All The Names - Jose Saramago

clerk can only do so much. With the inner doors all open, there is enough light from outside to be able to
see the whole apartment, but Senhor José will have to get his search under way quickly if he doesn't want
to have to leave it half done. He opened a drawer in a desk, glanced at its contents, they seemed to be
math problems for school, calculations, equations, nothing that could explain the reasons for the life and
death of the woman who used to sit in this chair, who used to switch on this lamp, who used to hold this
pencil and write with it. Senhor José slowly closed the drawer, he even started to open another but did
not complete the movement, he stopped to think for a long minute, or perhaps it was only a few seconds
that seemed like hours, then he firmly pushed the drawer shut, left the study and went and sat on one of the
smaU sofas in the living room, where he remained. He looked at his old darned socks, the trousers that
had lost their crease and had ridden up a little, his bony white shins with a few sparse hairs on them. He
felt his body sinking into the soft concavity left by another body in the upholstery and the springs, She'll
never sit here again, he murmured. The silence, which had seemed to him absolute, was interrupted now
by noises from the street, especially, from time to time, by the passing of a car, but in the air too there was
a slow breathing, a slow pulse, perhaps it was the way houses breathe when they are left alone, this one
has probably not even realised yet that there is someone here now. Senhor José tells himself that there are
still drawers to go through, the ones in the dresser, where people usually keep their more intimate
garments, the ones in the bedside table, where intimate things of a different nature are generally stored, the
wardrobe, he thinks that if he went to open the wardrobe he would be unable to resist the desire to run his
fingers over the clothes hanging there, like that, as if he were stroking the keys of a silent piano, he thinks
that he would lift up the skirt of one of those dresses to breathe in the aroma, the perfume, the smell. And
then there are the drawers in the desk that he hasn't even looked in yet, and the small cupboards in the
bookcase, what he is looking for, the letter, the diary, the word of farewell, the trace of the last tear, must
be hidden somewhere. Why, he asked, supposing such a piece of paper does exist, supposing I find it,
read it, just because I read it doesn't mean that her dresses will cease to be empty, from now on all those
math problems will remain unsolved, no one will discover the value of the unknown factors in the
equations, the bedspread won't be pulled back, the sheet won't be pulled up snugly to the chest, the
bedside lamp will not light the page of a book, what is over is over. Senhor José bent forward, rested his
head in his hands, as if he wanted to go on thinking, but that wasn't the case, he had run out of thoughts.
The light dimmed for a moment, some cloud passing over the sun. At that moment, the telephone rang. He
hadn't noticed it before, but there it was, on a small table in a corner, like a rarely used object. The
answering machine came on, a female voice said the telephone number, then added, I'm not at home right
now, but please leave a message after the tone. Whoever had called had hung up, some people hate talking
to a machine, or in this case perhaps it was a wrong number, well, if you don't recognise the voice on the
answering machine, there's no point leaving a message. This would have to be explained to Senhor José,
who had never in his life seen one of these machines close up, but he would probably not have paid any
attention to the explanations, he is so troubled by the few words he heard, I'm not at home right now, but
please leave a message after the tone, no, she's not at home, she'll never be at home again, only her voice
remained, grave, veiled, as if distracted, as if she had been thinking of something else when she made the
recording. Senhor José said, They might ring again, and nurturing that hope, he did not move from the sofa
for another hour, the darkness in the house grew gradually thicker and the telephone did not ring again.
Then Senhor José got up, I must go, he murmured, but before leaving, he took another turn about the house,
he went into the bedroom, where there was more light, he sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, again
and again he ran his hands slowly over the embroidered top fold of the sheet, then he opened the
wardrobe, there were the dresses of the woman who had spoken the definitive words, I'm not at home. He
bent towards them until he touched them with his face, the smell they gave off could be described as a
smell of absence, or perhaps it was that mingled perfume of rose and chrysanthemum that sometimes wafts
through the Central Registry.