The Collected Novels of José Saramago by José Saramago Page A

inside his knapsack, and when a witty fellow quipped that the one-handed man was obviously carrying horseshoes in his sack to protect them, Sete-Sóis looked at him askance and, putting his right hand into his knapsack, drew out the spike. If that was not congealed blood on the iron, it looked uncannily like the real thing. The witty fellow averted his eyes, recommended his soul to St Christopher, who is reputed to protect travellers from evil encounters and other misfortunes, and from that moment until they reached Lisbon he did not utter another word. A woman sat down beside Sete-Sóis, unpacked her provisions, and invited those around her, out of politeness rather than any willingness to share her food, but with the soldier it was different, and she insisted at such length that Baltasar finally accepted. Baltasar did not like to eat in the presence of others with that solitary hand of his which made for difficulties, the bread slipping between his fingers and the meat dropping on the floor, but the woman spread his food on a large slice of bread, and by manoeuvring with his fingers and the tip of the penknife he had drawn from his pocket, he managed to eat quite comfortably and with a certain finesse. The woman and her husband were old enough to be his parents, this was no flirtation over the waters of the Tagus, but friendship and compassion towards a man who had come back from the war, maimed for life.
    The ferryman raised a small triangular sail, the wind assisted the tide, and both wind and tide assisted the ship. The oarsmen, restored by alcohol and a good night’s rest, rowed steadily at an easy pace. When they rounded the coastline, the ship was buffeted by a strong current, it was like a journey to paradise, with the sunlight flickering on the surface of the water, and two shoals of porpoises, first one, then the other, were crossing in front of the ship, their skins dark and shiny, their movements arched as if they were striving to reach the sky. On the other side, towering above the water and in the far distance, Lisbon could be seen stretching beyond the city walls. The castle dominated the panorama, while church towers and spires rose above the rooftops of the houses below, a blurred conglomeration of gables. The ferryman began to tell a story, An amusing thing happened yesterday, if anyone is interested, and everyone was interested, because storytelling is a pleasant way to while away the time, and this was a long journey. The English fleet, which can be seen over there in front of the coast of Santos, anchored yesterday, and is carrying troops on their way to Catalonia, bringing reinforcements to the army awaiting them, and with the fleet arrived a ship carrying a number of criminals on their way to exile on the island of Barbados, and some fifty prostitutes who were also going there, to form a new colony, for in such places the honest and the dishonest amount to pretty much the same thing, but the ship’s captain, old devil that he is, thought they could form a much better colony in Lisbon, so he decided to lighten his cargo and ordered that the women be put ashore, I’ve seen some of those slender English wenches for myself, and some of them are quite attractive. The ferryman laughed in anticipation, as if he were drawing up his own plans for carnal navigation and calculating the profits to be made from those who would board his ship, while the oarsmen from the Algarve roared with laughter, Sete-Sôis stretched out like a cat basking in the heat of the sun, the woman with the provisions pretended not to be listening, her husband vacillated, wondering whether he should look amused or remain solemn, because he could not take such tales seriously, nor was it to be expected of one who came from the distant region of Pancas, where from the day a man is born until the day he dies, everyday life, real or imagined, is the same old drudge. Hitting on one idea, then another, and for some mysterious reason linking