sacrifices with consolations. They walk with lowered eyes, rattling their beads, those of the rosary they wear around their waist as well as those of their thingamajig, which they secretly give to their penitents to pray with, and if some shirt made of horsehair girds their loins, perhaps even equipped with prongs in certain extravagant cases, you can be sure that they are not worn for punishment, and read this carefully, so that you get my meaning. When the friars are not engaged in other charitable tasks and duties, they visit the sick in the hospital, cooling and holding out bowls of broth for the patients and assisting the dying, some days they die in twos and threes despite all those prayers to the saints who protect the sick, to St Cosmas and St Damian, the patron saints of doctors, to St Antony, who is capable of mending bones as well as mending jugs, to St Francis, who knows all about stigmata, to St Joseph, who can mend crutches, to St Sebastian, who can resist death, to St Francis Xavier, who is well versed in the medicines of the Far East, and to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the Holy Family, the rabble, however, are carefully segregated from patients of rank and military status, who have their own separate infirmary, and because of this discrimination the friars, who know perfectly well who will help them to secure their convent, administer treatment and the last rites accordingly. Let any man who has not committed similar transgressions cast the second stone, Christ Himself was guilty of favouring Peter and of spoiling John, although there were twelve apostles. One day it will be revealed that Judas betrayed Jesus because he felt jealous and unwanted.
It was about this time that Joao Francisco Sete-Sois died. He waited until his son returned home from work, Alvaro Diogo was the first to arrive, eager to eat quickly and get back to the mason's workshop, he was just breaking bread into his soup when Baltasar entered, Good evening, your blessing, Father, it was an evening like any other, only the boy, who was always the last to arrive, was missing, perhaps he is already lurking in the street where the prostitutes ply their trade, but Alvaro Diogo asks himself where he would find the money to pay them, since he hands over his entire daily wage to his father without spending anything on himself, Gabriel has still not arrived, just imagine, after all these years we have known the boy, it is only now that he has grown up that we learn his name, and Ines Antonia tries to make excuses for his lateness, He'll be here any minute, it is an evening like any other, they make the same conversation, and no one notices the look of terror that has come into Joao Francisco's face as he sits by the hearth despite the heat, not even Blimunda, who became distracted when Baltasar entered, said good evening to his father, and asked for his blessing without waiting to see if the old man would grant it, when someone has been a son for many years, he tends to fall into these careless ways, he simply said, Your blessing, Father, and the old man responded by raising his hand with the slowness of someone who has barely the strength to do it, this was his final gesture, and before he could finish, his hand fell beside his other hand, resting on the folds of his cloak, and when Baltasar finally turned to his father to receive his blessing, he saw him leaning back against the wall with open hands, his head slumped on his chest, Are you ill, a futile question, and they would have been terrified if Joao Francisco had answered, I am dead, and that would have been the greatest of spoken truths. They wept natural tears, Alvaro Diogo did not return to work that day, and when Gabriel came in he felt obliged to express sorrow, even though he was still savouring the fruits of paradise, let us hope that hell has not scorched him between his legs.
Joao Francisco left an orchard and an old house. He had owned a plot of land on the Alto da Vela. He had spent years clearing away the stones, until he was finally able to dig into the soft earth. He laboured in vain, the stones are back now, and one might well ask why a man is born into this world.
...
THE BASILICA OF Saint Peter in Rome has rarely been taken out of the chests in recent years. Contrary to what the ignorant populace believes, kings are just like ordinary men, they grow up, become more mature, and their tastes change as they become older, when their inclinations are not deliberately concealed in order to curry public favour, they are sometimes feigned out of political expediency. Besides, the wisdom of nations and the experience of individuals have shown that repetition makes for boredom. The Basilica of Saint Peter holds no further secrets for Dom Joao V. He could assemble and dismantle the entire model with his eyes shut, alone or assisted, starting from north to south, with the colonnade or the apse, piece by piece or section by section but the final result would always be the same, a wooden construction, a child's set of blocks, a place of pretence where real Masses will never be said, even though God is omnipresent.
What matters, however, is that a man should prolong himself in his offspring, and if it is true that in his anguish at the thought of old age or its imminent approach, man does not always relish seeing certain of his own actions repeated that were once a cause for public scandal or discord, it is no less true that a man is delighted when he can persuade his children to repeat some of his own gestures, his own attitudes, even his own words, thus appearing to recover some justification for what he himself has been and accomplished. His children, needless to say, keep up the pretence. By means of other signs, which were, it is hoped, clearer, Dom Joao V, having lost any desire to assemble the Basilica of Saint Peter, still found a way of reviving his interest indirectly and demonstrating in a single gesture his paternal and royal affection, by summoning his children, Dom Jose and Dona Maria Barbara, to help him. Both have already been mentioned, and both will be further discussed anon, for the moment all that need be said about Dona Maria Barbara is that the poor girl was badly disfigured by smallpox, but princesses are so greatly favoured that they always find someone to marry them, even when they are disfigured and extremely ugly, if such a marriage should prove to be in the best interests of the crown and of His Majesty. It goes without saying that the Infantes do not waste much energy in building the model of the Basilica of Saint Peter in Rome. If Dom Joao V had his footmen to fetch and carry the pieces when he set up the dome of Michelangelo, which opportunely reminds us how the vast architecture prophetically reverberated the night the King went to the Queen's private apartments, then these delicate adolescents need even more assistance, the Infanta a mere seventeen years of age, the Infante barely fourteen. The important thing here is the spectacle itself, at least half of the entire court has gathered to watch the Infantes at play, their Majesties sit under a canopy, the friars exchange conventional pleasantries in whispers, the nobles wear expressions that simultaneously convey the respect due to princes, the tenderness one extends to youth, and devotion toward the holy shrine that is at present being constmcted, all these emotions embodied in one and the same expression, so it is small wonder that they look as if they are suppressing some secret and perhaps even illicit sorrow. When Dona Maria Barbara carries in her own hands one of the miniature statues that adorn the coping, the court breaks into applause. When Dom Jose places the cross on the crest of the dome with his own hands, all those present fall to their knees, for this Infante is the heir to the crown. Their Majesties smile, then Dom Joao V summons his children, praises their accomplishments, and gives them his blessing, which they receive on bended knees. There is such harmony here on earth, or so it would appear from the scene we have just described, that the universe clearly mirrors the perfection of heaven. Every gesture witnessed here is noble, even divine, in its studied solemnity, words are uttered like the fragments of a phrase that is neither inclined nor meant to reach any conclusion. This is surely how those who inhabit the celestial dwellings speak when they walk adamantine roads, when they are received in audience by the Father of all universes in His golden palace, when reunited at court they watch His Son and Heir at play as He assembles, dismantles, and reassembles a wooden cross.
Dom Joao V gave orders that the basilica not be dismantled or disturbed. The court dispersed, the Queen withdrew, and the Infantes departed, the friars in the background go on intoning their litanies while the King gravely examines every detail of the construction and the nobles in attendance try to emulate his expression, ever on their guard at such moments. The King and his retinue remained in this state of contemplation for at least half an hour. We shall make no attempt to probe the thoughts of the footmen, who knows what thoughts were passing through their heads, perhaps they were bothered by the twinges of cramp in one leg, or thinking about a pet dog, due to give birth tomorrow, the unloading at the custom-house of bales of cloth that have just arrived from Goa, a sudden urge to eat toffee, the memory of that soft little hand of the nun at the convent grille, the itchy feeling under their wig, anything and everything except the sublime inspiration that gripped His Majesty as he thought to himself, I want a basilica exactly like this one for my court, this was something we did not expect.
The following day, Dom Joao V summoned the architect from Mafra, a certain Joao Frederico Ludovice, a German name translated here into Portuguese, and the King bluntly informed him, It is my will that a church be built for my court like that of the Basilica of Saint Peter in Rome, and as he uttered these words, he looked at the architect with the utmost severity. A king must always be obeyed, and this Ludovice, who was known as Ludovisi in Italy, thus having twice renounced the name Ludwig, knows that if an artist is to pursue a successful career, he
