Raised from the Ground (19 page)

The saints live so high up and so far away, and have so completely forgotten the world in which they lived, that they can find no explanation for the trail of humans walking from Casalinho to Carriça, from Monte da Fogueira to Cabeço do Desgarro, and now, while some head off in that direction, others are going farther afield, to Herdade das Mantas, to Monte da Areia, all of which are places where the Lord never trod, and even if he had, what would he or we have gained. They’re heretics, Father Agamedes will bawl each day, and he’s bawling these words out now from the window of his house, because the pilgrims are beginning to arrive in Monte Lavre, can this be the new Jerusalem, it’s like the morning procession on Ascension Day, and the corporal has just run across the road, heading who knows where, someone must have summoned him, The boss wants to speak to you, and he pulls on his beret and tightens his belt, that’s military discipline for you, because the guards fall just short of being an army, and it is precisely that shortfall that makes them feel hard done by, he enters the perfumed cool of the cellar where Humberto is waiting, Right, you know what’s been happening, and Corporal Tacabo does know, it’s his duty to know, that’s what he’s paid for, Yes, sir, the strikers have been visiting the workers on the estates and now they’re back, So what are we going to do, I’ve asked for orders from Montemor, we’re going to find out who’s behind the mutiny, Don’t worry, I have a list of names here, twenty-two of them, they were seen at Ponte Cava before they set off, and while he’s saying this, Corporal Tacabo has poured himself a drink, Norberto paced back and forth, bringing his heels down hard on the flagstones, They’re troublemakers, idlers, that’s what they are, they don’t want to work, if the right side had won the war, they wouldn’t dare to so much as wag a finger, they’d be quiet as mice, happy to be working for whatever we were prepared to pay them, this is what Alberto says, and the confused corporal doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t like the Germans and wants nothing to do with the Russians but he has a soft spot for the English, and when he thinks about it, he’s not quite sure who it was who won the war, but he takes the list of names, it will look good on his service record, twenty-two proven strikers is no small thing, even though the angels find it all terribly amusing, they’re young, you can’t really blame them, one day they will learn the harsh realities of life, if they start having children, always supposing there are girl angels, as is only right and proper, and then they’ll have to feed them, and if heaven becomes a latifundio, then they’ll see.

But the ants won. In the fading evening light, the men gathered in the square and the overseers came, grim-faced and silent, but defeated, Tomorrow you can work for thirty-three escudos, that was all they said and then they withdrew, humiliated, thinking vengeful thoughts. That night, joy was unconfined in the tabernas, João Mau-Tempo, most unusually, dared to drink a second glass of wine, the shopkeepers are hoping to get some of their debts repaid and are considering raising their prices, at the mention of money the children cannot even think of what they would want to buy, and since the body is sensitive to the contentments of the soul, the men moved closer to the women, and the women closer to the men, and they were all so happy that if heaven understood anything about human lives, you would have heard hosannas and the clamor of trumpets, and the moon was its usual bright, lovely June self.

And now it’s morning again. Each day’s work is worth an extra eight escudos, which is less than a ten-tostão increase per hour or almost nothing per minute, so little that there isn’t a coin small enough to represent it, and each time the sickle cuts into the wheat, each time a left hand grasps the stems and a right hand deals a final, decisive blow with the blade at ground level, only someone versed in higher mathematics could say how much that gesture is worth, how many zeros you would have to add to the right of the decimal point, in what thousandths we could measure out the sweat, the tendon in the wrist, the muscle in the arm, the strained back, the eyes fogged with fatigue, the broiling noonday heat. So much suffering for so little reward. And yet there are still some who sing, although not for long, because they soon hear the news that yesterday, in Montemor, the guards rounded up agricultural workers in the area and put them in a bullring, penned in like cattle. Those with long memories remembered what had happened in Badajoz,
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the carnage that took place there, again in the bullring, it doesn’t seem possible, they machine-gunned the whole lot of them, but it won’t be like that here, we’re not that cruel. Dark presentiments fill the countryside, the line of reapers advances hesitantly, unrhythmically, and the furious foremen take out their anger on the workers, anyone would think it was their money, Now that you’re earning more, I’ve suddenly got a fieldful of malingerers. The line grows livelier, they don’t want to seem to be in the boss’s debt, they move more quickly, but then their imaginations turn back to the bullring in Montemor full of our people, from all over the latifundio, and fear so dries the mouth that some call to the water carrier to let them drink, Who knows what will happen to us. The guards know, as they walk over the clods of earth, a few at each end of the line, rifles at the ready and fingers on the trigger, If anyone makes a run for it, shoot in the air first, then aim at their legs, and if you have to fire a third time, make sure you don’t have to shoot again. The reapers straighten up when they hear the names, Custódio Calção, Sigismundo Canastro, Manuel Espada, Damião Canelas, João Mau-Tempo. These are the local mutineers, the others are being rounded up right now, or they already have been or soon will be, if they thought they wouldn’t have to pay the price for their insubordination, they were roundly deceived, they clearly didn’t know the latifundio. Those left behind lower head and arms, bow their whole trunk with heart and lungs, their back struggling to keep them upright, and the sickle again slices through the wheat, cutting what, why, the dry stalks of course, what else. And beside the workers, the foreman growled like a wolf, You’re lucky you weren’t all taken away, that’s what you deserve, if it was up to me, I’d teach you a lesson you wouldn’t forget.

The five conspirators are flanked by the guards, who taunt them, So you thought you could lead a strike and get off scot-free, did you, well you’ve got another think coming. None of the five men replies, they hold their heads high, but have pangs in their stomachs that are not hunger pangs, and they’re strangely unsteady on their feet, that’s what fear does, it takes you over and it makes no difference if you speak or keep silent, but it will pass, a man is a man, whereas, even today, we can’t be quite sure whether a cat is an animal or a human. João Mau-Tempo makes as if to say something to Sigismundo Canastro, but we never find out what it is because, as one man, one commander, with one will, the guards say, If you open your gob, we’ll hit you so hard you’ll leave teeth marks in the road, and so no one else dares say a word, and they arrive in Monte Lavre in silence, go up the ramp to the guards’ post, because they had been arrested by then, all twenty-two of them, so someone had obviously betrayed us. They put them in an enclosure in the yard at the back, piled them in with nowhere to sit but the ground, although what does that matter, they’re used to it, weeds can survive the hardest of frosts, they have skin as thick as donkey hide, which is just as well, because that way they get fewer infections, if it were us, frail city dwellers, we wouldn’t stand a chance. The door is open, but in front of it, under a porch, stand three guards, rifles at the ready, one of them doesn’t seem too happy in his sentry box, he averts his gaze, the barrel of his rifle pointing at the ground, and he doesn’t have his finger on the trigger, He looks quite sad, who would have thought it. The prisoners only think this, they don’t speak, they’re under strict orders, but Sigismundo Canastro does manage to murmur, Courage, comrades, and Manuel Espada says, If we’re questioned, the answer is always the same, we simply want to earn a just wage, and João Mau-Tempo says, Don’t worry, they’re not going to execute us or send us to Africa.

From the street comes a sound like that of waves breaking on a deserted beach. It’s their relatives and neighbors come to ask for news, to plead for the men’s impossible release, and then the voice of Corporal Tacabo is heard, a roar, Get back all of you or I’ll order my men to charge, but this is purely a tactical threat, how are they going to charge if they have no horses, and one can hardly imagine the guards advancing with fixed bayonets to pierce the bellies of children or women, some of whom aren’t bad-looking as it happens, and old ladies who can barely stand and who are about ready for the grave anyway. But the crowd draws back and waits, and all you can hear is the soft weeping of the women, who don’t want to cause a scandal for fear that it might redound on their husbands, sons, brothers, fathers, but they are suffering too, what will become of us if he goes to prison.

Then, as evening comes on, a truck arrives from Montemor with a large company of guards, they’re strangers here, we’re used to the local ones, but so what, it’s not as if we’re going to forgive them, how can they have sprung from the same suffering womb only to turn on ordinary people who have never done them any harm. The truck reaches the fork in the road, and one branch leads off to Montinho, where João Mau-Tempo once lived, as did his late mother Sara da Conceição and his brothers and sisters, some of whom live here and others over there, but none in Monte Lavre, but this is the story of those who stayed, not those who left, and before we forget, the other road is the one the owners of the latifundio usually drive along in their cars, now the truck turns and comes bumping down toward them, belching out smoke and kicking up dust from the parched road, and the women and children, the older people too, find themselves pushed out of the way by the truck’s swaying carcass, but when it stops, right by the wall that surrounds the guards’ barracks, they cling to the sides in desperation, a foolish move, because the guards inside use the butts of their rifles to strike the people’s dark, dirty fingers, they don’t wash, Father Agamedes, it’s true Dona Clemência, they’re impossible, worse than animals, and Sergeant Armamento from Montemor shouts, If anyone comes too near, we’ll shoot, so we can see at once who is in charge. The rabble falls silent, retreats to the middle of the road, between the barracks and the school, O schools, sow your seeds,
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and it is then that the prisoners are called out, with the patrol forming up in two lines from the door of the barracks to the truck and inside it, too, like a hedge, or like a net into which the fish, or men, were drawn, for when men or fish are caught, there are few differences between them. All twenty-two came out, and each time one appeared on the threshold, there came from the crowd an irrepressible shout or cry, or, rather, shouts, because by the time the second or third man had appeared, there was an incessant clamor, Oh, my dear husband, Oh, my dear father, and the rifles were trained on the malefactors, while the local garrison kept their eyes fixed on the crowd, in case there should be a rebellion. It’s true that there are hundreds of people there and that they are desperate, but there are the barrels of the rifles saying, Come any closer and you’ll see what happens. The prisoners emerge from the barracks, look frantically around them, but there’s no time, they are forced onward and when they reach the edge of the wall, they have to jump into the truck, it seems like a spectacle put on to terrify the people, and meanwhile the light is fading, and in the gloom they can’t make out individual faces, barely has the first man emerged than they are all in the truck and the truck is setting off, it swerves wildly as if to scythe through the crowd, someone falls, but fortunately suffers only a few scratches, downhill it’s easy, the men sitting in the back of the truck are thrown around like sacks, and the guards hang on to the sides, forgetting all about keeping their rifles trained on the crowd, and only Sergeant Armamento, with his back to the cab, legs straddled, faces the crowd running after the truck, the poor things are getting left behind, they gain on it slightly at the bottom, when the truck has to slow down to turn left, but then they can do nothing more, for the truck accelerates in the direction of Montemor, and the poor, panting people wave and shout, but both cries and gestures are lost as the vehicle moves away, they can’t hear us now, the faster runners among them try to keep up, but what’s the point, the truck disappears around the first bend, we’ll see it later on going over the bridge, there it is, there it is, what kind of justice is this and what kind of country, why is our portion of suffering so much greater, they might as well kill the whole lot of us, thus sealing our fate once and for all.

Each man is immersed in his own thoughts. From what they heard while they were waiting to leave the barracks, Sigismundo Canastro, João Mau-Tempo and Manuel Espada know that they have been named as the main leaders of the strike. Of the three, Sigismundo Canastro is the calmest. Sitting on the floor along with all the other men, he began by resting his head on his folded arms, which were, in turn, resting on his knees, you get the picture. He wants to be able to think more clearly, but suddenly it occurred to him that his companions might think, from his posture, that he was discouraged, and he didn’t want that, so he unfolded his arms and sat up straight, as if to say, here I am. Manuel Espada is remembering and comparing. He recalls how, eight years ago, he made the same journey in a smaller truck with his youthful companions, only Augusto Patracão is with him this time, Palminha had come to his senses and made other plans, and Felisberto Lampas became an itinerant worker and hasn’t been seen since. Manuel Espada says to himself that there’s really no comparison, this time things are serious, then they were just a bunch of boys, this time they’re grown men, the level of responsibility, as no one would deny, is quite different. These three, for we cannot speak for every man there, are caught up in a never-ending stream of thoughts, a mixture of determination, fear and bravery, a trembling in hands and legs, no one’s immune from that, João Mau-Tempo is lost in a kind of dream, it’s almost dark now, and if his eyes fill with tears, so be it, no man is made of stone, his comrades mustn’t see this though, he doesn’t want them to lose courage too. Once past Foros, there is only open countryside, soon the moon will rise, well, it’s June and the moon rises early, and ahead lie some large rocks, what giants could have rolled them there, a good place for an ambush, imagine if José Gato was there along with his fellow gang members, Venta Rachada, Parrilhas, Ludgero and Castelo, suddenly leaping out from behind the log they’ve rolled across the road, after all, they’ve had plenty of practice, and shouting, Stop, and the truck braking sharply and skidding on the tarmac, bloody hell, I hope the tires don’t burst, and then, One move and you’re dead, each bandit with his rifle at the ready, and they’re not joking either, you can tell from their faces, there’s the five-shot rifle that José Gato stole from Marcelino, Sergeant Armamento does make a move, well, it’s what his superiors would expect of him, but he falls from on high with a hole right through his heart, and José Gato puts a second cartridge in the chamber and says, The prisoners can get out, meanwhile, the guards are standing with their hands in the air like in a Wild West film, and Venta Rachada and Castelo start collecting the rifles and the cartridge belts, behind the rocks they’ve tethered two of the mules they use to carry sides of pork, a little more dead weight won’t bother them. João Mau-Tempo ponders whether to go straight back to Monte Lavre or to stay there in hiding until things quiet down a little, but he would have to send a message to his family to reassure them that everything has turned out for the best.