by Jorge Amado
He no longer thought of rolling himself a cigarette and puffing on it. What he was thinking of was Dona Tereza, waiting for Firmo and for love in the marriage bed. White flesh waiting for the husband. She had a kind face, too. Once she had given Negro Damião a drop of wine. And he had exchanged a few words with her, about the sun which was beating down on the highway that afternoon. Yes, she was a good woman, no foolishness about her. So good that she could even talk to a black assassin like Damião. She was mistress of her own cacao plantation and might have been stuck up like so many other women. But instead she had given him wine and had spoken of the sun and how hot it was. She was not afraid of him as so many other women would have been. Many of the others were frightened when they saw Damião coming and would hide inside the house to wait for their husbands. Damião always laughed at this fear on their part; he was even proud of it: it showed how widespread was his fame. But today, for the first time, it occurred to him that what they were fleeing was not a brave black man, but a black assassin.
A black assassin. He repeated the words in a low voice, slowly, and they had a tragic sound to his ears. The friar had said that no one should kill his fellow men, for it was a mortal sin, and one would pay for it by going to hell. Damião had thought little of it. But today it was Sinhô Badaró who had said those same things about killing. A black assassin. And Dona Tereza was kind, pretty as could be, and whiter than any woman on the neighbouring plantations. She loved her husband, you could see that, loved him so much that she would have nothing to do with Juca Badaró, a rich man, whom women slobbered over. The women were afraid of him, of Damião, the assassin.
He recalled now a long train of incidents: women who disappeared from the lawns when he came in sight; others who timidly spied on him from their windows; that prostitute in Ferradas who would not sleep with him for anything in the world, in spite of the fact that he had shown her a ten-milreis note in his hand. She simply would not sleep with him. She would not say why, she pretended she was sick, but in her face Damião could see something else: fear. He had thought nothing of it, had given that deep, full laugh of his, and had gone off to look for another woman. But now that whore’s refusal was an additional wound. Don’ Ana Badaró alone was kind to him; she was not afraid of the black man. But Don’ Ana was a brave woman, a Badaró. Children also had no fear of him; but children do not understand such things; they did not know that he was a killer who went out to wait for men in ambush, to bring them down with that sure aim of his. He liked children. He got along with them better than he did with grown-ups. He liked to play with the simple toys of the children in the Big Houses; he liked satisfying the whims of the wretched little ones in the workers’ huts. He got along well with children.
And then, of a sudden, the terrifying idea shot through his head: supposing that Dona Tereza were pregnant, with a child in her belly? The child would be born without a father; the father would have been brought down by Negro Damião’s aim. With a tremendous effort he drew himself up; his enormous head was as heavy as on those days when he was on a big drunk. No, Dona Tereza could not be pregnant; he had had a good look at her that day when they had exchanged a few words at the door of Firmo’s house. She wasn’t carrying any child; no, no, she wasn’t pregnant. But that had been six months ago. How was she now? Who could say? Why, she might very well be about to have a child, a child in the belly. It would be born without a father; it would learn that its father had fallen on the highway one moonlit night, brought down by Negro Damião. And it would hate him; it would not be like the other children who came to play with him, who climbed up on his back before they were able to mount the tamest of the burros. It would not eat the breadfruit that Negro Damião had gathered, or the golden-ripe bananas that he had gone to pluck in the banana groves. It would look at him with hatred, for Damião would always be the one who had killed its father.
Damião was sad beyond words. The moonlight fell upon him, the breadfruit tree hid him from the road, his rifle was resting on the tree-trunk. Others were in the habit of carving notches on their gun-stocks for each man they killed. He had never done that, because he had not wanted to deface his rifle. He was fond of it. He always kept it hanging up above the wooden bunk where he slept without a mattress. Sometimes at night Sinhô Badaró would have to leave on a trip, and he would send for the Negro to accompany him. Damião would then take down his rifle and go up to the Big House. The burros would be already saddled, and when Sinhô mounted he did likewise, and would ride along behind his boss, his rifle resting on the pommel of his saddle. For they might come upon one of Horacio’s men in hiding along the highway. Sometimes it happened that Sinhô would call to him, and he would come up and ride alongside, and Sinhô would talk to him about the groves, the crops, the condition of the soft cacao, and all sorts of things that had to do with the life of the plantation. Those were happy days for Negro Damião. He would be happy, too, when they arrived at the end of their journey, at Rio do Braço, Tabocas, Ferradas, or Palestina. The colonel would give him a five-milreis note, and he would go spend the rest of the night in bed with some woman. He always left his rifle at the foot of the bed; for Sinhô might take it into his head to return at any moment, and would send a boy from the town to run down and look for the Negro in the whorehouses. He would leap from the bed—one night he had even leaped off the body of a woman—would seize his rifle and set out once more. He loved the weapon and kept it bright and shining; he liked to look at it. Today, however, he did not enjoy looking at it, but sought for something else on which to fix his gaze. There was the moon high up in the sky. Why was it you could look at the moon, and yet there was not a pair of eyes that could bear looking at the sun? This problem had never occurred to Negro Damião. He became absorbed in it, his mind wholly bent on solving it. That way he did not have to see Dona Tereza, nor the child which she was about to bear, nor listen to Sinhô Badaró’s voice as he put the question to Juca:
“Do you enjoy killing people? Don’t you feel anything at all? Nothing on the inside?”
Why was it no one could look the sun straight in the face? There was no one who could. The same with the men he killed; Damião never looked at them afterwards. He had no time; he had to get away the moment the job was done. Neither had he ever had the misfortune of finding that his victim was still alive, as had happened to the late Vicente Garangau, whom people talked so much about—Vicente had been done in at the hands of a man on whom he had fired. He had not taken the trouble to find out if the man was dead or not, and so had ended up in that horrible fashion, carved into tiny bits. Damião also never went to look at anyone he had brought down. What did they look like, anyway? He had seen many a dead person, but those that he had killed—what were they like? What would Firmo be like, this very night? Would he fall forward over his burro, which would carry him along; or would he tumble to the ground, blood flowing from his bosom? They would take him home like that, with the gaping wound in his chest, would take him to the house where he, Damião, had been the other day. Dona Tereza would be there, worried because her husband was so late in coming home. And what would she say when she saw them bringing him in, already cold in death, slain by Negro Damião? The tears would fall, over her chalk-white face. She might even become ill on account of her pregnancy; she might have her child before her time. She might even die, for she was such a weak little thing, so slender in her whiteness.
Thus, in place of killing one, he would have killed two. He would have killed a woman, which was something a brave black man did not do. And the child? He had not reckoned on the child—Damião counted on his fingers—that made three. For there was no longer any doubt in his mind that Tereza was pregnant. To him it was a certainty. He was going to kill three persons that night, a man, a woman, and a child. Children were so pretty, so kind to Negro Damião, he liked them. And with that shot he was going to kill one of them. And Dona Tereza also, with her white flesh, now lying dead in her coffin. He could see the funeral pro
cession setting out for the cemetery in Ferradas, which was the nearest one. It would take a lot of people to carry the three caskets. They would have to get people from round about; they might even come up to the Badaró plantation. And Damião would come and lift the little sky-blue casket of the child, dressed like an angel. It was almost always he who bore the caskets of the “little angels” when a child died on the plantation. Damião would arrange the wildflowers, strew them over the casket, and then lift it to his shoulder. But Firmo’s child he would not be able to lift, for he was the one who had killed it.
Again Negro Damião drew himself up with an effort. His head would not do what he wanted it to—why was that? The truth of the matter was, he had not killed any child, he had not killed Dona Tereza, he had not even killed Firmo as yet. And it was at that moment that the idea of not killing Firmo entered Negro Damião’s head for the first time.
It was no more than a rapid, fugitive thought, but it frightened him nevertheless. He really could not bring himself to think of it. How could he fail to carry out an order of Sinhô Badaró’s? An upright man, Sinhô Badaró. What was more, he was fond of Negro Damião. He would talk with him as they rode along the highway; he treated him almost like a friend. And Don’ Ana also. They gave him money. His wages were two and a half milreis a day, but as a matter of fact he had much more than that, and each man that he brought down meant an additional reward. Not only that, but he had very little work to do; it was a long time now since he had gone to the groves; he always stayed around the Big House, doing little chores, accompanying the colonel on his trips, playing with the children, waiting for orders to kill a man.
That was his profession: killing. Damião was perfectly aware of that fact now. He had always thought that he was a worker on the Badaró plantation, but now he saw that he was no more than a “jagunço,” a back-country ruffian. His profession was killing, and when there were no men to be brought down along the highway, he had nothing to do. If he accompanied Sinhô, it was to guard his boss’s life; it was to kill anybody who tried to shoot the colonel. He was an assassin. That was the word which Sinhô Badaró had used in speaking of Juca in their conversation that afternoon. A word that fitted Damião, also. What was he doing now, if not waiting for a man, to fire on him? He was feeling something on the inside, something that was terribly painful. It hurt like a wound. It was as if someone had stabbed him. The moon shone upon the silent forest. And Damião remembered that he might be rolling himself a cigarette; that would be something to occupy his thoughts.
When he had finished lighting his cigarette, the idea came back to him once more; supposing he did not kill Firmo? It was now a definite idea, and Damião found himself thinking of it. No, that was out of the question. Damião knew perfectly well why Sinhô Badaró had to have Firmo put out of the way. It was in order that he might be able to get hold of Firmo’s grove without any more trouble than was necessary, and so go on to the forest of Sequeiro Grande. Once the Badarós had that forest, theirs would be the biggest plantation in the world, they would have more cacao than all the rest of the folks put together, they would be richer even than Colonel Misael. No, not to do away with Firmo tonight would be to betray the confidence Sinhô had placed in him. If Sinhô had sent him out, it was because he did have confidence in Negro Damião. He, Damião, had to kill. He clung to this thought. He had been killing all these years; why should it be so difficult today?
The worst was Tereza, the white-skinned Dona Tereza, with a child in her womb. She was certainly going to die, and the child as well. He could see her now. Before there had been but the whiteness of the moon; now it was the white face of Firmo’s wife. He had not been drinking, either. Others drank before they came out to kill a man; he never needed to. He was always calm when he arrived, confident of his aim. He never needed to take a drink as the others did, to get drunk in order to kill someone. But today he felt as though he had been drinking a great deal and the rum had gone to his head. He could see Dona Tereza’s white face there on the ground. Before, it had been the moon, the milk-white moon, spreading over the earth. And now Dona Tereza had come, her face so white and sorrowing, with a look of tragic surprise. She was waiting for her husband, waiting for love; and he would come to her dead, a bullet in his chest. From the ground she looked up at Negro Damião. She was begging him not to kill Firmo, for the love of God not to kill him. On the ground the Negro could see her face, perfectly plain. A shudder ran over his giant’s body.
No, he could not listen to her, to Dona Tereza. Sinhô Badaró had sent him and there was nothing that Negro Damião could do about it. He could not betray the confidence of an upright man like Sinhô. Now, had it been Juca who had sent him—but it was Sinhô, Dona Tereza; this Negro can do nothing about it. Your husband is to blame, too. Why the devil wouldn’t he sell the grove? Couldn’t he see that he had no chance against the Badarós? Why wouldn’t he sell the grove, Dona Tereza? Don’t cry—Negro Damião is about to cry himself. He’s a brave lad, and he mustn’t cry, for that would ruin his reputation. Negro Damião swears to you that if he had his way about it, he would not kill Firmo; he would do what you want him to do. But it was Sinhô who sent him, and Negro Damião has nothing to do but to obey.
Who was it said that Dona Tereza was kind? It is a lie! She is opening her mouth now, and in that musical voice of hers she is repeating Sinhô Badaró’s words:
“Do you enjoy killing people? Don’t you feel anything at all? Nothing on the inside?”
Her voice is musical, but terrible at the same time. It is like a curse uttered in the forest, in the Negro’s frightened heart. His cigarette goes out, and from fear of awakening the spirits of the wood he has not the courage to strike a light. It is only now that he thinks of them; for Dona Tereza’s face, projected there on the ground—that is certainly witchcraft. Damião knows that many people have called down a curse upon him. Relatives of those he has slain. Horrible curses, uttered in the hour of suffering and hatred. But all this was far in the past; Damião had barely heard tell of them. Not so now. Now it is Dona Tereza who is here, with her sorrowful eyes, her white face, her voice that is musical and terrible. Calling down curses on Negro Damião’s head. Demanding to know if he feels nothing inside, there in the bottom of his heart. Yes, he does, Dona Tereza. If Negro Damião had his way, he would not kill Firmo. But there is nothing else to do; it is not because he wants to do it, no.
But what if he were to say that he had missed his aim? It was a fresh idea that flashed through Damião’s mind. For a second he beheld the moonlight where Tereza’s face had been. His reputation would be ruined; the other lads did not miss their aim, much less Negro Damião! He was the best shot of all, in all that cacao region. He never had to fire a second time in order to kill a man. The first was always enough. He would be ruined; everybody would laugh at him, even the women, even the children; and Sinhô Badaró would give his place to another. He would become a worker like the others, gathering cacao, driving donkeys, treading cacao seeds in the trough. Everyone would laugh at him. No, he could not do it. Moreover, he would be betraying Sinhô Badaró’s confidence. The colonel needed to have Firmo put out of the way; the one who was to blame was Firmo himself, for being so bull-headed.
Dona Tereza knows everything, she must be a spirit herself, for here she is reminding the Negro, from the ground where her face has once more replaced the moon, that Sinhô had been undecided about it that afternoon and had only sent his men out because Juca had forced him to do so. Damião shrugs his shoulders. Sinhô Badaró, is he the man to decide upon a thing merely because Juca insisted? Anyone who thinks that does not know him. It is plain to be seen that Tereza does not know him—yet here she is recalling details of that conversation, and Damião is beginning to waver. Supposing that Sinhô himself did not want Firmo killed? Supposing that he, too, was sorry for Dona Tereza and for the child in her belly? Supposing that he, too, had felt something inside, like Negro Damião? Damião put his
hands to his head. No, it was not true. It was all a lie on Dona Tereza’s part—Dona Tereza, with her sorceries. If Sinhô Badaró had not wanted Firmo put out of the way, he would not have sent him. Sinhô Badaró only did what he wanted to do. That was why he was rich and the head of the family. Juca was afraid of him, in spite of all his boasting and strutting. Who was there who was not afraid of Sinhô Badaró? Only himself, Negro Damião. But if he did not kill Firmo, he was going to be afraid all his life long; he would never be able to look Sinhô Badaró in the face again.
From the ground Dona Tereza’s voice is laughing up at the Negro: “So it is only out of fear of Sinhô Badaró that he is going to kill Firmo? Out of fear of Sinhô Badaró? And this is Negro Damião, who is said to be the bravest lad in these parts?” Dona Tereza laughs, a crystal-clear and mocking laugh that shakes the Negro’s nerves. He is trembling all over, inside. The laugh comes from the ground, comes from the forest, the highway, the sky, from everywhere; they are all saying that he is afraid, that he is a coward—he, Negro Damião, whose name is in the newspapers.
Dona Tereza, don’t laugh anymore, or I’m capable of putting a bullet into you. I never fired on a woman; a man doesn’t do that. But I’m capable of firing on you if you don’t stop laughing. Don’t laugh at Negro Damião, Dona Tereza. This Negro is not afraid of Sinhô Badaró. He respects him; he does not want to betray the confidence that Sinhô has in him. I swear to God, that’s so. Don’t laugh anymore, or I’ll let you have a bullet. I’ll put a bullet into that white face of yours.
