All The Names - Jose Saramago

Senhor José's heart leapt to see them, that was what he had come looking for, files, index cards, records,
statements, notes, the history of the unknown woman when she had been a girl and an adolescent, always
assuming that there were no other schools in her life after this one. Senhor José opened a card-index
drawer at random, but the light coming in from the street was not bright enough for him to see what kinds
of records it contained. I've got plenty of time, thought Senhor José, what I need now is to sleep. He left
the office, and two doors farther along, he finally found the head teachers study. Compared with the
austerity of the Central Registry, it would be no exaggeration here to speak of luxury. The floor was
carpeted, the window was hung with heavy curtains, which were drawn shut, there was a large, oldfashioned
desk and a modern chair in black leather, all this Senhor José discovered because, when he
opened the door and found himself in complete darkness, he did not hesitate to turn on first his flashlight,
and then, the centre light. Since you could see no fight coming in from the outside, no one outside would
be able to see light coming from inside. The head teacher's chair was comfortable, he could sleep there,
but even better was the long, broad, three-seater sofa that seemed charitably to be opening its arms to him
in order to welcome and comfort his weary body. Senhor José looked at his watch, it was a few minutes
before three. Seeing how late it was, for he hadn't even noticed time passing, he felt suddenly very tired,
I've had enough, he thought, and, unable to contain himself, out of pure nervous exhaustion, he began to
sob, to weep uncontrollably, almost convulsively, standing there, as if he were once again the little firstyear
student, in another school, who had committed some mischief and been summoned by the head
teacher to receive his just punishment. He threw his drenched raincoat down on the floor, took his
handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and raised it to his eyes, but the handkerchief was just as wet as
everything else, for his entire being, from head to foot, he realised now, seemed to be oozing water, as if
he were nothing but a wrung-out rag, his body was filthy, his spirit bruised, and both felt equally
wretched, What am I doing here, he asked himself, but he preferred not to answer, he was afraid that, once
laid bare, the reason that had brought him to this place would strike him as absurd, ridiculous, crazy. A
sudden shiver ran through him. I've caught a cold already, he said out loud and immediately sneezed
twice, and then, while he was blowing his nose, he found himself following the capricious paths of a
thought which goes where it chooses without offering any explanation, and remembering those film actors
who are constantly plunging into water fully clothed or getting drenched by torrential rain, and who never
catch pneumonia, or even a simple cold, as happens every day in real life, at most, they wrap themselves
up in a blanket over their wet clothes, which would seem a ludicrous thing to do if we did not know that
filming is about to be interrupted so that the actor can withdraw to his dressing room, take a hot bath and
don his monogrammed dressing gown. Senhor José began to take off his shoes, then he removed his jacket
and shirt, pulled off his trousers and hung them on a tall hat stand that he found in one corner, now all he
needed was to wrap himself up in that film's inevitable blanket, a difficult accessory to find in a head
teacher's study, unless the head teacher was an elderly person, the sort whose knees get cold when he's
been sitting down for any length of time. Senhor José's deductive powers led him once more to the correct
conclusion, the blanket lay carefully folded on the seat of the chair. It wasn't a large blanket, it didn't
cover him completely, but it would be better than lying naked all night. Senhor José turned off the centre
light, used the flashlight to guide himself back to the sofa and, sighing, stretched out on it, but then
immediately curled up tight in order to fit his whole body beneath the blanket. He was still shivering, he
had kept on his underclothes and they were still damp, probably with sweat, from the physical effort, the
rain couldn't possibly have penetrated that far. He sat up on the sofa, slipped off his vest and pants,
removed his socks, then wrapped the blanket around him as if he were trying to make of it a second skin,
and thus, rolled up like a wood louse, he let himself sink into the darkness of the study, waiting for a little
merciful warmth that would transport him into the mercy of sleep. Both took a long time to come, driven
away by a thought that would not leave him, What if someone walks in and finds me in this state, I mean,
naked, they would call the police, they would handcuff him, they would ask him his name, his age and his