Raised from the Ground (40 page)

As mentioned above, this year’s harvest has been canceled, as a punishment for the usual impertinence of asking for more wages and for the exceptional crime of supporting Delgado, everywhere and anywhere. I really don’t care, said Adalberto, I just need to be sure that the government is in agreement, Oh, it is, said Leandro Leandres, and so are we, we think it’s a magnificent idea. And what about the losses, sir, what about the losses, you can count on our good will, but we’ll have to be compensated, everything has its price, a perfectly justifiable remark made in some unnamed place on the latifundio, it must have been in a town, because what would the civil governor be doing in a tiny village unless he was there to attend some inauguration ceremony, but wherever it was, the remark was made, perhaps on a balcony looking out over the countryside, Don’t worry, Senhor Berto, we’re studying how best to assist agriculture, the nation is aware of farmers’ concerns and will not forget this patriotic gesture. They almost hoist the flag, but why bother, election day has been and gone, and while Tomás
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may be our brand-new president, he acts the same as the former resident, well, if the others can rhyme, why shouldn’t I, I’m as important as they are, and I can make very pretty rhymes, for example, I’m always hungry year on year, Through winter and through spring, While down in hell, Death rings his bell: Your scythe awaits you here, and after this ditty sung in chorus, a great silence falls over the latifundio, what’s going on, and while we’re thinking this, our eyes fixed on the ground, a shadow passes rapidly overhead, and when we look up, we see the great red kite hovering above, so the moan that emerged from my throat was actually his cry.

That night, Sigismundo Canastro went over to João Mau-Tempo’s house to talk to him and António Mau-Tempo, and from there he went to Manuel Espada’s house, where he spent some time. He visited another three houses, two of which were far out in the country, he spoke to people in this way and that, used these words and those, because you can’t talk to everyone in the same way, if you do, your words might be misconstrued, and his message, in essence, is to meet in Montemor in two days’ time to demonstrate outside the town hall, we want as many people to be there as possible, to demand work, because there’s plenty of work to be done, but they’re refusing to let us do it. En route they will discuss what the men of the latifundio think about the farce of handing the presidency of this wretched republic over to an out-and-out imbecile and yes man, surely one was enough, how many more will there be. These bitter words come not from excessive drinking or eating, neither of which is much practiced on the latifundio, although having said that, there’s no shortage of men who bend the elbow rather too much, but that can be excused, for when a man finds himself tethered to a stake all his life, smoking and drinking are ways of escape, especially drinking, though each drink is another step toward death. This bitterness comes from the frustrated hope that they were finally going to be able to speak freely, had freedom come, but it didn’t, someone once caught a glimpse of that much-vaunted freedom, but she is not one to be seen out walking the highways, she won’t sit on a stone and wait to be invited in to supper or to share our bed for the rest of our life. Groups of men and some women had been out and about, cheering and shouting, and now we are left with a bitter taste in our mouths as if we, too, had been drinking, our eyes see ashes and little more, only wheatfields as yet unharvested, What are we going to do, Sigismundo Canastro, you who are older and more experienced than us, On Monday we’ll go to Montemor to demand bread for our children and for the parents who have to bring them up, But that’s what we always do, and to what end, We’ve done it in the past, we must do it now and must continue to do it until things change, It feels like a never-ending struggle, But it will end, When we’re dead and buried and our bones are there for all to see, if there are any dogs around to dig them up, There’ll still be enough people around when the time comes, your daughter, you know, gets prettier by the day, She has my father’s eyes, these words were spoken by Gracinda Mau-Tempo, all the conversation prior to this having been with her husband Manuel Espada, and it is he who says, I’d sell my soul to the devil to see that day come, not tomorrow, but now, and Gracinda Mau-Tempo picks up her three-year-old daughter and scolds her husband, Don’t say such things, Manuel, and Sigismundo Canastro, older in years and experience, smiles, The devil doesn’t exist and so can’t make any deals, and no amount of oaths and promises will change anything, work is the only way to get what we want, and our work now consists in going to Montemor on Monday, people will be coming from all over.

These June nights are beautiful. If there’s a moon, you can see the whole world from high up in Monte Lavre, well, let’s pretend you can, we’re not that ignorant, we know the world is much bigger, I’ve been to France, António Mau-Tempo would say, and that’s a long way away, but in this silence, anyone, even I, would believe it if someone said, There is no other world apart from Montemor, where we’re going on Monday to ask for work. And if there is no moon,
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then the world is simply this place where I put my feet and all the rest is stars, perhaps there’s a latifundio up there too, which is why our new president is a rear admiral who’s never been to sea and who won the election game with four aces and a few more besides, because nothing trumps being an apparent pillar of society and a cheat. Had Sigismundo Canastro thought such wicked, witty thoughts, we would have stood back at the edge of the road, hat in hand, astonished at the worldly wisdom of the latifundio, but what he is really thinking is that he has spoken to everyone he needed to speak to and that he was right to speak to them today rather than leave it until tomorrow, which is why we don’t know what to do with our hat, or even if we should be holding it in our hand, Sigismundo Canastro has done his duty, and that’s that. However, despite the gravity of the steps to be taken, he also has a spritely, mischievous side, as we have seen before, and so, noticing that the door to the guards’ barracks was locked and in darkness, he went over to the wall and peed long and pleasurably as if he were peeing on the whole lot of them. The childish tricks of an old man whose cock no longer serves him for very much except to make this lovely little stream that finds its way among the cobbles, I wish I had liters of urine in me so that I could stay here peeing all night, like the dam at Ponte Cava, perhaps we should all pee at the same time and flood the latifundio, I wonder who would be saved. It’s a fine, starry night. Sigismundo Canastro buttons up his fly, the comedy is over, and sets off home, sometimes the blood still stirs, you never know.

In the days when people made pilgrimages, we used to say that all roads lead to Rome, you just had to walk and ask the way as you went, that’s how sayings come into being and are then unthinkingly repeated, and it’s not true, for here all the many roads and paths lead to Montemor, and although no one is speaking, only a deaf man could fail to hear the lofty speech echoing around the latifundio. Some, if they can find no better mode of transport and regardless of whether they come from near or far, are on foot, others are pedaling along on ancient bicycles that wobble and creak like mule carts, while those who can, have come by bus, and all are converging on Montemor, arriving from all the points of the compass rose, and carried there by a strong wind. The sentinels on the castle ramparts watch the Moorish host approach, the flag of the prophet folded in their bosom, O Holy Mother of God, the infidels are coming, lock up your wives and daughters, gentlemen, close the doors and raise the drawbridge, for in truth I say unto thee, today is the day of judgment. The narrator is, of course, exaggerating, doubtless the result of too much time spent immersed in medieval studies, fancy imagining armies and pennants when there is only this disparate band of rustics, probably not even a thousand of them, and yet the final gathering will be far larger. But one thing at a time, there’s another two hours yet, for the moment Montemor is just a town with more people in the streets than usual, they wander about in the main square talking to each other in low voices, and those with a little money to spend buy themselves a drink. Has the party from Escoural arrived, I don’t know, we’re from Monte Lavre, there aren’t many of them, it’s true, but at least they’re here, and they’ve brought a woman with them, because Gracinda Mau-Tempo wanted to come too, there’s no stopping women nowadays, that’s what the older, more old-fashioned men think, although they say nothing, imagine what they would have said if they had overheard the following conversation, Manuel, I’m going with you, and Manuel Espada, despite himself, thought she must be joking and responded, or, rather, all the Manuels in the world answered for him, This isn’t women’s business. What did you say, a man should be careful when he speaks, it’s not just a matter of saying the words, you can end up looking ridiculous and losing all authority, fortunately Gracinda and Manuel really love each other, nevertheless, the discussion continues for the rest of the evening and even when they’re lying in bed, The child can stay with my mother and then you and I can go together, we don’t just share a bed, you know, and finally Manuel Espada gave in and, glad to give in, put his arm around his wife and drew her to him, the man invites and the woman consents, the little girl is sleeping and hears nothing, Sigismundo Canastro, too, is asleep in his bed, having tried and succeeded, perhaps the next time will be even better, a man can’t just give up, damn it.

What went on between man and wife last night or the night before, and what they will do later, are not matters to be discussed in Montemor, or, indeed, when this day is over, for who knows how it will end. The cavalry, as usual, rides forth from the guards’ barracks, while inside, Lieutenant Contente and Leandro Leandres are deep in conversation, the order to mobilize has been issued, now they must await events, although others have decided to wait elsewhere, they are the owners of the latifundio who live in Montemor, and there are quite a few of them, so we were not far off when we spoke of sentinels, for there is a stockade along the walls of the castle, with the braver of the infantes perched on the reconstructed ramparts, and a rosary of fathers and mothers, the former dressed as knights and the latter clad in suitably light colors. The more malicious commentators will say that they have taken shelter there because they are afraid of this invasion of farm laborers, a hypothesis that has a certain ring of truth about it, but let us not forget how few distractions there are here, apart from bullfights and the cinema, this time it’s rather like a picnic in the country, there’s plenty of shade and, if necessary, there is the safe haven of the convent of Our Lady of the Annunciation, pray for us. It is, however, true and verifiable that they left their houses out of a hitherto unknown fear, the servants remained behind on guard, because if you take on servants when they’re young, they tend to be loyal, as is doubtless the case with Amélia Mau-Tempo, who also works as a maid in Montemor, these facts are at once contradictory and inevitable, but given the times we live in, one cannot really trust anyone, not because the workers of the latifundio have joined together to make their demands, it’s not the first time they’ve asked for work, but because one can all too easily imagine those hands closing into fists, there’s a lot of anger out there, a lot of conspiracies, dear aunt, a lot of conspiracies. From up here, you can see them walking down the narrow lanes and converging on the square outside the town hall. They look like ants, says an imaginative child heir, and his father corrects him, They may look like ants, but they’re dogs, now there’s the whole situation summed up in one brief, clear phrase, and then silence falls, we don’t want to miss anything, look, there’s already a squadron of guards in front of the town hall, and there’s the sergeant, what’s that he is holding, a machine gun, that’s what Gracinda Mau-Tempo thought too, and glancing up at the castle, she saw that it was full of people, who can they be.

The square fills up. The people from Monte Lavre are standing in a group. Gracinda, the only woman, her husband Manuel Espada, her brother and father, António and João Mau-Tempo, and Sigismundo Canastro, who says, Stick together, and there are two other men called José, one is the great-grandson of the Picanços, who kept the mill at Ponte Cava, and the other is José Medronho, whom we haven’t had occasion to mention until now. They are in a sea of people, the sun beats down on this sea and burns like a nettle poultice, while up in the castle, the ladies open their sunshades, anyone would think it was a party. Those rifles are loaded, you can tell by the look on the guards’ faces, a man carrying a loaded weapon immediately takes on a different air, he grows hard and cold, his lips tighten, and he looks at us with real rancor. People who like horses sometimes give them the name of a person, like that colt called Bom-Tempo, but I don’t know if the horses at the end of the street have names, perhaps they simply give them numbers, they do everything by numbers in the guards, call out number twenty-seven, and the horse and the man riding it both step forward, how confusing.

The shouting has begun, We want work, we want work, we want work, that’s about all they say, apart from the occasional insult, you thieves, but spoken so quietly that it’s as if the person hurling the insult were ashamed, then someone else shouts, Free elections, what’s the point of saying that now, but the great clamor of voices rises up and drowns out everything else, We want work, we want work, what kind of world is it that divides into those who make a profession of idleness and those who want work but can’t get it. Someone gave the signal, or perhaps it was agreed that the meeting could go on for a certain number of minutes, or perhaps Leandro Leandres or Lieutenant Contente made a telephone call, or maybe the mayor peered out of the window, There they are, the dogs, but whatever the sequence of events, the mounted guards unsheathed their sabers, oh good heavens, such courage, such heroism, it sends a shiver down the spine, I had quite forgotten about the sun until it glinted on those polished blades, a positively divine light, enough to make a man tremble with patriotic fervor, well, doesn’t it you.