about death, they know it, we all know it, but, in that case, where does it come from, this feeling of angst that grips Senhor Jose's throat, this unease of mind, as if he had cravenly abandoned a half-completed task and now did not know how to return to it with any dignity. On the other side of the stream, not far off, one can see a few houses with the windows lit, the moribund lights of the street lamps in the suburbs, the fleeting beam of a car passing on the road. And immediately ahead, only thirty paces away, as sooner or later had to happen, a small bridge joins the two banks of the stream, so Senhor Jose won't have to take off his shoes and roll up his trouser legs when he wants to cross to the other side. In normal circumstances he would have done so a long time ago, especially since we know he is not a person of great courage, courage he is going to need if he is to survive a whole night in a cemetery unscathed, with a dead person lying beneath his feet and a moonlight capable of making shadows walk. The circumstances, however, are these and no others, here it is not a question of courage or cowardice, here it is a matter of life and death, which is why Senhor Jose, despite knowing that he will often feel afraid during the night, despite knowing that the sighing of the wind will terrify him that at dawn the cold fallen from the sky will join forces with the cold rising from the earth, Senhor Jose is going to sit down beneath a tree, huddled up in the shelter of a providential hollow trunk. He turns up his jacket collar, makes himself as small as possible in order to retain the warmth of his body, folds his arms so that his hands are in his armpits, and prepares to wait for day. He can feel his stomach asking him for food, but he takes no notice, no one ever died from going for a while without eating between meals, except when the second meal was so long in being served that it did not appear in time to be served at all. Senhor Jose wants to know if it really is all over, or if, on the contrary, there is still something he has forgotten to do, or, more important, something that he had never even considered before and that might turn out to be, after all, the essence of the strange adventure into which chance had plunged him. He had looked for the unknown woman everywhere, and had found her here, beneath that little mound of earth which will soon be overgrown by weeds, if the stonemason doesn't come first to level it out and place on it the marble stone with the usual inscription of dates, the first and the last, and the name, though the family might be the sort who prefer a simple rectangular frame, in the middle of which they will later sow a decorative lawn, a solution that offers the double advantage of being less expensive and providing a home for the insects that live above ground. The woman is there then, all the roads in the world have closed for her, she walked that part of the road she had to walk and stopped where she wanted to, end of story, but Senhor Jose cannot rid himself of an obsessive thought, that he is the only person who can move the final piece on the board, the definitive piece, the one which, if moved in the right direction, will give real meaning to the game, at the risk, if he does not do so, of leaving the game at stalemate for all eternity. He has no idea what magical move that will be, but his decision to spend the night here was not made in the hope that the silence would come and whisper it in his ear or that the moonlight would kindly sketch it out for him among the shadows of the trees, he is simply like someone who, having climbed a mountain to reach the landscapes beyond, resists going back down into the valley until his astonished eyes have taken their fill of vast horizons.
The tree in which Senhor Jose has taken shelter is an ancient olive tree, whose fruits the local people still come and pick despite the fact that the olive grove has now become a cemetery. Over the many years of its life, the tree's trunk has gradually split open down one side, from top to bottom, like a cradle stood on its end so as to take up less space, and it is there that Senhor Jose manages to doze off now and then, it is there that he jerks awake, startled by the wind buffeting his face or when the silence and stillness of the air grew so profound that his drowsing spirit began to dream about the cries of a world sliding into the void. At one point, like someone determined to cure a dog bite with a hair of the dog that bit him, Senhor Jose decided to make use of his imagination in order to re-create mentally all the classic horrors appropriate to the place in which he found himself, the processions of lost souls swathed in white sheets, the danses macabres of skeletons rattling their bones in time to the music, the ominous figure of death skimming the ground with a bloody scythe to make sure that the dead resign themselves to remaining dead, but, because none of this was actually happening in reality, because it was just the work of his imagination, Senhor Jose gradually began to drift towards an enormous inner peace, only occasionally disturbed by the irresponsible flutterings of will-o'-the-wisps, enough to strain most people's nerves to breaking point, however tough they might be or however much they might know about the elementary principles of organic chemistry. Indeed, our fearful Senhor Jose is displaying a courage which the many upsets and afflictions through which we saw him pass earlier would not have led us to expect, which, once again, just goes to show that it is in moments of extreme duress that the spirit gives the true measure of its greatness. Towards dawn, now almost indifferent to fear, lulled by the gentle warmth of the tree embracing him, Senhor Jose dropped off to sleep with remarkable calm, while the world about him slowly re-emerged from the malevolent shadows of the night and from the ambiguous brilliance of a now departing moon. When Senhor Jose opened his eyes, it was already broad daylight. He was chilled to the bone, the tree's friendly vegetable embrace must have been just another deceiving dream, unless the tree, considering that it had fulfilled the duty of hospitality to which all olive trees, by their very nature, are obliged, had released him too soon and abandoned him, helpless, to the cold of a low, delicate mist that hovered over the cemetery. Senhor Jose struggled to his feet, feeling every joint in his body creak, and stumbled towards the sun, at the same time beating his arms vigorously about him in order to warm himself. Beside the grave of the unknown woman, nibbling the damp grass, was a white sheep. All around, here and there, there were other sheep grazing. And an old man, with a crook in his hand, was coming towards Senhor Jose. He was accompanied by an ordinary dog, neither large nor small, which, while it gave no sign of aggression, looked very much as if it were only awaiting a word from its master to attack. The man stopped on the other side of the grave with the inquisitive air of one who, without asking for any explanation, clearly believes he is owed one, and Senhor Jose said, Good morning, to which the other man replied, Good morning, It's a lovely day, Not bad, I fell asleep, Senhor Jose said, Ah, you fell asleep, said the man in a doubtful tone, I came here to visit the grave of a friend of mine, I sat down to rest under that olive tree and I went to sleep, You spent the night here, Yes, It's the first time I've ever met anyone here at this hour, which is when I bring the sheep to graze, You're not here during the rest of the day, then, asked Senhor Jose, It would look bad, it would show alack of respect, with the sheep getting in the way of the funerals or leaving their droppings when the people who come here to remember their loved ones are walking about praying and crying, besides, the guides don't want us to get in the way when they're digging graves, so I have no option but to bring them a bit of cheese now and then so that they don't go complaining to the keeper, Since the General Cemetery is open on all sides, anyone can come in, and that includes animals, in fact, I'm surprised that I didn't see a single cat or dog when I walked up here from the office, There's no shortage of stray cats and dogs, Well, I didn't see any, You mean you walked all the way, Yes, You could have caught a bus, or a taxi, or come in your car, if you've got one, I didn't know where the grave was, that's why I had to go and ask first at the office, and then it was such a lovely day, I decided to walk, It's odd that they didn't tell you to go around, they usually do, I asked them to let me in and they did, Are you an archaeologist, No, A historian, No, An art critic, Certainly not, A genealogist, Please, Then I don't understand why you would want to make that great long trek, nor how you managed to sleep among all these tombs, I'm pretty used to the place, but I wouldn't stay here a minute after the sun's gone down, Well, that's what happened, I sat down and I went to sleep, You're a brave man, No, I'm not that either, Did you find the person you were looking for, It's that one there, right beside you, Is it a man or a woman, A woman, She still hasn't got a name, I imagine the family will be deciding on a headstone now, I've noticed that the families of suicides are more likely to neglect that elementary duty than others, perhaps they're filled with remorse, they probably think they're to blame, It's possible, Considering that we don't know each other, how come you're answering all my questions, most people would tell me to mind my own business, It's just the way I am, I always answer what I'm asked, You're a subaltern, a subordinate, a dependant, a manservant, an errand boy, I'm a clerk at the Central Registry, Then you're just the person to be told the truth about the land of suicides, but first, you must swear solemnly that you'll never reveal the secret to anyone, I swear by all that I hold most sacred, And what exactly do you hold most sacred, I don't know, Everything, Or nothing, It's a bit of a vague oath, don't you think, I can't come up with a better one, Swear on your honour, that used to be the surest oath, All right then, I'll swear on my honour, but, you know, the head of the Central Registry would die laughing if he heard one of his clerks swearing on his honour, Between a shepherd and a clerk it's a serious enough oath, not laughable at all, so we'll stick with that, So what is the truth about the land of suicides, asked Senhor Jose, Not everything here is what it seems, It's a cemetery, it's the General Cemetery, It's a labyrinth, You can see when something's a labyrinth, Not always, This is the invisible kind, I don't understand, For example, the person lying here, said the shepherd, touching the mound of earth with the end of his crook, is not the person you think Suddenly, the ground began to shake beneath Senhor Jose's feet, the one remaining piece on the board, his final certainty, the unknown woman who had at last been found, had just disappeared. Do you mean that this number is
