The Stone Raft
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ISBN-13: 9780156004015
Media Type: Paperback
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Publication Date: 06-14-1996
Pages: 300
Product Dimensions: 5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x (d)
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.
Chapter One
When Joana Carda scratched the ground with the elm branch
all the dogs of Cerbere began to bark, throwing the inhabitants into
panic and terror, because from time immemorial it was believed that,
when these canine creatures that had always been silent started to
bark, the entire universe was nearing its end. No one remembers any
longer the origin of this deep-rooted superstition, or firm conviction,
in many cases these are simply alternative ways of expressing the same
thing, but as so often happens, having heard the story and now passing
it on with fresh distortions, French grandmothers used to amuse their
grandchildren with the fable that in the times of the ancient Greek
myths, here, in the district of Cerbere in the Eastern Pyrenees, a dog
with three heads and the above-mentioned named of Cerberus had
barked when summoned by its master, the ferryman Charon. We are
equally unclear about the organic change this legendary howling canine
must have undergone to acquire the historically proven muteness
of its degenerate one-headed offspring. Nevertheless, and this is a
point of doctrine known to almost everyone, especially to those of the
older generation, the dog Cerberus, as written and pronounced in English,
guarded with ferocity the gates of hell, so that no soul would
dare try to escape, and then, perhaps as one final act of mercy on the
part of the moribund gods, all the dogs fell silent for the rest of eternity,
perhaps hoping that their silence might erase the memory of the
infernal regions. But since the everlasting does not last forever, as the
modern age has clearly shown us, it sufficed that a few days ago and
hundreds of kilometers from Cerbere, somewhere in Portugal, in a
place whose name we shall record anon, a woman named Joana Carda
scratched the ground with an elm branch whereupon all the dogs came
onto the streets howling, dogs, let me remind you, that had never
barked before. Were someone to ask Joana Carda what had possessed
her to scratch the ground with an elm branch, more the gesture of a
moonstruck adolescent than that of a mature woman, if she had not
thought of the possible consequences of an act that seemed meaningless,
and these are the most dangerous acts of all, perhaps she might
reply, I don't know what came over me, the branch was lying on the
ground, I picked it up and drew a line. She had no idea that it might
be a magic wand. It seemed rather big for a magic wand, and besides
I've always heard it said that magic wands are made of shimmering
gold and crystal and have a star on top. Did you know it was an elm
branch. I know very little about trees, they told me afterwards that
wych-elm is the same as wych-hazel, botanically known as ulmus, none
of these having supernatural powers, even when they change their
names, but in this case I'm sure that a matchstick would have produced
the same effect, Why do you say that, What must be, must be,
and there's no way around it, I've heard the old people say this a
thousand times, Do you believe in fate, I believe in what has to be.
In Paris they had a good laugh at the appeal made by the maire,
who appeared to be telephoning from a kennel at the hour when they
were feeding the dogs, and it was only at the insistent pleading of a
member of parliament born and bred in the commune, and thus familiar
with local legends and tales, that two qualified veterinary surgeons
of the Deuxieme Bureau were dispatched to the south, with the
special mission of investigating this unusual phenomenon and presenting
a report and a plan of action. Meanwhile, the desperate inhabitants,
reduced to near-deafness, had crisscrossed the streets and
squares of the agreeable resort town suddenly transformed into a hellhole,
setting out dozens of poisoned meat pies, a method of supreme
simplicity and one whose effectiveness has been confirmed by experience
in every age and latitude. As it happened, only one dog died,
but the lesson was not lost on the survivors, who soon disappeared,
yelping, barking, and howling, into the surrounding fields, where, for
no apparent reason, they fell silent within a few minutes. When the
veterinary surgeons finally arrived, they were presented with the sad
Medor, cold, swollen, so different from the contented animal who
accompanied his mistress when she went shopping, and who, old dog
that he was, liked nothing better than sleeping peacefully in the sun.
But since justice has not yet entirely abandoned this world, God decided,
poetically, that Medor should die from eating the meat pie
cooked by his beloved mistress, who, let it be said, had meant the pie
for a certain bitch of the neighborhood who never left her garden
alone. The older of the veterinary surgeons, confronted by that sad
corpse, suggested, Let's hold an autopsy, which was pointless, for any
inhabitant of Cerbere could, if he or she so wished, testify to the cause
of death. But the hidden intention of the Faculty, as it was referred
to in the jargon of that secret service, was to proceed in secrecy to an
examination of the vocal cords of an animal that, between the quietude
of death, which was now definitive, and its lifelong silence, which
had seemed eternal, had finally enjoyed a few hours of speech like any
other dog. Their efforts were futile, Medor did not even have any
vocal cords. The surgeons were amazed, but the maire, giving his
official and judicious opinion, said, That's not surprising, for centuries
the dogs of Cerbere have not barked, their vocal cords had wasted
away. Then why the sudden change, I don't know, I'm not a veterinary
surgeon, but our worries are over, the chiens have disappeared, from
wherever they are they cannot be heard. Medor, dissected and badly
stitched up again, was delivered to his weeping mistress, as a living
reproach, which is what reproaches are even after they are dead. On
the way to the airport, where they were about to catch a plane to
Paris, the veterinary surgeons agreed that they would omit from their
report the curious business about the missing vocal cords. And to all
appearances definitive, for that same night there was Cerberus himself
out prowling, an enormous dog as tall as a tree, three-headed but mute.
About the same time, perhaps before Joana Carda had scratched
the ground with the elm branch, perhaps after, a man was strolling
along the beach, it was toward evening, when the noise of the waves,
brief and restrained like an unprovoked sigh, can scarcely be heard,
and that man, who will later say that his name is Joaquim Sassa, was
walking above the tidemark that distinguishes the dry sands from the
wet, and from time to time he bent down to pick up a shell, a crab's
claw, a strand of green seaweed, we often while away the hours in this
way, and this solitary passerby was doing likewise. Since he had neither
pockets nor sack to hoard his findings, he put the lifeless remnants
back in the water when his hands were full, let the sea have what
belongs to the sea, let the earth remain with the earth. But every rule
has its exceptions, and Joaquim Sassa picked up a stone he had seen
ahead, beyond the reach of the tides, a stone as large and heavy as a
discus and irregular in shape. If it had been like the others, light, with
smooth outlines, like those stones that fit easily between the thumb
and the index finger, then Joaquim Sassa would have skimmed it on
the surface of the water, watching it bounce, childishly satisfied with
his own ability, and finally sink, the impetus gone, a stone that appeared
to have its destiny traced out, dried by the sun, dampened only
by the rain, but now finally sinking into the dark depths to wait a
million years, until this sea evaporates, or, receding, brings the stone
back to land for another million years, allowing sufficient time for
another Joaquim Sassa to come down to the beach and unwittingly
perform the same gesture and movement, let no man say I will not
do it, for no stone is secure and firm.
On the southern shores, at this tepid hour, there is someone having
one last dip, swimming, playing with a ball, diving under the waves,
or taking it easy on an air mattress, or feeling the first waft of the
evening breeze on his skin, or shifting his position to receive one last
caress from the sun that is about to settle momentarily on the sea, the
longest moment of all, for we look at the sun and the sun allows itself
to be watched. But here, on this northern shore where Joaquim Sassa
is carrying a stone, so heavy that his arms are already tiring, the breeze
is chilly, the sun is already halfway down, and there is not a sea gull
in sight flying over the waters. Joaquim Sassa has thrown the stone,
expecting it to fall a few paces away, not very far from where he's
standing, each of us is obliged to know his own strength, there were
not even any witnesses there to mock the efforts of the frustrated
discus thrower, it was he who was prepared to laugh at himself, but
things did not turn out as he expected, the stone, dark and heavy,
went up into the air, came down and hit the surface of the water, the
impact sent it back up in a great flight or leap, and down it came
again, and then up, and finally it sank in the distance, unless the
whiteness we have just seen some distance away is not just the froth
of a breaking wave. How did that happen, Joaquim Sassa mused in
bewilderment, how could I, weak as I am, have thrown such a heavy
stone so far, way out on that sea that is already darkening, and there
is no one here to say, Well done, Joaquim Sassa, I'm your witness for
the Guinness Book of Records, such a feat cannot be ignored, what
rotten luck, if I were to tell people what has happened, they would
call me a liar. A towering wave came in from the open sea, foaming
and gushing, the stone finally dropped into the water, this evokes the
rivers of childhood, for anyone who had rivers in his childhood, this
concentric undulation caused by stones thrown into the water. Joaquim
Sassa ran up the shore, and the wave broke on the sand, dragging
with it shells, crab's claws, green algae, but also other species, gulfweed,
coralline, sea-tangle, and a small stone, light, of the type that
can fit easily between the thumb and the index finger. How many
years since it has seen the light of the sun.
Writing is extremely difficult, it is an enormous responsibility, you
need only think of the exhausting work involved in setting out events
in chronological order, first this one, then that, or, if more conducive
to the desired effect, today's event before yesterday's episode, and other
no less risky acrobatics, presenting the past as if it were something
new, or the present as a continuous process with neither beginning
nor end, but, however hard writers might try, there is one feat they
cannot achieve, and that is to put into writing, in the same tense, two
events that have occurred simultaneously. Some believe the difficulty
can be solved by dividing the page into two columns, side by side, but
this proposal is too simple, because the one will have been written
first and the other afterwards, nor may we forget that the reader will
have to read this one first and then the other one, or vice versa. The
people who come off best are the opera singers, each with his or her
own part to sing, three, four, five, six in all among the tenors, basses,
sopranos, and baritones, all singing different words, the cynic mocking,
for example, the ingenue pleading, the gallant lover slow in coming
to her aid, what interests the operagoer is the music, but the reader
is not like this, he wants everything explained, syllable by syllable,
one after the other, as they are shown here. That is why, having first
spoken of Joaquim Sassa, only now will we mention Pedro Orce, when
in fact Joaquim Sassa threw the stone into the sea and Pedro Orce
rose from his chair at the very same instant, although according to
the clocks there was an hour's difference, because the latter happened
to be in Spain and the former in Portugal.
It is common knowledge that every effect has its cause, and this is
a universal truth, but it is impossible to avoid certain errors of judgment,
or of simple identification, for we might think that this effect
comes from that cause, when after all it was some other cause, beyond
any understanding we possess or any knowledge we think we possess.
For example, there appeared to be proof that if the dogs of Cerbere
barked it was because Joana Carda scratched the ground with an elm
branch, and yet only a very credulous child, if any child has survived
from the golden decades of credulity, or an innocent one, if the holy
name of innocence can thus be taken in vain, only a child capable of
believing that by closing its hands it has trapped the sunlight inside
would believe that dogs could bark that had never barked before, for
reasons as much historical as physiological. In these tens and tens of
thousands of hamlets, villages, towns, and cities, there are many people
who would swear that they were the cause or causes of the barking of
the dogs and of all that was to follow, because they slammed a door,
or split a fingernail, or picked a fruit, or drew back the curtain, or lit
a cigarette, or died, or, not the same people, were born, these hypotheses
about death and birth would be more difficult to credit, bearing
in mind that we are the ones who would have to propose them,
for no child comes out of its mother's womb speaking, just as no one
speaks any more once he has entered the womb of the earth. And
there is no point in adding that any one of us has reasons enough for
judging himself the cause of all effects, the reasons we have just mentioned
as well as those that are our exclusive contribution to the
functioning of the world, and I should dearly like to know what it
will be like when people and the effects they alone cause will exist
no more, best not to think of such an enormity, for it is enough to
make one dizzy, but it will be quite sufficient for some tiny animals,
some insects, to survive for there still to be worlds, the world of the
ant and the cicada, for example, they will not draw back curtains, they
will not look at themselves in the mirror, and what does it matter,
after all, the only great truth is that the world cannot die.
Pedro Orce would say, if he so dared, that what caused the earth
to tremble were his feet hitting the floor when he rose from the chair,
great presumption on his part, if not ours, since we are frivolously
expressing doubt, if every person leaves at least one sign in the world,
this could be that of Pedro Orce, which is why he declares, I put my
feet on the ground and the earth shook. It was an extraordinary trembling,
so much so that no one appeared to have felt it, and even now,
after two minutes, as the wave on the beach began to recede and
Joaquim Sassa said to himself, If I were to tell anyone they would call
me a liar, the earth still vibrates just as the chord continues to vibrate
although it can no longer be heard, Pedro Orce can feel it in the soles
of his feet, he continues to feel it as he leaves the pharmacy and steps
out into the street, and no one there notices a thing, it's like watching
a star and saying, What lovely light, what a beautiful star, without
knowing that it went out in mid-sentence, and your children and
grandchildren will repeat the same words, poor things, they speak of
what is dead and say that it is alive, this deception is not confined to
the science of astronomy. Here precisely the opposite happens, everyone
would swear that the earth is firm and only Pedro Orce would
say that it is trembling, just as well he kept his mouth shut and did
not run away in terror, besides the walls are not swaying, the lamps
hanging from the ceiling are as straight as a plumb line, and the little
caged birds, who are usually the first to sound the alarm, doze peacefully
on their perches, each with its head tucked under one wing, the
needle of the seismograph has traced and continues to trace a straight
horizontal line on the millimetric graph paper.
The next morning, a man was crossing an uncultivated plain, part
scrubland, part swampy pasture, he was making his way along paths
and tracks between the trees, poplars and ash, as elevated as the names
by which they are known, and clumps of tamarisks, with their African
scent, this man could not have chosen greater solitude or a loftier sky,
and overhead, making the most incredible din, a flock of starlings
followed him, so many of them that they formed a huge dark cloud,
like the prelude to a storm. Whenever he paused the starlings began
to fly in a circle or swooped noisily to roost in a tree, disappearing
amid the branches until all the leaves were shaking and the crown
echoed with harsh, strident sounds, giving the impression that some
ferocious battle was being fought inside. Jose Anaico started walking
again, for that was his name, and the starlings took sudden flight, all
at once, vruuuuuuuuuu. If we did not know this man, and started
guessing, we might decide that he was a bird-catcher by trade or, like
the snake, had the power to charm and entice, when, in fact, Jose
Anaico is as puzzled as we are about the reason for this winged festivity.
What can these creatures desire of me, do not wonder at this
archaic phrasing, for there are days when one does not feel like using
commonplace words.
The man was traveling from east to west, for this was the route he
favored, but, forced out of his way by a great reservoir, he now turned
south around the bend, hugging the water's edge. By late morning the
temperature will soar, but meanwhile there is a fresh, clean breeze,
what a pity one cannot store it in one's pocket and keep it there until
it is needed once the heat builds up. Jose Anaico was turning these
thoughts over in his mind as he walked, vague and involuntary as if
they did not belong to him, when he suddenly became aware that the
starlings had stayed behind, were fluttering over where the road curves
to skirt the reservoir, their behavior was quite extraordinary, but when
all is said and done, whoever goes, goes, whoever remains, remains,
good-bye little birds. Jose Anaico had now circled the lake, an awkward
journey that took nearly half an hour, amid thistles and nettles,
and he picked up his original route, proceeding as he had begun, east
to west like the sun, when suddenly, vruuuu, the starlings reappeared,
where had they been hiding. Well, here's something for which there
is no explanation. If a flock of starlings accompanies a man on his
morning stroll, like a dog faithful to his master, and waits for him the
time it takes to go around a reservoir, and then follows him as before,
one doesn't ask him to explain or investigate their motives, birds don't
have reasons, just instincts, often vague and involuntary as if they
were not part of us, we spoke about instincts, but also about reasons
and motives. So let us not ask Jose Anaico who he is and what he
does for a living, where he comes from and where he is going, whatever
we find out about him, we shall only find out from him, and this
description, this sketchy information will also have to serve for Joana
Carda and her elm branch, for Joaquim Sassa and the stone he threw
into the sea, for Pedro Orce and the chair he got up from, life does
not begin when people are born, if it were so, each day would be a
day gained, life begins much later, and how often too late, not to
mention those lives that have no sooner begun than they are over,
which has led one poet to exclaim, Ah, who will write the history of
what might have been.
And now this woman called Maria Guavaira, such a strange name,
who climbed up into the attic of the house and found an old sock, of
the real old-fashioned kind that were used to keep money as safely as
in any bank vault, symbolic hoardings, gratuitous savings, and upon
finding the sock empty she set about unraveling the stitches to amuse
herself, having nothing else with which to occupy her hands. An hour
passed and another and yet another, and the long strand of blue wool
is still unwinding, yet the sock does not appear to get any smaller, the
four enigmas already mentioned were not enough, which shows us that
at least on this occasion the contents can be greater than the container.
The sound of the waves does not reach this silent house, the
shadow of passing birds does not darken the window, there must be
dogs but they do not bark, the earth, if it trembled, trembles no more.
At the feet of the woman unraveling the thread is the mountain that
goes on growing. Maria Guavaira is not called Ariadne, with this
thread we shall not emerge from the labyrinth, perhaps it will help us
to succeed at last in losing ourselves. Where is the end of this thread.
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