All The Names - Jose Saramago

ed, hid the letter in the wardrobe, among the bishop's papers, then went to fetch his notebook and began
describing the frustrating events of the morning, laying particular emphasis on the pharmacists unpleasant
manner and his gimlet eye. At the end of the report he wrote, as if the idea had been his, I think it's best
that I go back to work. When he was putting away the notebook underneath the mattress, he remembered
that he hadn't had any lunch, his head told him, not his stomach, if, over a period of time, people forget to
eat, they get out of the habit of listening to the clock of hunger. If Senhor José were to continue his holiday,
he wouldn't in the least mind going back to bed for the rest of the day, skipping lunch and supper, sleeping
all night if he could, or taking refuge in the voluntary torpor of someone who has decided to turn his back
on the disagreeable facts of life. But he had to feed his body in order to work the following day, he would
hate it if weakness made him break out in a cold sweat again and suffer ridiculous dizzy spells that would
be greeted with the feigned commiseration of his colleagues and the impatience of his superiors. He beat
two eggs, added a few slices of chorizo sausage, a generous pinch of sea salt, put some oil in a frying pan,
and waited until it had heated to just the right point, that was his one culinary talent, otherwise he resorted
to opening cans. He ate the omelette slowly in small geometrically precise pieces, making it last as long
as possible, not from any gastronomical pleasure, but just to fill the time. Above all, he did not want to
think. His imaginary and metaphysical dialogue with the ceiling had served to disguise his complete
mental disorientation the feeling of panic provoked by the idea that he would now hive nothing further to
do in life, if as he had reason to fear the search for the unknown woman was over He felt a hard knot in
his throat, like when he was told off as a child and he was expected to cry, and he would resist, resist,
until at last the tears came, as they came now. He pushed his plate away, rested his head on his folded
arms and cried without shame, at least this time there was no one here to laugh at him. On these occasions,
ceilings can do nothing to help people in distress, they must merely wait up there until the storm passes,
until the soul has unburdened itself, until the body is rested. That is what happened to Senhor José. After a
few moments, he felt better, he brusquely wiped away the tears with his shirtsleeve and went to wash his
plate and the cutlery. He had the whole afternoon ahead of him and nothing to do. He considered going to
visit the lady in the ground-floor apartment, to tell her more or less what had happened, but then he
thought that it wasn't worth it, she had told him everything she knew, and perhaps she would finally ask
him what the devil the Central Registry was up to going to so much trouble over one person, a woman of
no importance, it would be an indecent lie, as well as arrant stupidity, to tell her that we are all equal in
the eyes of the Central Registry, just as the sun is there for everyone each time it rises, there are things one
should avoid saying to an older person if we don't want them to laugh in our faces. Senhor José went to a
corner of the house to get an armful of magazines and old newspapers from which he had already cut out
articles and photographs, he might have missed something interesting, or there might be an article about
someone who seemed a promising candidate for the rocky road to fame. Senhor José was returning to his
collections.
The person who seemed least surprised was the Registrar. Having, as usual, arrived when everyone
else was already at their places working, he paused for three seconds beside Senhor José's desk, but he
didn't say a word. Senhor José was expecting to be submitted to a thorough interrogation as to the reasons
for his early return to work, but the Registrar merely listened to the explanations given by the deputy in
charge of that section, whom he later dismissed with an abrupt wave of his right hand, his index finger and
middle finger held stiffly together, the others slightly bent, which, according to the gestural code of the
Central Registry, meant that he did not care to hear another word on the matter. Caught between an initial
expectation that he would be interrogated and relief at being left in peace, Senhor José struggled to clarify
his ideas, to concentrate all his senses on the work that the senior clerk had placed on his desk, twenty or
so birth certificates the information from each of which had to be transferred onto record cards and then
filed away in the card-index system under the counter, in proper alphabetical order. It was a simple task,
but a responsible one, which, fortunately for Senhor José, who was still weak in legs and head, could at