Skylight by José Saramago

course, had only faults: he was, in her view, either a frivolous spendthrift who took no interest in their home and child, or a self-centered bore with the permanently stricken air of someone who feels unloved and out of place. Early on in their marriage, Carmen had often asked herself what lay behind the constant friction between her and her husband. They had fallen in love like everyone else, they had loved each other, and then it had all ended, to be replaced by arguments, bickering and sarcastic remarks; but it was his air of victimhood that most enraged her. She was convinced now that her husband had a mistress, a girlfriend. That, in her view, was the source of all their marital disagreements. Men are like cockerels, who, even while they’re treading one hen, already have their eye on the next.
    That morning, very reluctantly because it was raining, Carmen went out to do the shopping. The apartment was suddenly peaceful, a small island surrounded by the silence emanating from their neighbors’ apartments and by the soft murmur of rain. The building was enjoying one of those marvelous moments of quietness and tranquillity, as if it were inhabited not by flesh-and-blood creatures, but only by inanimate objects.
    Emílio Fonseca, however, found nothing soothing about the quietness and peace surrounding him. Instead, he found it positively oppressive, as if the air had grown thick and suffocating. He was enjoying the pause, his wife’s absence, his son’s silence, but what weighed on him was the certainty that it was only a pause, a provisional calm, a postponement that resolved nothing. He was standing at the window that looked out onto the street, watching the gentle rain and smoking, although most of the time he merely played with the cigarette between his nervous fingers.
    His son called to him from the next room. He put his cigarette down in an ashtray and went to see what he wanted.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œI’m thirsty.”
    On the bedside table stood a glass of water. He helped his son sit up and gave him a drink. Henrique swallowed carefully, grimacing with pain. He looked so weak and fragile from enforced fasting that Emílio felt his heart contract with fear. “What has he done to deserve this?” he thought. “Or indeed what have I done?” When Henrique had finished drinking, he lay down again and thanked his father with a smile. Emílio stayed where he was and sat on the edge of the bed, saying nothing and looking at his son. At first Henrique returned his gaze and seemed pleased to see him there. Moments later, though, Emílio realized that he was embarrassing the child. He glanced away and made as if to get up, but something stopped him. A new thought had entered his head. (Was it new? Or had he always brushed it aside because he found it too troubling?) Why did he feel so ill at ease with his son? Why was it that his son seemed so decidedly ill at ease with him? What was it that kept them apart? He took out his pack of cigarettes, then immediately put it away again, remembering that the smoke would be bad for Henrique’s throat. He could have gone elsewhere to smoke, but he didn’t. He again looked at his son, then blurted out the question:
    â€œDo you love me, Henrique?”
    This was such a strange question for his father to ask that the child responded lamely:
    â€œYes . . .”
    â€œA lot?”
    â€œYes, a lot.”
    â€œWords,” thought Emílio, “mere words. If I were to die now, he’d forget all about me within a year.”
    Emílio gave Henrique’s toes an affectionate, absent-minded squeeze. Henrique found this funny and giggled—cautiously so as not to hurt his throat. Emílio squeezed harder, and Henrique, seeing that his father seemed happy, did not complain, although he was relieved when he slackened his grip.
    â€œIf I were to leave, would you be sad?”
    â€œYes . . .” murmured his