All The Names - Jose Saramago

of earth which will soon be overgrown by weeds, if the stonemason doesn't come first to level it out and
place on it the marble stone with the usual inscription of dates, the first and the last, and the name, though
the family might be the sort who prefer a simple rectangular frame, in the middle of which they will later
sow a decorative lawn, a solution that offers the double advantage of being less expensive and providing
a home for the insects that live above ground. The woman is there then, all the roads in the world have
closed for her, she walked that part of the road she had to walk and stopped where she wanted to, end of
story, but Senhor José cannot rid himself of an obsessive thought, that he is the only person who can move
the final piece on the board, the definitive piece, the one which, if moved in the right direction, will give
real meaning to the game, at the risk, if he does not do so, of leaving the game at stalemate for all eternity.
He has no idea what magical move that will be, but his decision to spend the night here was not made in
the hope that the silence would come and whisper it in his ear or that the moonlight would kindly sketch it
out for him among the shadows of the trees, he is simply like someone who, having climbed a mountain to
reach the landscapes beyond, resists going back down into the valley until his astonished eyes have taken
their fill of vast horizons.
The tree in which Senhor José has taken shelter is an ancient olive tree, whose fruits the local people
still come and pick despite the fact that the olive grove has now become a cemetery. Over the many years
of its life, the tree's trunk has gradually split open down one side, from top to bottom, like a cradle stood
on its end so as to take up less space, and it is there that Senhor José manages to doze off now and then, it
is there that he jerks awake, startled by the wind buffeting his face or when the silence and stillness of the
air grew so profound that his drowsing spirit began to dream about the cries of a world sliding into the
void. At one point, like someone determined to cure a dog bite with a hair of the dog that bit him, Senhor
José decided to make use of his imagination in order to re-create mentally all the classic horrors
appropriate to the place in which he found himself, the processions of lost souls swathed in white sheets,
the danses macabres of skeletons rattling their bones in time to the music, the ominous figure of death
skimming the ground with a bloody scythe to make sure that the dead resign themselves to remaining dead,
but, because none of this was actually happening in reality, because it was just the work of his
imagination, Senhor José gradually began to drift towards an enormous inner peace, only occasionally
disturbed by the irresponsible flutterings of will-o'-the-wisps, enough to strain most people's nerves to
breaking point, however tough they might be or however much they might know about the elementary
principles of organic chemistry. Indeed, our fearful Senhor José is displaying a courage which the many
upsets and afflictions through which we saw him pass earlier would not have led us to expect, which,
once again, just goes to show that it is in moments of extreme duress that the spirit gives the true measure
of its greatness. Towards dawn, now almost indifferent to fear, lulled by the gentle warmth of the tree
embracing him, Senhor José dropped off to sleep with remarkable calm, while the world about him
slowly re-emerged from the malevolent shadows of the night and from the ambiguous brilliance of a now
departing moon. When Senhor José opened his eyes, it was already broad daylight. He was chilled to the
bone, the tree's friendly vegetable embrace must have been just another deceiving dream, unless the tree,
considering that it had fulfilled the duty of hospitality to which all olive trees, by their very nature, are
obliged, had released him too soon and abandoned him, helpless, to the cold of a low, delicate mist that
hovered over the cemetery. Senhor José struggled to his feet, feeling every joint in his body creak, and
stumbled towards the sun, at the same time beating his arms vigorously about him in order to warm
himself. Beside the grave of the unknown woman, nibbling the damp grass, was a white sheep. All
around, here and there, there were other sheep grazing. And an old man, with a crook in his hand, was
coming towards Senhor José. He was accompanied by an ordinary dog, neither large nor small, which,
while it gave no sign of aggression, looked very much as if it were only awaiting a word from its master
to attack. The man stopped on the other side of the grave with the inquisitive air of one who, without
asking for any explanation, clearly believes he is owed one, and Senhor José said, Good morning, to