Journey to Portugal by José Saramago

When the traveller was in Alcoutim, he saw perched on a hill a round and massive castle, that looked more like a truncated tower than a complicated military construction. He thought it would offer good views over the plain. But he was wrong. From a distance, he imagined it was still in Portugal, but in the end to get there he discovered he would have to cross the Guadiana, hire a boatman, show his passport-in short, it would be a whole other journey. The far side of the Guadiana is Sanlucar, and there Spanish is spoken. But the Portuguese and the Spanish town face each other like mirror images across the water, both of them with their white houses, both built as steeply as a Christmas crib. They must be very similar when it comes to laughter and tears as well.

Wherever the traveller arrives, he likes to strike up a conversation. Any excuse will do, and finding a former chapel that is now used as a shop and a crate warehouse is as good as any other. All the more so because at the back there is an altar with the sculpture of a saint on it. The traveller asks if he can go in. The sculpture is a fine one of St Anthony with the infant Jesus in his arms. How on earth does it come to be in here, in the midst of all the hammering and goods for sale, without even a prayer to console it? The traveller talks to the owner outside, sitting on the steps. He is a short, scrawny man of sixty or more years. He says: "It came down the river during the Civil War in Spain, and I found it. " It could well be, the traveller thinks-the war was forty years ago, when the saint's saviour must have been around fifteen. "I wouldn't think of selling it. He's there for whoever wants to look at him. That's enough."