Raised from the Ground (13 page)

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 pitch-black outside.

O
THERS, 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.

This machine looks complicated too, and yet it is so simple. It’s a thresher, never better named because that is precisely what it does, it removes the grain from the ear of wheat, separating stalks and husks from grain. From the outside, it looks like a large wooden box on metal wheels, connected by a chain to an engine that trembles, roars, rumbles and, if you’ll forgive the word, pongs. It was originally painted egg yolk yellow, but the color has faded beneath the dust and the harsh sun, and now it looks more like another feature of the landscape, alongside others, like the piles of straw, in this sun it’s even hard to tell them apart, nothing is still or quiet, the engine is throbbing, the thresher is vomiting out straw and grain, the slack chain is vibrating, and the air shimmers as if it were the reflection of the sun in a mirror held in the sky by the small, unsteady hands of angels with nothing better to do. A few shapes can be seen in the midst of this mist. They have been working all day, and yesterday and the day before, and before that, ever since the threshing began, there are five of them, one older man and four younger men, whose seventeen or eighteen years are not enough to cope with such strenuous work. They sleep on the threshing floor, in between the bales, but it’s already dark by the time the engine falls silent, and the sun is still far off when this beast fed on cans of sticky, black liquid first groans into life and then proceeds to batter their ears with noise all the blessed day. It’s the machine that sets the pace of work, the thresher cannot chew on nothing, as becomes immediately obvious when the foreman emerges from his hiding place and bawls at them to keep it fed. The inside of the machine’s mouth is a volcano, a giant gullet, and the older of the five men tends to be in charge of feeding the monster. The others are responsible for helping the piles of straw to grow higher and higher, they spin like mad things in that fog of chopped-up straw, they haul the rough, dry wheat, the stiff stalks, the bearded ears, the dust, where is the tender springtime green of the fields when the earth really does seem like paradise. The heat is unbearable. The older man steps down and one of the younger men takes his place, and the machine is like a bottomless pit. All it needs is for a man to fall in. The bread would then take on the correct blood-red color, rather than its usual innocent white or neutral brown.

The foreman comes over and says, Go and work down at the chaff end. The chaff is that weightless monster, that straw-cum-dust that blocks your nostrils, that creeps in through every gap in your clothing and sticks to your skin like a layer of mud, it itches like crazy and gives you the very devil of a thirst. The water they drink from the clay jug soon grows lukewarm and slimy, as if you were drinking directly from a swamp full of worms and bloodsuckers, which is what we call leeches around here. The lad goes down to the chaff end and receives it full in his face like a punch, and his body begins slowly to protest, it doesn’t have the strength to do more than that, but then, and only those who have experienced this themselves will know what I mean, the despair feeds on the body’s exhaustion, grows steadily stronger, and that strength feeds back into the body, and finally, with that redoubled energy, the lad, whose name is Manuel Espada, and who will reappear later in this story, steps away from the chaff, calls to his colleagues and says, I’m off, this isn’t work, it’s slow death. The older man is once more standing on the thresher, What about the straw bales, but he’s left with his words hanging in the air and his arms by his sides, because the four lads leave together, brushing off their clothes, they’re like clay figures ready for the kiln, grayish brown, their faces striped with sweat, they look just like clowns, except that they’re not funny at all. The older man jumps down from the thresher and turns off the engine. The silence is like a blow to the ears. The foreman comes running over, panting, What’s going on, and Manuel Espada says, I’m leaving, and the others say, We’re leaving too, the threshing floor is stunned, So you don’t want to work. Anyone looking around can see the air trembling, it’s only heat haze but it feels as if the whole estate were trembling, and yet it’s just these four young men, who are free to leave, having no wife and no children to feed, for as João Mau-Tempo says to Faustina, That’s the reason why I agreed to go to Évora. His wife answers, Don’t think about that now, get up, it’s time.

Manuel Espada and his friends go to the overseer, squint-eyed Anacleto, to ask for the money they’re owed for the days they’ve worked, and to tell him that they’re leaving because they can’t take any more. Anacleto fixes his wandering eye on the four young rascals, ah, if only he could give them a good whipping, You’re not getting any money, and be warned, I’m going to put you down as strikers. The insurrectionists are too young and innocent and ignorant to know what this word means. They walk back to Monte Lavre, which is a long way, taking the most direct route they can along old paths, feeling neither happy nor regretful, that’s how it is, a man cannot spend his whole life obeying orders, and these four men, if we can call them that, stroll along talking and saying the kind of things lads of their age always say, one of them even throws a stone at a hoopoe that fluffs up its wings as it crosses their path, the only thing they regret is leaving behind those women from the north who worked alongside them on the threshing floor, there being a great shortage of labor that season.

Anyone traveling by foot has all the time in the world, but when speed is of the essence, and especially when one is athirst for justice, when evil deeds and evildoers threaten to put the latifundio at risk, it’s understandable that Anacleto should go by cart to Montemor, he is furious and trembling, his face tinged with the holy blush that marks the faces of all those who struggle passionately for the preservation of the world, yes, it’s understandable that he should rush to Montemor where these matters can be dealt with properly and that he should inform the guards that four men from Monte Lavre have declared themselves to be on strike, What will become of me, what shall I tell the boss when he wants to know how the threshing is going, now that I’ve lost these men. Lieutenant Contente said, Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it, and Anacleto returned to the threshing floor with his mind at rest, and as he was driving back, in less of a hurry now, enjoying the warm glow of one who has performed a pleasant duty, a car laden with men passed him, and someone inside waved, it was the district administrator, and with him, shouting, Goodbye, Anacleto, were the lieutenant and a whole patrol, bearing down on the enemy in a panzer sherman tank bristling with weapons of all calibers, from the standard-issue pistol to the recoilless rifle, and off they go, with the nation watching them, they offer their breasts to bullets, sound their horn, and it’s like a bugle giving the order to charge, while somewhere on the estate, walking, as we have said, along old paths, those four hardened criminals have stopped for a moment to see who can pee highest and farthest.

At the entrance to Monte Lavre, the dogs bark at the would-be tank, it would seem unreal without that detail, and since it’s a steep road, the patrol gets out and advances in formation, with the administrator at the front this time and his back protected. Their first call, carried out with the efficiency of someone on maneuvers, in the knowledge that they are only firing blanks, leads them to the local parish councilor, who is, so to speak, dumbstruck when he sees the lieutenant and the administrator coming into his shop, while outside, the patrol scans the surrounding area with suspicious eyes. On the other side of the street, some boys have gathered, and in places invisible or unidentifiable, mothers call for their children, as they did at the time of the massacre of the innocents. Let them call, much good may it do them, and let’s go to the shop, where the parish councilor has recovered his voice and is now all politeness and flourishes, unctuously addressing both the administrator and the lieutenant as sir, he stops short of calling the soldiers sir, because that would sound odd, and the administrator takes from his pocket Anacleto’s statement, on which he had noted the names of the criminals, Can you tell me where Manuel Espada, Augusto Patracão, Felisberto Lampas and José Palminha live, and not contented with his role as informer, the parish councilor summons his wife to keep watch over the counter and the cash drawer, and then the company, enlarged by one, sets off into the labyrinths of Monte Lavre, with one eye peeled for ambushes, just like the Spanish civil guard, may God preserve them. Monte Lavre is a desert under the blazing heat of the sun, even the boys have lost interest, it’s like an oven, all doors are shut, but some are open just a crack, cracks being the resort of those who do not wish to show themselves, and when the guards march past, they are followed by the eyes of women and by those of the occasional inquisitive old man with nothing else to do. Imagine if now we were to launch into a detailed explanation of the expression in those eyes, we’d never get to the end of the story, and yet all those things, the seemingly unimportant and the seemingly important, form part of the same narrative, and might be as good a way as any to explain the latifundio.

Some things are innately funny, for example, the armed forces and the civil authority coming to arrest four dangerous agitators and finding none of them. The strikers are still a long way off. You wouldn’t be able to see them from the highest point in Monte Lavre, even from the tower, if it is the tower, which it is, from which Lamberto Horques witnessed the charge of his cavalry in that fifteenth century we mentioned earlier. In the midst of that tangled landscape, not even the sun would help them spot the four tiny ruffians, who are probably lying down in the shade, perhaps dozing, waiting for the relative cool of evening. Not everyone finds their exploits so amusing, their mothers, for example, who have been informed by the lieutenant and the administrator that their sons are to present themselves in Montemor the next morning, if not, the guards will come to Monte Lavre and drag them to Montemor kicking and screaming, as they rather extravagantly put it. The tank sets off down the road, throwing up dust all around, but before it does, the administrator goes to present his respects to the largest landowner resident there, whether Lamberto or Dagoberto it doesn’t matter, who receives them all, apart from the soldiers, who are dispatched to the cellar, but Lieutenant Contente and that bestower of respects, the administrator, are ushered into a cool reception room on the first floor, how delightful it is here in the dark, your wife and daughters are well, I hope, and yourself, have another glass of liqueur, and on the way out, the lieutenant stands at attention and gives the most perfect salute, the administrator is trying to speak man to man, but the latifundio is so very large, and Alberto holds out one strong hand and says, Don’t let them get away with it, and the administrator, who bears the singular name of Goncelho, says, I can’t understand them, when there’s no work, they complain there’s no work, and when there is, they’re not up to it. He’s not exactly eloquent, but that’s how it came out, among neighbors one can speak freely on the latifundio, and Norberto smiles sympathetically, The poor devils don’t know what they want, Ungrateful wretches, says the administrator, and the lieutenant salutes again, he doesn’t know what else to do, well, his knowledge lies elsewhere, especially in military matters, but he lacks opportunities to apply it.