Skylight

by José Saramago

  Amélia read and reread. She had a vague feeling that the answer to the mystery lay somewhere there. She no longer suspected Adriana of having committed any grave fault. Adriana obviously liked that man, but he didn’t love her. Why would he want to make me jealous when he doesn’t even know I like him? Even if Adriana had spoken of her love to her sister, she couldn’t have said any more than she’d written in the diary. And even if she was afraid of being indiscreet and hadn’t confided to her diary everything that had happened, she wouldn’t have written that he didn’t love her! However insincere she was when writing the diary, she wouldn’t conceal the whole truth. If she did, what then would be the point of keeping a diary? A diary is made for unburdening oneself. The only thing she had to unburden herself about was the pain of an unrequited, indeed totally unsuspected love. So why were the two sisters so cold and distant with each other?

  Amélia continued to read, going back in time. Always the same complaints, problems at work, some mistake she had made adding up a column of figures, music, the names of musicians, her mother’s and her aunt’s occasional tantrums, her own tantrum over the matter of her wages . . . She blushed when she read what her niece had to say about her: Aunt Amélia is very grumpy today. But immediately after that, she was touched to read: I love my aunt. I love my mother. I love Isaura. Then back to Beethoven again, the mask of Beethoven, Adriana’s god. And always that ever-futile he. She went further back in time: days, weeks, months. The complaints vanished. Now it was love newborn and full of uncertainty, but still at too early a stage to doubt him. Before the page on which he appeared for the first time, there were only banalities.

  Sitting with the notebook open on her lap, Amélia felt cheated and, at the same time, pleased. There was nothing terrible, only a secret love turned in upon itself, a failed love like the one recorded in that bundle of letters tied up with green ribbon. So where was the secret? Where was the reason behind Isaura’s tears and Adriana’s pretended good humor?

  She leafed through the diary again to find the entry for March 23: Isaura’s eyes were red . . . as if she had been crying . . . she was in a nervous state . . . the book . . . the pleasurable pain or the painful pleasure . . .

  Was that the explanation? She put the diary back in the box. She locked it. She locked the drawer. She could get no further information from it. Adriana, it seemed, had no secrets, and yet there clearly was a secret, but where?

  All paths were blocked. There was that book, of course . . . Now what was the last book Isaura had read? Amélia’s memory resisted and closed all doors. Then suddenly it opened them again to reveal the names of authors and the titles of novels, although not the one she was looking for. Her memory kept one door shut, a door to which she could not find the key. Amélia could remember it all. The small package on the table next to the radio. Isaura had told her what it was and the name of the author. Then (she remembered this clearly) they had listened to Honegger’s The Dance of the Dead. And she recalled the ragtime music coming from the neighbors’ apartment and the argument with her sister.

  Perhaps Adriana had written about that in her diary. She opened the drawer again and looked for Adriana’s entry for that day. Honegger and him were there, but that was all.

  Having closed the drawer again, she looked at the keys in the palm of her hand. She felt ashamed. She was certainly guilty of having committed a grave fault. She knew something she was not supposed to know: Adriana’s thwarted love.

  She left the room, crossed the kitchen and opened the window of the enclosed balcony. The sun was still high and bright. The sky and the river were bright too. Far off, the hills on the other side were blue with distance. Her throat tightened with sadness. That was what life, her life, was like—sad and dull. Now she, too, had a secret to keep. She clutched the keys more tightly in her hand. The buildings opposite were not as tall as theirs. On one of the rooftops, two cats were lazing in the sun. With a sure, determined hand, she threw the keys down at them one by one.

  The cats scattered beneath this unexpected onslaught. The keys rolled down the roof and into the gutter. And that was that. And it was then that it occurred to Amélia that one other possibility remained: she could open Isaura’s drawer. But no, what would be the point? Isaura didn’t keep a diary, and even if she did . . . Amélia felt suddenly weary. She went back into the kitchen, sat down on a bench and wept. She had been defeated. She had tried and she had lost. Just as well. She hadn’t discovered her nieces’ secret and now she didn’t want to. Even if she could remember the title of that book, she wouldn’t go to the library to find it. She would make every effort to forget, and if that closed door in her memory should ever open, she would lock it again with every key she could find, apart from the “stolen” ones she had just thrown out of the window. Stolen keys . . . violated secrets . . . No more! She was too ashamed ever to repeat what she had done.

  She dried her eyes and stood up. She had to get the supper ready. Isaura and her mother would soon be back and would wonder what had delayed her. She went into the dining room to fetch a utensil she needed. There was a copy of Rádio-Nacional on the radio set. It had been such a long time since she had listened properly to any music. She picked up the magazine, opened it and looked for that day’s program. News, talks, music . . . then her eyes were drawn irresistibly to one particular line. She read and reread the three words. Just three words—a whole world. She slowly put the magazine down again. Her eyes remained fixed on some point in space. She appeared to be waiting for a revelation. And the revelation duly came.

  She quickly untied her apron and put on her shoes and coat. She opened her own private drawer, took out a small piece of jewelry: an old gold brooch in the form of a fleur-de-lis. She scribbled a note on a scrap of paper: Had to go out. Make your own supper. Don’t worry, it’s nothing grave. Amélia.

  It was almost dark by the time she returned, and she was so tired she could barely walk. With her she had brought a parcel, which she took to her room. She refused to say why she had gone out.

  “But you’re exhausted!” cried Cândida.

  “I certainly am.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “It’s a secret—for now anyway.”

  Sitting down, she looked at her sister and smiled. Then she looked at Isaura and Adriana and continued to smile. And her gaze was so gentle, her smile so affectionate, that her nieces were touched. They asked more questions, but she silently shook her head, still maintaining that same gaze and that same smile.

  They ate supper, then settled down for the evening. Trifling tasks filled the long, slow minutes. A woodworm could be heard gnawing away somewhere. The radio was silent.

  At around ten o’clock, Amélia suddenly got up.

  “Are you going to bed?” asked her sister.

  Without responding, Amélia turned on the radio. The apartment filled with sounds as an inexhaustible torrent of chords burst forth from an organ. Cândida and her daughters looked up, surprised. The expression on Amélia’s face intrigued them. The same smile, the same gaze. Then, after one last phrase of baroque eloquence, the organ fell silent, like a cathedral collapsing in on itself. The silence lasted only a few seconds, then the presenter announced the next piece of music.

  “Beethoven’s Ninth! Oh, how wonderful, Auntie!” exclaimed Adriana, clapping her hands like a child.

  They all settled back in their chairs. Amélia left the room and returned a moment later, when the first movement had already begun. She had brought the parcel with her and placed it on the table. Her sister shot her an inquiring look. Amélia took down from the wall two of the portraits decorating it. Slowly, as if performing a special ritual, she unwrapped the package. Relegated to the background, the music continued to play. The rustle of paper drowned it out. Then the paper slipped to the floor and the mask of Beethoven appeared.

  It was like the end of the final act of a play, except that the curtain did not fall. Amélia looked at Adriana and said, as she fixed the
mask to the wall:

  “Ages ago, I remember hearing you say that you’d like to have a mask of his face. I wanted to surprise you!”

  “Oh, Auntie, that’s so sweet of you!”

  “But how could you afford it?” asked Cândida.

  “That doesn’t matter,” said her sister. “It’s a secret.”

  When they heard that word, Adriana and Isaura glanced furtively at their aunt, but there was not a hint of suspicion in her eyes. There was only great tenderness, a tenderness that shone through what would have resembled tears—if Aunt Amélia had been the crying type.

  35

  “Abel’s taking a long time. Do you want to start your supper?”

  “No, wait a bit longer.”

  Mariana sighed:

  “He might not come. I’m not sure that two people should wait for one . . .”

  “If he wasn’t going to be here for supper, he’d have said. If you don’t want to wait, go ahead. I’m not that hungry.”

  “No, nor am I.”

  Hearing the front door open, they both jumped. When Abel appeared, Silvestre asked:

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You mean you didn’t get anywhere?”

  Abel drew up a bench and sat down:

  “I went to the office. I told the office boy I was a client and wanted to speak to Senhor Morais. I was ushered into a room and, shortly afterward, Senhor Morais joined me. As soon as I told him why I’d come, though, he immediately rang the bell for the office boy and told him to throw me out. I tried to explain, but he just turned on his heel and left. In the corridor I passed the young girl from the upstairs apartment, and she looked at me contemptuously. Anyway, the long and the short of it is, they put me out in the street.”

  Silvestre thumped the table:

  “Bastard!”

  “That’s what he called me a little while ago when I phoned him at home. He called me a bastard and hung up.”

  “So now what?”

  “Well, if he wasn’t an old man, I’d go around and punch him in the face. As it is, I can’t even do that.”

  Silvestre got to his feet and paced angrily up and down the kitchen:

  “Life’s nothing but a dung heap, really, a great steaming pile of dung. So there’s nothing to be done, then?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ll just have to do what I have to do—”

  Silvestre broke in:

  “Have to do? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s quite simple. I obviously can’t stay here. All the neighbors know what happened. It would seem arrogant of me to stay. Besides, she’s not going to feel comfortable knowing I’m still here and knowing what the neighbors are saying.”

  “You mean you want to leave?”

  Abel gave a slightly weary smile:

  “No, I don’t want to leave, but I must. I’ve found another room already. I’ll move my things out tomorrow. Please, don’t look at me like that!”

  Mariana was crying. Silvestre went over to Abel, placed his hands on his shoulders and tried to speak, but failed.

  “It’s all right,” said Abel.

  Silvestre attempted a smile:

  “If I was a woman, I’d be crying too. But since I’m not . . .”

  He turned abruptly toward the wall, as if he didn’t want Abel to see his face. Abel got up and made him turn around:

  “Come on now, you don’t want us all crying, do you? We can’t have that.”

  “I’m just so sorry to see you go!” sobbed Mariana. “We’re used to having you here now. You’re like one of the family.”

  Abel listened, greatly moved. He looked from one to the other and asked very slowly:

  “Do you really think I should stay?”

  Silvestre hesitated for a moment, then said:

  “No.”

  “Oh, Silvestre,” exclaimed his wife, “why not say yes? Then he might stay!”

  “Don’t be silly. Abel’s right. It’ll be very hard for us, but there’s nothing we can do.”

  Mariana dried her eyes and blew her nose loudly. Making an attempt at a smile, she said:

  “But you will come and see us now and then, won’t you, Senhor Abel?”

  “Only if you promise me one thing.”

  “What? I’ll promise anything!”

  “That you’ll stop calling me Senhor Abel and call me just plain Abel. Is that a deal?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  They felt happy and sad at the same time: happy because they loved each other, sad because they had to part. It was their last supper together. There would be others, of course, when things had calmed down and Abel could safely come back, but those suppers would be different. They would no longer be a gathering of three people living under the same roof and sharing their griefs and joys as if they were bread and wine. Their one compensation was the love they felt for each other—not the obligatory love one has for relatives, which is often a burden imposed by convention, but a spontaneous, self-sustaining love.

  When supper was over and while Mariana was washing the dishes, Abel went off with Silvestre to pack his suitcases. They made short work of it, and with a sigh Abel lay down on the bed.

  “Fed up?” asked Silvestre.

  “What do you think? As if it wasn’t hard enough to deal with the bad things we do knowingly. As you see, just existing can be a bad thing too.”

  “Or a good thing.”

  “Not in this case. If I’d never come to live here, this might never have happened.”

  “Possibly. But if the person who wrote the letter was determined to write it, he or she would have found some other way. It could just as easily have been someone else.”

  “You’re right. But it happened to be me!”

  “Yes, you of all people, when you’ve always been so careful to cut off all tentacles!”

  “Don’t joke.”

  “I’m not joking. Cutting off tentacles isn’t enough. You’ll be leaving tomorrow. You’ll disappear and cut off the tentacle, but the tentacle will still be here, in my friendship for you, in the change in Dona Lídia’s life.”

  “That’s what I meant when I said that the mere fact of existing can be a bad thing.”

  “Well, for me it was a good thing. I met you and we became friends.”

  “And what did you gain from that?”

  “A friendship. Or don’t you think friendship is that important?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Silvestre said nothing. He drew a chair closer to the bed and sat down. He took his tobacco pouch and cigarette papers out of his vest pocket and rolled himself a cigarette. He looked at Abel through the ensuing cloud of smoke and said softly, as if he were joking:

  “Your problem, Abel, is that you have no love.”

  “I’m your friend, aren’t I, and friendship is a form of love.”

  “Agreed.”

  There was another silence, during which Silvestre did not take his eyes off Abel.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Abel.

  “About our old arguments.”

  “I don’t see the connection.”

  “Everything connects with everything else. When I said your problem was that you had no love, you assumed I was referring to love for a woman, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did. I’ve fancied lots of women, but never loved one. I must be dead inside.”

  Silvestre smiled:

  “What, at twenty-eight? Don’t make me laugh! Wait till you’re my age.”

  “All right. Anyway, were you or were you not referring to love for a woman?”

  “No.”

  “So?”

  “I meant a different kind of love. When you’re walking down the street, have you never felt a sudden desire to embrace the people around you?”

  “If I was trying to be funny, I’d say yes, but only the women, and not all of them either. But wait, don’t get annoyed. No, I’ve never felt such a desire.”

  “Well, th
at’s the love I’m talking about.”

  Intrigued, Abel propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Silvestre:

  “You’d make an excellent apostle, you know.”

  “I don’t believe in God, if that’s what you mean. Maybe you think I’m an old sentimentalist . . .”

  “Not at all!”

  “Maybe you think it’s just old age speaking. Well, in that case, I’ve always been old. I’ve always thought and felt the same. And if there’s one thing I do believe in, it’s love, that kind of love.”

  “It’s wonderful to hear you say that, but it’s pure utopianism. And contradictory too. Didn’t you say earlier on that life was a dung heap, a steaming dung heap?”

  “It is, but life is like that because certain people wanted it to be, people who had, and still have, their disciples.”

  Abel sat up on the bed. The conversation was beginning to interest him:

  “Would you want to embrace them too?”

  “I’m not as sentimental as that. How could I love the very people who are responsible for the lack of love between others?”