All The Names - Jose Saramago

have work being any more disrupted than it already has been, only a while ago I gave you half an hour off,
you surely weren't expecting your bad behaviour to be rewarded with a whole day's leave, No sir, For
your sake, I hope this serves as a lesson, and that, in the interests of the Central Registry, you soon go
back to being the punctilious worker you always have been up until now, Yes, sir, That's all, you may go
back to your desk.
Desperate, close to tears, his nerves in tatters, Senhor José did as he was told. During the few minutes
that the difficult conversation with his boss had lasted, the work had piled up on his desk, as if the other
clerks, his colleagues, taking advantage of his precarious disciplinary situation, had chosen to punish him
on their own account. There were also several people waiting their turn to be served. They were standing
before him not by chance nor because they thought, when they came into the Central Registry, that the
absent clerk would perhaps be a kinder, more welcoming sort than the others they could see behind the
counter, but because the other clerks had told them to go there. Since staff regulations stated that attending
to clients had absolute priority over any work you might have on your desk, Senhor José approached the
counter, knowing that, behind him, papers would continue to rain down. He was lost. Now, after the
Registrar's angry warning and subsequent punishment, even if he were to invent the impossible birth of a
child or the dubious death of a relative, he could abandon any hopes he might have had that, in the near
future, they would give him permission to leave early or to arrive late, even if it were only a matter of an
hour, half an hour, even a minute. In this house of archives, memory is tenacious, slow to forget, so slow
that it will never entirely forget anything. Ten years hence, should Senhor José suffer a lapse of
concentration, however insignificant, you can be sure that someone will immediately remind him, in
detail, of these unfortunate days. Probably that was what the Registrar meant when he said that the worst
errors are those that are apparently forgotten. For Senhor José, frantic with work, tormented by thoughts,
the rest of the day was utter torture. While one part of his conscious mind was giving clear explanations to
members of the public, filling in and stamping documents, filing away record cards, the other part was
monotonously cursing the chance or coincidence that had somehow transformed into morbid curiosity
something that would not even cause a flicker in the imagination of a sensible, well-balanced person. The
boss is right, thought Senhor José, the interests of the Central Registry should come before all else, if I led
a proper, normal life, I certainly would not, at my age, have started collecting actors, ballerinas, bishops
and football players, it's stupid, useless, ridiculous, a fine legacy I'll leave when I die, just as well I
haven't got anyone to leave it to really, it probably all stems from living alone, now if I had a wife. When
he reached this point, his thoughts stopped, then took another route, a narrow, uncertain path, at the start of
which he could sec the picture of a little girl, at the end of which she would be, if she were there a real
person, a grownup woman an adult, thirty-six and divorced, What do I want her for, what would I do with
her if I met her. The thought broke off again and abruptly retraced its steps, And how exactly do you think
you're going to find her, if they won't give you time off to go and look for her, it asked him, and he didn't
reply, at that precise moment he was busy telling the last person in the queue that the death certificate he
had asked for would be ready the following day.
Some questions, however, are very determined, they don't give up, and this one returned to the attack
when, weary in body, exhausted in spirit, Senhor José finally went home. He had thrown himself down on
the bed like a rag, he wanted to sleep, to forget his boss's face, the unfair punishment, but the question
came and lay down next to him, insinuating in a whisper, You can't go looking for her, they won't let you,
this time it was impossible to pretend he was busy talking to a member of the public, he still tried to
ignore it, though, he said he'd have to find a way and that if he didn't, then he would just give up, but the
question would not let go, You give in awfully easily, if that's the case, then it wasn't worth forging a letter
of authority and making that nice, unhappy lady in the ground-floor apartment talk about her sinful past, it
shows a lack of respect for other people visiting their homes like that and probing into their intimate
fives. The allusion to the letter made him suddenly sit up on the edge of the bed, frightened. He had it in