The Lives of Things. José Saramago

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      Embargo

      He awoke with the distinct feeling of having been interrupted in the middle of a dream and saw before him the grey and frosty window-pane, the square, livid eye of dawn upon him, cut in the shape of a cross and dripping with condensation. He thought his wife must have forgotten to draw the curtains before going to bed, and felt irritated: unless he could get back to sleep, his day would be ruined. But he had no intention of getting up to draw the curtains: he preferred to cover his face with the sheet and turn to his wife, who was asleep, to take refuge in her warmth and in the perfume of her dishevelled hair. He waited a few more minutes, ill at ease, fearful at the morning insomnia. But then he consoled himself with the thought that bed was such a warm cocoon and with the labyrinthine presence of the body pressed against his and, almost slipping into a slow spiral of erotic images, he went back to sleep. The grey eye of the window-pane gradually turned blue, staring all the while at the two heads resting on the pillow like the forgotten remains of a removal to some other house or some other world. When the alarm went off two hours later, daylight filled the room.

      He told his wife not to get up, to stay in bed a little longer, while he slipped out into the chilly atmosphere with that unmistakable sense of dampness on the walls, the door-knobs, the bath-towels. He smoked his first cigarette as he shaved and the second with his coffee which had cooled in the meantime. He coughed, as he did every morning. Then, groping for his clothes, he dressed without switching on the light. He was anxious not to awaken his wife. The refreshing fragrance of eau de Cologne enlivened the shadows, causing his wife to sigh with pleasure when her husband leaned over the bed to kiss her closed eyes. And he whispered that he would not be coming home for lunch.

      He closed the door and quickly went downstairs. The building seemed quieter than usual. Perhaps because of the mist, he thought. For he had noticed that the mist was like a bell-jar, muffling sounds and transforming them, breaking them up, doing to them what it did to images. It had to be the mist. On the last flight of stairs he could already see the street and confirm whether he had been right. After all, the light was still grey, but as harsh and bright as crystal. On the edge of the pavement lay an enormous dead rat. And standing there at the door, he was lighting his third cigarette when a boy with a cap pulled over his head went past and spat on the animal, as he himself had been taught and had always seen others do.

      His car was five blocks down the road. What a stroke of luck to have found a parking space. He clung to the superstition that the further away he parked the car at night, the greater the risk of having it stolen. Without ever having actually said so, he was convinced that he would never see his car again if he were to leave it in some remote part of the city. Having it there nearby gave him greater reassurance. The car appeared to be covered with tiny drops of moisture, the windows covered in condensation. Were it not quite so cold, you would have thought the car was perspiring like a human body. He examined the tyres as usual, checked in passing that the aerial was not broken and opened the door. Inside the car, the air was freezing cold. With its windows clouded, the car resembled a transparent cavern submerged by a deluge of water. He decided it would have been better to have parked on a slope in order to drive off more easily. He switched on the ignition and at the same instant the engine rumbled with a deep, impatient panting. He smiled, pleasantly surprised. The day was getting off to a good start.

      The car sped up the street, scraping the asphalt like an animal with its hooves, pounding the rubbish scattered around. The speedometer suddenly leapt to ninety, a suicidal speed in such a narrow street with cars parked on both sides. What was happening? Alarmed, he took his foot off the accelerator. For a moment he thought they must have given him a much more powerful engine. He put his foot down cautiously on the accelerator and brought the car under control. Nothing serious. Sometimes you can misjudge the pressure of your foot on the pedal. The heel of your shoe only has to come down in the wrong place to alter the movement and pressure. So easily done.

      Distracted by this incident, he still had not checked the petrol gauge. Could someone have stolen his petrol during the night as had happened before? No. The pointer indicated that the tank was exactly half-full. He stopped at a red light, feeling the car vibrate and tense up as he held the wheel. Strange. He had never noticed this animal-like shudder running in waves through the bodywork and churning his insides. When the light turned green, the car appeared to snake, to become elongated like fluid, in order to overtake the cars in front. Strange. But then he had always considered himself a better than average driver. A question of having the right temperament, these quick reflexes which were probably exceptional. The tank half-full. If he should come across a petrol station that was open, he would fill up the tank. Considering the number of rounds he would have to make today before going to the office, better to play safe and have petrol in reserve. This absurd embargo. The panic, the hours of waiting, the endless queues of cars. Industry would almost certainly suffer the consequences. The tank half-full. Other motorists driving around with even less petrol, but if only you could prove it. The car took a sharp bend before climbing up a steep slope without the slightest effort. Nearby was a petrol-pump few people knew existed and he might be lucky. Like a setter following the scent the car dodged in and out of the traffic, turned two corners and took its place in the queue. What a good idea.

      He looked at his watch. There must have been about twenty cars in front of him. Could be worse. But he decided it might be wiser to go to the office first and leave his rounds until the afternoon, when he would have a full tank of petrol and nothing more to worry about. He lowered the window and hailed a passing newsvendor. The weather had turned much colder. But there, inside the car, with the newspaper spread over the wheel, smoking while he waited, he felt a pleasant warmth as if he were back between the sheets. He stretched his back muscles with the voluptuous contortions of a cat at the thought of his wife still snuggled up in bed at that hour, and reclined more comfortably in his seat. The newspaper had nothing good to report. The embargo continued. A cold, gloomy Christmas, read one of the headlines. But he still had half a tank of petrol and it would not be long before it was full. The car in front edged forward a little. Good.