All The Names - Jose Saramago

...
The next morning, almost as soon as the Central Registry had opened and when everyone else was at
their desk, Senhor José half-opened the communicating door and said pst-pst to attract the attention of the
nearest clerk. The man turned and saw a flushed face and blinking eyes, What do you want, he asked, in a
low voice so as not to disturb anyone, but with a note of ironic recrimination in his words, as if the
scandal of absence only confirmed the worst suspicions of one already scandalised by Senior José's
lateness, I'm ill, said Senhor José, I can't come to work. Annoyed, his colleague got up, took three steps in
the direction of the senior clerk in charge of his wing, and said, Excuse me, sir, Senhor José is over there
saying he's ill. The senior clerk also got up, took four steps in the direction of the respective deputy and
told him, Excuse me, sir, the clerk Senhor José is over there saying he's ill. Before taking the five steps
that separated him from the Registrar's desk, the deputy went over to ascertain the nature of the illness,
What's wrong with you, he asked, I've got a cold, said Senhor José, A cold has never been a reason not to
come to work, I've got a fever, How do you know you've got a fever, I used a thermometer, What are you,
a few degrees above normal, No sir, my temperature's well over 100, You never get a fever like that with
an ordinary cold, Then maybe I've got flu, Or pneumonia, Thanks very much, It's just a possibility, I'm not
saying you've actually got pneumonia, No, I know you're not, And how did you get in this state, Probably
because I got caught in the rain, Imprudence always has its price, You're right, Any illness contracted for
non-work-related reasons should simply not be considered, Well, I wasn't, in fact, at work when it
happened, I'll tell the Registrar, Yes, sir, Don't shut the door, he might want to give you further
instructions, Yes, sir. The Registrar did not give any instructions, he merely looked over the bent heads of
the clerks and made a gesture with his hand, a brief gesture, as if dismissing the matter as insignificant or
as if postponing any attention he might give it until later, at that distance, Senhor José could not tell,
always supposing that his red, streaming eyes could see that far. Anyway, it seems that Senhor José,
terrified by that look and not realising what he was doing, opened the. door wider, thus revealing himself
full-length to the Central Registry, an old dressing gown over his pyjamas, his feet in a pair of down-atheel
slippers, the shrunken look of someone who has caught a terrible cold, or a malignant form of flu, or
a fatal strain of bronchopneumonia, you never know, it happens often enough, a gentle breeze can so easily
turn into a raging hurricane. The deputy came over to him to say that today or tomorrow he would be
visited by the official doctor, but then, oh miracle, he uttered some words that no lowly clerk in the
Central Registry, neither he nor anyone else, had ever had the joy of hearing before, The Registrar hopes
that you will soon feel better, and the deputy himself didn't quite seem to believe what he was saying.
Dumbstruck, Senhor José still had sufficient presence of mind to look across at the Registrar in order to
thank him for his unexpected good wishes, but the Registrar had his head down, as if he were hard at
work, which, knowing as we do the work habits of this particular Central Registry, is most unlikely.
Slowly, Senhor José closed the door, and, trembling with excitement and fever, got back into bed.
He had been drenched not only by the rain that fell on him while he slithered about on the porch roof,
struggling to get into the school. When night came and he finally left through the window and reached the
street, he could not, poor thing, have imagined what awaited him. The extremely tortuous circumstances of
his ascent, but, above all, the dust accumulated in the attic archive, had left him, from head to foot, in an
indescribably grimy state, his hair and face were smeared with black, his hands were like charred stumps,
not to mention his clothes, his raincoat was like an old rag impregnated with lard, his trousers looked as if
he had been rubbing them with tar, his shirt as if it had been used to clean a chimney thick with centuries
of soot, even a vagabond living in the most extreme poverty would have sallied forth onto the street with
more dignity. When Senhor José was two blocks away from the school, by which time it had stopped