Raised from the Ground (43 page)

However, the days of acceptance and resignation are coming to an end. A voice is traveling the roads of the latifundio, it goes into towns and villages, it talks on the hillsides and on cork plantations, a voice that consists of two essential words and many others that serve to explain those two words, eight hours, this may not appear to mean very much, but if we say eight hours of work, then the meaning becomes clearer, there are sure to be those who protest at this scandalous idea, what is it these workers want, if they sleep eight hours and work another eight, what will they do with the remaining eight hours, it’s an invitation to idleness, they clearly don’t want to work, these are modern ideas, it’s all the fault of the war, customs have changed out of all recognition, first they stole India from us, now they want to take Africa away, then there was that ship that sailed the seas causing an international scandal, and the general who rose up against those who gave him his stars, who can one trust, tell me that, and now there’s this disastrous business of the eight-hour day, they should have stuck to the law of God, give or take an hour, twelve hours of daylight and twelve hours of night, depending on when the sun rises and sets, of course, and if that isn’t God’s law, then let’s say it’s the law of nature, which must be obeyed.

The voice roaming the latifundio may not hear these mutterings, and if it does, it ignores them, these are old-fashioned ideas from the days of Lamberto, Work keeps them busy, if they weren’t working, they’d be getting drunk in bars and then going home to beat their wives, poor things. Don’t go thinking these are easy paths to follow. This voice has been pounding roads and streets for a whole year now, eight hours, eight hours of work, and some don’t believe it, some believe that this will happen only when the world is about to end and the latifundio wants to save its soul and be able to appear at the final judgment and say to the angels and archangels, I took pity on my serfs, they were working far too many hours, and for the love of God, I ordered them to work only eight hours a day, with a rest on Sunday, and because I did this, I expect nothing less than a place in paradise at God’s right hand. That is what some skeptics think, afraid that it will be a change for the worse. But the carriers of the voice did not rest all year, they traveled the whole latifundio proclaiming those words, while the guards and the PIDE agents twitched their ears uneasily, the way donkeys do when tormented by flies. Then they unleash furious, martial patrols, all that’s missing are the bugles and drums, and they would have loved that, but it didn’t fit in with the battle plan, imagine if the conspirators were gathered together on some lonely hillside or deep in the woods and they heard the trumpets blaring in the distance, tantararatantan, we’d never catch anyone. The guards were given reinforcements, so were the PIDE agents, and any village without a doctor was given the medicine of twenty or thirty guards and accompanying weapons, and these guards were, of course, in permanent communication with the dragons defending the State and who don’t like me at all, pity the real dragons, they’re as ugly as toads and lizards, but they don’t do any real harm, the proof of which is that paradise is full to bursting with fire-breathing dragons.
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And given that guards tend to be astute rascals, they invented the subtle art of placing a pamphlet beneath a stone, yet visible enough for a blind man to see, the kind of pamphlet left by those commies who travel around the latifundio saying subversive things about eight-hour days and so forth, they might as well hand over the country to Moscow right now. Anyway, having laid this trap, they hide behind a hedge or in a hollow or behind an innocent tree or boulder, and when some unsuspecting man comes along, he perhaps picks up the pamphlet and puts it in his pocket or inside his hat or between skin and shirt, it’s one of those white sheets covered in small black lettering, not only does he not read very well, his eyesight is poor too, anyway, he hasn’t gone ten steps when the guards ambush him on the path, Halt, show us what you’ve got in your pockets, if this doesn’t strike you as a show of great astuteness, then all we can say is that there is clearly a lot of ill feeling against the guards, who deserve only praise for their expert application of the principles of hypocrisy and petty mendacity, rammed into them at the same time as they were being taught how to use a gun and organize an ambush.

Surrounded by carbines, the finder of the pamphlet has no choice but to empty his pockets of a gypsy knife, half an ounce of tobacco, a book of cigarette papers, a piece of string, a gnawed crust of bread and ten tostões, but this doesn’t satisfy the guards, who have other ambitions, Take another look, it’s for your own good, you might get hurt if we were to frisk you, and then, from between skin and shirt, he produces the pamphlet, already damp with sweat, not that it’s so very hot, but the poor man isn’t made of steel, marooned as he is amid these guffawing guards, things are getting serious, Corporal Tacabo, or some private temporarily promoted to lead the patrol, knows very well what the pamphlet is, but he pretends to be surprised and examines it carefully, before saying slyly, Now you’re in for it, we’ve caught you carrying communist propaganda, we’re taking you to the barracks, it’s Montemor or Lisbon for you, my lad, I certainly wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. And when the man tries to explain that he has just found the pamphlet a moment ago, that he hasn’t had time to read it, that he doesn’t know how to read, that he happened to be passing by, saw the pamphlet and, out of natural curiosity, picked it up as anyone would, but he doesn’t finish what he has to say, because he receives a blow to the chest or the back with the butt of a rifle, or else a kick, get a move on or I’ll shoot you, arms are my theme and these matchless heroes.
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Talking is like eating cherries from a bowl, you take hold of one word and others immediately follow, or perhaps they’re like ticks, which are equally hard to disentangle if they’re attached one to the other, because words never come singly, even the word loneliness needs the person who’s feeling lonely, which is just as well, I suppose. These guards are so steadfast and loyal that they go wherever the latifundio sends them, they never question, never argue, they are mere minions, you only have to consider what happened on May Day, when men and women duly celebrated the day of the worker, but when they returned to their labors the following day, the guards were waiting for them, Only those who didn’t miss work yesterday can work today, those are our orders, although there was little point in saying this, since everyone had missed work. What’s going to happen now, the workers draw back, how are they going to resolve this, and because the guards had occupied the terrain, and the overseer was hiding behind them rather than taking his due part in the negotiations, the workers decided to go back to their houses, it was still early in the morning, you see, and enjoy another day’s holiday, and the guards stayed behind to keep an eye on the ants, who were going about their business and raising their heads in surprise like dogs. But before the workers left, the sergeant, standing next to the overseer or foreman or manager or whatever, made intelligent use of his interrogation methods, Why didn’t you come to work yesterday, Because it was the first of May, the day of the worker, and we’re workers. It was an innocent enough reply, there they were, standing before me, Corporal, looking at me with grave eyes, thinking they could deceive me, as if I would be so easily taken in, that’s what these shameless wretches do, they look at you gravely like that and you can’t tell what they’re really thinking, but I gave it to them straight, I know how to deal with them, I said, you’d better tell me the truth, you can’t fool me, the reason you didn’t come to work was political, but they said, No, sir, it wasn’t political, the first of May is the day of the worker, and when they said that, I gave a little mocking laugh, And what would you know about that, and someone at the back, unfortunately I couldn’t see his face, said, It’s the same all over the world, and that, as you can imagine, really got my goat, This isn’t the world, this is Portugal and the Alentejo, we have our own laws, and at this point, the foreman whispered a secret to me, well, it wasn’t a secret exactly, it was simply what we’d already agreed I would say, and I declared, with all the authority with which I had been invested, Only those who didn’t miss work yesterday can work today, and as soon as I said this, they all moved away, all together as they usually do, it’s the same when they sing, and off they went back home, their hoes on their shoulders, because it was hoeing they had come to do, and I couldn’t help but feel a certain respect for them really, although I’m not sure why. Words are like ticks, or like the cherries that ripen in May, and if respect is not the final word, it is at least the right one.

April is the month of a thousand words.
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Meetings are held at night in the fields, the men can barely see each other’s faces, but they can hear each other’s voices, slightly muffled if the place isn’t deemed particularly safe, or louder and clearer if they’re in the middle of nowhere, but they always keep sentinels posted, in accordance with the strategic art of prevention, as if they were defending an encampment. On their side, they are waging a peaceful war. The guards don’t come in pairs anymore, but in dozens or half dozens, and when the roads allow, they arrive in jeeps or trucks, or they advance in a line, like beaters, so if in the dark of night the guards are heard approaching, the workers’ sentinels draw back to give the alarm, and either the guards pass right by, in which case silence is the best defense, with every man seated or standing, holding both breath and thoughts, turned suddenly to stone like ancient megaliths, or the guards head straight for them, and the order then is to scatter along the beaten tracks, fortunately the guards don’t yet have dogs.

The following night, they will pick up the conversation where they left off, in that same place or somewhere else, their patience is infinite. And when they can, they meet by day as well, in smaller groups, or go to someone’s house and talk by the fire while the women silently wash the dishes and the children sleep in the corner of the room. And if one man happens to be standing next to another on the threshing floor, each word spoken and heard is like a mallet striking a stake, driving it a little further in, and when, in the fields, it’s time to eat, they sit on the ground with their lunch pails between their legs, and while the spoon rises and falls and the cool breeze chills their body, their words return to the same theme, and they say slowly, Let’s demand an eight-hour day, enough of working from dawn to dusk, and the more prudent among them speak fearfully of the future, What will happen if the bosses refuse to give us work, and the women washing the dishes after supper, while the fire burns, feel ashamed of their husbands’ caution and agree with the friend who knocked on the door to say, Let’s demand an eight-hour day, enough of working from dawn to dusk, because that is how long the women work too, except they often do so when in pain or menstruating or heavily pregnant, or with their breasts overflowing with the milk that should have been suckled, they’re lucky it hasn’t dried up, so those who believe that all one has to do is raise a banner and say, Right, let’s go, are much mistaken. Yes, April has to be the month of a thousand words, because even those who are certain and convinced have their moments of doubt, of soul-searching and despair, there are the guards, the dragons of the PIDE and the black shadow that spreads over the latifundio and never leaves, there is no work, and are we, with our own hands, going to shake the sleeping beast awake and say, Tomorrow we will only work for eight hours, this is not the first of May, the first of May is the least of it, no one can force me to go to work, but if I were to say, Eight hours and no more, it would be like baiting a rabid dog. And the friend says, sitting here on the cork plantation or by my side on the threshing floor or in the night so dark I can’t see his face, he says, It’s not just about working eight hours, we’re going to demand a minimum wage of forty escudos too, if we don’t want to die of exhaustion and hunger, these are fine things to ask for and to do, but difficult to achieve. It’s good that there are a lot of conversations and a lot of voices, but out of the meeting comes one voice, and this isn’t just a manner of speaking, it’s true, some voices stand up on their own two feet, What kind of life have we led, tell me that, in the last couple of years, two of my children have died of hunger, and the one child I have left will be brought up to be a beast of burden, and I don’t want to carry on being the beast of burden I am, these are words that might wound delicate ears, but there are no such ears here, although no one present at this meeting likes to look in the mirror and see himself stuck between the shafts of a cart or wearing a saddle and a yoke, That’s how it’s been ever since we were born.

Then another voice emerges, and on the shadow of the night falls another shadow come from who knows where, what can he be thinking of, he’s not talking about the eight-hour day or about the forty-escudo minimum wage, that’s what we came here to discuss, but no one has the heart to interrupt him, They have always done their best to strip us of our dignity, and everyone knows who he means by they, they are the guards, the PIDE, the latifundio and its owners Alberto or Dagoberto, the dragon and the captain, gnawing hunger and broken bones, anxiety and hernias, They have always done their best to strip us of our dignity, but it can’t go on, it must stop, listen to what happened to me and to my father, now dead, it was a secret between us, but I can stay silent no longer, if my story doesn’t convince you, then we are lost, there’s nothing more to be done, once, many years ago, it was a dark night just like tonight, my father went with me and I with him to pick acorns, because there was nothing to eat at home, and I was already a young man and thinking about getting married, we had a bag with us, just an ordinary bag, and we went together to keep each other company, not because of the heavy load, and when the bag was nearly full, the guards appeared, I’m sure the same thing has happened to many of you here tonight, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, picking up acorns from the ground isn’t stealing, and even if it was, hunger is a good enough reason to steal, he who steals out of hunger will find forgiveness in heaven, I know that isn’t quite how the saying goes, but it should, and if I’m a thief because I stole some acorns, then so is the owner of the acorns, who neither made the earth nor planted the tree nor tended it, anyway, the guards arrived and said, well, there’s no point repeating what they said, I can’t even remember, but they called us every name under the sun, how have we put up all these years with being called such names, and when my father begged them for the love of God to let us take the acorns we had picked, they started laughing and said we could keep the acorns, but on one condition, and do you know what that was, they wanted us to fight each other and to let them watch, and my father said he wasn’t going to fight with his own son, and I said the same, that I wouldn’t fight with my father, but they said, in that case, we would be taken to the barracks, where we would have to pay a fine and possibly get a beating too, just to teach us some manners, and then my father said, all right, we would fight, but please, comrades, don’t think ill of that poor old man, now dead, and God forgive me if, in telling you this story, I’m dragging him from his grave, but we were starving, you see, anyway, my father pretended to give me a shove, and I pretended he had pushed me over, we wanted to see if we could fool them, but they said that if we didn’t fight properly, with a real intent to hurt each other, they would arrest us, I don’t have words to describe what happened next, my father became desperate, I saw it in his eyes, and he hit me and really hurt me, but not because he had hit me that hard, and I responded in kind, and a minute later, we were rolling around on the ground, and the guards were laughing like mad things, and, once, I touched my father’s face and it felt wet, but not with sweat, and I was filled with rage, and I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him as if he were my worst enemy, and he, underneath me, kept punching me on the chest, God, what a state to be in, and still the guards were laughing, it was a dark night like tonight and so cold that it ate into your bones, all around lay the countryside, and yet the stones did not rise up, is this what men were born to do, and when finally we stopped fighting, we were alone, the guards had left, doubtless in sheer disgust, which was what we deserved, and then my father started crying and I rocked him in my arms as if he were a child and swore I would never tell anyone, but I can no longer remain silent, it’s not just a matter of eight hours or forty escudos, we must do something now if we are not to lose ourselves, because that isn’t a life, two men fighting each other, father and son or whoever, purely to amuse the guards, it’s not enough that they have weapons and we have none, we are not men if we do not now raise ourselves up from the ground, and I say this not for my own sake but for the sake of my dead father, who won’t ever have another life, poor man, only the memory of me beating him and the guards laughing, as if they were drunk, if there was a God, surely he would have intervened then. When the voice stopped speaking, everyone stood up, there was no need to say anything more, each man set off to follow his own destiny, determined to be there on the first of May, determined to hold out for the eight-hour day and the wage of forty escudos, and even today, after all these years, no one knows which of them it was who fought with his own father, our eyes cannot bear the sight of too much suffering.