These words, so laden with meaning, reminded Abel of someone else’s words:
“Pas de liberté pour les ennemis de la liberté.”
“I didn’t understand. It sounds like French, but I didn’t understand . . .”
“It’s something Saint-Just said, one of the leaders of the French Revolution. It means, more or less, that there should be no freedom for the enemies of freedom. Applying it to our conversation, you could translate it as: we should hate the enemies of love.”
“He was quite right, that Monsieur . . .”
“Saint-Just.”
“Yes, him. Don’t you agree?”
“About what Saint-Just said or about everything else?”
“Both.”
Abel seemed to retreat into thought. Then he said:
“I agree with Saint-Just, but as for the rest, no, I’ve never met anyone I could love like that. And I’ve met a lot of people. They’re all as bad as each other. I may have found an exception in you, not because of what you’ve just been telling me, but because of what I know about you and your life. I understand that you can feel that kind of love, but I can’t. I’ve taken a lot of knocks in life, I’ve suffered. I certainly wouldn’t do what that other fellow did, and turn the other cheek . . .”
Silvestre said vehemently:
“Neither would I. I’d cut off the hand of anyone who hit me.”
“If everyone did that, there’d be no two-handed people left in the world. If someone takes a beating, they’re sure to beat up someone else one day, if they haven’t done so already. It’s all a question of opportunity.”
“That way of thinking is called pessimism, and people who think like that are only helping those who want to spread a lack of love among ordinary people.”
“Forgive me, but like I said, what you’re proposing is pure utopianism. Life is a fight to the death, always and everywhere. It’s a case of every man for himself. Love is the cry of the weak, hatred is the weapon of the strong. Hatred for their rivals and competitors, for those contending for the same piece of bread or land or the same oil well. Love is either just a joke or something that gives the strong a chance to make fun of the weakness of the weak. For them, the existence of the weak is useful as a pastime, an escape valve.”
Silvestre appeared not to think much of the comparison. He looked at Abel very seriously, then smiled and asked:
“And are you one of the strong or one of the weak?”
Abel felt he had been caught out:
“Me? That’s hardly a fair question.”
“I’ll help you. If you’re one of the strong, why don’t you do as they do? If you’re one of the weak, why don’t you do as I do?”
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself. Like I said, it’s not a fair question.”
“Well, answer it anyway!”
“I can’t. Perhaps there’s some halfway house. On the one side, the strong, on the other, the weak, and in the middle, me and all the others.”
Silvestre stopped smiling. He looked hard at Abel and said slowly, counting off each statement on his fingers:
“All right, I’ll answer for you. You don’t know what you want, you don’t know where you’re going, and you don’t know what you have.”
“In short, I know nothing.”
“Don’t make a joke of it. What I’m saying is very important. When, some time ago, I said that you needed to—”
“I know, to be useful,” broke in Abel impatiently.
“When I said that, I had no idea you would be leaving us so soon. I also said that I couldn’t give you any advice, and I say the same now. But you’re leaving tomorrow and we might never see each other again. I decided that, even if I can’t advise you, I can at least tell you that a life without love, a life like the one you described just now, isn’t life at all, it’s a dung heap, a sewer.”
Abel stood up impulsively:
“Indeed it is, but what are we going to do about it?”
“Change it!” answered Silvestre, also springing to his feet.
“How? By loving each other?”
Abel’s smile vanished when he saw Silvestre’s grave expression:
“Yes, but loving each other with a lucid, active love, a love that can overcome hatred!”
“But man . . .”
“Listen, Abel, when you say the word ‘man,’ think ‘men.’ Man, with a capital M, as I sometimes read in the newspapers, is a lie, a lie that serves as a cover for all kinds of villainy. Everyone wants to save Man, but no one wants to know about men.”
Abel gave a resigned shrug. He could see the truth of what Silvestre was saying. He himself had often thought the same, but he lacked Silvestre’s faith. He asked:
“And what can we do? What can you or I do?”
“Live among men and help them.”
“And how do you help them?”
“I mend their shoes, because that’s all I know how to do. You’re young, intelligent, you have a good head on your shoulders. Open your eyes and look, and if you still haven’t understood, then lock yourself in your room and don’t come out, and wait for the world to fall in on you!”
Silvestre was speaking more loudly now. His lips were trembling with barely suppressed emotion. The two men stood looking at each other. There was a flow of understanding between them, a silent exchange of thoughts far more eloquent than words. Abel said:
“That’s a rather subversive idea, isn’t it?”
“Do you think so? I don’t. If it is subversive, then everything else is too, even breathing. I feel and think as naturally and necessarily as I breathe. If men hate each other, then there’s no hope. We will all be the victims of that hate. We will slaughter each other in wars we don’t want and for which we’re not responsible. They’ll put a flag in front of us and fill our ears with words. And why? To plant the seeds for a new war, to create more hatred, to create new flags and new words. Is that why we’re here? To have children and hurl them into the fiery furnace? To build cities and then raze them to the ground? To long for peace and have war instead?”
“And would love solve everything?” asked Abel with a sad, slightly ironic smile.
“I don’t know. It’s the only thing we haven’t tried so far . . .”
“And will we be in time?”
“Possibly. If those who suffer can be convinced that it’s true, then yes, we might be in time . . .” He paused, as if assailed by a sudden thought. “But don’t forget, Abel, you must love with a love that is lucid and active! And make sure that the active side never forgets about the lucid side, and that the active side never commits the same kinds of villainous deeds as those who want men to hate each other. Active, but lucid. And above all, lucid!”
Like a spring that breaks under too much tension, Silvestre’s enthusiasm sagged and he said, smiling:
“The cobbler has spoken. If anyone else was listening, they’d say: ‘He speaks far too well for a cobbler. Perhaps he’s a professor in disguise.’”
Abel laughed and asked:
“Are you a professor in disguise?”
“No, I’m just a man who thinks.”
Abel paced the room for a moment, saying nothing. Then he sat down on the trunk where he kept his books and looked at Silvestre, who, somewhat embarrassed, had started rolling himself another cigarette.
“A man who thinks,” murmured Abel.
Silvestre looked up, curious to know what Abel would say next.
“We all think,” Abel said. “But we think wrongly most of the time, or there’s a great gulf between what we think and what we do . . . or did.”
“What do you mean?” asked Silvestre.
“It’s easy enough. When you told me about your life, I had an acute, painful sense of my own uselessness. I feel slightly better about it now, because you, my friend, have fallen into an attitude as negative as mine or perhaps even more so. You’re no more useful than I am.”
“I don’t think you can have understood me, Abel.�
��
“Oh, but I did. Your way of thinking serves only to convince yourself that you’re better than the others.”
“I don’t think I’m better than anyone!”
“You don’t think so, no.”
“I give you my word.”
“Fine. I believe you. But that isn’t the point. The point is that when you were able to act, you didn’t think like this, and your beliefs were quite different. Now that age and circumstances force you to be silent, you’re trying to deceive yourself with this almost evangelical love. Pity the man who has to substitute words for actions! You’ll end up being able to hear only your own voice! The word ‘act’ on your lips, my friend, is a mere memory, an empty word!”
“Are you saying you doubt my sincerity, Abel?”
“Not at all, but you’ve lost touch with life, with your roots, you think you’re still fully engaged in the battle, but the truth is you don’t even have the shadow of a sword in your hand and you’re surrounded by nothing but shadows . . .”
“How long have you thought this about me?”
“Since five minutes ago. After all you’ve been through, your last resort is love!”
Silvestre did not answer. Hands trembling, he finished rolling his cigarette and lit it, then, screwing up his eyes against the exhaled smoke, he waited.
“You called me a pessimist,” Abel went on, “and said my pessimism helped those who want to sow discord among men. I won’t deny that. But your entirely passive attitude helps them too, because those same people also use the language of love. The same words, yours and theirs, declare or conceal different objectives. I would even say that your words only serve their objectives, because I don’t think you have any real objective yourself. You say, ‘I love all men,’ and that’s it, quite forgetting that your past demands something more from you than a mere affirmation. Tell me, please, of what interest are those words to the world, even if spoken by millions of men, if those millions of men lack all the necessary means to do anything more with them than give expression to an emotional impulse?”
“I don’t really know what you mean, Abel. Are you forgetting that I talked about a love that was both active and lucid?”
“Another empty phrase. In what sense are you active? In what sense are the people who think like you active, I mean the ones who don’t have the excuse of old age for their inactivity? Who are they?”
“Now it’s your turn to give me advice . . .”
“That’s not what I intended. Advice is useless, isn’t that what you said? One thing I do believe is that the great ideal, the great hope you spoke of, will never be anything more than words if we rely on love alone to make that ideal and that hope real.”
Silvestre retreated to a corner of the room and from there asked abruptly:
“So what are you going to do?”
Abel did not reply at once. In the silence that followed Silvestre’s words, he heard, coming from who knows where, a whole chorus of voices.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “At the moment, I am, as you said, quite useless, but I prefer that temporary uselessness to your imaginary usefulness.”
“We’ve swapped roles. Now it’s your turn to criticize me.”
“I’m not criticizing you. What you said about love is really very fine, but of no use to me.”
“I was forgetting that there’s a forty-year age difference between us. How could you possibly understand me?”
“The Silvestre you were forty years ago wouldn’t understand you either, my friend.”
“So are you saying that it’s just my age that makes me think like this?”
“Possibly,” said Abel, smiling. “Age can do a lot of things. It brings experience, of course, but it also brings with it a certain tiredness.”
“To hear you talk, no one would say that, up until now, you’ve lived entirely for yourself.”
“That’s true, but why criticize me for that? Perhaps my apprenticeship will be a slow one, perhaps I’ll have to receive many more wounds before I become a real man. Meanwhile, I’m someone who, when described as useless, says nothing in response because he knows it to be true. But I won’t always be useless . . .”
“What do you think you’ll do, Abel?”
Abel walked slowly over to Silvestre and said:
“Something very simple: I’m going to live. I will leave your home feeling much more confident than when I entered it. Not because the path you showed me was the right one for me, but because you made me realize that I need to find my own path. It will take time, though . . .”
“Yours will always be the path of pessimism.”
“Probably, but I want my pessimism to keep me safe from facile, comforting illusions—like love.”
Silvestre gripped him by the shoulders and shook him:
“But Abel, anything that isn’t built on love will only generate hate!”
“You’re right, my friend, but perhaps that’s how it will have to be for a long time yet. The day when we can build on love has still not arrived.”
Translator’s Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my fellow Saramago translator Maartje de Kort for her helpful insights and the students who attended translation workshops at University College Cork, University College Dublin and Glasgow University for the fruitful discussions we had about two short extracts from the novel. And my thanks, as always, to my husband, Ben Sherriff.
About the Author
JOSÉ SARAMAGO (1922–2010) was the author of many novels, among them Blindness, All the Names, Baltasar and Blimunda, and The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis. In 1998 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.
MARGARET JULL COSTA has won numerous prizes for her work, including the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, the PEN/Book-of-the-Month Club Translation Prize, and the Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation Prize.
Skylight Page 28
