apparent connection, direct or indirect, with what it had just heard, emerged from its indifference to remind him, There are at least three people you haven't spoken to yet, Who, asked SenhorJose, Her parents and her ex- husband, It wouldn't be a bad idea to go and talk to her parents, I thought of doing that earlier on, but I decided to leave it for another occasion, If you don't do it now, you never will, meanwhile you can divert yourself by going a little farther down this road, before you finally bump your nose against the wall, If you weren't a ceiling, stuck up there all the time, you would know that it has not been a diverting experience, But it has been a diversion, What's the difference, Go and look it up in the dictionary, that's what they're there for, I was just asking, everyone knows that a diversion is not the same as something being diverting, What about the other one, What other one, The ex- husband, he would probably be the person who could tell you most about your unknown woman, I imagine that married life, a life lived in common, must be like a sort of magnifying glass, I can't imagine any reserve or secret that could resist the microscope of continual observation, On the other hand, there are those who say that the more you look the less you see, but whatever the truth of the matter, I don't think it's worth going to talk to him, You're afraid he'll start talking about the reasons for the divorce, you don't want to hear anything bad about her, People on the whole are rarely fair, not to themselves or to other people, and he would more than likely tell me the story so that it looked as if he had been in the right all along, An intelligent analysis, I'm not stupid, No, you're not, it's just that you take a long time to understand things, especially simple things, For example, That there was no reason why you should go looking for this woman, unless, Unless what, Unless you were doing it out of love, Only a ceiling would come up with such an absurd idea, I believe I've told you on another occasion that the ceilings of houses are the multiple eye of God, I don't remember, I may not have said it in those precise words, but I'm saying it now, Tell me then how I could possibly love a woman I didn't even know and whom I'd never even seen, That's a good question, there's no doubt about it, but only you can answer it, The idea doesn't have a leg to stand on, It doesn't matter whether it's got legs or not, I'm talking about quite another part of the anatomy, the heart, the thing that people say is the engine and seat of affections, I repeat that I could not possibly love a woman I didn't know, whom I never saw, except in some old photos, You wanted to see her, you wanted to know her, and that, whether you like it or not, is love, These are the imaginings of a ceiling, They're your imaginings, a man's imaginings, not mine, You're so arrogant, you think you know everything about me, I don't know everything, but I must have learned a thing or two after all these years of living together, I bet you've never considered that you and I live together, the great difference between us is that you only notice me when you need advice and cast your eyes upwards, while I spend all my time looking at you, The eye of God, You can take my metaphors seriously if you like, but don't repeat them as if they were yours. After this, the ceiling decided to remain silent, it had realised that Senhor Jose's thoughts were already turned to the visit he was going to make to the unknown woman's parents, the last step before bumping his nose against the wall, an equally metaphorical expression which means, You've reached the end.
Senhor Jose got out of bed, cleaned himself up as best he could, prepared something to eat and, having thus recovered his physical vigour, he summoned up his moral vigour in order to telephone, with suitable bureaucratic coolness, the unknown woman's parents, in the first place, to find out if they were home, in the second place, to ask if they would mind receiving a visit today from a member of staff from the Central Registry who needed to talk with them about a matter concerning their dead daughter. Had it been any other kind of call, Senhor Jose would have gone out to use the public phone box on the other side of the street, however, in this case, there was a danger that, when they picked up the phone, they would hear the sound of coins dropping into the machine, and even the least suspicious of people would be bound to want to know why a member of staff from the Central Registry was phoning from a public call box, especially on a Sunday, about matters relating to his work. The solution to that difficulty was, it seemed, not far away, all he had to do was to creep once more into the Central Registry and use the telephone on the Registrar's desk, but it was just as risky doing that, because the detailed list of telephone calls, sent every month by the exchange and checked, number by number, by the Registrar himself, would inevitably register the clandestine call, What call is this, made on a Sunday, the Registrar would ask his deputies, and then, without waiting for a reply, he would say, Set up an inquiry into this at once. Resolving the mystery of the secret phone call would be the easiest thing in the world, he would just have to dial the suspect number and be told, Yes, sir, someone from the Central Registry did phone us on that day, and he didn't just phone, he came here in person, he wanted to know why our daughter had committed suicide, he said it was for your statistics, Statistics, Yes, statistics, at least that's what he said, Fine, now listen very carefully, Go on, In order to clear this matter up completely, I must be able to rely on your and your husband's collaboration with the Central Registry, What do we have to do, Come to the Central Registry and identify the member of staff who came to visit you, We'll be there, A car will come and pick you up. Senhor Jose's imagination did not stop at creating this troubling dialogue, once it was over, he went on to enact in his mind what would happen afterwards, the unknown woman's parents coming into the Central Registry and pointing, That's the man, or else, stall in the car that had been sent to fetch them, seeing the members of staff going in and suddenly pointing, That's the man. Senhor Jose murmured, I'm lost, there's no way out. Yes there was, one that was simple and definitive, he could either give up the idea of going to see the unknown woman's parents, or he could go there without warning and simply knock on the door and say, Good afternoon, I work for the Central Registry, I'm sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but work has piled up so much lately at the Central Registry, with so many people being born and dying, that we've had to adopt a system of permanent overtime. That, without a doubt, would be the most intelligent way of going about it, affording Senhor Jose the maximum number of guarantees as regards his future safety, but it seemed that the last few hours he had lived through, the enormous cemetery with its outstretched octopus tentacles, the night of dull moonlight and shifting shadows, the convulsive dance of the will-o'-the-wisps, the old shepherd and his sheep, the dog, as silent as if it had had its vocal cords removed, the graves with the numbers changed, it seemed that all this had scrambled his mind, in general sufficiently clear and lucid for him to cope with life, otherwise, how can one understand why he continued to cling stubbornly to the idea of phoning, still less when he tries to justify it to himself with the puerile argument that a phone call would make it easier for him to gather information. He even thinks he has a formula that will immediately dispel any distrust, he will say, as indeed he is already saying, sitting in the Registrar's chair, I'm speaking on behalf of the special branch of the Central Registry, those words special branch, he thinks, are the skeleton key that will open all doors to him, and it seems that he was right, at the other end a voice is saying, Certainly, sir, come whenever you like, we'll be in all day. A last vestige of common sense prompted the fleeting thought that he had probably just tied the knot in the rope that would hang him, but his madness calmed him, it told him that the exchange would not submit the list of telephone calls for some weeks, and, who knows, the Registrar might be on holiday then, or he might be ill at home, or he might merely ask one of his deputies to confirm the numbers, it wouldn't be the first time, which would mean that the crime would almost certainly go undiscovered, bearing in mind that none of the deputies liked the task, so, before the lash falls again, the prisoner's back can rest, murmured Senhor Jose in conclusion, resigned to whatever fate might bring him. He replaced the telephone book in its precise place, aligning it carefully with the corner of the desk, he wiped the receiver with his handkerchief to remove any fingerprints and went back into his house. He began by polishing his shoes, then he brushed down his suit, put on a clean shirt, his best tie, and he was just about to open the door when he remembered his letter of authority. Going to the house of the unknown woman's parents and simply saying, I'm the person who phoned from the Central Registry, would certainly not have as much force of conviction and authority as slipping under their noses a piece of paper stamped, sealed and signed, giving the bearer full rights and powers in the exercise of his functions and for the proper fulfilment of the mission with which he had been charged. He opened the cabinet, took out the bishop's file and removed the letter, however, when he glanced over it, he realised that it wouldn't do. In the first place, because it was dated before the suicide, and in the second place, because of the actual terms in which it was written, for example, that he was ordered and charged to find out and clarify everything about the past, present and future life of the unknown woman, I don't even know where she is now, thought Senhor Jose, and as for a future fife, at that moment, he remembered a popular verse that went, What lies beyond death, no one has seen nor ever will, of all those who climbed that hill, never a one came back. He was just about to return the letter to its place, when, at the last mo ment, he again felt obliged to obey the state of mind forcing him to concentrate in an obsessive manner on one idea and to see it through to the end. Now that he had thought of the letter, he would have to take one with him. He went straight back into the Central Registry to the cabinet containing the forms, but he had forgotten that, ever since the inquiry, the cabinet was always locked. For the first time in his tranquil life, he felt a rush of anger, he even considered smashing the glass and to hell with the consequences. Fortunately, he remembered just in time that the deputy charged with keeping an eye on the number of forms used, kept the key to the cabinet in a drawer in his desk, and, as was the strict rule
