The Violent Land

by Jorge Amado

  “That’s why you see me drinking like this. I might be lying there stretched out in the road.”

  Ester shuddered, the bottle trembling in her hand. Virgilio, also, was now suddenly a part of the scene. There before him was a man who had just escaped death. It was the first time he had come into direct contact with one of these occurrences of which his friends had spoken to him in Bahia as he was preparing to leave for Ilhéos. Even so, he did not quite grasp the significance of it. He assumed that Horacio’s wrinkled forehead and the anxious look on Maneca Dantas’s face merely reflected their emotions at seeing a man who had almost been assassinated. During the relatively short time that he had been in the cacao country he had heard much talk of such things, but he had not as yet encountered anything concrete. The row at Tabocas between Horacio’s men and those from the Badaró estate had occurred while he was back in Bahia on a vacation. When he returned, there was still much gossip, but he had had his doubts about a number of things. He had heard people speak of the forest of Sequeiro Grande, had heard it said that both Horacio and the Badarós coveted the woods in question, but he never had attached any particular importance to it all. Moreover, the Horacio whom he now beheld, in that outlandish sleeping-garment, was a clown, a comic figure serving to round out the impression formed of him at the dinner table and later in the drawing-room. If it had not been for Firmo’s manner, the drama of the situation would have been lost on Virgilio. He was, accordingly, surprised when Horacio turned to Maneca Dantas and said:

  “There’s nothing else to be done. They’re asking for it; we’re going to let them have it.”

  That firm and energetic voice was something Virgilio had not expected. It was out of keeping with his previous impression of the colonel. In response to his questioning glance Horacio went on to explain how matters stood.

  “We’ll be needing you very much, doctor. When I asked Seabra to send me down a good attorney, I already could see that this was going to happen. We’re the under-dog in politics down here, we can’t depend on the courts, and so what we need is someone who knows the law. I don’t have confidence in Doctor Ruy anymore; he’s a drunkard, and he’s quarrelled with everybody, even with the judge and the notaries. He makes a good speech, but that’s all he’s good for. What we need down here is an attorney with a head on him.”

  The frankness with which Horacio spoke of attorneys and their profession and of courts of justice, his strong words masked by a certain air of contempt, was a fresh shock to Virgilio. His picture of the colonel as an amusing dull-witted clown was spoiled for him.

  “But what is it all about?” he asked.

  The men formed a strange group standing there, all of them, around Firmo, whose clothes were wet with rain and who was still panting from his hard ride: Horacio, enormous in his white nightgown; Virgilio, smoking nervously; Maneca Dantas, pale-faced and unaware of the shirt-tail sticking out of his trousers. Ester, who had sat down, had eyes only for Virgilio. She, too, was pale, for she knew that the struggle for the possession of Sequeiro Grande was about to begin. More important than this fact, however, was Virgilio’s presence, the new pulse-beat of her heart, the inner happiness of a kind she had never known before.

  “Let’s sit down,” said Horacio as Virgilio put his question.

  There was in his voice a note of authority that was also new, as if an order of his admitted of no discussion. Virgilio now recalled the Horacio of whom they gossiped in Tabocas and in Ilhéos: his many killings; the old wives’ tale of the Devil in a bottle. He now found himself wavering between two images: one, that of a strong and powerful man, a lord and master; the other, of an ignorant and unprepossessing clown who was a very weak creature indeed. From his chair Horacio spoke, and the image of the clown disappeared.

  “This is what it’s all about,” he began. “This forest of Sequeiro Grande is good cacao land, the best in the country. No one yet has gone into it to do any planting. The only person who lives there is a crazy man who works cures. On this side of the forest is my property, and I’ve already bit off a chunk of it. On the other side is the Badaró plantation, and they’ve done the same. But very little on either side. That forest means everything, doctor. Whoever gets it will be the richest man around Ilhéos. He will also be master, at the same time, of Tabocas, of Ferradas, of trains and ships.”

  The others were drinking in his words, Maneca Dantas nodding his head. Virgilio was beginning to grasp it. Firmo had recovered from his fright.

  “Here on this side of the forest, between my place and the Badarós’, is friend Maneca and his plantation. Farther up is Teodoro das Baraúnas. But there are only the two big estates. The rest are small groves, like Firmo’s, a score of them or so. And all of them nibbling at the forest, without the courage to go in. For a long time I’ve planned to cut down the Sequeiro Grande. The Badarós know it very well. They’re butting in because they mean to—”

  He stared straight in front of him. The last words he had spoken sounded as though they presaged an irremediable disaster.

  “They’re riding high in politics,” explained Maneca Dantas. “That’s why they dare—”

  There was one thing that Virgilio wanted to know.

  “But what has Firmo to do with all this?”

  “His grove,” said Horacio, “happens to lie between the forest and the Badarós’ property. They tried to buy it of him some time ago, even offered him more than it was worth. But Firmo is my friend; he’s been a political follower of mine for many years; and so he consulted me about it, and I advised him not to sell. I knew what a temptation it was to the Badarós to set foot in that woods, but I never dreamed they would try to have Firmo put out of the way. That means they’ve made up their minds. Well, they’re asking for it.”

  His voice held a threat, and the other men lowered their gaze. Horacio laughed that ingrowing laugh of his. Virgilio saw him now as a giant of inconceivable strength. At the sound of his imperious tones the funny flowers in his nightgown vanished. The colonel made a gesture and Ester served another round of rum.

  “Do you think, doctor,” he said, “that Seabra is going to win the election?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  “That’s good—I believe you.” He spoke as if he had taken a definite resolve, as was apparent when he rose and went over to Firmo.

  “What do you say?” he inquired of the latter. “And you, my friend,” turning to Maneca Dantas. “Do you think there’s any grove-owner on the edge of the forest who won’t be with me?”

  Firmo was the first to speak.

  “They will all be with you.”

  Maneca felt called upon to qualify that statement.

  “I can’t vouch for Teodoro das Baraúnas. He hangs around the Badarós a lot.”

  It did not take Horacio long to reach a decision.

  “You, Firmo, will go back this very minute. I’ll send a couple of men with you. You talk to the others, to Braz, to José da Ribeira, to the Widow Merenda, to Coló—talk to them all. And don’t forget our friend Jarde; he’s a fellow with nerve. Tell them all to come over for lunch tomorrow. The lawyer’s here and we’ll put it all down in black and white. I take the forest all the way down to the river, and the rest of it, what’s on the other side, you can divide among you. And that goes for the land we take as well. Is that agreed?”

  Firmo assented; he was already on his feet, preparing to leave. Virgilio had a giddy feeling. He glanced at Ester, who was white as could be—pale was not the word for it. She had not spoken a syllable. Horacio was now talking to Maneca Dantas, giving orders; he was the lord and master.

  “And you, my friend, you go talk to Teodoro. Explain the matter to him. If he wants to come along tomorrow, let him come. I’ll make an agreement with him. But if he’s not willing, let him get ready, for it’s going to rain lead for fifty miles around.”

  He went out on the lawn. Virgilio gazed a
fter him, his eyes big with astonishment. Then, turning timidly to Ester, he found her distant, all but unattainable. Outside, Horacio was shouting orders in the direction of the labourers’ huts.

  “Algemiro! Joe Littlefinger! Red John!”

  In response to his call they all came up to the veranda. Out in front the burros were saddled, the men armed. They set out together, Maneca, Firmo, and the three capangas, the hoofs of the cavalcade echoing in the early dawn. Virgilio and Ester went back into the room, and she came up to him. Her face was livid. She spoke rapidly, as though the words were torn from her heart.

  “Take me away from here—far, far away.”

  Before Virgilio could reply they heard Horacio’s footsteps. The colonel came in.

  “That forest,” he said, speaking to his wife and the attorney, “is going to be mine, if I have to drench the earth in blood. You may as well get ready, doctor; the row’s about to start.” Then, discovering Ester’s fear: “You can go to Ilhéos; that’ll be better.” But it was the things that were happening that held his interest. “Doctor, you’re going to see how we get rid of a bunch of bandits. For that’s all the Badarós are, bandits.”

  Taking Virgilio by the arm, he led him out to the veranda. In the nearing dawn the earth was suffused in a dim and mournful light.

  “Over there, doctor,” said Horacio, pointing to the far-distant horizon, which was barely visible, “over there lies the forest of Sequeiro Grande. One day it’s all going to be in cacao. I’m as certain of that as I am that my name is Horacio da Silveira.”

  11

  As the dog howled on the lawn, Don’ Ana Badaró, who was seated in the hammock, shuddered. It was not fear; in the city and in the neighbouring towns people were in the habit of saying that the Badarós did not know what fear was. But she was worried; for she had felt certain, all afternoon, that they were keeping something from her, that between her father and her uncle there was a secret of which the women of the household were ignorant. Noting the absence of Damião and Viriato, she had asked Juca about it, and he had replied that the men had “gone on an errand.” She could tell by the sound of his voice that he was lying, but she said nothing. There was something serious in the wind, she could feel it, and it made her restless. The dog was howling again, baying the moon with the anguish of the male on a night when he is in rut. Don’ Ana glanced at her father’s face. With half-closed eyes he was waiting for her to begin reading. Sinhô Badaró was calm; there was a deep serenity in his eyes and in his beard and in his big hands resting on his things; everything about him spoke of peace and assurance. Had it not been for Juca fidgeting in his chair, the howling of the dog would not, perhaps, have had the effect that it did upon Don’ Ana.

  They were in the parlour, and the hour for Bible-reading had come. This was a custom of many years’ standing, dating back to the time of Dona Lidia, Don’ Ana’s mother. She had been a religious woman and had loved to look in the Bible for some word of advice in connection with her husband’s business affairs. After her death, Sinhô had kept up the custom religiously. No matter where he might be, at the plantation, in Ilhéos, or even in Bahia on business—no matter where he was, someone had to read to him every night scattered passages from the Bible, in which he sought for counsel or for words of prophecy that would throw some light on his undertakings. Following Lidia’s death Sinhô had grown constantly more religious, now mixing his Catholicism with a little spiritualism and a great deal of superstition. Above all, this habit of Bible-reading had become a deeply rooted one with him. There was much wagging of tongues about it in Ilhéos, and there was a story going the rounds of the cafés to the effect that, one night in Bahia, Sinhô had decided to go to a house of prostitution, but that, before staying with the whore, he had taken the old, well-thumbed Bible out of his pocket and had made her read him a few verses. It was on account of this yarn that Juca Badaró had had a fight in Zeca Tripa’s place and had smashed in the face of the apothecary, Carlos da Silva, who had related the anecdote amid loud guffaws.

  After Dona Lidia died, Don’ Ana became the Bible-reader. Whether at the plantation or in Ilhéos, she had to leaf through the soiled and frequently torn pages of this ancient copy of Holy Writ, a copy that Sinhô Badarô refused to exchange for another, being certain that this one held the magic power to guide him. Nor was he shaken in this resolve when Canon Freitas, who was sleeping at the plantation one night, called his attention to the fact that it was a Protestant Bible, and that it was not becoming in a Catholic to be reading an “anathematized” book. Sinhô Badaró did not know the meaning of the word “anathematized,” and asked for no explanation. He merely replied that it made very little difference, that he had always got along well enough with this one, and that, moreover, “a Bible was not something that you changed every year like an almanac.” At a loss for arguments, Canon Freitas deemed it best to remain silent; after all, he concluded, it was quite a marvellous thing for a “colonel” to be reading the Bible—any Bible—every night.

  There was another point on which Sinhô was firm. He would not permit Don’ Ana to direct the reading, as she had endeavoured to do when she had first taken Lidia’s place as housekeeper. She had suggested starting with the first page and reading through to the end, but Sinhô had protested; he felt that the Bible should be opened at random, since for him it was a magic book and the passage that was thus found was the one that held a message for him. When he was not satisfied, he would ask his daughter to open to another, and another, and another, until he came upon one that appeared to have some bearing on the business in hand. He would listen most attentively to the words—many of which he did not understand—seeking to find a meaning in them and interpreting them after his own fashion, in the light of his own needs and desires. More than once he had carried through a business deal or had failed to carry it through in accordance with the sayings of Moses and of Abraham, and he would declare that never once had they failed to stand him in good stead. Woe to that person, relative or guest, who, coming in at the Bible-reading hour, should venture to discuss the matter or voice a protest. Sinhô Badaró then would lose his calm and there would be an outburst of wrath. Not even Juca dared object to this custom, which to him was extremely annoying. He had to force himself to pay attention, finding amusement in those passages which had to do with sexual matters—he was the only one who understood certain words, whose real meaning escaped Sinhô and Don’ Ana alike.

  The latter gazed at her father as he sat there so serenely in his high-backed chair. Through half-shut lids he appeared to be studying the picture on the wall, that picture which he had picked up in Bahia when he remembered that the parlour needed something to brighten it up. She, too, looked at the chromo and could feel all the peace that emanated from it. Juca, meanwhile, was becoming more and more fidgety, having lost interest in the newspaper he was reading, a paper from Bahia that was two weeks old. The dog howled again.

  “The next time I come back from Ilhéos,” said Juca, “I’m going to bring along a bitch. Pery feels the need of one.”

  To Don’ Ana these words had a false ring, as if Juca were merely trying to conceal his agitation with the sound of his own voice. They were not deceiving her; there was something up, something serious. Where were Damião and Viriato? Many times before, Don’ Ana had been conscious of this air of perturbation in the house, this secretive atmosphere. Sometimes it was not until days afterwards that she would hear that a man had been killed and that the Badaró estate had been increased in size. She was terribly hurt by their hiding things from her as if she were a child.

  Taking her eyes from her uncle, whose statement had met with no response, she began envying the calm manner in which Olga, Juca’s wife, sat crocheting in a chair at her husband’s side. Olga spent very little time at the plantation; and when, upon Juca’s compulsion, she took the train from Ilhéos to spend a month with Don’ Ana, she would arrive in tears and full of self-pity. Her life was wrapp
ed up in the gossip of Ilhéos, and she loved to play the martyr for the benefit of the pious old ladies of the town and her women friends by complaining day and night of her spouse’s amorous escapades. At first she had actively resented his successive infidelities and had sent some rowdies to threaten the women who were involved with him. She once had had these ruffians assault a young mulatto girl whom Juca was keeping; but his reaction to this had been so violent—the neighbours said that he had beaten her—that she afterwards had been compelled to be content with gossiping and with complaining to everyone she met, as she put on the air of a victim resigned to her fate, whose only consolation lay in the feast-days and rites of the Church. This was her very life; she enjoyed nothing so much as bemoaning her lot and listening to the pious dames, with their mutterings and lamentations. It is quite possible that she would have felt that she had been cheated, had Juca of a sudden been converted into a model husband.

  Olga loathed the plantation, where Sinhô turned a deaf ear to her wailings, and where Don’ Ana, busy all day long, had little time to condole with her. The latter, moreover, had the Badaró view of things and found nothing wrong in Juca’s adventures so long as he gave his wife everything she needed. That was the way it had been with her father, that was the way it was with all men, Don’ Ana reflected. Then, too, Olga had not the faintest interest in any of the family problems; hating the country, she was wholly ignorant of everything that had to do with cacao-raising. In short, she impressed her sister-in-law as being an utter stranger, a person who was at once distant and dangerous, one who breathed a different atmosphere from that which she, Sinhô, and Juca did. Nevertheless, at this moment she eyed Olga with a certain envy for the calm indifference that Juca’s wife was displaying in the presence of this mystery with which the room was laden. Don’ Ana felt that something very serious was taking place, and she was both grieved and angry that they should be keeping the secret from her instead of according her the place that was rightfully hers in the Badaró family councils. She delayed the Bible-reading as her eyes wandered from face to face.