“Do you love me, Henrique?”
This was such a strange question for his father to ask that the child responded lamely:
“Yes. .”
“A lot?”
“Yes, a lot.”
“Words,” thought Emílio, “mere words. If I were to die now, he’d forget all about me within a year.”
Emílio gave Henrique’s toes an affectionate, absent-minded squeeze. Henrique found this funny and giggled — cautiously so as not to hurt his throat. Emílio squeezed harder, and Henrique, seeing that his father seemed happy, did not complain, although he was relieved when he slackened his grip.
“If I were to leave, would you be sad?”
“Yes. .” murmured his son, perplexed.
“And would you then forget me?”
“I don’t know.”
What other answer could he expect? Of course the child didn’t know if he would forget him. No one can know that he’s forgetting someone until they’re forgotten. If it were possible to know things beforehand, it would be so much easier to resolve all kinds of knotty problems. Again Emílio’s hand reached for the pocket where he kept his cigarettes, but it stopped halfway and withdrew, as if it had forgotten what it was about to do. It wasn’t only his hands that were confused. The expression on his face was that of someone who has reached a crossroads where there are no signposts, or only signs written in a strange, indecipherable language. All around lies the desert, and there’s no one to tell us: “This is the way.”
Henrique was looking at his father curiously. He had never seen him like this or known him to ask such questions.
Emílio’s hands rose slowly, confidently this time. Palms uppermost, they were confirming what his mouth was saying:
“Of course you would forget me. .”
He paused for a second, but an irrepressible desire to speak drove out all hesitancy. He wasn’t sure if his son would understand him, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t even want him to understand. He would not necessarily choose words that were within his grasp. What he needed to do was talk and talk until he had said everything or had nothing more to say.
“Of course you would forget me, I’m sure of that. In a year from now, you would no longer remember me. Or perhaps it would take less time than that. After three hundred and sixty-five days of absence, my face would be a thing of the past. Later on, even if you saw a photo of me, you still wouldn’t remember my face. And after still more time had passed, you wouldn’t recognize me if I were standing right in front of you. Nothing about me would tell you that I am your father. For you I’m just a man you see every day, someone who gives you water when you’re thirsty, a man your mother calls by his first name, a man your mother shares a bed with. You love me because you see me every day. You don’t love me for who I am, you love me because of what I do or don’t do. You don’t know who I am. If I had been swapped for another man when you were born, you wouldn’t even notice and you would love him just as you love me. And if I were to come back one day, it would take a very long time for you to get used to me. Indeed, despite the fact that I am your real father, you might still prefer the other one. You would see him every day too, and he’d take you to the movies like I do…”
Emílio had spoken almost without stopping, not looking at his son’s face. Then, unable to resist the desire to smoke any longer, he lit a cigarette. He glanced at his son. He saw the look of astonishment on his face and felt sorry for him. But he still hadn’t finished:
“You don’t know who I am and you never will. No one knows… I don’t know who you are either. We don’t know each other. I could leave, and all you would lose are my wages…”
No, that wasn’t what he really wanted to say. He breathed in the smoke and continued talking. As he spoke, the smoke emerged along with the words in short, articulated bursts. Henrique was watching the smoke intently, oblivious to what his father was saying:
“When you grow up, you’ll want to be happy. You don’t give a thought to that now, which is why you are happy. The moment you think about it, the moment you want to be happy, you will cease to be happy. Forever. Possibly forever. Do you hear? Forever. The stronger your desire to be happy, the unhappier you will be. Happiness isn’t something you can conquer. People will tell you that it is. Don’t believe them. Happiness either is or isn’t.”
This, too, led him far away from his objective. He again looked at his son and saw that his eyes were closed, his face calm, his breathing easy and regular. He had fallen asleep. Then, very softly, his eyes fixed on his son’s face, Emílio murmured:
“I’m unhappy, Henrique, very unhappy. One day I will leave. I don’t know when, but I know that I will. Happiness isn’t something you conquer, but I want to try to conquer it anyway. I can’t do that here. Everything has died. My life is a failure. I live in this house as if I were a stranger. I love you and possibly even your mother, but there’s something missing. It’s like living in a prison. Then there are all these rows, all this… Yes, one day I’ll leave.”
Henrique was sleeping deeply. A lock of fair hair lay across his forehead. His half-open mouth revealed small, bright teeth. His whole face was lit by a faint smile.
Suddenly Emílio felt his eyes fill with tears, quite why he didn’t know. Then, distracted by the cigarette burning his fingers, he went back to the window. It was still raining, quietly, monotonously. When he thought about what he had said, he felt ridiculous. And imprudent too. His son would doubtless have understood something. He might tell his mother. He wasn’t afraid of that, of course, but he didn’t want any more scenes, more scoldings, more tears, more protests. He was tired, so tired. Yes, Carmen, I’m tired.
In the street, outside the window, he saw his wife pass by, barely protected from the rain by her umbrella. Emílio said again, out loud this time:
“Do you hear that, Carmen? I’m tired.”
He went into the dining room to fetch his sample case. Carmen came in. They bade each other a cold goodbye. It seemed to her that her husband was leaving with suspicious haste, and she feared that something might have happened. Finding nothing untoward in her son’s bedroom, she went into their bedroom and immediately spotted what it was. On the dressing table, next to the ashtray, lay the stub of a cigarette. When she brushed away the ash, she saw the burn mark on the wood. Her anger burst forth in the form of violent words. She overflowed with misery. She bemoaned the fate of the dressing table, her own fate, her own sad life. She mumbled these complaints in between sobs and sniffs. She looked around her, afraid she might find further signs of damage. Then, casting one fond, despairing look at the dressing table, she went back into the kitchen.
While she was preparing lunch, she was imagining what she would say to her husband. He needn’t think it would stop there. Oh, she would tell him a thing or two, all right. If he wanted to spoil things, then he should spoil something that belonged to him, not the bedroom furniture bought with money given to them by her parents. So this was his way of saying thank you, was it, the ungrateful wretch!
“He always has to spoil everything,” she was muttering as she walked back and forth between stove and table. “That’s the only thing he knows how to do!” Senhor Emílio Fonseca, always so full of fine words! Her father had been quite right; he had never approved of the marriage. Why hadn’t she married her cousin Manolo, who owned a brush factory in Vigo? She would be a lady now, the owner of a factory, with maids to do her bidding! Silly fool! She cursed the hour she had decided to come to Portugal to spend some time with her aunt Micaela! She had caused quite a sensation there. All the men had wanted to court her, and that had been her downfall. She had gloried in being so much more sought-after than she had been at home, and this was where her blindness had led her. Her father had told her: “Carmen, eso no es hombre bueno!” He’s not a good man, Carmen. But she had refused to listen to his advice, had dug in her heels and rejected cousin Manolo and his brush factory.