The History of the Siege of Lisbon

RAIMUNDO SILVA'S MOTIVE for not telephoning Maria Sara was as simple as it was tortuous, a statement which gives the immediate impression of not being very precise, inasmuch as these adjectives should be applied with greater rigour to the reasoning with which the aforesaid motive was obliged to conform. As in the classic detective novels, the nub of the question lay in the time factor, that is to say, the fact that Maria Sara's call came during Raimundo Silva's absence, at an unspecified hour, which might have been exactly one minute after he went out, or one minute just before the cleaner left, another unspecified hour, to mention only these final minutes. In the first instance, more than four hours must have passed before Raimundo Silva became aware of the message, in the second instance, judging from her normal practice, some three hours. All things considered, this means that Maria Sara, if she was waiting for a return call, had time to think that Raimundo Silva had probably returned home very late, at an hour at which it would have been in bad taste to telephone anyone at home, especially if indisposed. Although, a restrictive expression but not ironic, her illness was not so serious as to prevent her from personally making a telephone call to this apartment near the castle, where Raimundo Silva searches in vain for an answer to the inevitable question, What does she want from me. He spent the rest of the afternoon and evening working out endless variations on this theme that went from the simple to the complicated, from the general to the particular, from any request for information, which would be absurd in view of the circumstances, to the even greater absurdity of wishing her to declare her love for him, just like that, over the telephone, as if no longer able to resist such sweet temptation. His irritation with himself at having allowed this mad thought to carry him to this hypothesis reached such an extreme that, in a fit of temper, he grabbed the white rose which was already withering in the vase and threw it into the rubbish-bin, before slamming the lid in a gesture of finality, I'm a fool, he said aloud, but failed to explain whether this was because he had allowed his thoughts to run riot or because he had ill-treated an innocent flower that had bloomed for several days and deserved to be allowed to fade quietly, to wilt, its scent lingering and the last traces of whiteness concealed in its inner heart. Meanwhile it should also be said that, already in bed at dead of night and unable to sleep, Raimundo Silva got up and went to the kitchen, pulled out the rubbish-bin from under the cooker and retrieved the defiled rose which he gently cleaned and rinsed under a trickle of water in order not to disturb the limp petals before putting it back in the vase, resting its drooping corolla on a pile of books placed one on top of the other, the last one, by an interesting coincidence, being The History of the Siege of Lisbon, a copy not for sale. Raimundo Silva's final thought before falling asleep was, Tomorrow I'll ring her, a peremptory declaration so very much in keeping, so long as it is just a promise, with his vacillating nature, as if it had been spoken with a genuine sense of purpose by someone more decisive, the fact is that not everything can be achieved today, a firm intention is enough unless we leave it until the day after tomorrow.