Two thousand twenty-six minus a hundred and sixty-nine makes eighteen fifty-seven.
I had known it at the Chafariz d'El-Rei, on the rim of the fountain, while a ferry sounded down below, and I had said nothing. I did the sum again on Monday evening, coming back from Setúbal, on the corner of the table, with the grease pencil I use for tracings. The result hadn't moved. Results never move; that is their chief quality, and it is why people prefer stories.
Eighteen fifty-seven is not sixteen forty. There are two hundred and seventeen years between the two, and two hundred and seventeen years is not an imprecision, it is another country.
On Wednesday I did what a man of my trade does: I went to look at the papers.