in us, which is why I told you the whole story. I trust you, trust you completely.” He leaned forward, smiling. “So now we share a secret, and secrets bring people closer, don’t they?”

  Maria Cláudia merely smiled, as all women do when they don’t know what to say. The person at whom the smile is directed can interpret it as he or she wishes.

  “It’s good to see you smile. At my age, it’s always good to see young people smile. And you’re very young indeed.”

  Another smile from Maria Cláudia. Encouraged, Paulino went on:

  “And not just young, but pretty too.”

  “Thank you, Senhor Morais.”

  This time the smile did not come unaccompanied, and her voice quavered slightly.

  “There’s no need to blush, Claudinha. I’m only saying what’s true. I don’t know anyone as pretty as you.”

  In order to say something, since a smile was no longer enough, Claudinha said what she should not have said:

  “Dona Lídia was much prettier than me!”

  Yes, “was”! As if Lídia had died, as if she were no longer relevant to the conversation except as a point of comparison.

  “Not at all. I’m speaking as a man now, and you’re quite different. You’re young and pretty and there’s something about you that I find really . . . touching.”

  Paulino was very polite, so polite that he even said “May I?” before reaching out a hand to remove a stray hair that had fallen onto Claudinha’s shoulder. However, the hand did not follow the same trajectory on the way back. It brushed Claudinha’s face, so slowly it resembled a caress, so lingeringly it appeared not to want to move away. Claudinha sprang to her feet. Paulino’s voice, grown suddenly husky, said:

  “What’s wrong, Claudinha?”

  “Nothing, Senhor Morais. I have to go. It’s late.”

  “But it’s not even seven o’clock yet.”

  “Yes, but I have to go.”

  She made as if to leave, but Paulino blocked the way. She looked at him, tremulous and frightened. He reassured her. He touched her cheek as an affectionate grandfather might do and murmured:

  “Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t hurt you. I only want what’s best for you.”

  Exactly what her parents used to say to her: “We only want what’s best for you.”

  “Did you hear? I only want what’s best for you.”

  “I have to go, Senhor Morais.”

  “But you do believe what I just said, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, Senhor Morais.”

  “And we’re friends?”

  “Yes, Senhor Morais.”

  “And we always will be?”

  “I hope so, Senhor Morais.”

  “Excellent!”

  He stroked her cheek again, saying:

  “What I told you is strictly between you and me. It’s a secret. You can tell your parents if you like, but if you do, be sure to say that I only left that woman because she proved unworthy of me. I could never leave someone I truly cared about, not without some pressing reason. It’s true that, for some time now, I haven’t felt entirely comfortable with her. I think my feelings for her were already beginning to fade. There’s someone else, someone I’ve only known for a few weeks. And I’ve found it very hard having that other person so close to me and not being able to talk to her. Do you understand, Claudinha? It was you I was thinking of!”

  Arms outstretched, he approached Claudinha and gripped her shoulders. Claudinha felt his lips brush her face in search of her lips. She smelled his cigar breath, felt his greedy mouth devouring hers. She didn’t have the strength to push him away. When he released her, she sat down on the armchair, exhausted. Then, without looking at him, she murmured:

  “Please let me go now, Senhor Morais.”

  Paulino took a deep breath, as if he could at last breathe freely, his lungs unconstricted. He said:

  “I’m going to make you very happy, Claudinha!”

  Then he opened his office door and summoned the office boy, telling him to fetch Claudinha’s coat. The office boy was his trusted inside man, so trusted that he did not appear to notice Maria Cláudia’s agitated state or express surprise when the boss helped her on with her coat.

  And that was it. That was what Maria Cláudia did not tell her parents. Her head still throbbing, sleep continued to elude her. She lay on her back, hands behind her head, thinking. It was impossible not to understand what Paulino wanted. Impossible to close her eyes to the evidence. She was still on the slippery slope of “seeming,” but as close to “being” as one hour is to the next. She knew she had not reacted as she should have, not just during that last conversation, but since the very first day, from the moment when, left alone with Paulino in Lídia’s apartment, she had felt his insatiable eyes undressing her. She had not written that letter, but she knew nonetheless that she had been responsible for his breakup with Lídia. She knew that she had reached this point not because of what she had done, but because of what she had not done. She knew all this. The only thing she did not know was whether she wanted to take Lídia’s place, because that was what it came down to now, wanting or not wanting. If she had told her parents everything, she would not be going back to the office in the morning. But she preferred not to tell them. Why? Was it a desire to deal with things in her own way? But “her own way” had gotten her into this situation. Was it the reserved silence of someone who wants to be independent? But at what price?

  A few seconds before, Maria Cláudia had heard the click-clack of high heels in the apartment below. She took no notice at first, but the sound continued and finally penetrated her thoughts. She was intrigued. Then she heard the door of the downstairs apartment opening, the key turning in the lock and, after a brief silence, someone going down the stairs. It was Lídia. Maria Cláudia glanced at the luminous face of the clock on her bedside table. A quarter to eleven. What was Lídia doing out and about at that hour? Barely had she formulated this question than she found the answer. She gave a wry smile, but realized at once how monstrous that smile was. She felt a sudden impulse to weep. She drew the bedclothes up over her head to muffle her sobs. And there, almost suffocating from the lack of air and from her tears, she determined that the next day she would tell her parents everything.

  33

  When, after much bureaucratic toing and froing and at vast expense, Emílio finally came home bearing all the documents that his wife and son needed in order to leave, Carmen almost jumped up and down with delight. The days of waiting had seemed to her like years. She had feared that some obstacle would force her to postpone the journey for longer than her impatience could bear. Now, though, there was nothing to fear. She kept leafing through her passport with childlike curiosity. She read it from cover to cover. Everything was in order, she just had to decide on a date and forewarn her parents. Had it been up to her, she would have left the very next day and sent a telegram, but there were still the suitcases to be packed. Emílio helped her, and the evenings taken up with this task were some of the happiest they had spent together as a family. Henrique, quite unwittingly, cast a pall over the general mood of contentment when he expressed his regret that his father would not be c
oming with them. However, once Carmen and Emílio’s combined efforts and combined goodwill had convinced him that this was a matter of no importance, he soon forgot about that minor cloud. If his parents were happy, then he should be too. If his parents did not weep as they apportioned clothes and other personal items, it would be absurd for him to cry. After just three of these evening sessions, everything was ready. The suitcases already bore the wooden labels with Carmen’s name and destination on them. Emílio bought the tickets and told his wife that they would sort out these matters on her return, for, since her parents had promised to pay for the tickets and Emílio had been obliged to borrow money in order to buy them, there would have to be a settling of accounts. Carmen assured him that she would send him the money as soon as she arrived, so that he would not get into any financial difficulties. Both husband and wife took great pains to be as considerate to each other as possible, and so Henrique had the joy of spending those last few hours with his parents reconciled and more communicative than he had ever seen them before.

  Carmen learned what had happened to Dona Lídia only the day before her departure. On the pretext of wishing Carmen a safe journey, Rosália spent a large part of the morning telling her about Paulino’s justifiable anger. She explained the reasons and, entirely on her own initiative, suggested that this was not the first time Lídia had abused Senhor Morais’s good faith. She was prodigal in her praise of her daughter’s employer and the delicate, noble way in which he had dealt with the whole affair. And she was quick to mention, too, that after only one month in her new post, Claudinha had already received a wage increase.

  At the time, Carmen merely expressed the natural dismay of anyone hearing such a sorry tale. She shared Rosália’s outrage, bemoaned the immoral behavior of certain women and, like her neighbor, rejoiced privately that she was not like them. When Rosália left, she realized that she was still thinking about the affair, which would be fine if she wasn’t about to leave the next day and if it didn’t distract her from other concerns. What did it matter that Dona Lídia, about whom she personally had no complaints (on the contrary, Dona Lídia had been very kind to her and always gave Henriquinho ten tostões for running errands for her), what did it matter to her that she had committed such a vile act?