The Violent Land (26 page)

When, with mud-spattered boots and a growth of beard, João Magalhães had returned from the forest of Sequeiro Grande, he had been conscious of various conflicting emotions within himself. He had come down to spend a week at the Badaró plantation and had already been there two weeks now, having stayed on after there was no further need for his services. He had contrived to make out somehow with the surveyor's instruments—with the theodolite, the chain, the goniometer, and the marker—instruments on which he had never before laid eyes in the whole of his professional gambler's life. The actual surveying of the land had been done largely by the workmen who had accompanied him and by Juca Badaró; he himself did very little more than ratify their findings by scribbling a few calculations of squares and triangles. They had spent two days in the forest, the Negroes carrying the instruments. Juca, meanwhile, was displaying his knowledge of the soil.

“Captain,” he said, “I will stick my hand in the fire, if you can find anywhere in all the world any land that is better than this for the raising of cacao.”

João bent over and took up a handful of moist earth. “It's first-rate, that it is. A little fertilizer and it will be of the best.”

“It doesn't need any manure,” Juca replied. “This is virgin soil, captain, and fertile as any there is. The groves here are going to bear as no grove ever did before.”

João Magalhães continued to nod approval; he did not care to go into the subject any more deeply than necessary, from fear of exposing his ignorance. And so they had made their way into the giant wood, with Juca singing the praises of a land where trees such as those about them grew wild.

But what interested the captain a good deal more than the high quality of the land was the brown-skinned Don' Ana Badaró. Already, in Ilhéos, he had heard of her, had heard that it was Don' Ana who had given the order to Teodoro to set fire to Venancio's registry office. In the city she was spoken of as a strange girl, little given to gossiping with other women or to taking part in the feasts of the Church (in spite of the fact that she had had so religious a mother); nor on the other hand was she fond of balls and sweethearts. Very few persons could recall ever having seen her dancing, and no one could mention the name of a single young man of hers. She was much more interested in horseback riding, shooting, and fathoming the mysteries of the plantation and the countryside. Olga was in the habit of telling her neighbours how disdainful Don' Ana was of the gowns which Sinhô had had sent down for her from Bahia or from Rio, expensive ones, the creations of well-known designers. Don' Ana scarcely gave them a thought, but was concerned, rather, with the new colts that had been born; she knew the names of all the animals the family owned, including even the pack-burros. She had taken upon herself the keeping of the Badaró accounts, and she it was to whom Sinhô turned whenever he was in need of information. Juca always said that “Don' Ana should have been born a man.”

João Magalhães would not have agreed with him on this. It was possibly her eyes—eyes that recalled another adored pair—that first attracted him. Striving to be exquisitely polite in words and manner as he addressed her, he was lost in contemplation of those lovely eyes, which of a sudden would light up with an intense glow, like the others which, once upon a time, had gazed at him with so much contempt. Later he came to forget those of the girl he had left behind in Rio de Janeiro, as the days went by and he became better acquainted with Don' Ana.

In the Badaró household the sole topic of conversation was the forest of Sequeiro Grande and the plans of Horacio and his friends. They made guesses, suppositions, reckoned the possibilities. What would Horacio do when he learned that the Badarós were surveying the forest and were going to have it registered and take out title to the property? Juca had no doubts in the matter. Horacio would attempt to go into the wood immediately, while filing suit in the court at Ilhéos for possession of the land, basing his claim upon the survey entered in Venancio's office. Sinhô, however, was not so sure of this. He felt that, since Horacio was without government support, being in the opposition, he would first attempt to legalize the situation by an ouster of some sort before having to resort to force.

From Ilhéos Juca had brought back the latest news: the scandalous affair of Ester and Virgilio—the whole town was talking about it. Sinhô was not inclined to believe this.

“That's just talk on the part of people who have nothing else to do.”

“But Sinhô, he has even left the woman he was keeping—what do you say to that? It's a fact, as I have reason to know.” And glancing at João, he laughed as he thought of Margot.

The captain took part in all these conversations and discussions as if he were one of the Badarós, just as Teodoro das Baraúnas did the night he slept there. He felt like a relative; and each time that Don' Ana looked his way and respectfully asked “the captain's opinion,” he would be lavish in his insults for Horacio and those associated with him. Once when he noted that those eyes were a little more interested and tender than usual, he had gone so far as to place at the disposition of the Badarós his “military knowledge, as a captain who had taken part in eight revolutions.” There he was, at their orders. If there was to be a fight, they could count on him. He was a man for anything, come what might. As he said this, he smiled at Don' Ana, and the latter, grown suddenly timid and overcome with blushes, fled into the house as Sinhô Badaró was thanking the captain for his offer. Sinhô was grateful, but he hoped the captain's services would not be needed, that everything could be settled peaceably, without need of bloodshed. It was true, he said, that he was preparing for any eventuality, but in the hope that Horacio would give up the idea of disputing possession of the forest with him. As for abandoning the stand that he himself had taken, he could not do that; he was the head of the family and had his responsibilities; moreover, he had an agreement with his friends, with people who, like Teodoro das Baraúnas, were making sacrifices for him. If Horacio wanted to go ahead, he, Sinhô, would do the same. But he still had hopes—Juca shrugged his shoulders; he was quite certain that Horacio would attempt to go into the forest by force, and that much blood would flow before the Badarós would be able to plant their cacao trees in peace on that new land. This was the cue for Captain João once more to volunteer his services.

“Anything that I can do—I don't like to boast about my bravery, but I'm used to these little fracases.”

He did not catch sight of Don' Ana again that day until the hour for Bible-reading came. As she entered the room, she was greeted with a burst of laughter from Juca, who pointed a finger at her.

“What have we here? Is the world coming to an end?”

Sinhô looked at her also. Don' Ana was serious-faced and stern of mien. With the assistance of Raimunda, she had laboured to effect a head-dress of the kind that Ester had worn one feast-day in Ilhéos, and now they were laughing at her. She was wearing, too, one of her party gowns, which gave her a strange appearance here in the parlour of the Big House. Juca continued to laugh, while Sinhô could not understand what had happened to his daughter. João Magalhães alone felt happy. If he perceived clearly enough the ridiculousness of the situation, with Don' Ana dressed as for a ball, he none the less preserved his gravity and gave the young woman a languishing glance. She, however, was not looking at any of them; all she could think of was that they were making fun of her. But when at last she raised her eyes and met the captain's tender gaze, she found the courage to retort to Juca.

“What are you laughing at?” she said. “Do you think that your wife is the only one who can dress well and do her hair?”

“My daughter,” Sinhô reproved her, “what kind of talk is that?” He was astonished even more by her vehemence than by her clothes.

“This dress is my own. It was you who gave it to me, sir. I'll put it on whenever I want to, and nobody's going to laugh at me.”

“You look like a scarecrow,” said Juca jestingly. At this point João Magalhães resolved to take a hand.

“It's very fashionable,” he said. “You look like a
carioca;
that's just the way the girls in Rio dress. Juca was only joking.”

Juca gave the captain a look. His first impulse was to start a quarrel. Was that fellow trying to give him a lesson in good breeding? Then the thought occurred to him that, as a guest, the captain was under obligation to be polite to the young lady.

“There's no accounting for tastes,” he said with a shrug. Sinhô Badaró put an end to the discussion.

“Read, my daughter.”

But she ran out of the room so that they might not see her weeping.

In Raimunda's arms she gave vent to her stifled sobs. And that night it was João Magalhães, deeply thoughtful, who read the Bible passages for Sinhô Badaró as the latter watched him closely out of the corner of his eye, as if studying and measuring him.

The next day, when the captain upon rising went out for his early morning stroll, he met Don' Ana in the stable-yard, where she was helping to milk the cows. He went over and spoke to her, and she, leaving off milking for a moment, raised her face.

“I made a fool of myself last night,” she said to him. “You must be thinking all sorts of things about me, sir. It's always like that when a country girl tries to be a city girl,” and she laughed, showing her white perfect teeth.

Captain João seated himself on the gate.

“You looked very pretty,” he said. “If it had been at a ball in Rio, you would have been the prettiest woman there, I swear it.”

She stared at him. “Don't you like me better the way I am every day?”

“To tell you the truth, I do,” and it
was
the truth that the captain spoke. “I like you as you are now, that's pretty enough for me.”

With this Don' Ana drew herself erect, picking up her milkpail as she did so.

“You're a straight-spoken man, sir. I like anyone who tells the truth.” And the glance that she gave him was her manner of declaring her love.

Raimunda came running up, laughingly—a little laugh of complicity—to take the pails from her mistress, and they both went away.

“It would seem,” said João Magalhães in a low voice, addressing the cows in the barnyard, “it would seem that I am going to be married.” And he glanced around him at the Big House and the lawn about it and the cacao groves in the distance with an air of proprietorship. Then he remembered Juca, Sinhô, and the
jagunços
on the plantation and he shuddered.

Today there was more stir and bustle than usual. Every morning workers would set out for the groves to gather cacao, while others trod the vats or the dried product in the troughs; and as they laboured they would sing their mournful songs:

A Negro's life is a hard one,

Hard as hard can be.

Laments that the wind carried away, the moanings of those who, from morning to night, beneath the blazing sun, had to toil in the grove.

This night I want to die,

Far away in some hidden place;

Lashed by the hem of your garment,

I would die for your sweet face.

The workers sang their mournful songs as they went to their labours, songs of servitude and of unrequited love.

But at the same time there was a population of a different sort on the plantation. In physical appearance and the sound of their rude voices, in their manner of speaking and their clothes, they resembled the workers; but these men who now came daily to the place, filling the huts to overflowing and sleeping even in the warehouses or sprawled out on the veranda of the Big House—these were the
jagunços
who had been rounded up by Juca or who had been sent over by Teodoro, by Corporal Esmeraldo of Tabocas, by Azevedo, or by Padre Paiva of Mutuns to guard the Badaró plantation and wait for what might happen. Some of them came mounted, but they were few in number; most of them came on foot, their rifles over their shoulders, their knives in their belts. They would come up to the veranda and wait for orders from Sinhô Badaró, meanwhile sipping the rum that Don' Ana had sent out to them. They were as a rule men of few words, of an indefinable age, black men and mulattoes, with here and there a blond head among them standing out in contrast to the others. Sinhô and Juca knew them all, and so did Don' Ana. This happened every day; João Magalhães estimated that as many as thirty men must have arrived since he had been there. He could not help wondering what would come of it all and what preparations were afoot at Horacio's place. He felt interested, for he had come under the spell of this land, as if he had suddenly sunk roots there. Far away now were his plans for travel. He could not see how he was going to be able to leave Ilhéos, nor could he see why he should do so.

Filled with thoughts such as these, he returned to the city. On the train, seated beside Sinhô Badaró, who slept all the way, he had ample opportunity for reflection. The night before, he had said good-bye to Don' Ana on the veranda.

“I am leaving in the morning.”

“Yes, I know. But you will come back, won't you?”

“If you wish me to, I will.”

She had looked at him and nodded her head and then had run into the house without giving him time for the kiss that he so desired and for which he had hoped. The next morning he saw nothing of her, but Raimunda gave him a message:

“Don' Ana wanted me to tell you that she will be in Ilhéos for the feast of St. George.” And she had also given him a flower, which he carried in his bill-fold.

On the train he did his best to think seriously of the matter, and the conclusion that he came to was that he was in beyond his depth. In the first place there was that business of his having surveyed the land and signed the documents. He was neither an engineer nor a captain, and he might be prosecuted for it and go to prison. It would be better for him to take the first boat out; he had got hold of sufficient money to last him for a number of months without his having to worry. But the worst of it was this crush he had on Don' Ana. Juca already suspected something, had laughed and made a few jokes—he seemed to approve. He had warned him, moreover, that whoever married Don' Ana would have to go straight or he would get into trouble with his wife. And Sinhô had eyed him and studied him closely; and one night he had asked him all kinds of questions about his family, his relationships in Rio, and the state of his business.