Free The Lives of Things by José Saramago

told him and what they kept from him, and he realised the hour of understanding had come. Followed by a guard, as protocol demanded, he descended into the palace gardens. Dragging his royal cloak, he slowly made his way along an avenue leading to the concealed heart of the forest. There he lay down in a clearing and stretched out on the dry leaves; then summoning the guard who had fallen to his knees, he told him before dying: ‘Here’.

Things
    As it closed, the tall, heavy door caught the back of the civil servant’s right hand and left a deep scratch, red but scarcely bleeding. The skin had been torn here and there, raised in several spots which began to hurt, for the uneven surface and roughness of the wood had not exerted the continuous pressure or prolonged contact likely to cause an open wound or pull back the skin thereby allowing the blood to gush out and quickly spread. Before going to the tiny office where he was due to sign on in ten minutes and work a five-hour stretch, the civil servant made his way to the First Aid Room (FAR) to have the wound dressed: his work brought him into contact with the public and there was something unsightly about that scratch. As he was disinfecting the wound, the nurse, on being told how the accident had happened, commented that this was the third such case that day. Caused by the same door.
    —I suppose they’ll take it off, he added.
    Using a brush, he smeared over the scratch a colourless liquid which quickly dried, taking on the colour of his skin. And not just the colour but also the opaque texture of skin, so that no one would have suspected anything had happened. Only by looking very closely would anyone be able to see that the scratch had been covered. At a quick glance there was nothing to be seen.
    —Tomorrow you can pull off the film. Twelve hours should be sufficient.
    The nurse looked worried. He asked him:
    —Have you heard about the settee? The large one that was in the waiting-room.
    —No. I’ve just arrived for the afternoon shift.
    —It had to be removed. It’s in the other room.
    —Why?
    —We don’t exactly know. The doctor examined it immediately, but made no diagnosis. Not that it was necessary. A member of the public complained that the settee was getting overheated. And he was right. I checked it myself.
    —No doubt the manufacturer’s fault.
    —Yes. Probably. The temperature is too high. On any other occasion, and the doctor agreed, it would have been treated as a case of fever.
    —Well, it’s not unknown. Two years ago there was a similar case. A friend of mine had to return an overcoat as good as new to the factory. He found it impossible to wear.
    —And then what?
    —Nothing. The factory exchanged it. And he had no further cause for complaint.
    He looked at his watch: he still had ten minutes. Or was he mistaken? He could have sworn that when he injured his hand he had exactly ten minutes left. Or had he forgotten today to consult his watch on entering the building?
    —Can I take a look at the settee?
    The nurse opened a glass door.
    —It’s in there.
    The settee was long enough to seat four people and although it had obviously been used it was still in good condition.
    —Would you like to try it? asked the nurse.
    The civil servant sat down.
    —Well?
    —It’s rather uncomfortable. Is the treatment having any effect?
    —I’m giving it injections every hour. So far, I haven’t noticed any difference. It’s time for another injection.
    He prepared the syringe, sucked in the contents of a large ampoule and briskly stuck the needle into the settee.
    —And if there’s no improvement? the civil servant enquired.
    —The doctor will decide. This is the treatment he prescribed. If it doesn’t work, there’s nothing more to be done and the settee goes back to the factory.
    —Fine. I’m off to work. Thanks.
    In the corridor he checked the time again. Still ten minutes to go. Could his watch have stopped? He put it to his ear: the