Death with Interruptions

by Jose Saramago

APART FROM A FEW RARE INSTANCES, AS WITH THOSE unusually perspicacious people whom we mentioned before, who, as they lay dying, spotted her at the foot of the bed in the classic garb of a ghost swathed in a white sheet or, as appears to have happened with proust, in the guise of a fat woman dressed in black, death is usually very discreet and prefers not to be noticed, especially if circumstances oblige her to go out into the street. There is a widely held belief that since death, as some like to say, is one side of a coin of which god is the reverse, she must, like him, by her very nature, be invisible. Well, it isn’t quite like that We are reliable witnesses to the fact that death is a skeleton Wrapped in a sheet, that she lives in a chilly room accompanied by a rusty old scythe that never replies to questions, and is surrounded only by cobwebs and a few dozen filing cabinets with large drawers stuffed with index cards. One can understand. therefore, why death wouldn’t want to appear before people in that get-up, firstly, for reasons of personal pride. secondly, so that the poor passers-by wouldn’t die of fright when, on turning 

and

You look very pretty, said the scythe, and it was true, death did look very pretty and she was young, about thirty-six or thirty-seven just as the anthropologists had calculated, You spoke, exclaimed death, There seemed to me to be a good reason, it isn’t every day one sees death trans formed into the species of which she is the enemy, So it wasn’t because you thought I looked pretty, Oh, that too, that too, but I would have spoken even if you’d emerged in the guise of a fat woman in black like the one who appeared to monsieur marcel proust, Well, I’m not fat and I’m not dressed in black, and you have no idea who marcel proust was, For obvious reasons, we scythes, both those who cut down people and those who cut down grass, have never been taught how to read, but we have good memories, mine of blood and theirs of sap, and I’ve heard proust’s name several times and put together the facts, he was a great writer, one of the greatest who ever lived, and his tile must be somewhere in the old archives, Yes, but not in mine, I wasn’t the death who killed him, So this monsieur marcel proust wasn’t from here, then, asked the scythe, No, he was from another country, a place called france, replied death, and there was a touch of sadness in her words, Don’t worry, you can console yourself for the fact that it wasn’t you who killed proust by how pretty you look today, said the scythe helpfully, As you know, I’ve always considered you to be a friend, but my sadness has nothing to do with not having been the one to kill proust, What then. Well, I’m not sure I can explain. The scythe gave death a bemused look and thought it best to change the subject, Where did you find the clothes you’re wearing, it asked, There are plenty to choose from behind that door, it’s like a warehouse, like a vast theater wardrobe, there are literally hundreds of wardrobes, hundreds of mannequins, thousands of hangers, Take me there, pleaded the scythe, What’s the point, you know nothing about fashions or style, Well, one look at you tells me that you don’t know much more than I do, the clothes you’re wearing don’t seem to go together at all, Since you never leave this room, you have no idea what people are wearing these days, That blouse looks very like others I can remember from when I led an active life, fashions go in cycles, they come and go, they go and come, if I were to tell you what I see out in those streets, No need to tell me, I believe you, Don’t you think this blouse goes well with the color of the trousers and the shoes, Yes, agreed the scythe, And with this cap I’m wearing, Yes, that too, And with this fur coat, Yes, And with this shoulder bag, Yes, you’re quite right, And with these earrings, Oh, I give up, Go on, admit it, I’m irresistible, That depends on the kind of man you hope to seduce, But you think I look pretty, That’s what 1 said to begin with, In that case, goodbye, I’ll be back on sunday, or monday at the latest, don’t forget to send off the mail each day. that shouldn’t be too hard a task for someone who spends all his time leaning against the wall.