The Stone Raft by José Saramago

The weather has changed, an expression of admirable concision that informs us in a soothing and neutrally objective manner that, having changed, it has changed for the worse. It is raining, a gentle rain now that autumn is here, and until the ground becomes muddy we will be tempted to stroll through the countryside in rubber boots and raincoats receiving that gentle spray of moisture on our faces, and absorbing the melancholy of the distant haze, the first trees shedding their leaves, looking bare and cold, as if they might suddenly beg to be caressed, there are some one would like to press to one's bosom with tenderness and pity, we rest our cheek against the moist bark and it feels as if the tree were covered in tears.

But the canvas of the wagon goes back to the origins of such coverings, which were solidly woven and made to last rather than to keep out the rain. It dates from an age when people were accustomed to letting their clothes dry out on their bodies, their only protection, if they were lucky, a glass of aquavit. Then there was the effect of the seasons, the drying out of the fibers, the fraying of the stitches, it is easy to see that the canvas removed from the car is not enough to patch up all the damage. And so the rain continually leaks into the wagon, despite Joaquim Sassa's reassurances that the soaking and enlarging of the threads, and the consequent tightening of the weave, will make things better, if only they would be patient. In theory nothing could be truer, but in practice it clearly does not work. If they had not taken the trouble to roll up the mattresses to protect them, it would have been some time before they could sleep on them.