IT IS GENERALLY considered a show of unsurpassable bravura when a man condemned to death himself gives the firing squad the order to shoot, and even the most peaceful or cowardly of us, attended by favourable circumstances, at some time must have dreamed of this glorious demise, especially if someone survived to tell the tale, for glories without anyone to narrate them are valued less. In fact, it is necessary to have come into the world with nerves of steel, or, if shaky and cracking, to be possessed of a patriotic or similar zeal beyond the ordinary, to cry out with a hoarse and then for ever afterwards silent voice, Fire, somehow alleviating the conscience of the assassins from any sense of guilt, while elevating our own conscience in one last glow to the sublime heights of sacrifice and total abnegation. It is possible that the common spectacle of such gestures, especially when transferred to the screen, contributes to an exaltation capable of turning the most mediocre person into a hero, only by chance absent from the scene of the drama, precisely because they decided to come to the cinema today, to see, one minute feigned, the next real, how the famous actor simulated death or how, with the realism of a documentary, an executed man without a name died for good. There is no hint of malice in this doubt, only what we assume to be true, that no one condemned to the electric chair, gallows, guillotine, garrote or stake will have given the order to switch on the current, open the trap-door, release the blade, turn the screw, or spark the match, perhaps because such deaths are so undignified, including those with the longest tradition in art, perhaps because they lack the military factor, the institution of arms, where heroism is more readily found, for even when the condemned man was no more than a common civilian, the shots he received in the chest turned out to be a ransom for his mediocrity and were the viaticum, the safe-conduct, thanks to which he will be permitted, when the time comes, to enter the paradise of heroes, without any wrangling over meaning and cause, for there one loses any notion of these differences on earth.

This lengthy circumlocution had no other justification than to show how, in all innocence, it can happen that a person gives voice to his own death, even if it should not be imminent, and how, in this case, words spoken in piety are transformed into enraged serpents that would not turn back for anything in this world. It was noon, and the muezzins had climbed up on to the balcony of the minarets to summon the faithful to prayer, because although the city is under siege and plunged into the turmoil of warfare, the rites of worship must not be neglected, and although the muezzin of the great mosque knew that he could be seen on all sides by the Christian soldiers, especially by those besieging the nearby Porta de Ferro, he remained unconcerned, firstly because he was not so close that he might be hit by a stray javelin, secondly because his own words would protect him from any danger, La ilaha illa llah, he was about to cry out, Allah is the one and only God, and what good would it do him if he were not in the end. At this moment, positioned before the five gates, the Portuguese forces no sooner hear this cry than they launch a general and simultaneous attack, the first of the three strategic points, as we know, drawn up in the definitive plan of combat, as established by our good king after consulting his chief of staff. Out of habit, we might be tempted to describe this ironic touch of putting the order to attack into the mouths of the unsuspecting Moors as Machiavellian, but Machiavelli was not even born at this time nor did any of his ancestors, contemporary or preceding the conquest of Lisbon, distinguish themselves internationally in the art of deception. The utmost care has to be taken in the use of words, never using them before the epoch in which they came into the general circulation of ideas, otherwise we shall immediately be accused of an anachronism, which, amongst the reprehensible acts in the terrain of writing, is second only to plagiarism. In fact, if we had been as important a nation then as we are today, then it would not have been necessary to wait three centuries for Machiavelli to enrich the practice and vocabulary of political astuteness, and without further ado, we would describe this ingenious stroke as obsolete, Allah is the one and only God cries the muezzin, and, as one man, the Portuguese, shouting their heads off to summon their courage, advance steadily on the city gates, even though the most ordinary observer, so long as he is impartial, could not fail to notice a certain lack of conviction in the advancing armies, as if disbelieving that with so little they might get so far. It is true that the bows and the crossbows fired a veritable shower of arrows and other missiles over the battlements in order to drive back the guards and to give some respite to the assailants on the front line so that they might attempt to break down the gates with axes and hammers, while others, manning the heavy battering-rams, push them forward in a regular rhythm, but the Moors refused to give way, firstly because they were protected by the shelters they had built, and then, when these began to burn, set alight by flaming torches tied to the larger javelins, they came crashing down on to the heads of the Portuguese, who were forced to retreat, scorched like pigs after slaughter. Once they had put out some of the more dangerous fires, which meant that some of Mem Ramires’s soldiers had to dive into the waters of the estuary, from where they emerged shivering and pleading for ointments, the artillery launched another barrage of missiles, this time more cautious, and preferring to use stones and missiles of hardened clay, for those fiendishly wicked Moors hit us back with our own munitions, causing at least one Portuguese soldier to die, showing that no man escapes his destiny, when a javelin was thrown back which he himself had been the first to aim.

From the balcony of the minaret, the muezzin heard the fateful turmoil, so different from the uproar of animated voices that had reached his ears in that very same spot, when the crusaders departed. This time he did not need to come rushing down to find out what was happening, he knew all too well that the battle was starting up again after the pause following the loss of the nearby suburb, but he was not worried, the cries he heard coming from his brethren were not those of despair and defeat, but of courage, that is how they sounded to him, and he knew he was right because, being blind, he had been compensated with the keenest of hearing which did not abandon him even in old age. On the other minarets throughout the city, the muezzins were probably hearing the same uproar, some six, eight, ten blind men assigned to other mosques and perched between heaven and earth in total darkness. All of them were responsible for this attack, they were the ones who had given the order, but, innocent as they were, they did not connect the words spoken with their obvious effect, each of them no doubt saying to himself, what a coincidence, and preferring to think, as the echoes of their holy summons to prayer continued to hover in the air, although already mingled with the howls and curses of the combatants, that it was as if the palpable presence of Allah were protecting the city, an enormous cupola made from the myriads of other vibrant little cupolas that were descending all the way down the slope from the castle as far as the river, while all around, the God of the Christians appears to have been lacking in enough shields to defend his sceptical soldiers from the missiles raining down from on high. Startled by the commotion, dogs are barking on these slopes, they run for shelter and start burying bones, their instinct must serve some purpose when even people endowed with judgment can foretell evil times ahead.

This allusion to Moorish dogs, that is to say, the dogs that still lived with the Moors at the time, clearly in their condition as the most impure of animals, but who would soon begin to feed with their foul flesh on the emaciated bodies of the human creatures of Allah, this allusion, as we were saying, reminded Raimundo Silva of the dog on the Escadinhas de São Crispim, unless, on the other hand, it was an unconscious memory on his part, that led to the introduction of the allegorical picture with that brief commentary about judgment and instinct. As a rule, Raimundo Silva boards the tram at the Portas do Sol, although the distance is greater, and he comes back the same way. If we were to ask him why he does it, he would reply that because he has such a sedentary occupation, it is good for him to walk, but that is not entirely true, the fact is that he would not mind descending the hundred and thirty-four steps, gaining time and benefiting from those sixty-seven flections of each knee, if, out of male pride, he did not also feel obliged to climb up them with the inevitable weariness everyone suffers if they pass this way, as we can see from the small number of mountaineers around. A reasonable compromise would be to go down that way as far as the Porta de Ferro and come back up by the longer but easier route, but to do this would mean acknowledging, all too clearly, that his lungs and legs are no longer what they were, a mere assumption, because the period when Raimundo Silva was in his prime does not come into this history of the siege of Lisbon. On the two or three occasions that he took this route down in recent weeks, Raimundo Silva did not encounter the dog, and thought to himself that, tired of waiting for even the barest ration from the miserly neighbours, the dog had emigrated to richer pastures, or had simply given up the ghost when it could wait no longer. He remembered his act of charity and told himself that he could have done it more often, but when it comes to dogs, you know what it is like, they live with the fixation of acquiring a master, to encourage and feed them is to have them at your feet for evermore, they stare at us with that neurotic anxiety and there is no other solution than to put a collar round their neck, pay for a licence and take them home. The alternative would be to leave them to die of hunger, so slowly that there would be no room for remorse, and, if possible, on the Escadinhas de São Crispim, where no one ever passes.

News arrived that another burial site had been consecrated on a plain facing the fortress, beneath the slope on the left-hand side of the royal encampment, because of the work involved in transporting corpses across ravines and marshes as far as the Monte de São Fransisco, who arrived more battered than a load of fish and, in this hot weather, smelling worse than the living. As with this new site for burial, the cemetery of São Vicente is divided into two sections, Portuguese on one side, foreigners on the other, to all appearances a waste of space yet responding, in the final analysis, to that desire for occupation inherent in human nature, and in this sense serving both the living and the dead. When his hour comes, knight Heinrich will end up here, for whom that other hour is at hand when he will prove the tactical excellence of the assault towers, now that direct attacks on gates and walls have met with failure, the first item on the strategic plan. What he does not know, nor could anyone have told him, is that the moment the hopeful eyes of the soldiers are upon him, with the exception of the envious who already existed even then, this very moment, on the threshold of glory, will be that of his unfortunate death, unfortunate in military terms, let’s say, because to that other and greater glory, was finally destined he who had come from so far away. But let us not precipitate. The thirty native casualties who lost their lives during the attempted assault on the Porta de Ferro still have to be buried, their corpses will be transported by boat to the other bank of the estuary then carried uphill on improvised litters made from rough pieces of wood. On the edge of the common grave they will be stripped of any clothing that might be used by the living, unless they are much too bloodstained, and even these will be snatched up by the less scrupulous and squeamish, so that generally speaking the dead are lowered into their grave as naked as the earth that receives them.

Lined up, with their bare feet touching the first fringe of mud kept moist and soft by the high tides and waves, the corpses are subjected to the stares and taunts of the victorious Moors up on the battlements, as they lie there waiting to be carried on board. There is some delay in transporting them because there are more volunteers than are actually needed, which may seem surprising when the task is so painful and lugubrious, even if we take into account the enticement of being rewarded with clothing, but in fact everyone is trying to get hired as a boatman or drover, because just recently, there alongside the cemetery, prostitutes have gathered from the ravines and outlying districts where they were awaiting the outcome of the war, if it were to be a case of veni, vidi, vici, any precarious arrangement would do, but if it turned out to be a long, drawn-out siege, as looks likely, forcing them to look for greater comfort, they would select some shady spot out of the heat where they might rest from their labours, and set up some wattle huts and use branches to make an awning, for a bed requiring nothing more than an armful of hay or entwined plants which in time will turn to humus and merge with the ashes of the dead. It would not take much learning to observe, as much today as in those medieval times, despite the Church’s disapproval of classical similes, how Eros and Thanatos were paired off, in this case with Hermes as intermediary, for it was common practice to use the clothes of the dead to pay for the services of women who, being in the infancy of their art and the nation as yet in its early stages, still accompanied the raptures of their clients with genuine pleasure. Confronted with this, the following discussion will come as no surprise, I’ll go, I’ll go, which is not a sign of compassion for their lost comrades nor a pretext to escape the contingencies on the front line of battle for a few hours, but rather the insatiable cravings of the flesh, their gratification dependent, would you believe it, on the likes and dislikes on the part of some sergeant-major.

And now let us take a little stroll past this line-up of filthy, bloodstained corpses, lying shoulder to shoulder as they await embarkation, some with their eyes still open and staring heavenwards, others who with half-closed eyelids appear to be suppressing an irresistible urge to burst out laughing, a grim spectacle of festering sores, of gaping wounds devoured by flies, no one knows who these men are or might have been, their names known only to their closest friends, either because they hailed from the same place, or because thrown together as they faced the same dangers, They died for the fatherland, the king would say if he were to come here to pay his last respects, but Dom Afonso Henriques has his own corpses there in his encampment without having to travel all this way, his speech, were he to make it, should be interpreted as that of someone contemplating on equal terms all those who more or less at this hour await despatch, while important matters are being discussed, such as who should be hired as crew or assigned to the cemetery as grave-diggers. The army will not need to inform the relatives of the deceased by telegram, In the fulfilment of his duty, he fell on the field of honour, undoubtedly a much more elegant way of putting it than by simply explaining, His head was smashed in by a heavy stone that some bastard of a Moor threw down from above, the fact is that these armies do not as yet keep a register, the generals, at best, and somewhat vaguely, know that at the outset they had twelve thousand men and that from now on what they must do is to discount so many men each day, a soldier in the front line scarcely needs a name, Listen, simpleton, if you draw back, you’ll get a thick ear, and he did not draw back, and the stone came hurtling down and he was killed. He was called Galindo, it’s this fellow here, in such a sorry state that even his own mother would not recognise him, his head smashed in on one side, his face covered in congealed blood, and on his right lies Remígio, pierced with arrows, two side by side, because the two Moors who targeted him at the same time had the eye of an eagle and the strength of Samson, but the delay is no disadvantage, their turn will come within the next few days when they too will be exposed to the sun as they await burial inside the city, which being under siege means they cannot get to the cemetery where the Galicians have carried out the most wicked acts of profanation. In their favour, if such a thing can be said, the Moors only have the farewells of their families, the loud lamentations of their womenfolk, but this, who knows, could be even worse for the morale of the soldiers, subjected to a spectacle of tears of sorrow and suffering, of mourning without consolation, My son, my son, while in the Christian encampment only the men are involved, for the women, if there are any, are there for other reasons and purposes, to open their legs for the first man who turns up, whether a soldier be dead or at his post, any differences of length or width are not even noticed after a while, except in exceptional cases. Galindo and Remígio are about to cross the estuary for the last time, if they have ever crossed it before in this sense, for the siege being in the early stages there is no lack of men here who did not get to relieve themselves of secret humours, they entered death full of a life that profited no one. With them, stretched out at the bottom of the boat, one on top of the other, packed tightly because of the confined space, there are also the corpses of Diogo, Gonçalo, Fernão, Martinho, Mendo, Garcia, Lourenço, Pêro, Sancho, Alvaro, Moço, Godinho, Fuas, Arnaldo, Soeiro, and those who still have to be counted, some who have the same name, but not mentioned here so that no one starts complaining, He’s been named already, and it would not be true, we might have written, Bernardo is in the boat, when there were thirty corpses with the same name, for we shall never tire of repeating, There is nothing in a name, as proved by Allah himself who despite his ninety-nine names, has only succeeded in being known as God.

Mogueime, too, is in the boat, but alive. He escaped unharmed from the assault, not as much as a scratch, and not because he sheltered from the fighting, on the contrary, one could swear that he was always in the line of fire, handling the battering-rams like Galindo, although the latter was less fortunate. To be sent to the funeral is as good as an official summons, an act of commemoration with the troops on parade, a day off duty, and the sergeant is in no doubt how his men will use their time between going and returning, his great disappointment is not to be able to be part of the retinue, he is going with his captain Mem Ramires to the prince’s encampment, where the leaders have been convened to weigh up the outcome, clearly negative, of the assault, which only goes to show that life in the superior ranks is not always a bed of roses, not to mention the more than likely hypothesis that the king would put the blame for this fiasco on his captains, who in their turn would criticise the sergeants, who, poor things, could scarcely excuse themselves by accusing the soldiers of cowardice, for as everyone knows, any soldier owes his worth to his sergeant. If this should happen, there is every chance that permits for burial will be refused, for when all is said and done, these corpses who sail alone have only one route and the time has come to begin the story of the phantom ships. From the hillside opposite, the women at the gates watch the boats approach with their cargo of dead bodies and desires, and any woman who might be indoors with a man will fidget disloyally in order to get rid of him quickly, for the soldiers accompanying these funereal gondolas, perhaps because of an unconscious need to balance the fatality of death with the demands of life, are much more passionate than any soldier or civilian on routine duty, and as we know, generosity always increases in proportion to the satisfaction of ardour. However little a name may be worth, these women, too, have a name, in addition to the collective title of whore by which they are known, some are called Tareja like the King’s mother, or Mafalda, like the queen who came from Savoy last year, or Sancha, or Maiores, or Elvira, or Dórdia, or Enderquina, or Urraca, or Doroteia, or Leonor, and two of them have precious names, one who is called Chamoa, another known as Moninha, enough to make one feel like rescuing them from the streets and taking them home, not out of pity, as Raimundo Silva did with the dog on the Escadinhas de São Crispim, but in order to try and discover what secret links a person to a name, even when that person scarcely matches up to the name itself.

Mogueime is making this crossing with two declared aims and one that is private. Much has already been said about the declared purpose of the journey, the open trenches are there to receive the dead and the women with open legs to receive the living. His hands still soiled with the dark, moist earth, Mogueime will unfasten his breeches and, pulling up his jacket without taking off any clothes, he will go up to the woman of his choice, she too with her skirt hitched up and bundled round her belly, the art of making love has yet to be invented in these newly-conquered lands, the Moors are said to have taken all their knowledge about love with them, and if any of these prostitutes, being Moorish in origin, has been forced by circumstances to offer her services to foreigners, she will reveal nothing of the amatory skills of her race, until she can begin to sell these novelties at a higher price. Needless to say, the Portuguese are not entirely ignorant in this matter, after all the possibilities depend on means more or less common to all races, but they obviously lack refinement and imagination, have no talent for that subtle gesture or prudent interruption, in a word, are devoid of civilisation and culture. Do not forget that as the hero of this story, Mogueime is more competent and refined than any of his comrades. Lying next to him, Lourenço grunted with pleasure and Elvira screamed, and Mogueime and his whore responded with the same vehemence, Doroteia is determined not to be outdone by Elvira in expansive prodigality, and Mogueime, who is enjoying himself, has no reason to keep quiet. Until the poet Dom Dinis becomes king, let us content ourselves with what we have.

When the boats returned to the other bank, much more swiftly, Mogueime will not return with them. Not because he has decided to desert, any such idea would never have crossed his mind, given his reputation and the fact that his place is already assured in The Grand History of Portugal, these are not things to be thrown away lightly in a reckless moment, after all, this is the same Mogueime who took part in the conquest of Santarém, enough said. His secret objective, which he will not confide even to Galindo, is to go from here, along the routes that were described when the army moved from the Monte de São Fransisco to the Monte da Graça, as far as the king’s encampment, where he knows the crusaders have their separate tents, where he hopes, by some happy coincidence, to find the German’s concubine around some corner, she is called Ouroana and she is forever in his thoughts, although he has no illusions that he could ever win her favours, for a soldier without any rank can only aspire to a common prostitute, concubines are reserved for the pleasure of gentlemen, at most swopped around, but always amongst equals. Deep down, he does not believe that he will have the good fortune to see her but how he would love to feel once more that throbbing in the pit of his stomach he has experienced on two occasions, despite everything he has no cause for complaint, for with so many randy men on the prowl, the women are kept under guard, even more so if they go out to get some fresh air, as proved by Ouroana who was always accompanied by one of knight Heinrich’s servants, armed as if for battle, although merely a member of the domestic staff.

There are enormous differences between peace and war. When the troops were camped here while the crusaders decided whether they would stay or leave, and there was no warfare apart from the brief skirmish or exchange of arrows and insults, Lisbon looked almost like a jewel resting against the slope and exposed to the voluptuaries of the sun, sparkling all over, and surmounted on high by the mosque of the fortification, resplendent with green and blue mosaics, and, on the slope facing this side, the neighbourhood from where the population had not yet withdrawn, a scene that could only be compared with the ante-chambers of paradise. Now, outside the walls, the houses have been burnt down and the walls demolished, and even from a distance you can see the onslaught of destruction, as if the Portuguese army were a swarm of white ants as capable of gnawing wood as stone, although they might break their teeth and the thread of life in this arduous task, as we have seen, and it will not stop here. Mogueime is not sure if he is afraid of dying. He finds it only natural that others should die, in war this always happens, or is it for this reason that wars are fought, but were he capable of asking himself what he really fears at this time, he would perhaps reply that it is not so much the possibility of meeting his death, who knows, perhaps in the very next assault, but something else which we shall simply call loss, not of life in itself, but of what might happen in life, for example, if Ouroana were to be his the day after tomorrow, unless destiny or Our Lord Jesus Christ should ordain that he must die tomorrow. We know that Mogueime has no such thoughts, he travels by a more straightforward route, whether death comes late or Ouroana comes soon, between the hour of her arrival and the hour of his departure there will be life, but the thought is also much too complicated, so let us resign ourselves to not knowing what Mogueime really thinks, let us turn to the apparent clarity of actions, which are translated thoughts, although in the passage from the latter to the former, certain things are always lost or added, which means that, in the final analysis, we know as little about what we do as about what we think. The sun is high, it will soon be midday, the Moors are certain to be observing any movements in the encampment, watching to see whether the Galicians will stage another attack like that of yesterday when the muezzins summon the faithful to prayer which only goes to show how little respect these heartless creatures have for the religion of others. In order to shorten his journey, Mogueime fords the estuary at the level of the Praça dos Restauradores, taking advantage of the low tide. Soldiers from the detachment assigned to the Porta de Alfofa roam these parts, seeking some distraction from the horrors of battle and trying to catch small fish in the estuary, they have certainly come a long way, and even in those days there was the saying, Out of sight, out of mind, but the allusion here is not to interrupted love affairs, but a question of finding some respite away from the arena of warfare, a sight the more delicate find unbearable once the heat of battle is over. And to avoid any desertions, commanding officers patrol the area, like shepherds or their dogs guarding the flock, there is no other solution, for the soldiers have been paid until August and there is much to be done, day by day, until this period expires, save for any impediment resulting beforehand because another period of expiry has been completed, that of life. Mogueime cannot ford the second branch of the estuary, for it is deeper, even when the tide is out, so he goes up the embankment until he comes to the freshwater streams, where one day he will see Ouroana washing clothes and he will ask her, What is your name, a mere pretext to start up a conversation, for if Mogueime knows anything about this woman, it is her name, he has said it to himself so often that, contrary to appearances, it is not only the days that go on repeating themselves, What is your name Raimundo Silva asked Ouroana, and she replied, Maria Sara.

It was almost seven o’clock in the evening when Maria Sara arrived. Raimundo Silva had been writing until five, his attention constantly distracted, with great difficulty he would compose two or three lines and then start staring out of the window, clouds in the sky, a pigeon that would settle on the balcony from time to time, looking at him through the window-pane with its fierce crimson eye, shaking its head with movements that were at once rapid and fluent, the wastepaper basket which he had brought through from the study was full of torn-up sheets of paper, a disaster, if all the days from now on were to turn out like this, there was every danger that his history would never be finished, the Portuguese remaining before this invincible city of Lisbon until the end of time, without the courage to conquer it or the strength to relinquish it. During the day he had to resist the temptation to telephone a thousand times, which contributed to distracting him even more from what he wanted to write, the outcome being that in terms of work he had advanced no more than a page, and even so, thanks to that benevolence that so often leads us to tolerate what has no other merit than that of not being insufferable. He has spent the last half-hour out on the verandah, now and then showing himself without dissembling, like someone who is waiting and does not care who knows or comments, but nearly always leaning against the inner frame of the window, with half of his body concealed, and gazing furtively towards the Largo dos Lóios where Maria Sara will park her car. He saw her appear on the corner of the building with the murals of St Antony, walking at a steady pace, neither quickly nor slowly, she was wearing a jacket and skirt he had seen before, her bag over one shoulder, her hair dancing freely in the breeze, and desire brought a sudden knot into the pit of his stomach, not as happened to Mogueime, for the latter had felt his heart pound. He perceived that this was genuine desire, that yesterday it had been more like a convulsive and constant throbbing throughout his entire body that might be resolved by means of rapid physical contact that probably, if consummated, would leave signs of frustration or, worse still, of disenchantment. He went to open the door and stepped out on to the landing, Maria Sara was already climbing the stairs and was looking up with a smile, and he smiled back, Why so late, he asked and she replied, You know what the traffic can be like, yesterday was different because I left the office earlier, and on reaching the landing she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and entered the apartment. The nearest door, as we know, is that of the bedroom, there would be no point, things being as they are, in looking for another, all the more so because this bedroom is not simply a bedroom but also, however provisional, a work-room, and for this reason, we repeat, somehow neutralised. But Raimundo Silva removed the bag from her shoulder, slowly, as if he were removing her clothes, it was an unpremeditated gesture, one of those moments when intuition helps out where science has sometimes forgotten, Yesterday, when you said goodbye, you somehow sounded more friendly, Forgive me, I need a little more time to get used to being on intimate terms, Maria Sara replied, Would you prefer to go through to the study, No, we’re fine here, but you have nowhere to sit, Wait, I’ll go and fetch a chair. When he returned, Maria Sara was reading the last page of the manuscript, You haven’t made much progress, she said, And why should that be, asked Raimundo Silva, Yes, why should that be, she replied, this time without smiling, and looking at him as if awaiting some reaction, Take a look at the bed, What about the bed, and in another tone of voice, she said, I seem to be alone in dropping the formalities, It’s probably more difficult for me to be familiar, but let’s try again, you’ve asked me to look at the bed and I’m asking you, What about the bed, Do you notice anything different from yesterday, It’s the same bed, Of course it’s the same bed, what I want you to tell me is whether it looks as if it has been slept in, being a woman you won’t find it difficult to see that the folds of the sheets have not been disturbed, that there isn’t a crease on the bolster or pillow, that the bedcover is pristine and all the fringes straight, Yes, it’s true, Just as my cleaner left it yesterday, So you didn’t sleep here last night, No, Why not, where did you sleep then, Let me answer the second part of the question first, I slept through there on a divan, But why, Because I’m like a child, an adolescent whose grey hairs have come much too soon, because I could not bring myself to sleep here alone, that’s all. Maria Sara put the sheet of paper down on the table, went up to him and embraced him, You will never need to tell me that you love me, Oh yes, I will, But not like this, I’ll put it into words, And I want to hear them, I know I shall forget most of them, the moment, the place, the hour, but I shall never forget this, or that moment when you touched the rose. They were in each other’s arms but still had not kissed, they looked at each other and smiled a lot, their expression one of happiness, and then their smile slowly withdrew, like water being sucked up and savoured by the earth, until they both became serious, staring at each other, a sudden, subtle shadow hovered in the room, it came only to disappear, and then immense and powerful wings enfolded Maria Sara and Raimundo Silva, drawing them together as if they were one body, and their kiss began, so different from the kiss they had shared here yesterday, they were and they were not the same two people, but to say this is to have said nothing, because no one knows what a kiss is really like, perhaps some impossible deglutition or diabolical communion, perhaps the beginning of death. It was not Raimundo Silva who led Maria Sara to the bed, nor did she gently draw him there as if distracted, they simply found themselves there, seated first of all on the edge of the mattress, crumpling the white bedcover, then he tilted her back and they went on kissing, her arms round his neck, his right arm supporting her head while his left arm appeared to hesitate, not knowing what to do, or knowing but not daring, as if an invisible wall had been erected between them at the eleventh hour, guided by a wise hand, he touched Maria Sara’s waist, went down as far as the small of her back until it came to rest ever so gently on the curve of her thigh, only to travel slowly up her body once more as far as her breast, now his knowing fingers recognise the soft texture of this blouse he was touching for the first time, the sensation was fleeting and instantly mitigated by the disturbing awareness that beneath a man’s clumsy hand there was this miracle of a breast. Dazed by this contact, Raimundo Silva raised his head, he wanted to look, see, know, be certain that it was his own hand that was there, now the invisible wall was really collapsing, beyond stood the city of the body, streets and squares, shadows and light, a melody that comes from who knows where, infinite windows, an interminable peregrination. Maria Sara placed her hand on that of Raimundo Silva, and he kissed it profusely until she withdrew it taking his hand with her, and her erect breast, still covered, offered itself to his kisses. It was she herself who, without haste, unbuttoned and removed her blouse, beneath the white lace of her bra her skin was like lace in the palest gold, the nipples rose-coloured, dear God, then Raimundo Silva’s hand was back, gentle, violent, and with one resolute gesture he uncovered her breast, elastic and dense. Maria Sara moaned when his lips eagerly sucked her nipple, her whole body shuddered, and then more deeply because Raimundo Silva’s hand had come to rest on her belly, before descending almost naturally to her sex, where it twitched, persistent and invasive. They were still dressed, she only with her jacket open and her blouse unbuttoned, and it was Raimundo Silva who covered her breast once more, so delicately that Maria Sara’s startled eyes became moist with tears. The shadows in the room suddenly lit up, no doubt because over by the straits the evening clouds had opened up, and the last rays of sun were coming through the window, oblique, casting over that side of the wall a flickering light the colour of cherries, which in its turn sent an invisible vibration throughout the entire room, a sudden pulsation of atoms aroused by the waning light, as if the world had just been born and was still without strength, or had aged from so much living, its strength gone forever. Maria Sara and Raimundo Silva, either out of modesty or intuition, did not undress completely, they kept their private parts covered and she was still wearing her bra. Lying together under the covers, they trembled. He held her hands and kissed them, she repeated the gesture, with an undulating movement their bodies came together, so close that their breathing merged, then their mouths touched and their kiss became an avid devouring of lips and tongues, while the hands of the one pursued the body of the other, they held each other tightly, hugged, caressed, then their words could be heard, disconnected, convulsive, breathless, my darling, I love you, how was this possible, I don’t know, it had to be, embrace me, I want you, that ancient murmur, which, with these and other words sweeter still, or crude, or rough, or brutal, has pursued from the beginning of time, if we may be allowed to repeat the expression, the ineffable. Raimundo Silva’s hand struggled clumsily with the fastener of her bra, but it was Maria Sara who with the merest touch and movement of her shoulders undid it, releasing her breasts from their prison and offering them to his eyes, his hands and mouth. Then they undressed completely, the one helping or encouraging the other, Undress me, they said, when, in fact, they were already naked, but now they could touch, fondle and probe each other, Raimundo Silva suddenly threw back the covers and there was Maria Sara, her breasts, belly, swollen sex, long thighs, and he, without any sense of shame, his fears forgotten, exposing himself to the light, little as there was, only the white sheet was shining as if flooded by moonlight, night was slowly descending over the city, it seemed as if the external world had settled down to await some new miracle, yet no one noticed when it happened, here, when these two came into sexual contact for the first time, when for the first time they moaned with pleasure in each other’s arms, when they called out in muffled tones, when all the floodgates opened over the earth and its waters, and then calm, the broad estuary of the Tagus, two bodies drifting side by side, holding hands, the one says, Oh, my love, the other, May this last forever, and suddenly they were both afraid of the words they had spoken, and they embraced, the room was dark, Switch on the light, she said, I want to know if this is real.