Next morning the sky was overcast, one cannot count on the weather, yesterday afternoon was like a foretaste of paradise, bright and pleasant, the branches of the trees gently swaying, the Mondego as smooth as the surface of the sky, no one here would think this was the same river under the low clouds, the sea throwing up spray, but the elderly shrug their shoulders, First of August, first day of winter, they say, most fortunate that the day should have come almost a month late, Joana Carda arrived early but José Anaiço was already waiting for her in the car, this had been agreed to by the other two men so that the lovers could be alone together before they all set out on their journey, in which direction we still don't know. The dog had spent the night inside the car, but it now was strolling along the beach with Pedro Orce and Joaquim Sassa, discreet, rubbing its head against the leg of the Spaniard, whose company it already preferred.
In the parking lot, among the larger vehicles, Deux Chevaux looks insignificant, that's the first point, and moreover, as has already been explained, it's a wild morning, there's no one around, and that's the second point, therefore it is only natural that José Anaiço and Joana Carda should fall into each other's arms as if they had been separated for a whole year and had been longing for each other all that time. They kissed with passion and desire, this was no single flash of lightning but one flash after another, there were fewer words, it is difficult to speak while kissing, but after several minutes they could hear each other at last, I really like you, I believe I'm in love with you, said José Anaiço in all sincerity, I really like you too, and I also believe I'm in love with you, that's why I kissed you yesterday, no, no, what I mean to say is that I wouldn't have kissed you if I hadn't felt that I loved you, but I'm capable of loving you much more, You know nothing about me, If one couldn't like another person before getting to know him, it would take a lifetime, Don't you believe that two people can get to know each other, Do you, I'm asking you, First you must tell me what you mean by knowing, I don't have a dictionary here, In this case, consulting the dictionary would simply mean discovering what one already knew, Dictionaries only provide information that is likely to be useful to everyone, I must repeat the question, what do you mean by knowing, I'm not sure, And yet you can love, I can love you, Without knowing me, So it would appear, Where did you get the name Anaiço, One of my grandfathers was called Inàcio, but back there in the village they got his name wrong, they started calling him Anaiço, after a while Anaiço became the family name, and you, why are you called Carda, In the distant past, the family name was Cardo, which also means thistle, but when one of my grandmothers lost her husband and found herself with a family to support, people started calling her Carda, for she richly deserved the feminine form, a surname in her own right, I thought you might be a carder who combed wool for a living, I might have been, and something else too, for I once went to look the word up in the dictionary and saw that carder also meant an instrument of torture used for skinning animals, poor martyrs, skinned, burned, beheaded, and carded, Is that what awaits me, If I were to go back to using the name Cardo you wouldn't benefit from the change, Would you still prick me, No, I'm not the name I bear, Who are you, then, I'm me, José Anaiço stretched out his hand, caressed her cheek, murmured, You, she did the same, repeated in a whisper, You, and her eyes filled with tears, probably because she is still conscious of her wicked past, now, as was only to be expected, she will want to know about his life, Are you married, do you have any children, what do you do for a living, I was married, I have no children, I'm a teacher. She took a deep breath or was it a sigh of relief, then she said, smiling, We'd better call the others, poor things, they must be dying of cold, José Anaiço said, When I told Joaquim about our first encounter, I tried to describe the color of your eyes, but I couldn't, I told him they were the color of a new sky, difficult to describe, and he latched onto that phrase, and started to call you just that, Just what, Lady Strange Eyes, of course he wouldn't dare to say it in your presence. I adore that name, I adore you, and now we'd better call the others.
One arm waving, another waving back in the distance, Pedro Orce and Joaquim Sassa came walking slowly across the sand, the large docile dog between them. Judging from the way he waved, Joaquim Sassa said, their meeting went well, anyone listening who had any experience of life would have no difficulty in detecting a note of subdued melancholy in these words, a noble sentiment, tinged with envy, or resentment, if you prefer a more refined word. Are you in love with the girl too, Pedro Orce asked sympathetically, No, no, it's not that, although it could be, my problem is that I don't know whom to love or how one goes on loving. Pedro Orce couldn't think of an answer to such a negative statement. They got into the car, good morning, how nice to see you, welcome aboard, where will this adventure lead us, good-natured platitudes, the last of them mistaken, it would have been more appropriate to inquire, Where will this dog lead us. José Anaiço started the engine, since he's at the wheel he might as well stay there, he maneuvered the car out of the lot, Now what, do I turn right, do I turn left, he pretended to hesitate, playing for time, the dog turned completely around, then at a controlled but rapid trot, so regular as to appear mechanical, started heading in a northerly direction. With the blue thread hanging from its mouth.
This was the memorable day on which the latest recorded measurements placed the already remote Europe at a distance of some two hundred kilometers, a Europe that found itself shaken from top to bottom by a psychological and social convulsion that seriously endangered its identity, deprived at that decisive moment of its very foundations, of those individual nationalities so laboriously created over the centuries. Europeans, from the power elite to ordinary citizens, soon became accustomed, one suspects with an unspoken feeling of relief, to the lack of any territories to the extreme west, and if the new maps, rapidly circulated to bring the public up to date, still provoked some dismay, it could only have been for aesthetic reasons, that indefinable feeling of disquiet people must have experienced and still experience today when they see that there are no arms on the Venus of Milo, for that is the precise name of the island where the statue was found, So Milo is not the sculptor's name, No sir, Milo is the island where the poor creature was discovered, she rose from the depths like Lazarus, but no miracle occurred to make her arms grow again.
As the centuries pass, if they continue to pass, Europe will no longer remember the time when she was great and sailed the seas, just as we today can no longer imagine the Venus with arms. Obviously, one cannot ignore the disasters and sorrows that continue to plague the Mediterranean with high tides, the coastal cities destroyed at their maritime fringe, hotels that once had steps leading down to the beach and now have neither steps nor beach, and Venice, Venice is like a swamp, the piles supporting it threatened with collapse, the tourist boom is over, my friends, but if the Dutch should set to work quickly, within several months the city of the doges, the Aveiro of Italy, will be able to reopen its doors to the anxious public, much improved, no longer in danger of catastrophic flooding, for the systems of balancing sluice valves, dikes, locks, pressure and suction pumps will ensure a constant water level, now it's up to the Italians to assume responsibility for reinforcing the city's foundations, otherwise Venice will end up tragically, burying itself in the mud, the most difficult part, permit me to say, is under way, let us give thanks to the descendants of that brave lad who, with just the tender tip of his index finger, prevented the town of Haarlem from disappearing from the face of the earth, destroyed by flooding and deluge.
The restoration of Venice will also afford a solution for the problems facing the rest of Europe. This fascinating region has been stricken time and time again by plague and war, earthquakes and fires, only to rise again from dust and ashes, transforming bitter suffering into sweet existence, barbaric lust into civilization, a golf course and a swimming pool, a yacht in the marina and a convertible on the quayside, man is the most adaptable of creatures, especially when it is a question of moving up in the wor
ld. Although it may not be very polite to say so, for certain Europeans, seeing themselves rid of those baffling western nations, now sailing adrift on the ocean, where they should never have gone, was in itself an improvement, a promise of happier times ahead, like with like, we have finally started to know what Europe is, unless there still remain other spurious fragments that will also break away sooner or later. Let us wager that we will ultimately be reduced to a single nation, the quintessence of the European spirit, a simple and perfect sublimation, Europe, namely, Switzerland.
But if there are such Europeans, there are others as well. The race of the restless, the devil's spawn, but not so easily extinguished, however much the soothsayers may wear themselves out with prophecies, all those who watch the train passing and grow sad with longing for the journey they will never make, all those who cannot see a bird in the sky without feeling the urge to soar like an eagle, all those who, seeing a ship disappear over the horizon, give a tremulous sigh from the bottom of their hearts, in their rapture they had thought it was because they were so close, only to realize it was because they were so far apart. It was thus one of those restless nonconformists who first dared to write the scandalous words, Nous aussi, nous sommes ibériques, he wrote them on a corner of the wall, timidly, like someone who is still unable to express his desire but cannot bear to conceal it any longer. Since the words were written, as you can see, in the French language, you will think this happened in France, all I can say is, Let each man think what he will, it could also have been in Belgium or Luxembourg. This inaugural declaration spread rapidly, it appeared on the façades of large buildings, on pediments, on pavements, in the subway corridors, on bridges and viaducts, the loyal conservatives of Europe protested, These anarchists are mad, it is always the same, the anarchists are blamed for everything.
But the saying jumped frontiers, and once it had jumped them it became clear that the same thought had already appeared in other countries, in German Auch wir sind iberisch, in English We are Iberians too, in Italian Anche noi siamo iberici, and suddenly it caught fire like a fuse, ablaze all over the place in letters of red, black, blue, green, yellow and violet, a seemingly inextinguishable flame, in Dutch and Flemish Wij zijn ook Iberiërs, in Swedish Vi ocksâ aro iberiska, in Finnish Me myôskin olemme iberialaisia, in Norwegian Vi ogsâ er iberer, in Danish Ogsâ vi er iberiske, in Greek Eímaste íberai ki emeís, in Frisian Ek Wv Binne Ibeariërs, and also, although with ostensible reticence, in Polish, My też jeteśmy iberyjczykami, in Bulgarian Nie sachto sme iberytzi, in Hungarian Mi is ibérek vagyunk, in Russian Mi toje iberitsi, in Rumanian Si noi'sîntem iberici, in Slovak Ai my sme iberčamia. But the culmination, the climax, the crowning glory, a rare expression we're not likely to repeat, was when on the Vatican walls, on the venerable murals and columns of the Basilica, on the plinth of Michelangelo's Pietà, inside the dome, in enormous sky-blue lettering on the hallowed ground of St. Peter's Square, that same declaration appeared in Latin, Nos quoque iberi sumus, like some divine utterance in the majestic plural, a Mene, mene, tekel upharsin of the new era, and the Pope, at the window of his apartments, blessed himself out of sheer terror, made the sign of the cross in midair, but to no avail, for this paint is guaranteed to last, not even ten whole congregations armed with steel wool, bleach, pumice stones, scrapers, solvents for removing paint would suffice to erase those words, they would have work enough to keep them busy until the next Vatican Council.
From one day to the next, these slogans spread throughout Europe. What probably started as little more than the futile gesture of an idealist gradually spread until it became an outcry, a protest, a mass demonstration. Initially, these manifestations were dismissed with contempt, the words themselves treated with derision. But it wasn't long before the authorities became concerned about this course of events, which could not be blamed on interference from abroad, also a source of much subversive activity, at least the homegrown nature of the graffiti campaign saved the authorities the trouble of investigating and naming the foreign power they had in mind. It had become the fashion for subversives to parade through the streets with stickers in their lapels or, more daringly, stuck on their front or back, on their legs, on every part of their body and in every conceivable language, even in regional dialects, in various forms of slang, finally in Esperanto, but this was difficult to understand. A joint strategy of counterattack adopted by the European governments consisted of organizing debates and roundtable discussions on television, mainly with the participation of people who had fled the peninsula when the rupture was complete and irreversible, not the unfortunate people who had been there as tourists and who, poor things, still had not recovered from the fright, but the so-called natives, more precisely those who, despite close ties of tradition and culture, of property and power, had turned their backs on this geological madness and opted for the physical stability of the continent. Speaking with deep compassion and knowledge of the facts, these people painted a black picture of the Iberian situation, they offered advice to those restless spirits who were unwisely about to put Europe's identity at risk, and each of them ended his turn in the debate with a definitive phrase, staring the spectator in the eye and assuming an attitude of utter sincerity, Follow my example, opt for Europe.
The result was not particularly productive, save for the protests of the partisans of the peninsula, who claimed that they had been the victims of discrimination, and who, if neutrality and democratic pluralism were not just empty words, should have been invited to appear on television to express their views, if they had any to express. An understandable precaution. Armed with reasons, which any discussion about reason always supplies, these youths, for it was chiefly youths who were carrying out the most spectacular deeds, could have made their protests with greater conviction, whether in the classroom or in the street, not to mention in the home. It is even debatable whether these youths, once armed with reasons, would have dispensed with direct action, thus allowing the calming effect of their intelligence to prevail, contrary to what people have believed since the beginning of time. The question is debatable but scarcely worthwhile, for in the meantime the television studios were stoned, shops selling television sets were ransacked in the presence of the dealers, who cried out in despair, But I'm not to blame, their comparative innocence did not help them, picture tubes exploded like firecrackers, packing cases were piled up on the street, set alight, reduced to ashes. The police arrived and charged, the rebels dispersed, and this standoff has lasted for the past week, right up until today, when our travelers leave Figueira da Foz led by a dog, three men, and the lover of one of them, who was his lover without yet being his lover, or who, not yet being his lover, was already his lover, anyone with experience of the affairs and intrigues of the heart will understand this muddle. As the latter are heading north, and Joaquim Sassa has already suggested, If we pass through Oporto we can all stay at my house, hundreds of thousands, millions of youths throughout the continent have taken to the streets, armed not with reasons but with clubs, bicycle chains, grappling irons, knives, awls, scissors, as if driven insane with rage, as well as with frustration and the sorrow of things to come, they are shouting, We too are Iberians, with that same despair that has caused the shopkeepers to cry out, But we're not to blame.
When tempers have subsided, days and weeks from now, the psychologists and sociologists will come forward to prove that, deep down, these youths didn't really want to be Iberian, what they were doing, taking advantage of a pretext afforded by the circumstances, was giving vent to that irrepressible dream that lasts as long as life itself, but which usually erupts for the first time in one's youth with an outburst of sentiment or violence, either the one or the other. Meanwhile, battles were fought in the field, or in the streets and squares to be more precise, hundreds of people were injured, there were several deaths, although the authorities tried to suppress reports about serious casualties by issuing confusing and contradictory bulletins, the mothers of August never got to know for c
ertain how many of their sons had disappeared, for the simple reason that they didn't know how to organize themselves, there are some who always remain outsiders, absorbed in their grief, or caring for the son who survived, or busy gratifying their menfolk in their efforts to conceive another son, which explains why mothers always lose out. Tear gas, water cannon, batons, shields, and visors, stones dislodged from the pavements, crossbars from the roadblocks, spikes from park railings, these are just some of the weapons used by both sides, while certain new strategies of persuasion with more painful effects are tried out by the various police forces, wars are like disasters, they never come singly, the first is a trial run to test the ground, the second to improve performance, the third to secure victory, each of them being, according to where you start counting, third, second, and first. For the catalogs of memoirs and reminiscences there remained those dying words of the handsome young Dutchman hit by a rubber bullet, which because of a manufacturing fault turned out to be more deadly than steel, but legend will soon take this episode in hand and every nation will swear that the youth was theirs, on the other hand no one will be anxious to lay claim to the bullet, unlike those dying words, not so much for their meaning, but because they are beautiful, romantic, incredibly youthful, and nations relish such phrases, especially when they are dealing with a lost cause like this one, At last, I'm Iberian, and with these words he expired. The boy knew what he wanted, or thought he knew, which for want of anything better is just as good, he was not like Joaquim Sassa, who does not know whom he should love, but then he is still alive, perhaps his day will come if he watches out for the right moment.
The Stone Raft Page 16
