All The Names - Jose Saramago

were a gift, carrying a photo of someone in your pocket is like carrying a little bit of their soul. Senhor
José's dream, from which this time he did not awake, was a different one now he saw himself wiping
away the fingerprints he had left at the school, they were everywhere, on the window through which he
had entered, in the first-aid room, in the secretary's office, in the head teacher's study, in the refectory, in
the kitchen, in the archive, he decided it wasn't worth worrying about the ones in the attic, no one was
likely to go in there and ask, What mystery is this, the trouble was that the hands that wiped away the
visible traces left behind them an invisible trace, if the head teacher at the school were to report the
burglary to the police and there was a serious investigation, Senhor José would go to prison, as sure as
two and two are four, imagine the dishonour and the shame that would forever stain the reputation of the
Central Registry. In the middle of the night, Senhor José woke up burning with fever, apparendy delirious,
saying, I didn't steal anything, I didn't steal anything, and it was true that, strictly speaking, he hadn't stolen
anything, however much the head teacher might search and investigate, however many verifications,
counts and comparisons he made, inventory in hand, ticking off one item after the other, his conclusion
would be the same, There has been no theft, at least not what you could call theft, doubtless the person in
charge of the kitchen would remind him that there was food missing from the fridge, but, supposing that
this had been the only crime committed, stealing in order to eat, according to a fairly widely held view, is
not theft, even the head teacher is in agreement there, the police, of course, are of a different opinion, on
principle, they, however, would have no option but to go away, grumbling, There's some mystery there, no
one burgles a school just to grab a spot of breakfast. In any event, since the head teacher's formal written
statement, in which he said that nothing valuable or non-valuable was missing from the school, the police
had decided not to take any fingerprints, as routine demanded, We've got more than enough work as it is,
said the one in charge of the investigation squad. Despite these tranquillising words, Senhor José could
not get back to sleep again all night, fearful that the dream would be repeated and that the police would
return with their magnifying glasses and their special dust.
He has nothing in the house that might help reduce his fever and the doctor will only come later in the
afternoon, he might not even come today, and he won't bring any medicine with him, he'll merely write out
the usual prescription for cases of cold and flu. The dirty clothes are still in a heap in the middle of the
room and Senhor José looks at the heap from the bed, with a perplexed air, as if it didn't belong to him,
only a remnant of common sense stops him from asking, Who was it who came in here and took off all
their clothes, and it was the same common sense that forced him to think, at last, about the complications,
both personal and professional, that would result if a colleague came through the door to find out how he
was, on instructions from the Registrar or on his own initiative, and came face-to-face with all that filth.
When he stood up, he felt as if someone had suddenly planted him at the very top of a ladder, but the
dizziness he felt this time was different, it was a result of fever, as well as physical weakness, because
what he had eaten at the school, apparendy sufficient at the time, had served more as a comfort to his
nerves than as nourishment to his body. Supporting himself against the wall, he managed, with some
difficulty, to reach a chair and sit down. He waited for his head to return to normal before considering
where he could hide his dirty clothes, not in the bathroom, doctors always have to wash their hands when
they leave, and he certainly couldn't hide them under the bed, which was one of those old-fashioned, longlegged
beds, anyone would be able to see the clothes, even without bending down, and they wouldn't fit in
the cupboard where he kept his famous people, and besides it wouldn't be right, the sad truth is that,
although his brain had now stopped spinning, it was still not working properly, the only place where the
dirty clothes would be safe from prying eyes was the place where they usually hung when they were
clean, that is, behind the curtain covering the niche that he used as a wardrobe, only the most impertinent
of colleagues or doctors would go poking their nose in there. Pleased with himself for having reached a
conclusion after such lengthy deliberation, a conclusion which, in other circumstances, would have been
more than obvious, Senhor José started shunting the clothes towards the curtain with his foot in order not