because he was still nimble on his feet and sound of heart, capable of competing with the junior staff in all the offices, including the staff in Editorial, although here the average age has always been on the high side. It is not much of a climb, only two floors, but bearing in mind that this is an old building where each floor is almost twice as high as those built today, similar in this respect to the very old building he inhabits in Castelo, in other words this is nothing new, the high has always been followed by the low and the low by the high, probably one of life's laws, even our own father once gave the impression of being a giant and now it is we who look over his shoulder, and he gets more and more decrepit from year to year, poor man, but let us say no more, so that he may suffer in silence. It strikes Raimundo Silva as being absurd that he should be remembering his deceased father in this elevator, just as he was beginning to be assailed by erotic thoughts, the truth is that the person who thinks only knows what he is thinking and not why he thought it, we think from the moment we are born, I suppose, but do not know what our first thought might have been, the one from which all others have subsequently come, the definitive biography of each one of us would be to ascend the river of thoughts to its primeval source, and presumably change our life, were it possible to retrace their course, to suddenly have another thought and pursue it, so that we might arrive at the day in which we find ourselves, unless by choosing another life we made it shorter, and that the life in question was not that of a proof-reader, and we would go up in another lift, perhaps to speak to someone other than Dr Maria Sara. As it happened, Raimundo Silva was standing on the side where he had seen the Editorial Director descend with the new employee appointed to supervise the work of the proof-readers, and we catch him looking at the empty space with severe disapproval, as if he were about to reprimand the woman who had stood there for her immoral conduct, for as you ought to know these are things one does not do in a hit, one does not do, I repeat, for I am well aware that there are people who do these things, and even worse, It was only a little groping, Mr Proof- reader, it was only a little kiss, Mr Proof-reader, No matter, that was more than enough, in the name of my own, incurable envy, I denounce you, during the last few centimetres of his ascent, Raimundo Silva moved to the centre of the elevator, there was no room for the others, they had to get out, thoroughly ashamed of themselves if there is any shame left in this world, most likely they are laughing at this hypocritical moralist, They're no good because they're still green, said the vixen.
To look, see and observe are different ways of using the organ of sight, each with its own intensity, even when there is some deterioration, for example, to look without seeing, when someone is distracted, a common situation in traditional novels, or to see and not notice, when the eyes out of weariness and boredom avoid anything likely to tax them. Only by observing can we achieve full vision, when at a given moment or successively, our attention becomes concentrated, which may just as easily result from a conscious decision as from an involuntary state of synesthesia, whereby what is seen pleads to be seen once more, thus passing from one sensation to another, arresting, slowing down the process of looking, as if the image were about to be produced in two different places in the brain with a temporal discrepancy of a hundredth of a second, first the simplified sign, then the exact design, the clear, imperious definition of a thick handle in polished brass on a dark varnished door which suddenly becomes an absolute presence. Time and time again, Raimundo Silva has stood at this door waiting for them to open up from within, the click of the buzzer, and never as today has he been so keenly and almost terrifyingly aware of material things, a handle that is not simply a smooth polished surface, but an object whose density can be perceived until coming up against this other density, that of wood, and it is as if all of this were sensed, experienced, felt inside the brain, as if the senses, this time all of them and not just his vision, were observing the world after finally observing a handle and a door. The buzzer has clicked, fingers have pushed the door, inside the light seems overpowering, and although not true, Raimundo Silva feels as if he were floating in space without any bearings, just like those sets saturated with light that are much in vogue in films about the supernatural and extra- terrestrial apparitions with dazzling lighting effects, he waits for the telephonist to shriek in terror or fall into an ecstatic trance if he should manifest himself outwardly in a proliferation of sensitive tentacles or bright rays of ineffable beauty, the kaleidoscopic vibration into which, for a fleeting instant, his sensibility has been transformed. But the telephonist, whose duties, in addition to managing the switchboard, include pressing the button to release the lock and receiving anyone who arrives, gives him a little wave while she finishes a conversation on the telephone, and then friendly, familiar and unsurprised, greets him with, Hello, Senhor Silva, she has known him for many years and each time she sees him she finds him no different than one might expect with the passage of time, if asked within the next few minutes how she found the proof-reader, she would reply, although not with total conviction, Difficult to say, perhaps a little nervous, this is what she would say and nothing more, either she is not very observant or Raimundo Silva is his old self again, if anyone could really tell from outward appearances what was going on inside a person, even by observing them closely, I'd like to speak to Dr Maria Sara, he said, and the telephonist, who is also called Sara but without the Maria and who feels very proud of this semi-coincidence, informs him that Dr Maria Sara is in the director's office, she does not even have to say which director, she means the Editorial Director, it has always been the same, the others, from the Managing Director down to Costa, are people of no importance, and Raimundo Silva, somewhat brusquely for him, tells her to ask whether she can see him or whether he should leave the proofs of the book of poems here at the reception desk, she will know what he is referring to. Sara listens to what Dr Maria Sara is saying, nods her head, the dialogue is brief, but perhaps because of whatever keen vision he still possesses, although now only a pale shadow of what it was on the other side of the door, Raimundo Silva observes, strand by strand, the telephonist's blonde hair, a colour resembling that of crushed straw, she keeps her head lowered, she cannot imagine the ferocity in his expression, ferocity is perhaps too strong a word, obviously the man bears the woman no malice, it is his eyes that are being irresponsible, he is simply waiting to be given instructions, he has come quite some distance and in haste, perhaps only to be told to leave the proofs in reception, as if he were an errand boy delivering a letter that requires no answer, Dr Maria Sara would like you to wait in her office, the telephonist has raised her head and is smiling, Many thanks, Sarita, she has always been called Sarita, and the name stuck even after she married and became a widow, some people are extremely fortunate, the women, of course, for as a rule, men have had little time to be boys and some never were, as is known and has been written, while others have never stopped being boys but dare not admit it.
Raimundo Silva did not have long to wait, three or four minutes at most. He had remained standing, looking around him, with the strange impression of entering this office for the first time, it is not surprising, he had no memory of being in this office before, most likely it had been used by the administration before the recent alterations, nor, as he now noticed to his amazement, had he retained those images when summoned by Dr Maria Sara, he could no longer remember, for example, if that vase with a white rose had been standing on the desk or that work-schedule on the wall where he could read his own name on the top line and below it the names of all the other proof-readers who worked for the publishing house, their names marked alongside the abbreviated tides of books, dates, coloured symbols, a simple geometrical square, a map, as it were, of the city of proof-readers, some six in all. We can picture them, each in his own home, in Castelo, in Avenidas Novas, perhaps in Almada or Amadora, or Campo de Ourique, or Graca, poring over the proofs of some book, reading and correcting, and Dr Maria Sara thinking about them, changing a date, substituting a green symbol for a blue one, very soon now the names themselves will no longer matter, be no more than a little diagram that will provoke ideas, associations, reflections, but for the moment each of these names represents an item of information that has to be assimilated, first Raimundo Silva, then Carlos Fonseca, Albertina Santos, Mario Rodrigues, Rita Pais, Rodolfo Xavier, this being an office one might expect them to be arranged in alphabetical order, but not at all, no Sir, Raimundo Silva appears on the top line, and perhaps there is a simple explanation, namely, that when the work-schedule was drawn up, he was Dr Maria Sara's main concern.
Whereupon, she walks in, and says, Sorry to have kept you waiting, the sound of the door and her voice startled Raimundo Silva, caught unawares, and he turned round hastily, It doesn't matter, I only came to, he does not finish the sentence, it is as if he were also seeing this face for the first time, how often had he thought about Dr Maria Sara in recent days, and in the end, he had no image of her in his mind, her name alone had occupied all the available space in his memory, progressively displacing her hair, eyes, features, the gestures she made with her hands, all he could remotely recognise was the softness of that silk, not because he had ever touched it, as we know, nor was he having recourse to former sensations in order to imagine morbidly what touching it might be like, impossible as it may seem, Raimundo Silva knows everything about this silk, its sheen, the soft texture of the material, the floating pleats, like sand dancing, although its present colour is not as before, it, too, immersed in the mists of memory, at the risk of being disrespectful by citing the national anthem. I've brought you the proofs, as we agreed, said Raimundo Silva, and Dr Maria Sara took them from him, in passing as it were, now she is seated at her desk, having invited the proof-reader to be seated, but he replied, No, I won't bother, and averted his gaze to the white rose, so close to her that it can see into her most tender heart, and, since one word leads to another, he is
