The History of the Siege of Lisbon by José Saramago

besieged or an assailant, a future conqueror or hopeless loser.
    There was no irate message from Costa awaiting him under the door. Darkness fell and the telephone did not ring. Raimundo Silva spent a peaceful evening searching his shelves for books that might tell him more about the city the Moors named Lissibona. It was late when he went out on to the verandah to check the weather. Mist, but not as dense as that of yesterday. He could hear two dogs barking, and for some reason, this made him feel even more tranquil. Dogs had been barking for centuries, therefore, the world was unchanged. He went to bed. Tired out from his exertions that day, he slept soundly, but he woke up several times, whenever he dreamt and went back to dreaming about a rampart with nothing inside, like a sack with a tight opening spreading its belly to the edge of the river, and all around, forested slopes, woods and valleys, streams, a scattering of houses, orchards, olive-groves, a broad estuary advancing inland. In the distance, the clear outline of the towers of Amoreiras.

 
     
     
     
     
    I T TOOK THIRTEEN long and seemingly endless days before the publishers or someone acting on their behalf discovered the crime, and Raimundo Silva lived this eternity as if he had some slow-acting poison in his body, but ultimately as decisive as the most lethal toxicant, the perfect simile of death that each one of us goes through life preparing for and for which life itself serves as a protective cocoon, a propitious womb and ferment for cultivation. He made four visits to the publishers for no good reason, since his work, as we know, is freelance and can be done from home, exempt from the drudgeries that saddle ordinary employees, subjected to the chores of administration, editing, production, distribution and storage, a world under constant scrutiny and, by comparison, the task of proof-reader belongs to the realms of liberty. They asked him what he wanted, and he replied, Nothing, I just happened to be passing nearby and thought I'd call in. He lingered awhile, listening to conversations and studying the expression on people's faces, trying to pick up any thread of suspicion, a sly, provocative smile, a phrase wherein he could detect some hidden meaning. He avoided Costa, not because he had anything to fear, but simply because he had deceived him, Costa thus becoming that personification of outraged innocence we are incapable of confronting, because we have wronged someone and they still have not found out. We are tempted to say that Raimundo Silva goes to the publishers like the criminal returning to the scene of the crime, but that would not be entirely true, Raimundo Silva is certainly attracted to the place where his crime will be discovered and where the judges will convene to pass the sentence that will condemn him, prevaricator, exposed, false and defenceless.
    The proof-reader is in no doubt that he is about to make a foolish mistake, that these visits will be remembered, when the time comes, as particularly odious expressions of a perverse malevolence, You knew the damage you had done, yet notwithstanding, you didn't have the guts, they would actually use the word guts, the frankness, the honesty, to own up of your own free will, they would use the words free will, you waited for events to take their course, perversely amusing yourself, yes perversely amusing yourself at our expense, and the banality of these final words will clash with the high moral tone of his severe reproof. It would be useless trying to tell them that they are mistaken, that Raimundo Silva was only looking for some peace of mind and reassurance. They still have not found him out, he sighs with relief each time he goes there, but any reassurance and peace of mind were of short duration, no sooner did he enter his apartment than he felt more beleaguered than Lisbon had ever been.
    Not being superstitious, he was not expecting anything disagreeable to happen to him on the