TE19 Iberian Adventure

José Luís Peixoto

same height José reached up to, sprawled against his will. They waited until their breathing settled and, looking at one another, agreed that both regarded the task concluded. Picking where to land their feet so as not to stumble, but uninterested in avoiding the further crushing of objects, they walked toward the exit. Before crossing the threshold, one of them, the baldhead with the scar, left one last thought: “Pay what you owe, bastard.” They slammed the apartment door—wood—, slammed the building door—aluminum—, and José remained lain in the regress to the sounds of that afternoon, Tuesday, September 23, 1997. With his back dented by some edge, his neck folded, he opened his eyes and, after a fog, saw only the light bulb hanging from the ceiling without a lampshade, the bulb hanging by the wire. Then there was a period of confusion. José had trouble thinking—what he saw mingled with what he imagined and what he remembered; he could not distinguish ideas one from another. It was gradually that he began unraveling that clew. In an arbitrary position, abandoned, he began by remembering Saramago. It was a good thing that Saramago did not see him like that. Not that that was possible, not that he could come in and see him there; but it was a good thing that they had no scheduled meeting. How long would it take that body to heal? José doubted he could ever fix what to him seemed broken from the roots. It is not the body, it is never the body. José despised his ill-fed, ill- slept body—though well-drunk when convenient. Time dries up the bruises; the bones get used to limping. The issue always is the doubts. Outside the buses advanced through traffic, the sound of

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