Raised from the Ground (42 page)

This sea of the latifundio is subject to undertows, pounded by storms, lashed by waves, enough sometimes to knock down a wall or simply leap over it, as we understand happened in Peniche, and now you can see how right we were to mention the sea, because Peniche is both a fishing port and a prison-fortress, but still they escaped,
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and that escape will be much discussed on the latifundio, but what sea are we talking about, this land is usually as dry as dust, that’s why men ask, When will we ever slake our thirst and the thirst of our parents, not to mention the thirst waiting under this stone for any children we might have. The news arrived and was impossible to hide, and there was always someone to fill in what the newspapers didn’t say, let’s sit down beneath this holm oak and I’ll tell you what I know. It’s time for the red kites to fly still higher, they cry out over the vast earth, anyone who can understand them will have much to tell, but for the moment we must make do with our human language. That’s why Dona Clemência can say to Father Agamedes, The peace we never had is over, which may seem like a contradiction and yet this lady never spoke a truer word, these are new times and they’re approaching very fast, It’s like a stone rolling down a hill, that is what Father Agamedes says, because he prefers to use secondhand words, a habit acquired at the altar, but let us have enough evangelical charity to try and understand him, what he means is that if we don’t get out of the way of the stone, God knows what will happen, and let us forgive him this new ruse, because it’s quite clear that we don’t need to wait for God in order to know what will happen to someone who fails to get out of the way of a rolling stone, which gathers no moss and spares no Lambertos.

And no sooner had this conversation ended, well, that’s not quite true, because there were a few anxious months when negligence joined forces with sacrilege, because it was sheer negligence to allow those prisoners to escape and sacrilege to see a ship once named the
Santa Maria
sailing the seas under the new name of
Santa Liberdade,
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Dona Clemência is, of course, praying fervently and passionately for the salvation of the church and the nation, at the same time demanding punishment for the ruffians, We wouldn’t be in this situation if they had better examples to follow, you can’t play with other people’s lives, still less with my wealth. However, this is merely what the lady of the house says while safe within her four walls, always assuming Norberto is willing to listen to her, she would have no one to talk to if it wasn’t for Father Agamedes, for she barely leaves the house now, or only rarely for a trip to Lisbon to see the latest fashions, or to Figueira for the traditional family holiday by the sea, and to be honest, her mind seems to be wandering, it must be her age, talking about her wealth and some ship sailing the sea, it’s certainly not sailing on the inland sea of the latifundio, she must be going soft in the head, but there you’d be quite wrong, because she inherited shares in the colonial navigation company from her father, Alberto, God rest his soul, and that’s what bothers her.

This bitter cold isn’t just because it’s January on the latifundio. All the windows are shut, and if this were Lamberto’s castle rather than Norberto’s palatial mansion, we would see armed men on the ramparts, just as, not so long ago, we saw fearful, bloodthirsty people filling the ruins of Montemor, the times are changing, platoons of guards patrol the latifundio, in their boots and on a war footing, while Norberto reads the newspapers and listens to the radio and shouts at the maids, that’s what men do when they get upset. What really angers him is the air of sly contentment he sees on the faces of ordinary people, as if spring had arrived early for them, they don’t seem to feel the cold, at least their contentment proved short-lived, for two days later they had to change their tune, God does not sleep and they will be punished, the
Santa Maria
has risen from the deep, pray for us, and let us not think too badly of Father Agamedes, who succumbed to the sin of envy, it was a long time coming in such a holy creature, and all because he couldn’t hold a solemn Te Deum Laudamus as an act of thanksgiving, but that would not have gone down well in this wretched village of Monte Lavre with its godless inhabitants.

This is a bad year for the latifundio. There goes the maiden out for a ride on her fine steed, her skirt and saddle cloth flapping, her veil fashionably loose in the wind, the picture of composure, when suddenly the beast stumbles, for these are medieval roads, sir, and she falls flat on the ground, revealing all her most private penumbras, she doesn’t seem too seriously hurt, poor love, the worst thing was the way the animal reared up and kicked as it scrambled to its feet. They say that pride goeth before a fall, which is a horsey version of the more melancholy dictum, Misfortunes never come singly, why, only yesterday those prisoners escaped from Peniche, bloody communists, baby eaters, have you seen my children, neighbor, only yesterday souls and seas were all stirred up by that new tale of pirates, we should shoot the lot of them, such a lovely ship too, all dressed in white,
Santa Maria
walking on the water like her divine son, and now there’s news from Africa as well, about the blacks, Well, I always said we were too lenient with them, I said as much, but no one would believe me, you have to live there to know how to deal with them, they don’t like work, you see, they’re shirkers, they’ll always go to the bad, and now you see the result, we treated them too kindly, as if they were Christians, but all is not lost, we won’t lose Africa if we send in the army and have a proper war, remember Gugunhana,
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brave words from the mayor, spoken quickly and boldly, he could have been a general if he’d had the military training, but at least he spoke out. The imperial dream soon faded, best to run away from the mess we made, the black man is now a Portuguese citizen, long live the black man who comes bearing no weapon, but keep your eye on him nonetheless, and down with the other sort, and one day, if we happen to wake up in a good mood, we’ll declare that these overseas provinces, our former colonies, are now independent states, well, what’s in a name, what matters is that the shit stays the same and that those who have eaten nothing else should continue to eat shit, whites and blacks, and anyone who can spot the difference wins a prize.

It would seem, Father Agamedes, that God and the Virgin have turned their benign eyes away from Portugal, look how discontented and restless people are, the devil has clearly taken hold of the gentle hearts of the Lusitanians, perhaps we didn’t pray enough, the priests told us as much, and I’ve done what I can, and I’ve always been ready with good advice, both in the pulpit and in the confessional, this is, in fact, a dialogue, in which two people take turns to speak, but when Father Agamedes returns to his house, he is thinking something quite different, something more suited to a man of this time or of that other time when souls were conquered with the sword and with fire, What they need is a sound beating, that’s telling them.

One really doesn’t know where to turn, now it’s the fortresses in India, weep, O souls of da Gama, Albuquerque, Almeida and Noronha,
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no, that’s all we need, for grown men to weep, we must hold out to the last man, we will show the world what we Portuguese are worth, anyone who retreats is betraying the nation, better cut the shoe than pinch the foot, the government calls on everyone to do his duty. It’s a sad Christmas in Alberto’s house, not that there is any shortage of food or of the Lord’s blessings, at least it was a good year for cork, so that’s something, but there are black clouds with thunder in their bellies gathering over the country and over the latifundio, what will become of Portugal and of us, true, we have someone to protect us, for a start, there are the guards, to each of whom we give a gift, to the captain, lieutenant, sergeant and corporal, poor things, it’s only right, they earn so little and are always so ready to defend our property, imagine if we had to pay them out of our own pockets, it would cost us a fortune. It’s just as well, now that the last vestiges of a Portuguese presence in the East are being removed, along with our soldiers and sailors, that we never really took much interest in Goa, Daman and Diu anyway, a gift, you say, what an idea, I don’t mean that kind of gift, we’ve already mentioned the ones we gave to the captain, the lieutenant, the sergeant and the corporal, each of whom either came to fetch his own or, out of discretion and a desire to avoid prattling tongues, had it brought to him, no, this is a different kind of gift, that given by the soldiers and sailors who, on the point of death, raise themselves up on their elbow and, dying, cry out in response to the roll call, absent, an ancient practice, for when necessary even the dead can vote. The other good thing is that all this is happening a long way off, India and Africa are not exactly close, the fires are burning far from my borders, the sea, lots of sea, separates us from them, they won’t come over here, and Portugal won’t lack for sons to defend the latifundio from afar, don’t bite the hand that feeds you, you’ve been warned.

Tomorrow, said Dona Clemência to her children, and her nieces and nephews, is New Year’s Day, or so she had gleaned from the calendar, placing her hopes in the brand-new year and sending her best wishes to all the Portuguese people, well, that isn’t quite what she said, Dona Clemência has always spoken rather differently, but she’s learning, we all choose our own teachers, and while these words are still hanging in the air, news comes that there has been an attack on the barracks of the third infantry regiment in Beja, now Beja is not in India or Angola or Guinea-Bissau, it’s right next door, it’s on the latifundio, and the dogs are outside barking, though the coup was put down, they will speak of little else over the next weeks and months, so how was it possible for a barracks to be attacked, all it took was a little luck, that’s all it ever takes, perhaps that’s what was lacking the first time around, and no one noticed, that’s our fate, if the horse carrying the messenger bearing orders to commence battle loses a shoe, the whole course of history is turned upside down in favor of our enemies, who will triumph, what bad luck. And in saying this we are not being disrespectful to those who left the peace and safety of their homes and set off to try and pull down the pillars of the latifundio, though Samson and everyone else might die in the attempt, and when the dust had settled and we went and looked, we found that it was Samson who had died and not the pillars, perhaps we should have sat down under this holm oak and taken turns telling each other the thoughts we had in our head and heart, because there is nothing worse than distrust, it was good that they hijacked the
Santa Maria,
and the attack in Beja was good too, but no one came to ask us latifundio dogs and ants if either the ship or the attack had anything to do with us, We really value what you’re doing, though we don’t know who you are, but since we are just dogs and ants, what will we say tomorrow when we all bark together and you pay as little heed to us as did the owners of this latifundio you want to surround, sink and destroy. It’s time we all barked together and bit deep, captain general, and meanwhile check to see that your horse doesn’t have a shoe missing or that you have only three bullets when you should have four.

T
HESE MEN AND WOMEN
were born to work, like good to average livestock, they leave or are dragged out of their mother’s womb, left to grow up one way or another, it doesn’t really matter, what matters is that they should be strong and good with their hands, even if they can make only one gesture, so what if, within a few years, they become stiff and heavy, they are walking logs who, when they arrive at work, give themselves a shake and produce from their rigid bodies two arms and two legs that move back and forth, you see how kind and competent the Creator was in making such perfect instruments for digging, scything, hoeing and generally making themselves useful.

Since they were born to work, it would be a contradiction in terms for them to have too much rest. The best machine is the one most capable of continuous work, properly lubricated so that it doesn’t jam up, frugally fed and, if possible, given only as much fuel as mere maintenance requires, and, in case of breakdown or old age, it must, above all, be easily replaceable, that’s what those human scrap yards, cemeteries, are for, or else the machine simply sits, rusting and creaking at its front door, watching nothing at all pass by or gazing down at its own sad hands, who would have thought it would come to this. On the latifundio, generally speaking, men and women have short lives, it’s astonishing that any of them ever reach old age, but when we happen to pass some apparently old man, we learn that he is only forty, and that the shrunken woman with the leathery face is not yet thirty, so living in the country doesn’t exactly extend your life, that’s an urban myth, as is that most sensible of sayings, Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise, it would be amusing to see those same urbanites standing with one hand on the handle of their hoe, staring at the horizon, waiting for the sun to come up and, utterly exhausted, longing for a dusk that never comes, because the sun is an awkward so-and-so, always in such a hurry to rise and always so reluctant to set. Just like us.