Raised from the Ground (41 page)

The horses break into a trot, there’s not enough space for anything bolder, and those who try to escape from beneath the hooves and the saber thrusts immediately fall to the ground. A man could perhaps stand such humiliation, but sometimes he chooses not to, or is suddenly blinded with rage, and then the sea rises, arms are raised, hands grab reins or throw stones picked up from the ground or brought with them in their bags, it’s the right of those who have no other weapons, and the stones come flying from the back of the crowd, probably without hurting anyone, horse or rider, because a stone hurled at random like that, if it was, simply drops to the ground. It was a battle scene worthy of a painting on the wall of the commander’s office or in the officers’ mess, the horses rearing up, the imperial guard, sabers unsheathed, striking with either the flat of the sword or the edge, the rebellious workers retreating then advancing like the tide, the wretches. This was the charge of June twenty-third, fix that date in your memory, children, although other dates also adorn the history of the latifundio and are deemed glorious for the same or similar reasons. The infantry also excelled itself, especially Sergeant Armamento, a man with a blind faith and a wrong-headed view of the law, there’s the first burst of machine-gun fire, and another, both of them fired into the air as a warning, and when the people in the castle hear these shots, they cheer and clap, the sweet girls of the latifundio, faces scarlet with heat and bloodthirsty thoughts, and their mothers and fathers, and the boyfriends trembling with the desire to get out there themselves, lance in hand, and finish the job just started, Kill them all. The third burst of fire is aimed low, all that target shooting is proving its worth, let the smoke clear, not bad, although it could have been better, there are three men lying on the ground, one of whom is getting up, clutching his arm, he was lucky, another is dragging himself painfully along, one leg incapacitated, and that one over there isn’t moving at all, It’s José Adelino dos Santos, it’s José Adelino, says someone from Montemor, who knows him. José Adelino dos Santos is dead, he got a bullet in the brain and couldn’t believe it at first, but shook his head as if he had been bitten by an insect, then he understood, Those bastards have killed me, and he fell helplessly backward, with no wife there to help him, his own blood formed a cushion under his head, a red cushion, if you please. The people in the castle applaud again, they sense that this time it’s serious, and the cavalry charges, scattering the crowd, someone should pick up the body, but no one approaches.

The people from Monte Lavre heard the whistle of the bullets, and José Medronho is bleeding from his face, he was lucky, it was just a graze, but he’ll be scarred for the rest of his life. Gracinda Mau-Tempo is weeping, clinging to her husband, she heads off with other people down the narrow streets, how terrible, they can hear the triumphant cry of the guards as they make their arrests, and suddenly Leandro Leandres appears along with other dragons from the PIDE, a half dozen of them, João Mau-Tempo saw them and turned pale, and then he did something quite mad, he stood in the path of the enemy, trembling, but not with fear, ladies and gentlemen, let us be quite clear about that, but the other man either did not see him or did not recognize him, though those eyes are not easy to forget, and when the dragons had passed him by, João Mau-Tempo could no longer hold back his tears, tears of rage and deep sadness too, when will our suffering end. José Medronho’s wound is no longer bleeding, no one would think that he had been within a millimeter of having the bones in his face shattered, what would he look like now if that had happened. Sigismundo Canastro is breathing hard, but the others are fine, and Gracinda Mau-Tempo is a girl again, sobbing, I saw him, he fell to the ground, dead, that’s what she’s saying, but some disagree, no, they say, he was taken to the hospital, although how we don’t know, whether on a stretcher or in someone’s arms, they wouldn’t dare just drag him there even if they wanted to, Kill them all, comes the cry from the castle, however, one must respect the formalities, a man is not dead until a doctor says he is, and even then. Dr. Cordo is here, dressed in his white coat, let us hope his soul is of the same color, and as he is about to approach the body, Leandro Leandres blocks his path and says in a voice of urgent authority, Doctor, this man is wounded, he must be taken to Lisbon at once, and you must go with him for his greater safety. Those of us who have been listening to these stories from the latifundio are amazed to see the dragon Leandro Leandres taking pity on a victim and expressing a wish to save him, Take him, Doctor, an ambulance is already on its way, a car, quickly, there’s no time to lose, the sooner he leaves here the better, hearing him talk like this, so urgently, so briskly, it’s hard to believe what happened to João Mau-Tempo, or what he claims happened, when he was taken prisoner eight years earlier, that’s how long ago it was, they obviously couldn’t have treated him so very badly, apart from that statue business, the proof being that he came from Monte Lavre to take part in this demonstration, he clearly hasn’t learned his lesson, he was lucky a bullet didn’t find him.

Dr. Cordo goes over to José Adelino dos Santos and says, This man is dead, there is no denying such words, after all, a doctor studies for many years, and in that time he must have learned how to tell a dead man from a live one, however, Leandro Leandres was taught from a different primer and is, in his own way, a connoisseur of the living and the dead, and based on that knowledge and on his own self-interest, he insists, This man is wounded, Doctor, and must be taken to Lisbon, even a child would understand that these words are intended as a threat, but the doctor’s soul clearly is as white as the coat he’s wearing, and if it’s stained with blood, that’s because the soul has blood in it too, and he responds, I take the wounded to Lisbon, but I do not accompany the dead, and Leandro Leandres loses his temper and propels the doctor into an empty room, I’m warning you, if you don’t take him, you’ll pay for it, and the doctor answers, Do what you like, but I’m not taking a dead man to Lisbon, and having said that, he left the room to deal with the genuinely wounded, of which there were many, and some of whom went straight from there to prison, in fact, more than a hundred men, whether wounded or unscathed, were arrested, and if José Adelino dos Santos did end up being transported to Lisbon, it was simply a drama put on by the PIDE, a way of pretending that they had done everything they could to save him, a form of mockery really, and along with José Adelino dos Santos, they took other men arrested on that same day, and each one suffered as João Mau-Tempo suffered and as we have described.

The party from Monte Lavre escaped the patrols scouring and encircling the town, and all returned save one, António Mau-Tempo, who told his father, I’m going to stay here in Montemor, I’ll be back tomorrow, and there was no point arguing with him, he replied to all their arguments with, Don’t worry, I’m not in any danger, and though he had no clear idea of what he was going to do, he felt he had to stay, and then the others set off along ancient paths into the countryside, they’re going to be tired out by the time they get home, although perhaps, farther on, when they rejoin the road, someone will come along and give them a lift to Monte Lavre, where the news of what happened has already spread, and oddly enough, when they did arrive, Faustina Mau-Tempo immediately heard their knock at the door and understood everything they said as if she had the keenest hearing in the world, even though she’s deaf as a post, although some might hint that she sometimes only pretends to be deaf.

That night, which was again starry but moonless, while many women were grieving in Montemor, one woman more than all the others, there was a great uproar at the guards’ barracks. More than once, patrols were dispatched to search the surrounding area, they entered houses, woke people up, in an attempt to solve the mystery of the stones or pebbles that kept falling onto the roof, some tiles had been broken and some windows too, constituting damage to public property, perhaps it was revenge on the part of the angels or mere mischief-making born of sheer boredom up there on heaven’s balcony, because miracles shouldn’t only involve restoring sight to the blind and giving new legs to the lame, a few well-aimed stones have their place in the secrets of the world and of religion, or so thinks António Mau-Tempo, because that’s why he stayed behind, in order to perform that miracle, hidden away high up on the hill, in the pitch-black shadow of the castle, hurling the stones with his strong right arm, and whenever a patrol came by, he hid away in a cave from which he would later emerge as if from the dead, and fortunately no one spotted him. At around one in the morning, his arm grown weary, he threw one last stone and felt as sad as if he were about to die. A tired and hungry man, he went around the south side of the castle and down the hill, then spent the rest of the night walking the four leagues to Monte Lavre, following the road but keeping well away from it, like some malefactor afraid of his own conscience, occasionally having to go around the edge of some of the unharvested wheatfields blocking his path, because he couldn’t risk walking through them and had to remain hidden from both the latifundio guards with their hunting rifles and the uniformed national guards armed with carbines.

When he was within sight of Monte Lavre, the sky was beginning to grow light, a glow so faint that only expert eyes would notice. He forded the stream, not wanting to be seen by anyone watching from the bridge, and then he followed the course of the stream, keeping close to the willows, until he reached a point where he could climb up the bank and into the village, taking great care in case any insomniac guards should still be out and about. And when he drew near the house, he saw what awaited him, a light, a lantern, like the lantern on a small fishing boat, where the mother of this boy of thirty-one was watching and waiting for him to return home, late from playing at throwing stones. António Mau-Tempo jumped over the fence and into the yard, he was safe now, but this time Faustina Mau-Tempo, absorbed in tears and dark thoughts, did not hear him arrive, but she did notice the sound of the door latch or perhaps felt a vibration that touched her soul, My son, and they embraced as if he had returned from performing great deeds in a war, and knowing herself to be hard of hearing, she did not wait for his questions, but said, as if she were reciting a rosary, Your father got home safe and so did Gracinda and your brother-in-law, and all the others, you were the only one who had me sick with worry, and António Mau-Tempo again embraced his mother, which is the best and most easily understood of answers. From the next room, still in darkness, João Mau-Tempo asks, and not in the voice of someone who has just woken up, You’re back safe then, and António Mau-Tempo answers, Yes, Pa. And since it’s nearly time to eat, Faustina Mau-Tempo lights the fire and puts the coffeepot on the trivet.

T
HE LATIFUNDIO IS AN
inland sea. It has its shoals of tiny, edible fish, its barracuda and its deadly piranha, its pelagic fish, its leviathans and its gelatinous manta rays, blind creatures that drag their bellies along in the mud and die there too, as well as other great, strangling, serpentine monsters. It’s a Mediterranean sea, but it has its tides and undertows, gentle currents that take time to complete the circuit, and occasional sudden churnings that shake the surface, provoked by winds that come from outside or by unexpected inflows of water, while in the dark depths the waves slowly roll, bringing with them nourishing ooze and slime, for how much longer, one wonders. Comparing the latifundio with the sea is as useful as it is useless, but it has the advantage of being easily understood, if we disturb the water here, the water all around will move, sometimes too far away to be seen, that is why we would be wrong to call this sea a swamp, and even if it were, it would still be a great mistake to believe in mere appearances, however dead this sea might seem to be.

Every day, the men get out of their beds, and every night, they lie down in them, and by beds we mean whatever serves them as a bed, every day, they sit down before their food or their desire to have enough food, every day, they light and extinguish a lantern, there is nothing new under the rose of the sun. This is the great sea of the latifundio, with its clouds of fish-sheep and predators, and if it was ever thus, why should it change, even if we accept that some changes are inevitable, all it needs is for the guards to remain vigilant, that’s why every day the armed boats put out to sea with their nets intending to catch fishermen, Where did you get that bag of acorns, or that bundle of firewood, or What are you doing here at this hour, where have you come from, where are you going, a man cannot choose to step out of his usual rut, unless he has been employed to do so and is, therefore, being watched. However, each day brings some hope with its sorrow, or is that just laziness on the part of the narrator, who doubtless once read or heard these words somewhere and liked them, because if sorrow and hope come along together, then the sorrow will never end and the hope will only ever be just that and nothing more, this is what Father Agamedes would say, for he lives off sorrow and hope, and anyone who thinks differently is either mad or foolish. It would be nearer the truth to say that each day is the day it is, plus the day just gone, and that the two together make tomorrow, even a child should know such simple things, but there are those who try to divide up the days like someone cutting slices of melon rind to give to the pigs, the smaller the pieces, the greater the illusion of eternity, that’s why pigs say, O god of pigs, when will we ever eat our fill.