Manual of Painting and Calligraphy

by José Saramago

  ONE OFTEN MISTAKENLY describes oneself as a friend, or the name itself is misleading, and in this way and no other the word came into being. I am not criticizing my friends but the role we tacitly accept of looking after each other, of showing a solicitude the other person may not need yet expects to be shown, of exploiting presence and absence and complaining or not complaining of both according to our own best interests, which ignore those of our friends. Because of this bad conscience (remorse, moral disquiet or gentle rebuke from our so-called conscience), a planned reunion of friends is rather like a meeting of twin souls: everyone has abandoned whatever cannot be shared among those present, everyone becomes impoverished and diminished (for better or for worse) in order to become what is expected of them. For this reason, anyone who is anxious to keep up friendships lives in constant fear of losing them and is forever adapting to them just as the pupil of the eye responds to the light it receives. But the efforts made by groups of friends to adapt to each other (how would the pupil of the eye adapt to simultaneous lights of varying intensity if it could separate them and react to them one by one?) cannot last for any longer than the ability of each guest to raise or lower his or her own personality to a level agreed by all. It is always advisable, therefore, to curtail reunions before they reach breaking point and each of those tiny planets feels an irresistible urge to form another constellation elsewhere or simply to drop from sheer exhaustion into black, empty space.

  Besides Adelina, who acted as hostess, eight friends of both sexes gathered in my flat. There were several steady couples among them, although I had my doubts about one couple (they were not together last time) and they had the same casual look Adelina and I were beginning to take on. But while they are still glowing (a banal expression which aptly conveys that aura of intense passion invisibly surrounding recent couples), we move about in a gentle glow and know it. Who are these friends of mine and what do they do? Several of them work in advertising, one is an architect, there is a doctor with his wife, an interior decorator who is really Adelina’s friend, a publisher, widowed and older than me (nice to know I am not the oldest person here), who is infatuated with the interior decorator but resigns himself to looking on as she flirts right and left. What distinguishes this group, apart from its ability to smoke, chat and drink at the same time (just like any other group), is their friendship toward me, which I reciprocate as best I can, know how to (or choose). If we were to try to find an explanation for this relationship, I am sure we would not find one; nevertheless we go on being friends because of our inertia, nourished by fear of that momentary solitude which we selfishly shun. What finally keeps us in that group is knowing that it will continue even after we have withdrawn. By continuing to take part, we can go on believing we are indispensable. It is a question of pride.

  The same pride or fear of being inferior when compared with others provokes unspoken resentments and conflicts under the supreme justification of friendship and results in an unpunishable form of aggression for which the occasional or habitual victims are expected to appear grateful. This aggression is so blatant that even in a group such as ours, where people tactfully avoid touching on the whys and wherefores of our various professions (and just as well, since everyone knows I am a mediocre painter, not even a painter, since my paintings are not to be seen anywhere)—even in this group, as I was saying, misunderstandings and disagreements often arise when one of us suddenly finds he is being judged by all the others and an outburst of reciprocal sadomasochism erupts, almost invariably ending in tears and insults. And this is provoked by someone introducing into the conversation, either deliberately or simply because tired of pretending, some wounding remark about the profession of the victim of the day. And here, because of the professions we pursue, all of us define ourselves as exploiters and social parasites. The architect because it is true, the editor because that is culture, the advertising agents because it is obvious, the doctor because we all know what doctors are, as for the interior decorator, well! Adelina, well, well, well! And I, the portrait painter, well! As for me, I am usually spared any embarrassment, I repeat, because they are all competent at the jobs they have chosen to do, while my technical competence only serves to accentuate the poor quality of the paintings I produce.

  Was Antonio, the architect, drunk? I would say not. Our kind of drinking rarely ends in drunkenness. But if it is true that in vino est veritas, then in this type of reunion the threshold of truth is crossed by those closest to it. This must be the explanation. Despite the open windows, the heat inside the studio was almost unbearable. We had talked about a thousand different things, unconnected and absurd, and as the night wore on, the lively discussions began to wane. Sitting on the floor, Adelina rested her head against my thighs (people usually say knees, probably because it sounds better, but what they mean are thighs, because knees are invariably hard, as you can see from mine). Out of affection and for the sheer tactile pleasure, I slowly ran my fingers through her hair as I drank my Gin and Tony, an expression I often use when I get tipsy. The interior decorator, whom I shall refer to as Sandra although that is not her name, has started flirting again with the doctor, quite harmlessly, but enough to make Carmo, the publisher (older than me, I hasten to repeat), suffer greater pangs of jealousy than Shakespeare’s Othello. It is also enough to make the doctor’s wife allow herself to be courted (such a nice old-fashioned expression) by Chico, the advertising agent, who fancies himself as a lady-killer and cannot resist a little innocent flirtation without getting involved. Deep down everyone knows this is all meaningless. Anything more serious or risky would break up the group, and that is the last thing any of us would want. Ana and Francisco (who complete the group) also work in advertising. Still in their early thirties, they are head over heels in love and truly alarmed at the strength of their own passion. Sitting there on the sofa, they are waiting for us to attribute their obvious excitement to the influence of alcohol. I know Carmo disapproves of such behavior in public, and I myself do not encourage it, but I can understand the terror which has taken possession of those poor hearts, minds, veins and sexual organs, that metronomic oscillation between life and death, that frenzied need to proclaim as eternal one’s own definition of the precarious. Carmo does not accept these things, but what would he do should Sandra accept him one day and share her bed with him, even if only for an hour?

  And what about Antonio, the architect in our group, who says he will design houses for all of us one day? Where can Antonio be? Antonio, who had gone to the bathroom, now appeared in the doorway of the studio with a fixed, determined smile on his face, which could have been mistaken for malice, unlikely in the case of Antonio, always so quiet and unobtrusive. On one forefinger he was holding up the second portrait of S., invisible beneath the black paint, and I thought he must have discovered it by chance, for the light was on in the storeroom and naturally he had peeped in; after all, it was after midnight and we were becoming bored (except for Ana and Francisco) or starting to get into silly arguments about culture (how the bourgeoisie love going on about culture), and also being my friend, avowed and proven, everything concerning me concerned him. For this and other reasons which could not be defined or confided there and then, Antonio asked me, “Have you moved on to abstract painting? So much so that you now use only one color? And what about those little portraits of yours?” What I thought of Antonio between the moment I saw him in the doorway with the portrait in his hand and the moment when I heard him speak, I shall only mention here because I do not want to rush things. It is important not to rush things but give things time to become clearer, and if they do not become clearer then it should not be for lack of time because time is the one thing I have right now, unless death decrees otherwise. And having got that off my chest, I can finally say that I leapt to my feet in a rage (sending Adelina onto the floor) and before reaching Antonio I was able to control myself sufficiently to simply snatch (yes, with violence) the picture he was now holding in both hands. I restrained mys
elf from punching him because of that black picture which I would never be able to explain (Adelina herself knew nothing of its existence, her lack of curiosity assisted by the precautions I usually took to conceal it in a corner behind other recent paintings, so that the wet paint would come to no harm) and also because Antonio had deliberately infringed the rules of the group by classifying as “little portraits” paintings which I alone had any right to belittle behind locked doors and with my head under the sheets. As I carried the picture back into the storeroom, I could hear quite distinctly, as if he were speaking into my ear, Antonio’s voice repeating over and over again, “When is he going to start painting in earnest?” and the voices of the others begging him to be quiet in pleading tones, as if rebuking someone who had thoughtlessly blurted out the word “cancer” at the bedside of someone dying of the disease. Antonio had forgotten (or chosen to forget) that one never mentions the gallows in the house of a condemned man, nor speaks of “little portraits” to someone who paints nothing else. When I returned, Antonio had settled down, his expression obstinate but tranquil amid the anxiety and consternation of all the others, deeply absorbed in their own affairs (yet taking care not to hurt my feelings any further). Sandra, for example, was simply chatting to Ricardo, the doctor; Chico was simply conversing with Concha, the doctor’s wife; Francisco only had words for Ana, while Carmo was trying to engage Adelina in conversation, but nothing doing, she only had eyes for me, her face expressionless rather than glum, as if she were waiting for something to happen. No more was said on the subject and the night ended there. Ana and Francisco, poor things, rather than ask me to lend them my bed for a quarter of an hour, made some excuse or other and were the first to leave. Shortly afterward Ricardo and his wife, Concha, left because he was on duty next day. And Antonio quickly disappeared, mumbling words of apology: “Forgive me, I meant no harm.” Once people started leaving, Sandra made her departure, covering Adelina with kisses and taking Carmo and Chico with her as escorts, resigned to leaving me behind. I could imagine Carmo’s excitement, hoping that Sandra would offer him a lift (Carmo has no car, has never possessed one) and that rogue Chico insisting “Come on, Carmo, I’ll drive you home,” and so it would turn out unless Sandra decided to amuse herself by taking Carmo with her, watching him tremble and babble on about the weather before asking her if she would be interested in designing the jacket of a book. Chico could not care less, he is not one for beating about the bush. Anyhow, he suspects that Sandra is lesbian or on the way to becoming one (he has always told me so) and he wants nothing to do with lesbians. And he is almost certain to be magnanimous and allow Sandra to give Carmo a lift in her car, which smells of cigarette smoke and Chanel, so that Carmo may stretch out blissfully on his lonely widower’s bed.

  Adelina and I suddenly found ourselves alone in that great silence which reigns at two o’clock in the morning. She came to me and kissed me on the cheek, on the very spot where the flesh caves in a little. Then she began gathering up the dirty glasses and side plates, the ashtrays filled to the brim with cigarette butts. I helped her to clear up, more out of kindness than necessity. We both knew it and were kind to each other. And although she could not stay the night, she lingered a while, my arm around her shoulder, as seemed appropriate under the circumstances. We spoke of vague and forgotten things, and all of a sudden, as if suddenly remembering, I interrupted our aimless conversation and explained, “I’m experimenting with a paint spray. That Antonio. But he’s right.” Adelina said nothing, not even as much as “Really?” She became rather more restless when she felt it was time to go and asked me with some formality, “Could I ask you to drive me home?” Her car was being repaired, and it had already been agreed that I would take her home after our little reunion (or party). I replied, “Of course,” which was the answer she expected.

  I left her on the corner of the road where she lives (her mother does not approve of me dropping her off right outside the door) and I sat there watching her as she walked along the pavement, one minute visible beneath the light of the streetlamps, the next minute hidden in the shadows between one lamp and another, until I could see her struggling with the lock before disappearing inside the building. I started the engine up gently, moving off slowly and heading across the city. This is something I enjoy doing from time to time: driving at my leisure through the deserted streets as if I were curb-crawling, and women look at me puzzled and intrigued when I drive on without so much as looking at them. Sometimes, on the other hand, I do stare at them, knowing what they are hoping for but not likely to get from me, before driving on, not to the end of the night but through a night I did not know how to end. Not entirely true on this occasion: there were the usual streets and women, and men, too, passing in the shadows, and cats knocking over sacks of garbage and the terrible glare of asphalt, and the lamps, and water dribbling here and there, but inside the car I was being carried rather than driving, empty, without a thought in my head, brutalized. Because I was driving so slowly (and not for the first time), a policeman stopped me and wanted to know what I thought I was doing. I explained (an excuse which had become second nature) that the engine was giving me trouble, that I was driving slowly to see if I could manage to get home. Through my rear mirror I could see the policeman was taking down my number as a precaution, craning his neck to catch the light from the streetlamp. This worthy upholder of law and order was simply doing his job. Were I to be found lying injured or dead in the night, he would have important evidence to bring to any inquiry by stating his suspicions and the laudable precautions he took with civic foresight. And if any bombs were to go off in the night, the work of the Armed Resistance Movement or the Revolutionary Brigades, I would certainly be in trouble. However, I suffered no such mishap.

  It was three-thirty when I parked my car in the Rua Camões. I was far from home, but I felt like having a stroll. I began walking uphill in the direction of the Rua Santa Catarina, and on reaching the Mirador, I went down to the railings and stood there gazing at the river, thinking of nothing, not a thought in my head, clearing my mind completely so that not even the lights of the ships should have any significance other than shining for no good reason. That was as much as I was prepared to concede. Finally I perched on one of the benches and, taken completely unawares, discovered I was weeping. If that could be called weeping. Perhaps our physiology has reasons unknown to our anxieties and emotions, hence the ability of women to weep in that fluent, continuous, uninterrupted fashion which can be so very moving, whereas men are said not to weep, or it is considered shameful if they do, because they have never been capable of tears and so some plausible excuse had to be invented. It is true that I have not enjoyed the privilege of watching a man weep and it would be wrong to judge others by myself, but I am honestly incapable of anything more than these two drops slowly being squeezed from my burning tear glands, drops so meager and oppressively concentrated that they do not roll down but remain there between the eyelids, slowly burning up, so slowly that I suddenly discover my eyes are dry. I would swear there had been no tears had there not been for a time, now beyond recovery, memory or recollection, a tremulous and glistening curtain between me and the outside world, as if I were inside a cave with a cascade at the entrance sending down great shining rivulets of water, but silent, apart from this buzzing inside my eyes, the burning sensation of that teardrop. I most certainly wept. For a moment or an hour, the white and amber lights coming from the ships and the other bank of the river were like sunlight in my eyes. Like all nearsighted people, I had the advantage of seeing not the light but its multiplication. Still sitting there, I later discovered that at some time, immeasurable because gone forever (and I became even more aware of it as the sounds of the city started up again and began penetrating my consciousness), I knew (or find it gives a nice prosic touch [Does the adjective exist?] now to say that I knew) that during the immeasurable time that had elapsed, I was alone in the world, the first man, the first tear, the first light and the final mom
ents of unconsciousness. I then began to examine my life, to take a careful look, to rake over it like someone lifting stones in search of diamonds, wood lice or dense larvae of the white and plump variety which have never seen the sun and suddenly feel it on their soft skin, like a ghost incapable of revealing itself in any other way. I remained sitting there for the rest of the night, sometimes looking at the river, sometimes at the black sky and the stars (what more should a writer say about the stars other than to say he has looked at them? Lucky me who only writes like this and therefore feels no obligation to do any more), until just before daybreak there was some unexpected rain and the sky cleared to my left and the waters turned as gray as the sky. Bidding farewell to the shadows which continued to hover in the west, the lights gradually went out in various parts of the city. I felt somewhat humiliated that after such a night I would end up with a chill in my bones and receive a look of indifference from the first passerby I met on the road.

  I am writing this at home, as you can see, after having slept for no more than four hours, and, convinced that it is essential and useful, or at least harmless even for me, I have decided to carry on writing, perhaps about my life past and present, or perhaps just about life, because it suddenly occurs to me that it might be easier to talk about life in general rather than about my own life. But how can I ever hope to recover all those years behind me, and not just mine, for they are inextricably mixed up with those of other people, and to rummage through mine is to disturb the years of others, which do not belong to me now or then, however gently or brutally I might invade them each moment we share or think we share? Perhaps no life can be narrated, because life is the superimposed pages of a book or layers of paint which, opened or stripped away for reading and looking at, immediately turn to dust and perish. The invisible force which linked them is missing, their own weight, agglutination and continuity. Life also consists of minutes which cannot be separated from each other, and time becomes a thick, dense and obscure mass in which we swim with difficulty, while overhead an unfathomable light begins to fade, a dawn withdrawing into the night from which it has just emerged. If I once read these things I am now writing, then I am copying them, but not deliberately. If I have never read them, then I am inventing them. If, on the other hand, I have read them, then I must have assimilated them and now have the right to use them as if they were my own and had just been invented.