messages, or to receive messages, depending on the situation, the whole exchange being orchestrated by myself, of course. But some things are easier than one imagines; for example, all you have to do is think: Tonight Iâm transmitting; or: Tonight Iâm receiving. And youâre set.
I received many stories during those nights. I confess to transmitting very little. Most of the time I spent listening. Those presences were eager to talk and I sat and listenedto their stories, trying to decipher communications which were often subject to interference, obscure and full of gaps. They were unhappy stories for the most part, that much I sensed quite clearly. Thus, amidst those silent dialogues, the autumn equinox came round. That day the sea was whipped up into a storm. I heard it thundering away from dawn on. In the afternoon an enormous force convulsed its bowels. Come evening, thick clouds had descended on the horizon and communication with my ghosts was lost. I went to the cliffs around two in the morning, having waited for the beam of the lighthouse in vain. The ocean was howling quite unbearably, as if full of voices and laments. I took my novel with me and consigned it to the wind page by page. I donât know if it was a tribute, a homage, a sacrifice or a penance.
Years have gone by, and now that story surfaces again from the obscurity of other dressers, other depths. I see it in black and white, the way I see things in dreams usually. Or in faded, extremely tenuous colours; and with a light mist all around, a thin veil that blurs and softens theedges. The screen it is projected on is the night sky of an Atlantic coast in front of an old house called São José de Guia. To those old walls, which no longer exist as I knew them, and to everybody who knew the house before I did and lived there, I duly dedicate this non-existent novel.
The Translation
Itâs a splendid day, you can be sure of that, indeed Iâd say it was a summerâs day, you canât mistake summer, Iâm telling you, and Iâm an expert. You want to know how I knew? Oh, well, itâs easy, really, how can I put it? All you have to do is look at that yellow. What do I mean by that? Okay, now listen carefully, you know what yellow is? Yes, yellow, and when I say yellow I really do mean yellow, not red or white, but real yellow, precisely, yellow. That yellow over there on the right, that star-shaped patch of yellow opening across the countryside as if it were a leaf, a glow, something like that, of grass dried out by the heat, am I making myself clear?
That house looks as if itâs right on top of the yellow, as if it were held up by yellow. Itâs strange one can see only a bit of it, just a part, Iâd like to know more, I wonder who lives there, maybe that woman crossing the little bridge. It would be interesting to know where sheâs going, maybe sheâs following the gig, or perhaps itâs a barouche, you can see it there near the two poplars in the background, on the left-hand side. She could be a widow, sheâs wearing black. And then she has a black umbrella too. Though sheâs using that to keep off the sun, because as I said, itâs summer, no doubt about it. But now Iâd like to talk about that bridge â that delicate little bridge â itâs so graceful, all made of bricks, the supports go as far as the middle of the canal. You know what I think? Its grace has to do with that clever contrivance of wood and ropes that covers it, like the scaffolding of a cantilever. It looks like a toy for an intelligent child, you know those children who look like little grown-ups and are always playing with Meccano and things like that, you used to see them in respectable families, maybe not so much now, but youâvegot the idea. But itâs all an illusion, because the way I see it that graceful little bridge, apparently meant to open considerately to let the boats on the canal
I received many stories during those nights. I confess to transmitting very little. Most of the time I spent listening. Those presences were eager to talk and I sat and listenedto their stories, trying to decipher communications which were often subject to interference, obscure and full of gaps. They were unhappy stories for the most part, that much I sensed quite clearly. Thus, amidst those silent dialogues, the autumn equinox came round. That day the sea was whipped up into a storm. I heard it thundering away from dawn on. In the afternoon an enormous force convulsed its bowels. Come evening, thick clouds had descended on the horizon and communication with my ghosts was lost. I went to the cliffs around two in the morning, having waited for the beam of the lighthouse in vain. The ocean was howling quite unbearably, as if full of voices and laments. I took my novel with me and consigned it to the wind page by page. I donât know if it was a tribute, a homage, a sacrifice or a penance.
Years have gone by, and now that story surfaces again from the obscurity of other dressers, other depths. I see it in black and white, the way I see things in dreams usually. Or in faded, extremely tenuous colours; and with a light mist all around, a thin veil that blurs and softens theedges. The screen it is projected on is the night sky of an Atlantic coast in front of an old house called São José de Guia. To those old walls, which no longer exist as I knew them, and to everybody who knew the house before I did and lived there, I duly dedicate this non-existent novel.
The Translation
Itâs a splendid day, you can be sure of that, indeed Iâd say it was a summerâs day, you canât mistake summer, Iâm telling you, and Iâm an expert. You want to know how I knew? Oh, well, itâs easy, really, how can I put it? All you have to do is look at that yellow. What do I mean by that? Okay, now listen carefully, you know what yellow is? Yes, yellow, and when I say yellow I really do mean yellow, not red or white, but real yellow, precisely, yellow. That yellow over there on the right, that star-shaped patch of yellow opening across the countryside as if it were a leaf, a glow, something like that, of grass dried out by the heat, am I making myself clear?
That house looks as if itâs right on top of the yellow, as if it were held up by yellow. Itâs strange one can see only a bit of it, just a part, Iâd like to know more, I wonder who lives there, maybe that woman crossing the little bridge. It would be interesting to know where sheâs going, maybe sheâs following the gig, or perhaps itâs a barouche, you can see it there near the two poplars in the background, on the left-hand side. She could be a widow, sheâs wearing black. And then she has a black umbrella too. Though sheâs using that to keep off the sun, because as I said, itâs summer, no doubt about it. But now Iâd like to talk about that bridge â that delicate little bridge â itâs so graceful, all made of bricks, the supports go as far as the middle of the canal. You know what I think? Its grace has to do with that clever contrivance of wood and ropes that covers it, like the scaffolding of a cantilever. It looks like a toy for an intelligent child, you know those children who look like little grown-ups and are always playing with Meccano and things like that, you used to see them in respectable families, maybe not so much now, but youâvegot the idea. But itâs all an illusion, because the way I see it that graceful little bridge, apparently meant to open considerately to let the boats on the canal
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