All The Names - Jose Saramago

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It's flu, said the doctor, you'd better start by taking three days' sick leave. Head swimming, legs weak,
Senhor José had got out of bed to open the door, Forgive me for keeping you waiting outside, Doctor,
that's what happens when you live alone, the doctor came in grumbling, Terrible weather, closed his
dripping umbrella and left it in the hall, What seems to be the problem, he asked when Senhor José, teeth
chattering, had just got back between the sheets, and then, without waiting for him to reply, he said, It's flu.
He took his pulse, told him to open his mouth, briskly applied his stethoscope to his chest and back, It's
flu, he said again, you're very lucky, it could easily have turned into pneumonia, but it's flu, you'd better
start by taking three days' sick leave, and then we'll see. He had just sat down at the table to write a
prescription when the communicating door opened, it was only on the latch, and the Registrar appeared,
Good afternoon, Doctor, You mean bad afternoon, don't you, sir, it would be a good afternoon if I were
sitting nice and cosy in my consulting rooms rather than wandering the streets in this ghastly weather,
How's our patient, asked the Registrar, and the doctor replied, I've given him three days' sick leave, it's
just a bout of flu. At that moment, it wasn't just a bout of flu. With the bedclothes up to his nose, Senhor
José was trembling as if he were suffering from malaria, so much so that the iron bedstead on which he
was lying shook, however, that irrepressible trembling was not the result of fever, but of sheer panic, a
complete disorientation of the mind, The Registrar, here, he was thinking, the Registrar in my house, the
Registrar asking him, How are you feeling, Better, sir, Did you take the pills I sent you, Yes, sir, Did they
help at all, Yes, sir, Well, now you can stop taking those and take the medicine the doctor has prescribed,
Yes, sir, Unless they're the same ones, let me see now, yes, they are, plus a couple of injections, I'll take
care of this. Senhor José could hardly believe that the person who, before his very eyes, was folding up
the prescription and putting it carefully away in his pocket really was the Registrar. The boss whom he
had grown to know only with great difficulty would never behave in this way, he would never come in
person to ask about his health, and the idea of his wanting to take charge of buying the medicine of a mere
clerk was simply absurd. And he'll need a nurse to give him the injections, said the doctor, leaving the
problem to be resolved by someone who was ready or able to do so, not the poor, scrawny, flu-ridden
devil with the beginnings of a greying stubble on his chin, as if the evident discomfort of the house were
not enough, and that damp stain on the floor which looked very much like the result of bad plumbing, the
sad tales a doctor could tell about life, if it were not all confidential, On no account must you go out in
this state, he added, I'll take care of everything, Doctor, said the Registrar, I'll phone the Central Registry
nurse, he'll buy the medicine and come here to give the injections, There aren't many bosses like you left,
said the doctor. Senhor José nodded feebly, that was the most he could do, obedient and reliable, yes, he
had always been that, and had taken a certain paradoxical pride in it, though without ever being fawning
and subservient, he would never, for example, make imbecilic, flattering remarks like, He's the best
Registrar there is, There isn't another one like him in the world, They broke the mould when they made
him, For him, despite my vertigo, I even climb that wretched ladder. Senhor José is worried and anxious
about something else now, he wants his boss to leave, to go before the doctor goes, he trembles to imagine
himself alone with him, at the mercy of fatal questions, What's the meaning of that damp stain, What were
those record cards on your bedside table, Where did you get them, Where did you hide them, Whose
photo was on them. He closed his eyes, adopted an expression of unbearable suffering, Leave me in peace
on my bed of pain, he seemed to be begging them, but he suddenly opened his eyes again, when, terrified,
he heard the doctor say, Well, I'll be on my way, call me if he gets any worse, though I'm pretty sure he
won't, it's definitely not pneumonia, I'll keep you posted, Doctor, said the Registrar while he accompanied
him to the door. Senhor José closed his eyes again, heard the door close, Now, he thought. The Registrar's