Baltasar and Blimunda (Harvest Book) Page 11

  Early next morning, before sunrise, Baltasar and Blimunda, taking no more luggage than a bundle of clothes and some food in their knapsack, left Lisbon and headed for Mafra.

  THE PRODIGAL SON has returned and brought his wife, and if he does not come empty-handed, it is because he left one of them on the battlefield and the other is clasped in Blimunda's hand, whether he comes richer or poorer is a question one does not ask, for every man knows what he possesses without knowing what it is worth. When Baltasar pushed the door open and appeared before his mother, Marta Maria, she embraced him with a vehemence that seemed almost virile, such was the strength of her emotion. Baltasar was wearing his hook, and it was painful and moving to see a crooked iron resting on the old woman's shoulder instead of that human cradle of fingers which follows protectingly the contours of the person it embraces. His father was not at home, for he was labouring in the fields and Baltasar's only sister is married and already has two children, her husband is named Álvaro Pedreiro, a name chosen to match his trade as a bricklayer, a fairly common practice in those days, and there must have been some good reason for calling certain people Sete-Sóis, even if it was only a nickname. Blimunda stayed at the door waiting for her turn, and the old woman could not see her because she was hidden behind the much taller Baltasar and besides, it was dark inside the house. Baltasar stepped aside to introduce Blimunda, that was his intention, at least, but Marta Maria was distracted by something she had not noticed at first, perhaps forewarned by the sense of something cold and empty resting on her shoulder, an iron hook instead of a human hand, nevertheless, she could now perceive a face in the doorway, poor woman, her emotions torn between sorrow at the sight of her son's maimed limb and disquiet at the sudden appearance of this other woman while Blimunda stood aside, allowing things to take their course, and from the entrance she could hear the old woman's tears and questions, My dear son, how did it happen, who did this to you, and it was already growing dark when Baltasar finally came to the door and called to Blimunda, Enter, an oil lamp had been lit, Marta Maria was still sobbing quietly, Mother, this is my wife, and her name is Blimunda of Jesus.

  It ought to be sufficient to state what someone is called and then wait for the rest of your life to find out who he or she is, if you can ever know, but the custom is otherwise, Who were your parents, where were you born, what is your trade, and once you know these facts, you think you have learnt everything about the person. As dark began to fall, Baltasar's father arrived home, he was named João Francisco, the son of Manuel and jacinta, and was born here in Mafra, where he had always lived in this same house, in the shadow of the Church of St Andrew and the Viscounts' Palace, and to fill in a few more details, João Francisco is as tall as his son, although now somewhat bent by age as well as by the weight of the bundle of wood he has carried home. Baltasar helped him to unload the bundle, and the old man looked at him and exclaimed, Ah, my son, noticing at once that Baltasar's left hand was missing but simply saying, We must resign ourselves, after all, you've been fighting a war, then he saw Blimunda and, aware that she was his son's wife, allowed her to kiss his hand, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law were soon preparing supper, while Baltasar spoke of the battle in which he had lost his hand and of the years spent away from home, but said nothing of the two years he had passed in Lisbon without sending them any news of his whereabouts, when the first and only word they had received from him had been some weeks previously, a letter written by Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço at the request of Sete-Sóis, informing his parents that he was alive and well and about to return home, ah, how cruel children can be when they are alive and well and transform their silence into death. He had still not told them whether he had married Blimunda while he was in the army or after the war had ended, or explained what kind of marriage he had contracted or in what circumstances, but either the old couple did not remember to ask him or they preferred not to know, for they were perplexed by the girl's strange appearance, that sand-coloured hair of hers, a somewhat unkind description, for it was honey-coloured, and those pale eyes that could have been green, grey, or blue when she looked into the light, only to become suddenly very dark, the colour of earth, of murky waters, even black as coals, if so much as tinged by shadows, so they all sat there in silence when it would have been opportune for them to speak, I never knew my father, I think he was already dead when I was born, my mother has been exiled to Angola for eight years, only two of those years have passed and I don't know if she is still alive, for there has been no news, Blimunda and I intend to stay here in Mafra, Baltasar declared, and I hope to find a house, There's no need to look for a house, this one is big enough for four people, and it has sheltered many more in the past, his father said, then asked, Why was Blimunda's mother sent into exile, Because, Father, they denounced her to the Holy Office of the Inquisition, Blimunda is neither Jewish nor converted, and this trouble with the Holy Office of the Inquisition and her sentence to imprisonment and exile came about because of certain visions and revelations, Blimunda's mother claimed to have had, and voices she had heard, There isn't a woman alive who hasn't had visions and revelations, or who doesn't hear voices, we women hear mysterious voices all day long, and one doesn't have to be a sorceress to hear them, My mother was no more a sorceress than I am, Do you have visions, too, Only those visions that all women experience, Mother, You will be as a daughter to me, Yes, Mother, Swear, then, that you are neither Jewish nor converted, Baltasar's father intervened, I swear it, Father, Welcome, then, to the home of Sete-Sóis, Blimunda is also known as Sete-Luas, Who gave you that name, The priest who married us, Any priest with so much imagination is scarcely a product of the sacristy, and at these words they all laughed heartily, some knowingly, the others less so. Blimunda and Baltasar exchanged glances and perceived the same thoughts in each other's eyes, the Passarola lying in pieces on the floor, Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço mounted on his mule as he disappeared through the gates of the estate on the start of his journey to Holland. Hovering in the air was the falsehood that Blimunda had no trace of Jewish blood, if it can be called a falsehood, for we know that this couple tended to disregard such matters, in order to safeguard greater truths, one often resorts to deception.

  Baltasar's father informed him, I sold the plot we had on the Alto da Vela, I sold it for the reasonable sum of thirty-five hundred réis, but we shall miss that land, Then why did you sell it, Because the King wanted it, my land as well as everybody else's, And why should the King want to buy those lands. He's going to build a convent for the Franciscan friars, haven't you heard it discussed in Lisbon, No, Father, I've heard nothing, The local parish priest explained that the convent had been promised to the Franciscans by the King if an heir to the throne should be born, the person who is likely to earn good money now is your brother-in-law, for there will be plenty of work for stone-masons. They had supped on cabbage and beans, the women on their feet and keeping out of the way, and João Francisco Sete-Sóis went to the salting-box and took out a lump of pork, which he cut into four pieces, he then put each piece on a slice of bread and parcelled them out. He watched Blimunda attentively as she took her portion and tranquilly began to eat, She's no Jewess, her father-in-law thought to himself. Marta Maria had also been watching the girl anxiously, and she gave her husband a severe look, as if to rebuke him for his mistrust. Blimunda finished eating and smiled, and it did not occur to João Francisco that even if she were Jewish she would have eaten the salt pork, for Blimunda has another truth to safeguard.

  Baltasar said, I must look for work, and Blimunda, too, must find employment, we must earn a living somehow, For Blimunda there's no hurry, I want to keep her at home with me for a while, so that I can become better acquainted with my new daughter, That's fine, Mother, but I must look for a job without delay, With only one hand, what job are you likely to find, I have my hook, Father, which is a great help once you get used to it, That's all very well, but you cannot dig, you cannot wield a scythe, and you cannot chop firewood, I could l
ook after animals, Yes, I suppose you could, I could also be a drover, the hook is good enough to hold the rope, and my right hand will manage the rest, I'm pleased you've come back home, my son, I should have returned sooner, Father.

  That night Baltasar dreamt that he went out to plough the entire Alto da Vela with a yoke of oxen, Blimunda walking behind and sticking bird feathers into the ground and these began to flutter as if they were about to become airborne and take the soil with them, then Padre Bartolomeu Lourenço appeared from nowhere, carrying his design and pointing out the mistake they had made, We must start again, he said when suddenly the land waiting to be ploughed reappeared, and Blimunda, who was sitting on the ground, beckoned to Baltasar, Come and lie down beside me, for I have finished eating my bread. It was still the dead of night when he woke up and drew Blimunda's sleeping body close to him, with its moist, enigmatic warmth, she murmured his name and he whispered hers, as they lay there on the kitchen floor on an improvised bed of folded blankets and, taking great care not to make any noise in case they roused his parents, they made love.

  Next day Baltasar's sister, Inês Antónia, and her husband, Álvaro Diogo, came to welcome Baltasar home and make the acquaintance of their new sister-in-law. They brought their two children, one four years old, the other two, only the older will survive, for the younger child will be stricken by smallpox and die within the next three months. But God, or whoever in heaven determines the span of human lives, is very scrupulous when it comes to maintaining some balance between rich and poor, whenever it proves necessary, He will even cast His eye on those of noble birth to find some counterweight to put on the scales, and to balance the death of the child of Inês Antónia and Álvaro Diogo, the Infante Dom Pedro will die at the same age, for when God so wills, death may be caused by the most unlikely causes, the heir to the Portuguese throne, for example, will die once he is denied his mother's milk, and only a child as delicate as a royal infante could perish in such circumstances, for Inés Antónia's child was already eating bread and all the rest when it fell ill and died. Once He has levelled the score, God shows no interest in their funerals, and so, when that little angel was buried in Mafra, as so often happens, the event went unnoticed, but the Infante's burial in Lisbon was quite another matter, mourning was observed with all due solemnity, the corpse was borne from the royal apartments in a tiny casket by the counsellors of state, who were escorted by all the nobility, the King himself presiding with his brother, and if the King grieved as a father, he grieved most of all at the loss of his first son and natural heir to the throne, and in accordance with court protocol, the funeral cortège went down into the chapel courtyard, all the men wearing their hats, but when the coffin was placed on the bier that was to carry the corpse to its final resting place, the King and father of the dead Infante removed and replaced his hat twice before returning to the Palace, such are the inhumanities of official protocol. The Infante made his lonely journey to São Vicente de Fora, with a magnificent entourage but without father or mother, the Cardinal headed the procession, followed by the mace-bearers on horseback, then the officials and dignitaries of the royal household, behind them came the clergy and altar boys attached to the Royal Chapel, with the exception of the canons who had gone to await the arrival of the corpse at São Vicente, this last contingent carried lighted torches, and behind them came the palace guards, led by lieutenants, in double file, and finally the funeral bier itself, bearing the coffin, which was covered with a magnificent red drape like that which covers the royal coach, and behind the bier came the elderly Duke of Cadaval, in his capacity as the veteran major-domo of the Queen's household, and the Queen, if she has a mother's heart, must surely be mourning the death of her child, also present is the Marquis of Minas, the Queen's chief steward, whose devotion can be judged from his tears rather than from his titles, as is the ancient custom, the aforesaid drapes, along with the harnesses and trappings of the mules, will be given to the friars of São Vicente, and the hostlers of the mules, which also belong to the friars, will receive twelve thousand réis, a form of hiring like any other, and we should not be surprised, for human beings are not mules, yet they, too, are frequently hired, and thus united, they form the solemn procession wending its way through the streets, with soldiers and friars among the crowds lining the pavements, there are friars from all the religious orders as well as the mendicant friars who are the trustees of the sanctuary that will receive the Infante, who died after being deprived of his mother's milk, a privilege the friars richly deserve, just as they deserve the convent that will soon be built in the town of Mafra, where within the last year a little boy has been buried whose identity has never been established but who also had a funeral cortège, which included his parents, his grandparents, his uncles and aunts, and other relatives, and when the Infante Dom Pedro arrives in heaven and learns of this discrimination, he will be most upset.

  Eventually, since the Queen was so well disposed towards maternity, the King gave her another child who would certainly become king and give rise to more celebrations and upheavals, and lest anyone should be curious to know how God will balance this royal birth with that of a commoner, He will balance it, all right, but not by means of anonymous men and women, Inès Antônia will show no desire to see any more of her children die, and as for Blimunda, she suspects that she has mysterious powers at her disposal to avoid giving birth to any children. Let us, therefore, concentrate on the adults, on the endless stories Sete-Sôis will tell of his military exploits, of the modest contribution he made to the nation's history, of how he came to be wounded and how they amputated his hand, showing them his iron implements as they listen once more to the same old lamentations, These are the misfortunes that befall the poor, he tells them, but not so, for generals and captains also died in the war or have been left crippled for life, and God provides in the same measure as He takes away, but after an hour everyone has got used to this novelty except for the children who sit there staring in utter fascination and tremble with fear when their uncle playfully lifts them off the ground with his hook, he is doing what he can to keep them amused, the younger child shows the greatest interest of all in this singular game, let the poor child enjoy himself, let him enjoy himself while there is still time, for he has only three months left in which to play.

  During those first days back in Mafra, Baltasar helps his father on the land he has rented from a neighbour, he has to learn everything anew, he has not forgotten any of his farming skills, but they are now difficult to apply. As proof that there is no substance in dreams, he now realises that, although he was capable of ploughing the Alto da Vela in his dream, without his left hand he can do little with a plough in the light of day. There is no more blissful occupation than that of a drover, but since one cannot be a drover without a cart and a yoke of oxen, Baltasar will have to borrow his father's in the meantime, Now it's my turn, now it's yours, One day you will have your own, And if I die soon, perhaps you will be able to save some of the money you inherit to buy the cart and oxen, Father, don't even mention such things. Baltasar also finds some work on the site where his brother-in-law is employed, a new wall is being built around the estates of the Viscounts of Vila Nova da Cerveira. Baltasar will find it difficult to lay a single stone on the wall, it would almost have been preferable to have lost a leg, after all, a man can support himself just as firmly on a stilt as on a leg, it is the first time Baltasar has given this any thought, but then he thinks how awkward it would be when lying down beside Blimunda and on top of her, and decides, No, thank you, much better to have lost a hand, and what a stroke of good fortune that it should have been his left hand at that. Álvaro Diogo comes down from the scaffold and, taking refuge behind a hedge, eats the midday meal brought to him by Inês Antónia, whom he assures there will be no lack of work for stone-masons once they start to build the convent, and it will no longer be necessary to leave one's own town in order to find work in surrounding districts, which means spending week after week away from home,
for no matter how restless a fellow might be, his own home, if he has a wife he respects and children he loves, has the same satisfying taste as bread, a man's home is not for all hours, but he soon begins to miss it if he does not go back there every day.

  Baltasar strolled all the way up to the Alto da Vela, from which one can see the entire town of Mafra nestling in the hollow of the valley. This is where he used to play when he was the same age as his eldest nephew, and for several more years before he had to start labouring in the fields. The sea lies at some considerable distance yet appears to be close, it shimmers like the blade of a sword catching the light of the sun, which the sun will gradually sheathe once it starts to go down and disappear beyond the horizon. These are similes invented by someone who is writing on behalf of a soldier who fought in the war, Baltasar did not invent them, but, for some reason best known to himself, he suddenly remembers the sword he hid safely away in his parents' house, which he has never again unsheathed, probably covered with rust by now, but one of these days he will oil it, for one never knows when the need might arise.

  Formerly these were cultivated lands, but now they are abandoned. Though the boundaries are barely visible, the hedgerows, ditches, and fences no longer divide the land. All these fields now belong to the same landowner, His Majesty the King, who has not yet paid for it but will no doubt pay, for, to do him justice, his credit is good. João Francisco Sete-Sóis is awaiting compensation for his part of the land, what a pity the entire sum does not come to him, otherwise he would be a very rich man indeed, so far the deeds of sale amount to three hundred and fifty-eight thousand, five hundred réis, and with the passage of time that sum will go on increasing until it exceeds fifteen million réis, an inconceivable amount of money for the minds of weak mortals, so to make things easier we shall convert it into fifteen contos and almost one hundred thousand réis, a tidy sum. Whether it is a good or a bad deal depends, for money does not always keep its value, unlike mankind, whose value is always the same, everything and nothing. And will the convent be a large affair, Baltasar inquired of his brother-in-law, to which he replied, To begin with, a community of thirteen friars was mentioned, then the figure went up to forty, now the Franciscans in charge of the hospice and the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament are saying that there will be as many as eighty, It will be the most powerful place on earth, said Baltasar. This was their topic of conversation when Inês Antónia withdrew, leaving Álvaro Diogo free to speak with Baltasar man to man. The friars come here to fornicate with women, and the Franciscans are the worst of all, if I catch any of them taking liberties with my wife, I'll give him such a thrashing that I'll break every bone in his body, and, as he spoke, the stone-mason struck the boulder where Inês Antónia had been sitting with his hammer and smashed it into smithereens. The sun has now set and down in the valley Mafra is as dark as the interior of a well. Baltasar starts to descend the slope, he looks at the boundaries traced out with stones, which divide off the land on the far side, the whitest of stone as yet untouched by the first frosts, stone that has never known excessive heat, stone still astonished by the light of day. These stones are the initial foundations of the convent, the King has ordered that they be cut from Portuguese stones fashioned by Portuguese hands, for the Garvos, the family contracted to supervise the final stages of the building, have not yet arrived from Milan to take charge of the bricklayers and stonemasons. When Baltasar enters the house he hears whispers and murmurings coming from the kitchen, he recognises his mother's voice, then that of Blimunda, as they converse in turn, they scarcely know each other yet have so many things to confide, it is the prolonged and interminable conversation of women, men think such conversations frivolous without perceiving that they keep the world in orbit, if women did not converse with one another, men would long ago have lost all sense of home and of the world at large, Give me your blessing, dear Mother, May God bless you, my son, Blimunda remained silent, and Baltasar did not greet her, they simply looked at each other, finding refuge in each other's eyes.