machine is already on its way and gaining altitude, only to leave behind the most acute melancholy, and this sends Domenico Scarlatti to the harpsichord where he starts to play a bagatelle, barely skimming his fingers over the keys, as if stroking someone on the face when all words have been spoken or when words fail, he knows full well that it is dangerous to leave the harpsichord there, so he drags it outside, over the rough ground, awkwardly bumping it as he goes, it emits jarring chords, and this time the jacks really will be dislodged beyond repair, Scarlatti eases the harpsichord to the mouth of the well, which fortunately is set low, and, heaving it off the ground with one mighty push, he drops it down, the frame knocks against the inside walls twice and it emits woeful chords as it finally sinks into the water, who can tell what destiny awaits it, a harpsichord that played so beautifully and now sinks like a drowning man gurgling ominously until it settles in the mud. The musician has disappeared from sight, he is already beating a hasty retreat along narrow lanes away from the main road, perhaps if he were to raise his eyes he would see the Passarola once more, he waves with his hat, just once, better to dissemble and pretend that he knows nothing, this explains why they did not spot him from the airship, and who knows if they will ever meet him again.
There is a southerly wind, a breeze that scarcely ruffles Blimunda's hair, with this wind they will not be going anywhere, it would be like trying to swim across the ocean, so Baltasar asks, Shall I use the bellows, every coin has two sides, first the priest proclaimed, There is only one God, now Baltasar wants to know, Shall I use the bellows, from the sublime to the ridiculous, when God refuses to blow, man has to make an effort. But Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco seems to have been struck dumb, he neither speaks nor moves, simply stares at the vast circumference of the earth, part river and sea, part mountain and plain, if that is not spray he perceives in the distance, it could be the white sails of a ship, unless it is a trail of mist, it could be smoke from some chimney, yet one cannot help feeling that the world has come to an end, and mankind as well, the silence is distressing, the wind has fallen, not a single hair on Blimunda's head is disturbed, Use the bellows, Baltasar, the priest commands.
It is like the pedals of an organ with treadles for inserting one's feet, they come up to a man's chest and are fixed to the frame of the machine, there is also a rail on which to rest one's arms, this time it is not another of Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco's inventions, but a design he copied from the organ in the cathedral, the main difference being that no music comes from the bellows but only the throbbing of the Passarola's wings and tail as it starts to move slowly, so slowly that one feels exhausted just watching, and the machine has scarcely flown the distance of an arrow shot from a crossbow, now it is Baltasar who is feeling tired, and at this rate we shall go nowhere. Looking cross, the priest appraises the efforts of Sete-Sois, realising that his great invention has one serious flaw, travelling through the skies is not like sailing on waters, where one can have recourse to rowing when there is no wind, Stop, he orders Baltasar, Don't use the bellows anymore, and a weary Baltasar flops down on the deck.
The alarm and subsequent rejoicing have passed, all that remains is despondency, for they now know that by going up in the air and coming down again they are no different from the man who can get up or lie down but not walk. The sun is setting on the distant horizon, and shadows are already extending over the earth. Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco feels apprehensive for no apparent reason, but he is suddenly distracted by clouds of smoke coming from some forest fire in the distance and gradually moving northwards, and this would suggest that the wind is blowing lower down. He manoeuvres the sail, stretches it a little more so that the shade might cover another row of amber balls, and the machine descends abruptly, but not enough to catch the wind. One more row is sheltered from the sunlight, they descend so quickly that their hearts miss a beat, and now the wind seizes the machine with a powerful and invisible hand and hurls it forward with such force that Lisbon is suddenly far behind them, its outline blurred by the haze on the horizon, it is as if they had finally abandoned the port and its moorings in order to go off in pursuit of secret routes, who knows what dangers await them, what Adamastors they will encounter, what St Elmo's fires they will see rise from the sea, what columns of water will suck in the air only to expel it once it has been salted. Then Blimunda asks, Where are we going, and the priest replies, Where the arm of the Inquisition cannot reach us, if such a place exists.
This nation, which expects so much from heaven, scarcely ever looks up where heaven is said to be. Farmers go out to work the land, villagers enter and leave their homes, go out into the yard, to the fountain, or to squat behind a pine tree, only a woman who is lying on her back in a clearing with a man on top of her pays any attention to this strange apparition moving across the sky overhead, but she treats it as if it were a vision provoked by the ecstasies she is enjoying. Only the birds are curious as they circle avidly around the machine and ask themselves, Whatever can this be, Whatever can this be, perhaps it is the Messiah of birds, for the eagle by comparison is just any old St John the Baptist, After me comes He who is more powerful than I, and the history of flying does not end here. For some time they flew accompanied by a hawk that frightened off all the other birds, so that there were only two left, the hawk, beating and flapping its wings so that it is seen to be flying, and the Passarola whose wings do not stir, and if we did not know that it is made of sun, amber, dark clouds, magnets, and metal plates, we should find it difficult to believe our own eyes, nor could we offer the excuse of the woman lying in the clearing, who is no longer there now that she has taken her pleasure, and from here the spot cannot even be seen.
The wind is now southeasterly and blowing fiercely, the earth below sweeps past like the mobile surface of a river that carries with it fields, woodlands, villages, a medley of green, yellow, ochre, and brown, and white walls, the sails of windmills, and threads of water over water, what forces would be capable of separating these waters, this great river that passes and carries everything in its wake, the tiny currents that seek a path therein, unaware that they are water within water.
The three fliers are at the bow of the machine, which is heading west, and once more Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco is gripped by mounting disquiet, close to panic, he cannot suppress a cry of despair, when the sun sets, the machine will irremediably descend, perhaps crash, perhaps shatter into pieces, and they will all be killed, That is Mafra yonder, Baltasar calls out in excitement like the lookout shouting from the crow's nest, Land, never was there a more apt comparison, for this is Baltasar's land, he recognises it without ever having seen it from the sky, perhaps this is because we each possess our own innate perception of mountains, which instinctively leads us back to the place where we were born, my concave in your convex, my convex in your concave, like man and woman, woman and man, we are each on earth, hence Baltasar's cry, That's my land, he recognises it as if it were a body. They pass rapidly over the site where the convent is being built, but this time they are seen from below, people flee in terror, some fall to their knees and raise their hands in a plea for mercy, others throw stones, and thousands of people are caught up in the tumult, he who did not see, doubts, he who saw, swears it is true and asks his neighbour to testify on his behalf, no one can really prove anything, because the machine has already flown away, heading towards the sun, and is now invisible against that glowing disk, perhaps it was nothing but a hallucination, the sceptics are already gloating over the bewilderment of those who believed.
Within a few minutes, the machine reaches the seashore, the sun appears to be drawing it to the other side of the world. Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco realises that they are about to drop into the ocean, so he gives the cord a sharp tug, the sail moves to one side and suddenly folds up, their ascent is now so rapid that the earth below retreats once more and the sun emerges far above the horizon. But it is too late. In the east, shadows are already encroaching, inevitable night descends. The machine gradually begins to drift in a northeasterly direction and pursues a straight line, slanting towards the earth, subject to the twin attraction of the light, which is fast waning but still has sufficient strength to support the machine in mid-air, and of nocturnal darkness, which already enshrouds the remote valleys. The very wind is swallowed up in the powerful current of air produced by their descent, by the shrill hissing that pervades the entire machine as it suddenly begins to lurch. Over the distant sea, the sun rests like an orange in the palm of one's hand, it is a metallic disk drawn from the forge and left to cool, its fiery glare no longer wounds the eyes, white, then cerise, red, then crimson, it continues to glow but is now subdued, it is about to take its leave, farewell until tomorrow, if there should be a tomorrow for these flying seafarers who topple like a bird struck by death, awkwardly balanced on stunted wings, wearing its diadem of amber and spiralling down in concentric circles, in a fall that seems infinite yet will soon reach its end. A shadowy form looms up before them, the Adamastor, perhaps, of their voyage, and mountainous curves rise from the ground crested with streaks of crimson light. Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco has the appearance of someone who is indifferent to all around him and is removed from this world, resigned, he awaits the end that is fast approaching. Suddenly Blimunda detaches herself from Baltasar, whom she frantically embraced when the machine began its precipitous descent, and puts her arm around one of the globes containing the dark clouds, there are two thousand wills inside, but they are not enough, she covers them with her body as if trying to absorb them or merge with them. The machine gives a sudden jolt, it rears its head, a horse checked by the bridle, it remains suspended there for an instant, vacillates, then starts to come down again, but less rapidly this time. Blimunda calls out, Baltasar, Baltasar, there was no need to call a third time, for he had already embraced the other globe, holding it close to his body,
