Raised from the Ground (14 page)

The condemned men arrived at sunset. No sooner had they arrived than their mothers cried, What have you done, and they replied, We haven’t done anything, we left because we couldn’t face working with that machine anymore. There seems nothing wrong with that, but if you did do wrong, then what’s done is done, tomorrow you must go to Montemor, don’t worry, they won’t arrest you, said their parents. And so the night passed in stifling heat, the lads would have been sleeping on the threshing floor now, and perhaps some woman from the north would have come out for a pee and lingered there, breathing in the night air and perhaps hoping that the world might take a turn for the better, Shall I go or will you, until one of the lads decides to chance it, his heart beating fast and his groin tense, well, he is only seventeen, what do you expect, and the woman doesn’t move away, she stands there, perhaps the world really is going to take a turn for the better, and this space between the bales seems tailor-made for the purpose, big enough for two bodies lying one on top of the other, it’s not the first time, the boy doesn’t know who the woman is, and the woman doesn’t know who the boy is, it’s better like that, come morning, there’ll be no need for embarrassment if there was none at night, it’s a game played fairly, with each player giving his or her all, and the slight giddiness they feel when they slip in between the bales, the sweet smell, and then the flailing limbs, the trembling body, but that way we’ll get no sleep, and tomorrow I have to go to Montemor.

The four travel in a small cart pulled by José Palminha’s parents’ most precious possession, a rather rickety-looking mule, who nevertheless trots tirelessly on, they are silent, their hearts filled with dread, they cross the bridge and go up the hill beyond, and now they’re in Foros, with one house here, another one there, that’s what these far-flung hamlets are like, and then on the left-hand side is Pedra Grande, and shortly afterward, rising above the horizon, in the already hot morning air, stands the castle of Montemor, what remains of the city walls, it makes you sad. A man of seventeen starts speculating about the future, what will become of me, denounced as a striker by Anacleto, and the only thing my three friends are guilty of is keeping me company, our only other unforgivable fault being that we lacked the strength to keep up with the killing pace set by a thresher that was threshing me as it threshed the wheat, in I go through the machine’s mouth and out it spits my bare bones, turning me into straw, dust, chaff, I’m being forced to buy the wheat at a price not of my choosing. Augusto Patracão, who is a great whistler, does so to calm his nerves, but his stomach hurts, he’s no hero and doesn’t even know what a hero is, and José Palminha keeps his mind occupied driving the mule, a task he performs to perfection, as if the mule were a high-stepping steed. Felisberto Lampas may be called Felisberto, but that’s just a coincidence, and he sits sulkily, legs dangling, his back turned on his destiny, as he will do for the rest of his life. Then suddenly Montemor is upon them.

They leave the cart under a plane tree, and the mule with its nosebag on, what more can life have to offer a mule, and the four of them go up to the barracks, where a corporal tells them brusquely that they’re to be at the town hall at one o’clock. The four lads kick their heels in Montemor for the rest of the morning without even the possibility, given their youth, of waiting inside the local taberna, it’s impossible to describe the hours that precede any interrogation, so much happens in them, all the fear and dread inside each person’s head, ill-disguised anxiety etched on every face, and the knot in the throat that neither wine nor water can dissolve. Manuel Espada says, It’s all my fault you’re here, but the others shrug, what difference does it make, and Felisberto Lampas answers, We just have to put on a brave front and show no weakness.

For these callow youths, things turned out well. At one o’clock, they were waiting in the corridor of the town hall listening to administrator Goncelho’s voice booming around the building, Are the men from Monte Lavre here. Manuel Espada answered as he should, after all, he was the leader of the rebellion, Yes, sir, we’re here, and they stood in a line, waiting to see what would happen next. The administrator played his part as the representative of the authorities, and Lieutenant Contente stood by him, You young rascals, do you have no shame, you’re going to be sent across the sea to Africa, that will teach you to respect authority, Manuel Espada, come here, and the interrogation began, Who taught you to be strikers, who taught you, because you’ve obviously had good teachers, and Manuel Espada answered, with all the force of his innocence, No one taught us, we don’t know anyone, we know nothing about strikes either, it was the machine, it kept eating and eating and the piles of straw were getting higher and higher. And the administrator said, I know your sort, that’s what they taught you to say, and who is going to speak on your behalf, the administrator was preparing the ground because, when it was known in Montemor that some lads from Monte Lavre had been accused of being strikers, a few people of good sense had already spoken to him and to Lieutenant Contente, There’s no point taking these things too seriously, they didn’t mean any harm, what do they know about strikes. Nevertheless, all four were questioned, and once this was over, the administrator made a speech, in which, of course, he stated the obvious, Be more sensible in the future, learn to respect the people who give you work, we’ll let it go this time, but don’t let me see you here again or you’ll end up in prison, so be careful, and if anyone comes along wanting to give you things to read or to engage in subversive conversations, tell the guard and they’ll deal with it, and be grateful to the people who spoke up for you and don’t let them down, you can go now, say goodbye to Lieutenant Contente here, he is your friend, as am I, for I only want what’s best for you, don’t forget that.

That’s what this part of the country is like. The king said to Lamberto Horques, Cultivate and populate it, watch over my interests without forgetting your own, I give you this counsel because it suits me too, and if we follow this advice to the letter, we will all live in peace. And to his pastured sheep, Father Agamedes said, Your kingdom is not of this world, I suffered so that you might enter heaven, the more tears you shed in this vale of tears, the closer to the Lord you will be when you cast off the world, which is nothing but perdition, the devil and the flesh, and you can be sure that I’ll be keeping my eye on you, for you are greatly deceived if you think that the Lord Our God has left you free to do both good and evil, everything will be placed in the balance come the day of judgment, better to pay in this world than be in debt in the next. These are excellent doctrines and are probably the reason why the four from Monte Lavre had to accept that the wages they had earned but not been paid, nine escudos a day, for three and a quarter days during the week in which they committed their crime, would go to the old folks’ home, although Felisberto Lampas did mutter on the journey home, They’ll probably spend our money on beer. We must forgive the young, who so often think ill of their elders. Far from being spent on beer, those one hundred and seventeen escudos given into the hand of the administrator meant that the old people enjoyed better food, a positive orgy, you can’t imagine, all these years later they still talk of that feast, and one very ancient resident was heard to say, Now I can die.

They’re strange creatures, men, and boys are perhaps stranger, for they are quite a different species. We have said enough about Felisberto Lampas, who is in a bad mood, and for whom the matter of the stolen wages is just a pretext. However, they all returned to Monte Lavre feeling sad, as if something more valuable had been stolen from them, perhaps their sense of pride, which they hadn’t lost, of course, but there had been something offensive about the whole situation, they had been treated with scorn, stood in line to hear the administrator’s sermon, while the lieutenant watched from the sidelines, memorizing their faces and features. They were even angry at the people who had interceded on their behalf, and whose pleas probably wouldn’t have helped at all if the incident hadn’t taken place two days before a bomb attempt on Salazar’s life, from which he escaped unharmed.

That Sunday, the four went to the square, but could find no one to take them on. The same thing happened on the following Sunday and the Sunday after that. The estate has a long memory and good communications, it misses nothing and passes on the word, it will forgive only when it chooses to, but it will never forget. When they finally did find work, they each went their separate ways. Manuel Espada had to go and tend pigs, and during his time as a pigherd, he met António Mau-Tempo, who, later on, when the time comes, will become his brother-in-law.

S
ARA DA CONCEIÇÃO IS
not well. She has taken to dreaming about her husband, barely a night passes when she doesn’t see him lying on the ground in the olive grove with the purple mark of the rope on his neck, she can’t let his body go to the grave like that, and then she starts washing his neck with wine, because if she can make the mark disappear, she will have her husband back again, alive, which is the last thing she would want when awake, but that, inexplicably, is how it is in the dream. This woman, who traveled around so much when young, lives a very quiet, stable life now, but then she always did really, she helps out in the house of her son João Mau-Tempo and her daughter-in-law Faustina, she takes care of her granddaughters, Gracinda and Amélia, tends to the chickens, darns and redarns the clothes, patches up trouser seats, a skill learned during her short time as a stitcher of uppers to soles, and she has a strange habit that no one can understand, which is to go out walking at night when all her family is sleeping. True, she doesn’t go very far, fear won’t let her, the end of the street is quite far enough. The neighbors say she’s slightly mad, perhaps she is, because if all the old mothers came out into the street at night so that their sons and daughters-in-law or their daughters and sons-in-law could take their pleasures in peace, it would be worthy of being recorded in the very brief history of small human gestures, imagine seeing lots of old ladies wandering about in the shadows or in the moonlight or sitting on the ground next to the low walls or on the steps outside the church, waiting silently, what would they talk about, remembering their own past pleasures, what it had been like or what it had not been like, how long those pleasures had lasted, until one of them says, We can go back now, and they all get up, See you tomorrow, and return to their houses, quietly lifting the latch, and the young couple are perhaps sleeping, quite innocent of any conjugal activities, which can’t happen every night. But Sara da Conceição prefers to err on the side of caution, finding it difficult only when the weather is bad, and then she stands under a porch in the garden, but thanks to Faustina, who understood her, that’s women for you, they would call her in, a sign that the night would be as pure as the cold stars, unless it was on one of those starry nights when João Mau-Tempo sought his legitimate wife beneath the sheets.

Perhaps Sara da Conceição, with all that coming and going, is merely fleeing the dreams that await her, but one thing is sure, at dawn, she will once more find herself in the olive grove, the day after the death, which was when they found the body, as she knows in her dream, and with a bottle of wine and a rag she rubs and rubs, and the head sways from side to side, and when it turns in her direction, her husband fixes her with his cold eyes, and when it turns away, the corpse has no face, which is even worse. Sara da Conceição wakes up in a cold sweat, hears her son snoring, her grandson tossing and turning, but not her granddaughters or her daughter-in-law, they’re women after all, and therefore silent, and she moves closer to the two girls, with whom she sleeps, who can say what fate awaits them, let’s hope a better fate than that of the woman who dreams such dreams.

One night, Sara da Conceição went out and did not come back. They found her in the morning, outside the village, quite lost and talking about her husband as if he were still alive. So sad. Her daughter, Maria da Conceição, who was working as a maid in Lisbon, asked her employers to help, and they did, and yet still people speak ill of the rich. Sara da Conceição traveled from Monte Lavre and, for the first time, took a taxi from the boat in Terreiro do Paço, south and southeast, to the insane asylum in Rilhafoles, where she lived until she died like a wick burning out for lack of oil. Sometimes, but not often, well, we all have our own lives to lead, Maria da Conceição went to visit her mother, and they would sit looking at each other, what else could they do. When, some years later, João Mau-Tempo was brought to Lisbon for reasons we will learn in due course, Sara da Conceição had died, surrounded by the laughter of the nurses, because the poor fool kept humbly asking for a bottle of wine, imagine that, for some task she had to finish before it was too late. Isn’t that sad, ladies and gentlemen.