After the Journey to Portugal, a detailed guidebook of his native land not included in this anthology, Saramago wrote The Cave, which I have to say in some ways I like the best of all, because I like the people in it so much. Saramago will tell us what the book is about—though when he wrote this in The Notebook he wasn’t talking about his novel but about the world he saw in May 2009: Every day species of plants and animals are disappearing, along with languages and professions. The rich always get richer and the poor always get poorer… Ignorance is expanding in a truly terrifying manner. Nowadays we have an acute crisis in the distribution of wealth. Mineral exploitation has reached diabolical proportions. Multinationals dominate the world. I don’t know whether shadows or images are screening reality from us. Perhaps we could discuss the subject indefinitely; what is already clear is that we have lost our critical capacity to analyze what is happening in the world. We seem to be locked inside Plato’s cave. We have jettisoned our responsibility for thought and action. We have turned ourselves into inert beings incapable of the sense of outrage, the refusal to conform, the capacity to protest, that were such strong features of our recent past. We are reaching the end of a civilization and I don’t welcome its final trumpet. In my opinion, neoliberalism is a new form of totalitarianism disguised as democracry, of which it retains almost nothing but a semblance. The shopping mall is the symbol of our times. But there is still another miniature and fast-disappearing world, that of small industries and artisanry…
This is the framework of The Cave, an extraordinarily rich book that uses science-fictional extrapolation with great skill in the service of a subtle and complex philosophical meditation that is at the same time, and above all, a powerful novel of character. It is worth noting that one of the principal characters is a dog.
In 2004 came The Double, which I found rather hard going but have not yet reread, so my judgment on it now would be worthless. After that came Seeing, which picks up the setting and some of the characters of Blindness but uses them in an entirely different way (nobody could accuse Saramago of writing the same book over, or anything like the same book). It is a heavy-hitting political satire, very dark—far darker, paradoxically, in its end and implications than Blindness.
By now the author was well into his eighties, and not surprisingly chose to write a book about death. Death with Interruptions is the English title. The premise is irresistible. Death (who isn’t one person but many, each with a locality she’s responsible for—bureaucracy, after all, is everywhere) gets sick of her job and takes a vacation from it. This is a major theme in Saramago, the humble employee who decides to do something just a little out of line, just this once… So in the region for which this particular Death is responsible, nobody dies. The resulting problems are drawn with a very dry humor. Death herself is an interesting person, but to me the book comes alive (if I may put it so) halfway through, with the appearance of the cellist, and the dog.
In the year in which I am writing this, 2010, The Elephant’s Journey was published in English, very shortly after the author’s death. If it were his last book, no author could have a more perfect final word—but it isn’t his last. There is Cain yet to come, the novel whose name he wouldn’t tell anybody while he was writing it because, he said, if you knew that, you’d know everything about it. Which is hardly the case… but soon we’ll know.
The true story of the elephant, Solomon, who walked and went by ship from Portugal to Vienna in the sixteenth century, and the soldiers, archdukes, and others who accompanied him, may be Saramago’s most perfect work of art, as pure and true and indestructible as a Mozart aria or a folk song. I wrote of it in a review for the Guardian: “In his Nobel talk, Saramago said, ‘As I could not and did not aspire to venture beyond my little plot of cultivated land, all I had left was the possibility of digging down, underneath, towards the roots. My own but also the world’s, if I can be allowed such an immoderate ambition.’ That hard, patient digging is what gives so light and delightful a book as this its depth and weight. It is no mere fable, as the story of an elephant’s journey through the follies and superstitions of sixteenth-century Europe might well be. It has no moral. There is no happy ending. The elephant Solomon will get to Vienna, yes; and then two years later he will die. But his footprints may remain across the reader’s mind, deep, round impressions in the dirt, not leading to the Austrian Imperial Court or anywhere else yet known, but indicating, perhaps, a more permanently rewarding direction to be followed.”
Those tracks are now imprinted on electrons as well as in the dirt, on the page, in the mind; they are now in the vibrations in our computers, the symbols on our screens, as real and intangible as light itself, for all who will to see and read and follow.
BALTASAR AND BLIMUNDA
Translated from the Portugese by Giovanni Pontiero
In memoriam Giovanni Pontiero
A man was on his way to the gallows when he met another, who asked him: Where are you going, my friend? And the condemned man replied: I’m not going anywhere. They’re taking me by force.
Velho João Je sais que je tombe dans l’inexplicable, quand j’affirme que la réalité—cette notion si flottante—la connaissance la plus exacte possible des êtres est notre point de contact, et notre voie d’accès aux choses qui dépassent la réalité.
DOM JOÃO, THE FIFTH monarch so named on the royal list, will pay a visit this night to the bedchamber of the Queen, Dona Maria Ana Josefa, who arrived more than two years ago from Austria to provide heirs for the Portuguese crown, and so far has shown no signs of becoming pregnant. Already there are rumours at court, both within and without the royal palace, that the Queen is barren, an insinuation that is carefully guarded from hostile ears and tongues and confided only to intimates. That anyone should blame the King is unthinkable, first because infertility is an evil that befalls not men but women, who for that very reason are often disowned and second, because there is material evidence, should such a thing be necessary, in the horde of bastards produced by the royal semen, who populate the kingdom and even at this moment are forming a procession in the square. Moreover, it is not the King but the Queen who spends all her time in prayer, beseeching a child from heaven, for two good reasons. The first reason is that a king, especially a king of Portugal, does not ask for something that he alone can provide, and the second reason is that a woman is essentially a vessel made to be filled, a natural supplicant, whether she pleads in novenas or in occasional prayers. But neither the perseverance of the King who, unless there is some canonical or physiological impediment, vigorously performs his royal duty twice weekly, nor the patience and humility of the Queen, who, besides praying, subjects herself to total immobility after her husband’s withdrawal, so that their generative secretions may fertilise undisturbed, hers scant from a lack of incentive and time, and because of her deep moral scruples, the King’s prodigious, as one might expect from a man who is not yet twenty-two years of age, neither the one factor nor the other has succeeded so far in causing Dona Maria Ana’s womb to become swollen. Yet God is almighty.