All The Names - Jose Saramago

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 José'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 José 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 José 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 José 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 José, 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