“You’re nodding off,” said Silvestre.
“No, I’m not. I was just resting my eyes.”
It was no good, though. Five minutes later, Mariana got to her feet and apologized to Senhor Abel, but her eyelids were as heavy as lead.
The two men were left alone.
“I still haven’t thanked you for supper,” said Abel.
“Oh, it was nothing.”
“Well, it meant a lot to me.”
“It was just poor folks’ food.”
“Offered to someone even poorer. It’s funny, that’s the first time I’ve ever described myself as poor. I’ve never thought of myself like that.”
Silvestre did not respond. Abel tapped the ash off his cigarette and went on:
“But that isn’t why I said it meant a lot to me. It’s just that I’ve never felt so happy as I do today. When I leave, I’m really going to miss you both.”
“Why do you have to leave?”
Abel smiled and said:
“Don’t you remember what I said the other day? As soon as I feel the octopus of life getting a grip, I cut off the tentacle.” After a brief silence that Silvestre made no attempt to interrupt, he added: “I hope you don’t think me ungrateful.”
“Not at all. If I didn’t know you and know about your life, then I might think that.”
Abel leaned forward, suddenly filled with curiosity.
“How is it that you’re so very perceptive?”
Silvestre looked up, blinking in the light.
“Do you mean that most cobblers aren’t?”
“Yes, maybe…”
“And yet I’ve always been a cobbler. You’re a clerk of works and have had some education. No one would think…”
“But I…”
“I know, but you have had an education, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, so have I. I finished primary school, and then I’ve read quite a lot on my own too. I learned—”
Silvestre stopped abruptly and bowed his head still lower, as if the shoe required all his attention. The lamp lit up his powerful neck and back.
“I’m distracting you from your work,” said Abel.
“No, not at all. I could do this with my eyes closed.”
He set the shoe aside, picked up three pieces of thread and began waxing them. He did so in long, harmonious movements. Gradually, with each coating of wax, the white thread took on an ever-brighter yellow tone.
“I only do it with my eyes open out of habit,” he went on. “And of course if I closed my eyes, it would take much longer.”
“Plus it wouldn’t be very good,” added Abel.
“Exactly. This only goes to show that even when we could close our eyes, we ought to keep them open.”
“That sounds rather like a riddle.”
“Not really. It’s true, isn’t it, that I could do the job with my eyes closed?”
“Up to a point. You also agreed that, if you did, you wouldn’t do a very good job.”
“Which is why I keep them open. But isn’t it also true that, at my age, I could easily close my eyes?”
“You mean die?”
Silvestre, who had picked up the awl and was piercing the leather with it in order to begin sewing, stopped what he was doing:
“Die?! What an idea! I’m in no hurry to do that!”
“What do you mean?”
“Closing your eyes just means not being able to see.”
“But not being able to see what?”
Silvestre made a sweeping gesture.
“All this… life… people.”
“The riddle continues. I really don’t know what you mean.”
“How could you? You don’t know…”
“Now you’re intriguing me. Let’s see if I can work this out. You said that even when we can close our eyes, we should keep them open, right? You also said that you kept them open so as to see life, people…”
“Exactly.”
“Well, we all have our eyes open and can see life and people, but you can do that whether you’re six or sixty…”
“That depends on how you look at things.”
“Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere. You keep your eyes open so as to see in a certain way. Is that what you mean?”
“That’s what I said.”
“But see things in what way?”
Silvestre did not answer. He was stretching the threads now, the muscles in his arm tense.
“Look, I’m bothering you,” said Abel. “If we carry on talking, you won’t have the shoes ready for tomorrow.”
“And if we don’t carry on talking, you won’t sleep all night for thinking about it.”
“That’s true.”
“You’re dying to know, aren’t you? You’re like I was the other day. After twelve years immersed in the stream of life, you’ve just discovered a very rare bird: a philosophical cobbler! It’s like winning the lottery!”
Abel had the feeling Silvestre was making fun of him, but he disguised his displeasure and said in a slightly bittersweet voice:
“Oh, I would certainly like to know, but I’ve never forced anyone to say anything they didn’t want to. Not even people I used to trust…”
“Ah, that, I think, was aimed at me! Touché.”
The tone in which he said this was so playful and mocking that Abel had to suppress the impulse to give a somewhat sour response, and since that was the only possible response, he preferred to say nothing. Deep down, he wasn’t angry with Silvestre at all, and knew that he couldn’t be angry with him even if he wanted to be.
“Are you annoyed at me?” asked Silvestre.
“No… no…”
“That no means yes. I’ve learned from you to listen to everything that people say to me and how they say it.”
“Don’t you think I’m right to feel annoyed?”
“Annoyed, yes, and impatient too.”
“Impatient? But I just said that I’ve never forced anyone to tell me anything…”
“But if you could?”
“If I could, I would. Now are you satisfied?”
Silvestre laughed out loud:
“Twelve years immersed in the stream of life and you still haven’t learned to control your impatience.”
“I’ve learned other things, though.”
“You’ve learned not to trust people.”
“How can you say that? I trusted you, didn’t I?”
“You did, but what you told me could have been told to anyone. You would simply have to feel the urge to get it off your chest.”
“That’s true, but you were the one I chose to tell.”
“And I’m grateful… I’m not joking now. I really am grateful.”
“There’s no need to be.”
Silvestre put down the shoe and the awl and pushed his workbench to one side. He moved the lamp too, so that he could see Abel’s face.
“Goodness, you are annoyed.”
Abel’s face darkened. He was tempted to get up and leave.
“Listen, listen,” said Silvestre. “Isn’t it true that you distrust everyone, that you’re a, oh, what’s the word?”
“A skeptic?”
“Yes, that’s it, a skeptic.”
“Possibly, but given the blows life has dealt me, it would be astonishing if I wasn’t. But what made you think I was a skeptic?”
“Everything you told me.”
“But at a certain point, what I said moved you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. I was moved by what you told me about your life, what you’d been through. I’m equally moved by the terrible things I read in the newspapers.”
“That’s avoiding the question. Why, in your view, am I a skeptic?”
“All lads your age are. At least nowadays…”
“And how many lads do you know who have led the life I’ve led?”
“Only you. And that’s why your life hasn’t taught you very much. You want to know life, you said. Why? For your own personal use, for your own benefit, that’s all.”