The Violent Land (11 page)

Again Negro Damião drew himself up with an effort. His head would not do what he wanted it to—why was that? The truth of the matter was, he had not killed any child, he had not killed Dona Tereza, he had not even killed Firmo as yet. And it was at that moment that the idea of
not
killing Firmo entered Negro Damião's head for the first time.

It was no more than a rapid, fugitive thought, but it frightened him nevertheless. He really could not bring himself to think of it. How could he fail to carry out an order of Sinhô Badaró's? An upright man, Sinhô Badaró. What was more, he was fond of Negro Damião. He would talk with him as they rode along the highway; he treated him almost like a friend. And Don' Ana also. They gave him money. His wages were two and a half milreis a day, but as a matter of fact he had much more than that, and each man that he brought down meant an additional reward. Not only that, but he had very little work to do; it was a long time now since he had gone to the groves; he always stayed around the Big House, doing little chores, accompanying the colonel on his trips, playing with the children, waiting for orders to kill a man.

That was his profession: killing. Damião was perfectly aware of that fact now. He had always thought that he was a worker on the Badaró plantation, but now he saw that he was no more than a “
jagunço,
” a back-country ruffian. His profession was killing, and when there were no men to be brought down along the highway, he had nothing to do. If he accompanied Sinhô, it was to guard his boss's life; it was to kill anybody who tried to shoot the colonel. He was an assassin. That was the word which Sinhô Badaró had used in speaking of Juca in their conversation that afternoon. A word that fitted Damião, also. What was he doing now, if not waiting for a man, to fire on him? He was feeling something on the inside, something that was terribly painful. It hurt like a wound. It was as if someone had stabbed him. The moon shone upon the silent forest. And Damião remembered that he might be rolling himself a cigarette; that would be something to occupy his thoughts.

When he had finished lighting his cigarette, the idea came back to him once more; supposing he did not kill Firmo? It was now a definite idea, and Damião found himself thinking of it. No, that was out of the question. Damião knew perfectly well why Sinhô Badaró had to have Firmo put out of the way. It was in order that he might be able to get hold of Firmo's grove without any more trouble than was necessary, and so go on to the forest of Sequeiro Grande. Once the Badarós had that forest, theirs would be the biggest plantation in the world, they would have more cacao than all the rest of the folks put together, they would be richer even than Colonel Misael. No, not to do away with Firmo tonight would be to betray the confidence Sinhô had placed in him. If Sinhô had sent him out, it was because he did have confidence in Negro Damião. He, Damião, had to kill. He clung to this thought. He had been killing all these years; why should it be so difficult today?

The worst was Tereza, the white-skinned Dona Tereza, with a child in her womb. She was certainly going to die, and the child as well. He could see her now. Before there had been but the whiteness of the moon; now it was the white face of Firmo's wife. He had not been drinking, either. Others drank before they came out to kill a man; he never needed to. He was always calm when he arrived, confident of his aim. He never needed to take a drink as the others did, to get drunk in order to kill someone. But today he felt as though he had been drinking a great deal and the rum had gone to his head. He could see Dona Tereza's white face there on the ground. Before, it had been the moon, the milk-white moon, spreading over the earth. And now Dona Tereza had come, her face so white and sorrowing, with a look of tragic surprise. She was waiting for her husband, waiting for love; and he would come to her dead, a bullet in his chest. From the ground she looked up at Negro Damião. She was begging him not to kill Firmo, for the love of God not to kill him. On the ground the Negro could see her face, perfectly plain. A shudder ran over his giant's body.

No, he could not listen to her, to Dona Tereza. Sinhô Badaró had sent him and there was nothing that Negro Damião could do about it. He could not betray the confidence of an upright man like Sinhô. Now, had it been Juca who had sent him—but it was Sinhô, Dona Tereza; this Negro can do nothing about it. Your husband is to blame, too. Why the devil wouldn't he sell the grove? Couldn't he see that he had no chance against the Badarós? Why wouldn't he sell the grove, Dona Tereza? Don't cry—Negro Damião is about to cry himself. He's a brave lad, and he mustn't cry, for that would ruin his reputation. Negro Damião swears to you that if he had his way about it, he would not kill Firmo; he would do what you want him to do. But it was Sinhô who sent him, and Negro Damião has nothing to do but to obey.

Who was it said that Dona Tereza was kind? It is a lie! She is opening her mouth now, and in that musical voice of hers she is repeating Sinhô Badaró's words:

“Do you enjoy killing people? Don't you feel anything at all? Nothing on the inside?”

Her voice is musical, but terrible at the same time. It is like a curse uttered in the forest, in the Negro's frightened heart. His cigarette goes out, and from fear of awakening the spirits of the wood he has not the courage to strike a light. It is only now that he thinks of them; for Dona Tereza's face, projected there on the ground—that is certainly witchcraft. Damião knows that many people have called down a curse upon him. Relatives of those he has slain. Horrible curses, uttered in the hour of suffering and hatred. But all this was far in the past; Damião had barely heard tell of them. Not so now. Now it is Dona Tereza who is here, with her sorrowful eyes, her white face, her voice that is musical and terrible. Calling down curses on Negro Damião's head. Demanding to know if he feels nothing inside, there in the bottom of his heart. Yes, he does, Dona Tereza. If Negro Damião had his way, he would not kill Firmo. But there is nothing else to do; it is not because he wants to do it, no.

But what if he were to say that he had missed his aim? It was a fresh idea that flashed through Damião's mind. For a second he beheld the moonlight where Tereza's face had been. His reputation would be ruined; the other lads did not miss their aim, much less Negro Damião! He was the best shot of all, in all that cacao region. He never had to fire a second time in order to kill a man. The first was always enough. He would be ruined; everybody would laugh at him, even the women, even the children; and Sinhô Badaró would give his place to another. He would become a worker like the others, gathering cacao, driving donkeys, treading cacao seeds in the trough. Everyone would laugh at him. No, he could not do it. Moreover, he would be betraying Sinhô Badaró's confidence. The colonel needed to have Firmo put out of the way; the one who was to blame was Firmo himself, for being so bull-headed.

Dona Tereza knows everything, she must be a spirit herself, for here she is reminding the Negro, from the ground where her face has once more replaced the moon, that Sinhô had been undecided about it that afternoon and had only sent his men out because Juca had forced him to do so. Damião shrugs his shoulders. Sinhô Badaró, is he the man to decide upon a thing merely because Juca insisted? Anyone who thinks that does not know him. It is plain to be seen that Tereza does not know him—yet here she is recalling details of that conversation, and Damião is beginning to waver. Supposing that Sinhô himself did not want Firmo killed? Supposing that he, too, was sorry for Dona Tereza and for the child in her belly? Supposing that he, too, had felt something inside, like Negro Damião? Damião put his hands to his head. No, it was not true. It was all a lie on Dona Tereza's part—Dona Tereza, with her sorceries. If Sinhô Badaró had not wanted Firmo put out of the way, he would not have sent him. Sinhô Badaró only did what he wanted to do. That was why he was rich and the head of the family. Juca was afraid of him, in spite of all his boasting and strutting. Who was there who was not afraid of Sinhô Badaró? Only himself, Negro Damião. But if he did not kill Firmo, he was going to be afraid all his life long; he would never be able to look Sinhô Badaró in the face again.

From the ground Dona Tereza's voice is laughing up at the Negro: “So it is only out of fear of Sinhô Badaró that he is going to kill Firmo? Out of fear of Sinhô Badaró? And this is Negro Damião, who is said to be the bravest lad in these parts?” Dona Tereza laughs, a crystal-clear and mocking laugh that shakes the Negro's nerves. He is trembling all over, inside. The laugh comes from the ground, comes from the forest, the highway, the sky, from everywhere; they are all saying that he is afraid, that he is a coward—he, Negro Damião, whose name is in the newspapers.

Dona Tereza, don't laugh anymore, or I'm capable of putting a bullet into you. I never fired on a woman; a man doesn't do that. But I'm capable of firing on
you
if you don't stop laughing. Don't laugh at Negro Damião, Dona Tereza. This Negro is not afraid of Sinhô Badaró. He respects him; he does not want to betray the confidence that Sinhô has in him. I swear to God, that's so. Don't laugh anymore, or I'll let you have a bullet. I'll put a bullet into that white face of yours.

They are clutching at his bosom now. Something is pressing down upon him from above; what is it? This is witchcraft; it is a curse that they are calling down on him. A woman's curse on the head of a Negro. There comes from the forest a voice repeating Sinhô Badaró's words:

“Do you enjoy killing people? Don't you feel anything at all? Nothing on the inside?”

The entire forest is laughing at him, the entire forest is screaming those words at him, the forest is clutching his heart, dancing in his head. There in front of him is Dona Tereza—not all of her, only her face. This is witchcraft, a curse they are calling down on his Negro head. Damião well knows what they want. They want him not to kill Firmo. Dona Tereza is pleading with him, but what can he do? Sinhô Badaró is an upright man. Dona Tereza has a white face. Someone is weeping. But who can it be? Is that Dona Tereza's face there on the ground, or is it Negro Damião? Whoever it is, is weeping. It hurts worse than a knife-cut, worse than a sizzling coal on black flesh.

They have seized his arms; he cannot kill. They have seized his heart; he cannot kill. Down Damião's black cheeks tears are flowing from Dona Tereza's blue eyes. The forest is shaking with laughter, shaking with groans; Damião is surrounded by the witchery of the night. He sits down on the ground and weeps, softly, like a punished child.

The sound of a burro's hoofs grows louder along the highway. They are coming nearer, nearer every moment, and Firmo's face appears beneath the light of the moon. Negro Damião shakes himself and rises, a knot in his throat, his hands trembling on his rifle. The forest screams at him from round about. Firmo is coming nearer.

“Baccarat crystal,” announced Horacio, tapping the goblet with his finger as little clear-ringing sounds were heard about the table. “It cost me a pretty penny,” he went on. “I got it when we were married. Sent to Rio for it.”

Lawyer Virgilio—“Dr. Virgilio”—raised his glass, where the drops of Portuguese wine had stained the transparent crystal a blood-red.

“It is the very refinement of good taste,” he said, holding the goblet level with his eyes.

His remark was addressed to all of them, but his gaze was fixed on Ester. It was as if he were trying to tell her that he knew perfectly well that the good taste was hers. His voice was orotund and well modulated, and he picked his words as carefully as if he had been engaged in an oratorical contest. He sipped his wine like a connoisseur, as if endeavouring to estimate the worth of the vintage. His fine manners, his languid gaze, his blond hair, all were in contrast to the room. Horacio sensed this vaguely, and Maneca Dantas was aware of it. But for Ester the room did not exist. In the presence of the young attorney, she had been suddenly snatched away from the plantation, carried back to bygone days. It was as though she were still in the convent school, on one of those holidays at the end of the year when she and her schoolmates danced with the finest and most distinguished youth of the capital. She smiled at everything, and she, too, affected an overrefinement in her words and manners as a gentle melancholy that was almost happiness took possession of her. “It was the wine,” she thought. Wine went to her head very easily. So thinking, she drank some more, and all the while she was drinking in Virgilio's words.

“It was at a party in honour of Senator Lago—a ball in celebration of his election, as a matter of fact. And what a party, Dona Ester! You really cannot imagine it. It was all so very aristocratic. The Paiva sisters were there.” Ester knew them, for they had been schoolmates. “Mariinha was charming in blue taffeta, like a dream.”

“She is pretty,” Ester agreed, but there was a certain reserve in her voice that did not escape Virgilio.

“Ah, but not the prettiest girl in school, in her day,” said the young lawyer, correcting himself. Ester blushed, and took another sip of wine.

Virgilio went on discoursing. He spoke of music, mentioned a certain waltz by name, and Ester remembered the melody. At this point Horacio spoke up.

“Ester is a first-rate pianist, eh!” he said.

Virgilio's voice at once took on a suppliant tone.

“Well, then, after dinner we shall be happy to listen to her. Surely, she will not deny us that pleasure.”

But Ester said no, she had not touched the piano for a long while, her fingers had lost their suppleness, and moreover the piano was in a terrible condition—all out of tune, as there was no one to look after it here in this godforsaken place.

Virgilio, however, would not accept any excuses. Turning to Horacio, he begged him to “insist that Dona Ester stop being so modest and consent to fill the house with harmony.” Horacio dutifully insisted.

“Stop beating around the bush and play for this young man. I want to hear you, too. After all, I put a nice little sum of money into that piano, the best they had in Bahia. It was a devil of a job getting it out here, and what use is it? Money thrown away—six
contos de reis
.” He repeated the phrase, as if unburdening himself of something that was on his mind. “Six contos thrown away.” He glanced at Maneca Dantas. The latter should be capable of understanding how he felt. Maneca decided that he must lend his support.

“Six contos is a lot of money. It's a cacao grove.”

Virgilio, on the other hand, was incorrigible.

“What are six
contos de reis,
six miserable contos, when they are laid out to give happiness to one's wife, colonel?” As he said this, he raised a finger close to the colonel's face, a finger with a well-manicured nail and with an advocate's ring, the ruby of which gleamed showily. “You may say what you like, colonel, but I will guarantee you never spent six contos that brought you as much satisfaction as when you purchased that piano. Isn't that so?”

“Well, I was glad to do it, of course. She had a piano at home, you know, but it was a cheap and flimsy little affair and I didn't want to bring it out here.” This was said with a sweeping gesture of contempt. “So I bought this one. But she almost never touches it. Once in a lifetime—”

Ester listened to all this, a mounting hatred inside her, a hatred greater even than that she had felt on her wedding night, when Horacio had torn her clothes off and had hurled himself upon her body. She was slightly under the influence of wine, intoxicated also by Virgilio's words, and her eyes once more held the restless dreams of the schoolgirl that once had been. In those eyes Horacio was transformed into a filthy pig, like one of those on the plantation that wallowed in the mudholes down by the highway. Virgilio, by contrast, appeared a wandering knight, a musketeer, a French count, an admixture of the characters in the novels she had read in school, all of them noble, daring, and handsome. In spite of it all, in spite of the hatred that she felt—or because of that hatred, perhaps?—the dinner was delicious. She sipped another goblet of wine.

“Very well, then,” she announced with a smile, “I'll play.” She had spoken for Virgilio's benefit. Then she turned to Horacio. “You never ask me,” she said. Her voice was mild and gentle, but her hatred was satisfied because she now realized that she had a means of revenge. Wishing to hurt him as deeply as possible, she went on: “I thought you didn't like music. Now that I know you do, that piano's never going to have a rest.”

But it was lost on Horacio. For him these were not feigned words. This was not the Ester he had known; this was another one who thought of him and his desires. He felt a glow of kindliness breaking through the many layers with which his heart was covered and laving him with goodwill. Possibly he had been unjust toward Ester; he had not understood her; she was from another world. He felt that he must promise her something very fine and generous, something that would make her very happy.

“For the holidays,” he said, “we're going up to Bahia.” He was speaking to her and to her alone, taking no account of the others at the table.

Thereupon the conversation resumed its normal course. A brilliant one it was, limited almost exclusively to Ester and Virgilio and consisting of descriptions of parties and a discussion of fashions, music, and novels. Horacio was lost in admiration of his wife, but Maneca Dantas looked on with wary eyes.

“I like Georges Ohnet,” Ester was saying. “I wept when I read
Le Grand Industriel
.”

“Perhaps,” said Virgilio, and his tone was slightly melancholy, “because you found in it something of the autobiographical?”

Horacio and Maneca Dantas got nothing of this, and even Ester was a bit slow in comprehending. But when she did understand, she put a hand to her face and shook her head nervously.

“Oh, no, no!”

“Ah!” sighed Virgilio.

Ester felt that he was going a little too far.

“That is not what I meant to say.”

But Virgilio paid no heed. He was beaming, his eyes glowing.

“And Zola? Have you read Zola?” he finally asked.

No, she had not read him; the sisters at the convent would not permit it. Virgilio opined that, really, he did not think it the proper thing for young ladies. But a married woman—he had a copy of
Germinal
at Ilhéos; he would send it to Dona Ester.

The Negro women had finished serving the endless desserts, and Ester suggested that they take their coffee in the drawing-room. Virgilio quickly rose, drew back her chair, and stood aside for her to pass. Horacio looked on with a certain distant envy, while Maneca Dantas admired the attorney's manners. As he saw it, education was a great thing; and he thought of his own sons and imagined them, in the future, as being like “Dr. Virgilio.” Ester left the room, the men following.

It was raining outside, a fine drizzle shot through with moonbeams. There were many stars, with no other light to dim their heavenly lustre. Virgilio went over to the door and stepped out on the veranda. Felicia came in with the coffee tray and Ester began serving the sugar. Virgilio returned from the veranda and observed, as if he were declaiming a poem:

“It is only in the forest that one sees a night as lovely as this.”

“It's pretty, yes,” agreed Maneca Dantas, mixing chicory with his coffee. “Another little spoonful, if you please,” he said, turning to Ester. “I like my coffee sweet.” Then he addressed the lawyer once more. “A very pretty night, and this shower makes it all the prettier.” He had to make an effort to keep up with the rhythm that Virgilio and Ester gave to the conversation; but now he was content, for he had the feeling that he had made a remark that was comparable to theirs.

“And you, doctor? How many?”

“Just a little, Dona Ester. That will be enough. Thank you very much. And do you not find, senhora—you, too—that progress slays beauty?”

Ester handed the sugar-bowl to Felicia and paused a moment before replying. She was grave and pensive.

“I think that progress may also be very beautiful.”

“But in the great cities, with all their lights, one cannot even see the stars. And a poet loves stars. Dona Ester—those of heaven and those of earth.”

“But there are other nights when there are no stars.” Ester's voice now was deep; it came from her heart. “On stormy nights it is terrible.”

“It must be terribly beautiful—” The sentence was left hanging in the air, dangling before them. “For there is a beauty that is terrible,” he added.

“Perhaps,” said Ester, “but on nights like that I am afraid.” And she gave him a beseeching look, as if he were a friend of long standing.

Virgilio saw that she was not acting now, that she was pained, very deeply pained; and it was at that moment that he for the first time let his eyes rest upon her with real interest. Gone was his jovial and at the same time astute manner; its place had been taken by something more serious and profound.

Horacio now took a hand.

“Do you know what this foolish girl is afraid of, doctor? Of the cry of frogs when the snakes swallow them down there on the river bank.”

Virgilio, too, had already heard that heart-rending cry.

“I understand,” was all he said.

It was a blissful moment. Ester's eyes were now filled with a wholesome, unfeigned happiness. She was not acting. It was but a second, but that second was enough. Even her hatred for Horacio was gone.

She went over to the piano. Maneca Dantas, meanwhile, began to expound to Virgilio the business that they had in hand. It was an important “ouster,” involving many
contos de reis
. Virgilio had to force himself to pay attention. Horacio from time to time put in a word out of his own experience. Virgilio cited a law. The first chords from the piano were vibrating in the room. The lawyer smiled.

“Now we are going to listen to Dona Ester,” he said. “Afterwards we will see what we can do about increasing your plantation.”

Maneca assented with a gesture, and Virgilio joined Ester at the piano. The waltz that she was playing was not confined to the drawing-room, but made its way outside, across the fields, and all the way to the forest at the back of the house. On the sofa Maneca Dantas was conversing with Horacio.

“A fine lad, eh? And what ability! Why, they say he's even a poet. And how he can talk! He'll make a good lawyer for us. He's got brains in his head.”

“And Ester,” said Horacio, “what do you have to say about her, my friend? Where in Ilhéos, or even in Bahia—even in Bahia,” he repeated, “will you find a woman of such education? She knows all the tricks: French, music, fashions, everything. She has a head on her shoulders,” and he tapped his own head with one finger. “She's more than just a pretty little thing.” He spoke with pride, as an owner might of his property. His words breathed vanity. He was happy because he imagined that Ester was playing for him, playing because he had asked her. Maneca Dantas nodded his head. “She's an educated woman, all right, that she is.”

At the piano, his eyes brimming with tenderness, Virgilio was humming the melody. When Ester finished and rose, he put out a hand to assist her. She remained standing there beside him as Virgilio clapped his hands in applause and whispered to her, for her alone to hear:

“You are like a little bird in the snake's mouth.”

Maneca Dantas was enthusiastic; he wanted more. Horacio came over to them. With a supreme effort Ester restrained her tears.