TE19 Iberian Adventure

Autobiografia

in recollection, after the aridity of the scare had passed, those images were always accompanied by an oppressed chest.

Bartolomeu blamed it on the alcohol. Whisky? No. Red wine? No. Brandy? No, I’ve already said no. José regretted having told himabout it, but at acertainpoint hehimself ceased toknowwhat tobelieve, had doubts. Still, when he reasoned, when he aligned his gaze by a finger raised two spans away from his face, he believed it had been about exhaustion, a fatigue of his head; he had not withstood the pressure the words exerted to go through his pores. At the time he still trusted that, with much insistence, he could move ahead with the novel. At home, for days on end he accumulated sweat, rotten leftovers, and for hours kept his notebook open before himself, words crossed out, words written and crossed out. He had headaches that made his eyes hurt, he could feel his eyeballs clearly defined on the inside of his skull, two throbbing spheres of veins. Day or night, he would fall asleep on the sofa, lose consciousness. He keeps no remembrance of how he left home that afternoon—fortunately dressed and shod. He remembers the streets, perhaps Olivais, perhaps Chelas, perhaps Alcântara or Telheiras, perhaps whatever Lisbon neighborhood with buildings and traffic. He also remembers a few voices trying to talk to him on noticing he was disoriented, calling him boy in spite of his beard. No longer was he able to organize the moments he recalls; before and after blur together until they cease to exist; lost inmemory the same manner he got lost in Lisbon that afternoon.

At certain times—he does not know by which association or which loss of focus—he gets to the point of mistaking that occasion for the

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