Raised from the Ground Read online

  It was in Landeira that João, who already had his real godparents in Monte Lavre, found a new and more illustrious godfather. He was Father Agamedes, who, because he lived with a woman he called his niece, provided João with a borrowed godmother too. The child did not lack for blessings, being as protected in heaven as he had been on earth up until then. Especially when Domingos Mau-Tempo, encouraged by Father Agamedes, took on the duties of sacristan, helping at mass and at funerals, because thanks to this, the priest befriended him and adopted João. Domingos Mau-Tempo’s sole aim in being received into the bosom of the church was to find a respectable reason for avoiding work and a respite from his persistent vagabond restlessness. But God rewarded him as soon as he saw him at his altar, clumsily performing the ritualistic gestures he was taught, for Father Agamedes also liked his drink, and thus celebrant and acolyte came together over that other sacrifice. Father Agamedes owned a grocery store, not far from the church, where he worked whenever his priestly duties allowed, and when they didn’t, his niece would come down to the square and, from behind the counter, rule over the family’s earthly business. Domingos Mau-Tempo would drop in and drink a glass of wine, then another and another, alone, unless the priest was there, and then they drank together. God, meanwhile, was up above with the angels.

  But all heavens have their Lucifers and all paradises their temptations. Domingos Mau-Tempo began to look on his neighbor’s companion with covetous eyes, and she, as niece, took offense and mentioned it to her uncle, and that was enough to create bad feeling between those two servants of the holy mother church, one permanent and the other temporary. Father Agamedes could not speak frankly for fear of giving credence to the evil thoughts of those parishioners who had their doubts about that niece-uncle relationship, and so, to drive away the threat to his own honor, he focused on the married status of the offending party. Deprived of his easy access to wine and weary of plying his trade here, there and everywhere, Domingos Mau-Tempo declared his intention at home of avenging himself on the priest. He did not say exactly what he was avenging himself for, and Sara da Conceição did not ask. She continued to suffer in silence.

  The church had few parishioners and not all of them regular. It provided no remedy for their ills, nor was it obliged to, since, as far as one could see, it didn’t increase them either. That was not the problem. The lack of apostolic action was not conducive to increased devotion, not so much because Father Agamedes lived with his so-called niece and ran a grocery store, because only those who are not of the people are ignorant of such basic needs, but because he mangled the words of the prayer book, and dispatched newborns, newlyweds and the dead with the same cold-blooded indifference with which he slaughtered and ate his pig and with equally scant attention to the letter or spirit of the holy writ. Ordinary people can be strangely sensitive. Domingos Mau-Tempo knew how to ensure that the church would be full. He let it be known that the next mass would be something special, that Father Agamedes had told him that in future he was going to take particular pains over the holy precepts, and would make use of sublime pauses and even vibrato, you’d be a fool to miss it, so don’t come complaining to me afterward if you do. Father Agamedes was amazed when he saw the church packed with people. It wasn’t the church’s name day and the drought had not been so bad as to require celestial intervention, but he said nothing. If the flock came to the pen of its own free will, so much the better for the shepherd when it came to rendering accounts to his master. In short, so as not to appear ungrateful, he outdid himself and, all unknowing, confirmed Domingos Mau-Tempo’s prediction. However, the shoemaker raised up to the position of sacristan, and already planning another escape, had his revenge prepared. When it came to the point in the mass where he had to ring the sanctus bell, he calmly raised the bell and shook it. It was as if he had waved a chicken feather in the air. At first, the faithful thought that they must all have gone deaf, others, out of habit, bowed their heads, while others watched distrustfully as Domingos Mau-Tempo, in dramatic silence, his face a mask of innocence, continued to shake the bell. The priest looked puzzled, the faithful muttered to each other, the younger members laughed. It was shameful, what with all the saints, not to mention all-seeing God, looking down on them. Father Agamedes could contain himself no longer, and he stopped the communion service there and then, grabbed the bell and felt inside it. There was no clapper. And yet no thunderbolt fell to punish such impiety. Terrible in his holy fury, Father Agamedes slapped Domingos Mau-Tempo hard about the face, right there in that sacred place, it scarcely seemed possible. But Domingos Mau-Tempo responded in kind, as though this were all part of the mass. And it was not long before the priest’s vestments and the sacristan’s surplice were caught up in a furious maelstrom, one on top, the other underneath, rolling sacrilegiously about, bruising their ribs on the altar steps, beneath the round-eyed gaze of the monstrance. The congregation rushed to separate the two warring powers, and some took advantage of that tangle of arms and legs to slake an ancient thirst for revenge on either one side or the other. The old ladies had gathered in one corner, praying to all the hosts of heaven, and, finally summoning up physical force and spiritual courage, advanced on the altar in order to save their priest, however unworthy. It was, in short, a triumph of faith.

  The next day, Domingos Mau-Tempo left the village, followed by a noisy cortege of boys, who accompanied him and his family as far as the barren outskirts. Sara da Conceição bowed her head in shame. João looked about him with his stern blue eyes. The other boy was sleeping.

  THEN THE REPUBLIC arrived. The men earned twelve or thirteen vinténs, and the women, as usual, less than half. Both ate the same black bread, the same cabbage leaves, the same stalks. The republic rushed in from Lisbon, traveled from village to village by telegraph, if there was one, advertised itself in the press for those who knew how to read, or passed from mouth to mouth, which was always by far the easiest way. The king had been toppled, and according to the church, that particular kingdom was no longer of its world, the latifundio got the message and did nothing, and the price of a liter of olive oil rose to more than two thousand réis, ten times a man’s daily wage.

  Long live the republic. So how much is the new daily rate, boss, Let’s see, I pay whatever the others pay, talk to the overseer, So, overseer, how much is the daily rate, You’ll earn an extra vintém, That’s not enough to live on, Well, if you don’t want the job, there are plenty more who do, Dear God, a man could die of hunger along with his children, what can I give my children to eat, Put them to work, And if there is no work, Then don’t have so many children, Wife, send the boys off to collect firewood and the girls for straw, and come to bed, Do with me as you wish, I am my master’s slave, and there, it’s done, I’m pregnant, with child, in the family way, I’m going to have a baby, you’re going to be a father, I’ve missed a period, That’s all right, eight can starve as easily as seven.

  And because far from there being any visible differences, only similarities, between the latifundio under the monarchy and the latifundio under the republic, and because the wages they earned could buy so little that they only served to increase their hunger, some innocent workers got together and went to the district administrator to demand better living conditions. The person with the best handwriting wrote out their request, remarking on the new joy felt among the Portuguese people and the new hopes that had sprung up with the coming of the republic, we wish you good health and send fraternal greetings, sir, and await your reply. Once the supplicants had been dismissed, Lamberto Horques sat down in his Hanseatic chair, meditated deeply on what would be best for the farms, himself and the people he governed, and having perused the maps on which the various parcels of land were marked, he placed his finger on the one most densely populated and summoned the captain of the guard. The captain had formerly belonged to the civil police force and now cut a martial figure in his new uniform, but he had a short memory and had, therefore, forgotten the days when he had worn the blue-and-white
ribbon on his left sleeve.* Thanks to the captain’s zeal and vigilance, Lamberto learned that the workers were agitating for change and protesting about the forced loans and other such impositions, they were complaining, too, about the poor-quality food, which, after paying the various taxes and tributes, was all they could afford, these complaints were all there in the letter of petition, albeit expressed in measured tones, but perhaps those tones only disguised other, worse intentions. An ill wind of insurrection was blowing through the latifundio, the snarling of a cornered, starving wolf that could cause great damage if it should turn into an army of teeth. It was necessary, therefore, to set an example, to teach them a lesson. Once the interview was over and he had received his orders, Lieutenant Contente clicked his heels and ordered the bugle to be sounded on the parade ground. There the republican national guard lined up, sabers at their side and reins tight, harnesses, mustaches and manes gleaming, and when Lamberto appeared at the window of his room, the guards saluted him as if they were waving goodbye, thus uniting in one gesture both affection and discipline. Then he withdrew to his chamber and summoned his wife, with whom he took his pleasure.

  See how the guards go flying through the countryside. They trot, they gallop, the sun beats down on their armor, the saddle cloths swirl about the horses’ legs, O cavalry, O Roland, Oliveros and Fierabras,* happy the country that gave birth to such sons. The chosen village is within sight, and Lieutenant Contente orders the squadron to prepare to charge, and when the bugle sounds, the troops advance in lyrical, warlike fashion, sabers unsheathed, the whole nation comes to the balcony to observe the spectacle, and when the peasants emerge from their houses, from barns and cattle sheds, they are mown down by the charging horses and struck from behind by the blades of the soldiers’ swords, until Fierabras, frisky as an ox stung by a gadfly, grips his saber in his hand and cuts, scythes, slices, pierces, blind with rage, although quite why he doesn’t know. The peasants lay moaning on the ground, and when finally carried back into their huts, they did not rest but tended their wounds as best they could, with lavish use of water, salt and cobwebs. We’d be better off dead, said one. Our time has not yet come, said another.

  The national guard, belovèd child of the republic, is leaving, the horses are still trembling, and flecks of foam still fill the air, and now they move on to the second phase of the battle plan, which is to ride into the hills and gullies and hunt down the workers who are inciting the others to rebellion and strikes, leaving the work in the fields undone and the animals untended, and thus thirty-three of them were taken captive, along with the main instigators, who ended up in military prisons. The guards led them off like a train of mules, their backs clothed in lashes, blows and mocking remarks, you bastards, mind you don’t trip over your cuckold’s horns, long live the republican guard, long live the republic. The farm workers were all individually bound and then tied as well to a single rope, like galley slaves, can you believe it, as if these were tales from barbarous times, from the days of Lamberto Horques Alemão, from the fifteenth century, at most.

  And who is going to take the leaders of the mutiny to Lisbon? Eighteen soldiers from the seventeenth infantry, led by their lieutenant, also called Contente, set off secretly on the night train, thirty-eight eyes keeping watch over five farm laborers accused of sedition and incitement to strike. They will be handed over to the government, our solicitous correspondent informs us, this government is a regular almshouse, always eager to receive such deliveries. And it’s May again, gentlemen, the month of Mary. There goes the train, there it goes, whistling away, there go the five farm laborers, to rot in Limoeiro prison. In these barbarous times the trains travel slowly, they stop for no apparent reason in the middle of nowhere, perhaps at some halt perfect for an ambush and sudden death, and the locked carriage in which the malefactors are traveling has its curtains closed, if there are curtains in the days of Lamberto Horques, if such extravagances are commonplace in third-class carriages, and the seventeenth infantry have their rifles cocked, perhaps even their bayonets fixed, who goes there, getting off the train ten at a time whenever it stops, to prevent any attacks or attempts to free the prisoners. The poor soldiers are under orders not to sleep, and they stare nervously at the hard, grimy faces of those five criminals, so like you. And when I get out of the army, my friend, who knows, perhaps another soldier will arrest me and carry me off to Lisbon on the night train, in the dark, We know our place now, but tomorrow, who can say, They lend you a rifle, but they never say anything about turning it on the estate workers, All that training, all that take aim and fire, is actually turned against yourself, the barrel of your weapon is staring at your own deceived heart, you have no idea what you’re doing, and one day they’ll give the order to fire, and you’ll shoot yourself, Shut your mouth, you seditious bastards, you’ll learn your lesson, who knows how many years you’ll spend inside, Yes, Lisbon is a big city, the biggest in the world they say, as well as home to the republic, which should, by rights, set us free, We’re perfectly within the law.

  There are now two groups of workers face to face, a mere ten paces apart. Those from the north are saying, We’re perfectly within the law, we were hired and we want to work. Those from the south say, You’ve agreed to work for less money, you come here to do us harm, go back where you came from, you rats,* you blacklegs. Those from the north say, Where we come from there is no work, it’s all stones and scrub, we’re from the Beira, so don’t insult us by calling us rats. Those from the south say, But you are rats, you come here to gnaw at our bread. Those from the north say, We’re hungry. Those from the south say, So are we, but we refuse to accept this poverty, if you agree to work for such a low wage, we’ll be left with nothing. Those from the north say, That’s your fault, you shouldn’t be so proud, accept what the boss offers you, better something than nothing, and then there’ll be work for everyone, because there aren’t many of you and we’ve come to help. Those from the south say, That’s just a trick, they want to trick us all, we don’t have to accept that wage, why not join forces with us and then the boss will have to pay everyone a better wage. Those from the north say, Each man knows his own heart and God knows them all, we don’t want to make alliances, we’ve traveled a long way, we can’t stay here and make war on the boss, we want to work. Those from the south say, Well, you’re not going to work here. Those from the north say, Yes, we are. Those from the south say, This land is ours. Those from the north say, But you don’t want to work it. Those from the south say, Not for this wage, no. Those from the north say, The wage is fine with us. The overseer says, All right, you’ve had your chat, now stand aside and let these men get to work. Those from the south say, Don’t do it. The overseer says, Get working, if you don’t do as I say, I’ll call the guards. Those from the south say, There’ll be blood spilled before the guards arrive. The overseer says, If the guards do come, still more blood will be spilled, so don’t say I didn’t warn you. Those from the south say, Brothers, listen to what we’re saying, for pity’s sake, join us. Those from the north say, Like we said, we want to work.

  Then the first man from the north walked over to the wheat with his sickle, and the first man from the south grabbed his arm, and they grappled clumsily, awkwardly, roughly, brutishly, hunger against hunger, poverty against poverty, how dearly we buy our daily bread. The guards arrived and broke up the fight, attacking one side only, driving back with their sabers those from the south and corralling them as if they were animals. The sergeant says, Shall I arrest the lot of them. The overseer says, It’s not worth it, leave the bastards there for a while to cool off. The sergeant says, But one of the other men has a wound to the head, he was attacked, and the law is the law. The overseer says, It’s not worth it, Sergeant, why worry over spilling a mere animal’s blood, it doesn’t matter whether they’re from the north or the south, they’re worth about as much as the boss’s piss. The sergeant says, Speaking of the boss, I need some firewood. The overseer says, We’ll send you a cartload. The sergea
nt says, And a few roof tiles too. The overseer says, Well, we can’t have you without a roof over your head. The sergeant says, Life is very expensive. The overseer says, I’ll send you some sausages.

  The men from the north are in the field now. The blond ears of wheat fall onto the dark earth, how lovely, it smells like a long-unwashed body, then, in the distance, a passing tilbury stops. The overseer says, It’s the boss. The sergeant says, Give him my thanks, and let me know if you need any more help. The overseer says, Keep an eye on those rascals. The sergeant says, Don’t worry, I know how to handle them. Some of the men from the south say, Let’s set fire to the wheatfield. Others say, That would be a terrible shame. They all say, That lot don’t know what shame is.

  THEY HAD BEEN to Landeira, and to Santana do Mato, in and out of the parish, to Tarrafeiro and Afeiteira, and in the midst of all this traveling their third child was born, a daughter this time, Maria da Conceição, and a fourth, a boy named Domingos, like his father. May God give him better fortune, because there was nothing good to be said about his progenitor, who, caught between the wine and the cheap brandy, the mallet and the shoe stud, was going from bad to worse. And as for the furniture, the least said the better, for it continued to be bumped over hills and ditches as it was transported from house to cart and from cart to house and from village to village. A new shoemaker’s arrived, his name’s Mau-Tempo, let’s go and see what this master craftsman is like, mind you, he drinks wine all year round the way you drink water in August, he’s certainly a master at that. While living in Canha with her husband and children, Sara da Conceição suffered from tertian fever for two years, which, for those unfamiliar with the disease, is the sort of fever that comes and goes every four days. That is why, when his mother was ill in bed, João Mau-Tempo, he of the blue eyes, which were not repeated in his siblings, used to go to the well, and once, as he plunged the jug in, he lost his footing, proof that no one watches over the innocent, and fell into the water, which was very deep for a little seven-year-old. He was carried home by the woman who saved him, and his father beat him while his mother lay in bed trembling with fever, shaking so hard that even the brass balls on the bed shook, Don’t hit the boy, Domingos, but she might as well have been talking to a brick wall.