Raised from the Ground Read online

  Such episodes are all part and parcel of the pastoral life and of a happy childhood. You just have to see for yourself how easy it is to live happily on the latifundio. The pure air, for example, I’ll give a prize to anyone who can find better. And the birds, singing away above our heads when we stop to pick a little flower and study the behavior of the ants or this slow, black stag beetle afraid of nothing, impassively crossing the path on his long legs, but who dies beneath our boot, if we so choose, it depends on our mood, at other times, we might be more disposed to consider all life sacred and then even the centipedes escape with their lives. When the foreman comes to complain, António Mau-Tempo’s father is there to defend him, Don’t hit the boy, I know exactly what goes on, you sit there toasting pine kernels, talking to whoever happens by, and he has to play sheepdog, running from one side to the other, the boy isn’t a beetle for you to crush. The foreman went off and found another assistant, and António Mau-Tempo went to keep pigs for a new boss, until he grew stronger.

  Man has many jobs to do. We’ve mentioned some already, and now we add others for the purpose of general enlightenment, because townspeople think, in their ignorance, that it’s all a matter of sowing and harvesting, well, they’re much mistaken unless they learn all the other verbs involved and realize just what they mean, harvesting, carrying sheaves, scything, threshing either by machine or by hand, flailing the barley, covering the hayrick, baling up straw or hay, shucking the maize, spreading manure, sowing seeds, digging, clearing land, cutting up the maize stalks and digging them in, shoeing, pruning, ringing, leveling, digging ditches and trenches, hoeing, making terraces, grafting vines, taping up the graft, spraying with copper sulfate, carrying the grapes, working in the cellars, laboring in the vegetable plots, preparing the ground, beating the olive trees, working the oil presses, cutting cork, shearing sheep, cleaning wells, hacking undergrowth, chopping firewood, staking, covering with straw, earthing up, plugging, bagging and whatever else needs doing, all those lovely terms enriching our lexicon, blessed be the workers, and if we were to start explaining how each task is performed and in which season, and the tools and the implements needed, and whether it was men’s work or women’s and why, we would never end.

  Anyway, a man is hard at work, in this case he happens to be a man, or rather, he is at home after work, when a hunting hound comes in through the door, his name isn’t Ranter or Ringwood, he has two legs and a man’s name, but he’s a vicious beast all the same, and he says, I’ve got a piece of paper here for you to sign, you’re to go to Évora on Sunday to a rally in support of the Spanish nationalists, it’s an anticommunist rally, transport’s free, you’ll be taken there in a truck, all expenses paid by the bosses or the government, it comes to the same thing. The man feels like saying no, but can’t find the will to say it, he sits there chewing, pretending he hasn’t heard, but there’s no point, the other man repeats what he’s said, but in a different, somewhat threatening tone, and João Mau-Tempo looks at his wife, who is there as well, and Faustina looks at her husband, who wishes he weren’t there, and at the hound grasping the piece of paper, waiting for a reply, what shall I say to him, what do I care about such things, I don’t know anything about communism, well, that’s not quite true, last week I found some papers wedged under a stone, with one corner sticking out, as if they were trying to attract my attention, and I dropped behind and picked them up, no one saw me, but what’s this hound doing here, baring his teeth, perhaps someone told him, perhaps he came here to see if I would dare to say that I don’t want to go to Évora, that I won’t sign, the worst thing is that afterward, because everyone knows this dog, his name’s Requinta, he’ll go and tell on me, there’s sure to be someone with a grudge against me, but if I come up with an excuse, tell him I’ve got a pain in the gut or that I have to mend the rabbit hutch, he won’t believe me, and they might arrest me, All right, Requinta, I’ll sign.

  João Mau-Tempo signed where others had signed before him, or put their mark because they didn’t know how to write, which was most of them. And when Requinta left to continue collecting signatures, his nose in the air, sniffing the wind, the impudent creature, João Mau-Tempo felt a great thirst and drank straight from the jug, drowning in water the sudden fire that was merely a wave of unexplained embarrassment, other men would have drunk wine. Faustina had heard something of the conversation and hadn’t liked what she heard, but she preferred to console her husband, Well, at least it will mean a trip to Évora, it will be a distraction, and it’s free too, with transport there and back, it’s a shame you can’t take António, he’d love it. This wasn’t all that Faustina said, she continued to murmur something or other without really thinking what she was saying, and João Mau-Tempo knew that her words were like gestures that bring no hope of salvation, but which the patient receives gratefully like a soft hand on his brow, or rather a rough hand, given that we’re in the country, but all the same. All the same, they shouldn’t force a man to go, because that’s what they’re doing, I’d rather pretend to be ill. Faustina said, It’s not so dreadful, treat it like an outing, I’m sure the government knows what it’s doing. João Mau-Tempo said, Yes, you’re right. Anyone overhearing this conversation might declare that these people are a lost cause, but he or she has no idea what it’s like here, the people live miles from anywhere, they either get no news at all or don’t understand it when they do, and only they know what a struggle it is simply to survive.

  The day came, and at the appointed time, the men gathered in the street, and while they waited, some went into the taberna and drank as much wine as their pockets could afford, each drinker sticking out his lips to catch the surface bubbles bursting under his nose, ah, wine, blessed be the man who invented you. The more refined and better-informed among them were expecting great things of Évora and kept their appetites for later, but they soon learned their lesson, because they were dropped at the door of the bullring and picked up from there at the end of the rally. Forewarned is forearmed, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, that’s what people say, some live their whole lives according to such wisdom, and it does them no harm. This time the drinkers were right and were pleasantly merry by the time the trucks arrived, with their bellies singing hosannas and uttering the holy belch of wine, and enjoying the aftertaste that lingers in the mouth, the taste of paradise.

  It’s quite a journey. On the bends, even when not taken at speed, the truck leans to one side and the men have to cling to each other so as not to be thrown out, they totter about, the wind catches their hats and they have to hang on to them so they don’t fly away, Go more slowly, driver, we don’t want a man overboard. One of the wittier men said this, well, that’s what gives a little spice to life, if not, life would be very dull indeed. They stopped in Foros to take on more people, and then it was plain sailing, they glimpsed Montemor, but there was no time to visit, and Santa Sofia and São Matias, I’ve never actually been there myself but I have family there, a cousin of my sister-in-law, he’s a barber and has done really well for himself, it would be a different story, of course, if men’s beards stopped growing, it would be the same for prostitutes if men’s cocks stopped growing too. The man who says this knows what he’s talking about, well, once in a while never hurts, I haven’t been to a whorehouse since I did my national service, this time, though, I’m going to fill my boots. Men’s talk. Humanity has done its best to improve communications, even the estate has trucks at its disposal, Évora lies before them, and the hound Requinta, because he came too, barks, When we get out, follow me, and those fateful words cast a pall over the various appetites for wine and women, for that imagined long, restless night in bed with some woman, but dreams are never to be trusted.

  The bullring is packed. Hordes of farm laborers have been herded in there, sometimes by a landowner, smiling and chatty, and there’s always some lackey toadying up to him, shaming those who came for the sensible reason that they feared being left jobless. On the whole, though, they do their best
to appear happy. That’s the kindness of the crowd, not wishing to disappoint the person who expects us to be contented, and although it’s true that this doesn’t look much like a party, it’s no one’s funeral either, so tell me what face to wear, should I cheer or boo, cry or laugh, tell me. They’re sitting on the benches in the stands, others fill the arena, it would be better if there were some bulls there, and they still have no idea what’s going to happen or what exactly a rally is. Where has Requinta got to, Requinta, when does the party begin. Friends and acquaintances wave to each other, the more timid among them change places in search of some braver souls, Come over here, and then Requinta says, Keep together and pay attention, this is serious business, we came here to find out who is on the side of good and who on the side of evil, that would be useful, wouldn’t it, to have Requinta lead us by the hand toward a knowledge of good and evil, who would have thought it could be so easy, Father Agamedes, all you have to do is stop thinking and plunk your bum down on a bench, Where do we go to take a piss, Requinta, such talk is the first sign of a lack of respect, and Requinta frowns and pretends not to hear, but now the rally is about to start, Ladies and gentlemen, that’s funny, so in the bullring in Évora I’m a gentleman, am I, I don’t remember being a gentleman anywhere else, not even by my own choice, what’s he saying, Viva Portugal, I can’t hear him, We are gathered here today, united by the same patriotic ideal, in order to say to our government that we are pledged to continue the great Lusitanian adventure and that we promise to follow in the footsteps of those ancestors who gave the world whole new worlds and spread both faith and empire, and when the trumpet sounds, we will come together, as one man, around Salazar, the genius who has dedicated his life, here there are shouts of salazar salazar salazar, the genius who has dedicated his life to the service of the country, against the barbarous threat from Moscow, against those wretched communists who threaten our families and who would kill your parents, rape your wives and daughters, who would send your sons to labor camps in Siberia and destroy the holy mother church, for they are atheists, godless men with no morals and no shame, down with communism, death to all traitors, the bullring bawls out the slogan, some still have no idea what they’re doing here, others have begun to understand and are saddened, some are convinced, or deceived, a worker makes a speech, then another speaker, he’s from the Portuguese legion, he stretches out one arm and bawls, Who gives the orders, who gives us life, well, that’s a good question, the boss gives the orders, and as for life, what’s that. But the obedient bullring gives the expected response, and no sooner has the legionnaire stopped speaking than another man is there, mouth open, they certainly talk a lot, these people, something about Spain, about how the nationalists are fighting the reds, and how the lands of Castile and Andalusia are defending the sacred, eternal values of western civilization, that it’s every man’s duty to help our fellow believers, and that the remedy for communism is to be found in a return to the Christian morality whose living symbol is Salazar, goodness me, we have a living symbol, we must not be soft on our enemies, words words words, and then he goes on to talk about the good people of the region, expressing their gratitude to that immortal statesman and great Portuguese citizen who has devoted his whole life to serving his country, may God preserve him, and I will tell the president what I saw today in this historic city of Évora, and promise him that each of the thousands of hearts was beating in unison with that of the fatherland, that each heart is the fatherland, that deathless, sublime and most beautiful of all fatherlands, because we are blessed with a government that places the interests of the nation above the interests of any one social class, because men pass and the nation remains, death to communism, or is it down with communism, who cares, among so many people who’s going to notice, we must remember that life in the Alentejo, contrary to what many may think, is not propitious to the development of subversive ideas, because the workers are the true partners of the landowners, sharing the profits and losses, ha ha, ha, Where do I go to take a piss, Requinta, that’s just a joke, no one here would dare say such a thing at a moment of such gravity, when the nation, which never has to take a piss, is being evoked by that well-dressed gentleman on the platform, who is opening wide his arms as if he wanted to embrace us all, and since he can’t do that, the men on the platform embrace each other, the commander of the legion, the major from Setúbal, the members of parliament, the man from their national union, the captain of cavalry regiment five, a man from the en-i-double-u-double-u, if you don’t know what that means, just ask, the national institute of work and welfare, and all the others who have traveled from Lisbon, they look like rooks perched on top of a holm oak, but that’s where you’re wrong, we are all rooks, lined up on the benches, flapping our wings, cawing away, and now it’s time for the music, it’s the national anthem, everyone stands up, some because they know it’s the thing to do, others out of pure imitation, Requinta reviews his men, Come on, sing, I wish I could, who knows the national anthem, if it was some popular song we all knew, that would be another matter, oh, are we leaving, no, it’s not time to leave yet, if only we could fly, spread our wings and fly far from here, over the fields, watching from on high the trucks driving back, how sad, it was all so sad, and we shouted as if we had been paid to do it, I don’t know what’s worse, it’s not right, it was like a carnival farce. So you didn’t enjoy yourself, João, Not a bit, Faustina, we went like sheep and we came back like sheep. By the time they’re in the truck again, evening is falling, an aid to melancholy, someone tries singing and two men join in, but when sadness weighs heavy, even that sad voice falls silent, and then they hear only the sound of the engine, and they sit in silence, being thrown about, a badly tied load, a loose load, this was no work for men, João Mau-Tempo. The truck drops the men off outside Monte Lavre, like a flock of dark birds who scatter, not knowing quite where to go, some go to the taberna to slake their thirst and their bitterness, others mumble to themselves, the saddest go back to their houses, We’re just like dolls to be traipsed back and forth, who’s going to pay us for today, I had work to do in the vegetable garden, it’s that wretch Requinta’s fault, I’ll find some way to get my own back, words and promises born only of the pain underneath, but they can give full expression to little of that pain, it’s too vague, it may not hurt but it cripples. That’s why Faustina asks, Are you ill. João Mau-Tempo says no, he isn’t, and if he says nothing more, it’s because he doesn’t know how to explain how he feels. Lying in bed, they talk a little more, So you didn’t enjoy yourself, Not a bit, and by way of pouring out his heart and confessing his feelings, João Mau-Tempo rests his head on Faustina’s shoulder and falls asleep.

  The gentlemen of the estate go up the hill so that the sun will warm them alone, at least they do in João Mau-Tempo’s rough-and-ready dream, because the gentlemen have no faces and the hill has no name, but that’s how it is when João Mau-Tempo wakes up, and when he falls asleep again, a procession of gentlefolk are walking along and he goes ahead of them, digging up weeds with his mattock, clearing the way for that gay company of men, he pulls up the gorse with his bare hands, his hands are bleeding, and the gentlemen of the estate are laughing and talking, they are generous and patient when he falls behind in his weeding, they wait, they don’t mistreat him or summon the guards, they simply wait, and while they wait, they picnic, and João Mau-Tempo dredges up the strength from somewhere and lays in with his mattock, breaking the earth and slicing through the roots, he’s a man now, and above him, on the side of the hill, he sees trucks passing, bearing a sign that says Surplus Goods from Portugal, they’re heading for Spain, don’t give the reds an inch, as for those others, the saints, the pure ones, those who save me, João Mau-Tempo by name, from falling into hell, down with them, death to them, and now a man on horseback is coming after me, and the horse is the only thing in the dream to have a name, it’s called Bom-Tempo, well, horses have a long life, Wake up, João, it’s time to go to work, says his wife, and yet it’s still pit
ch-black outside.

  OTHERS, THOUGH, HAD already got up, not in the sense of someone who, sighing, drags himself from the dubious comfort of a mattress, if he has one, but in that other, peculiar sense of waking in the middle of the day to discover that, only a minute before, it was still black night, for man’s true time and the changes to which he is subject are not ruled by the rising of the sun or the setting of the moon, objects that are merely part of the celestial and terrestrial landscape. It is true that there is a time for everything, and this particular event was fated to happen during harvest time. Sometimes, a physical impatience, not to say exasperation, is required for souls finally to move, and when we say soul, we mean that thing with no real name, which is perhaps merely the body, the whole body. One day, if we don’t give up, we will all know what these things are and how far they are from the words that attempt to explain them, and how far those words are from the things themselves. But this looks far more complicated when you try to write it down.