Sitting between his wife and daughter, both of whom were busily sewing, Anselmo, his fact sheets spread out on the dining room table, was savoring this victory. Finding that he did not have the names of the substitutes selected for the third Portugal — Italy match, he decided that he would write the next day to the information desk of a sports newspaper and find out.
He could not, alas, forget that the three hundred escudos would be deducted from that month’s wages, and this rather soured his joy. He could, at most, hope to be allowed to pay back the debt in installments. The worst thing was that any deduction from his wages, however small, threw a large monkey wrench in the works of the household budget.
While Anselmo was pondering these thoughts, the radio was blaring out the most blatantly plangent, painful, piercing fado ever to emerge from a Portuguese throat. As everyone knew, Anselmo was no sentimentalist, but even he was profoundly moved by this lament. His feelings had much to do with the terrible prospect of that deduction from his wages at the end of the month. Rosália paused, needle in the air, and suppressed a sigh. Maria Cláudia, although apparently unmoved, was following the words of that unhappy love spilling forth from the loudspeaker and softly repeating them to herself.
What remained after the singer’s final “Ay!” resembled the atmosphere at the end of a Greek tragedy or, in more modern terms, the air of suspense to be found in certain American films. Another song like that and those three normally healthy people would be transformed into hopeless neurotics. Fortunately, the broadcast was coming to an end. There were a few bits of news from abroad, a summary of the schedule for the following day, and then Rosália turned up the volume slightly to hear the twelve chimes at midnight.
Anselmo stroked his bald head and declared, as he was putting away his papers in the china cabinet:
“Midnight. Time for bed. Tomorrow we have to work.”
At these words, everyone stood up. And this flattered Anselmo, who saw in these small things the excellent results of his methods of domestic education. He prided himself on having a model family and believed, moreover, that this was entirely his doing.
Maria Cláudia planted two smacking kisses on her parents’ cheeks. With the evening newspaper dangling from his fingertips — a little bedtime reading before lights-out — Anselmo set off down the corridor. Rosália stayed on, tidying away her and her daughter’s sewing. She straightened the chairs around the table, put a few other objects back in their proper places and, once she was certain everything was in order, followed her husband.
When she went into the bedroom, he peered at her over the top of his glasses, then continued reading. Like every good Portuguese citizen, he had his favorite soccer clubs, but was happy to read reports of all the matches, albeit only as a source of more statistical material. Whether they played well or badly was their business. What mattered was knowing who scored the goals and when. What mattered was what history would record.
According to a tacit agreement between them both, Anselmo did not lower his newspaper when Rosália was getting undressed for bed. To do so would, in his view, be undignified. She, on the other hand, might have seen nothing wrong with it. Once undressed, she lay down without her husband having glimpsed so much as her toes. That was the dignified, decent way to do things.
He turned off the bedside lamp. A fringe of light was still visible underneath the door opposite. Anselmo saw it and called:
“Lights out, Claudinha!”
Seconds later, the light went off. Anselmo smiled in the darkness. It was so good to be respected and obeyed! Darkness, however, is the enemy of smiles and always suggests grave thoughts. Troubled, Anselmo tossed and turned. Beside him, pressed against him, his wife’s body snuggled into the soft mattress.
“Whatever’s wrong?” asked Rosália.
“It’s that advance they gave me,” muttered Anselmo. “They’ll take it off my wages at the end of the month and then we’ll be back to square one.”
“Can’t you pay it off in installments?”
“The boss doesn’t like that.”
The sigh that had been trapped inside Rosália’s breast ever since the fado had ended finally burst forth and filled the apartment. Anselmo could not repress a sigh either, albeit a less exuberant, more manly one.
“But what if they were to give you a raise,” suggested Rosália.
“Oh, they’re not going to do that. They’re even talking about getting rid of people.”
“Goodness! I hope they don’t get rid of you!”
“Me?” said Anselmo, as if this were the first time he had considered such an eventuality. “No, it won’t happen to me. I’m one of the oldest employees there…”
“Things are so bad at the moment, though. All you hear now are complaints.”
“It’s the international situation…,” began Anselmo.
But he stopped. What was the point of getting on his soapbox and giving a speech about the international situation in the dark and with the problem of that advance still unresolved?
“I’m worried they might sack Claudinha. I know the five hundred escudos she earns isn’t much, but every little bit helps.”
“Five hundred escudos! A pittance!” muttered Anselmo.
“Maybe, but I just hope we don’t have to do without it.”
Then she fell silent, seized by an idea. She was about to tell her husband, but decided to approach the subject obliquely:
“Couldn’t you find her another job with one of your acquaintances?”
Something in his wife’s voice alerted Anselmo to the possibility of a trap.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“What else would I mean?” she said casually. “It’s a perfectly simple question.”
Anselmo could see that it was a simple question, but he could see, too, that his wife had something else in mind. He decided not to make things too easy for her.
“And who was it who got her the job she has now? It was you, wasn’t it?”
“But couldn’t we find her something better?”
Anselmo did not reply. He would get his wife to tell him her idea by dint of force or guile. Silence was the best tactic. Rosália shifted in bed. She turned toward her husband, her slightly plump belly pressed against his hip. She tried to drive away the idea, certain that Anselmo would vehemently reject it, but the idea kept coming back, stubborn and seductive. Rosália knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she had told him her idea. She cleared her throat so as to make the murmur that followed more audible:
“I just thought… and I know you’ll be angry with me, but I just thought I could perhaps have a word with Dona Lídia downstairs.”
Anselmo saw immediately what his wife was leading up to, but preferred to pretend otherwise:
“Why? I don’t understand.”
As if physical contact might reduce the expected indignant reaction, Rosália moved closer. Years before, that movement would have had a very different meaning.
“I just thought… given that we get on well with her, that she might consider…”
“I still have no idea what you mean.”
Rosália was sweating now. She moved away again and, without pausing to choose her words, blurted out:
“She could ask the man who visits her. He’s a director or something of an insurance company and he might have some suitable post for Claudinha.”