The Violent Land

by Jorge Amado

  When upon the advice of the opposition leader he had accepted the post of attorney for the party at Tabocas, Virgilio had spent hours in endeavouring to convince Margot that she should come with him. She had been unwilling, had not wished to leave the merrymakings and all the life and movement of Bahia. She had always thought that upon graduation he would go to Rio de Janeiro, and Virgilio himself had thought the same in his student days. The party chieftains, however, had succeeded in convincing him that, if he wanted a career, he ought to spend a few years in the new cacao country. He accordingly had gone there, in spite of Margot’s declaration that all was over between them. It had been a painful night, that last one in the American House. She had wept and clung to him and had accused him of abandoning her—he did not love her anymore. The truth was that Margot was afraid.

  “You’ll go down there and marry some rich backwoods girl and leave me stuck off in the bushes. I’m not going.”

  “You don’t love me. If you did, you’d come.”

  He had possessed her amid all the anguished quarrelling of that night, which they had thought would be their last together. They had refined upon their love-making, each being desirous of preserving a cherished memory of the other.

  He had come down alone; but only a few weeks had gone by when she unexpectedly put in an appearance, scandalizing Ilhéos with her gowns, which were in the latest fashion, with her broad-brimmed hats and painted face. The night of her arrival the streets of the town were filled with amorous sighs. She had gone with him to Tabocas and at first had behaved well enough. She seemed to have forgotten the gay and brilliant life of Bahia; she even gave evidence of becoming a housewife by caring for his clothes and superintending the preparation of meals in the kitchen. She was, in short, wholly devoted to him. She now paid a little less attention to her toilet, let her hair fall to her shoulders, and even failed to complain about the lack of hairdressers capable of fashioning those complicated structures which she formerly had worn upon her head.

  Again they lived apart in order to avoid offending local prejudices. After all, he was the legal representative of a political party; he had his responsibilities. And so Margot lived in a pretty little cottage with a girl who was being kept by a merchant of the town. There Virgilio spent a great part of the day. At times, in case of emergency, he would even receive his clients there. He ate there, slept there, and it was there that he drew up his briefs for the cases that he had to try in the court of Ilhéos.

  Margot appeared to be happy; her ultra-fashionable gowns were forgotten in the wardrobe, and she no longer spoke of Bahia. But she was little by little growing tired of it all, as she came to realize that the time she would have to spend here was longer than she had thought. Moreover, Virgilio as a rule avoided taking her to Ilhéos on his repeated trips, in order not to arouse malicious gossip. When she did go, it was in another train, and in the city she saw little of him. But worst of all, she had caught a glimpse of him once or twice engaged in conversation with marriageable young women, the daughters of wealthy planters. At such times Margot would bring the roof down with her screams; it was no use Virgilio’s telling her that he had to do this in order to further his career; she was unimpressed by such arguments. They would then have a passionate quarrel, with Margot throwing up to him the sacrifice she was making for his sake, stuck off there as she was in the sticks when she might be in Bahia living on the fat of the land; for surely there must be some rich business man or politican who had already made a success in life, and who would be only too glad to set her up in a little place of her own. Many had asked her already, but she had left everything to come running after him. She was a fool, that was what she was.

  “Cléo was right when she said I shouldn’t come down here—that this was the way it would be.”

  These quarrels always ended with the opening of a bottle of champagne and with the sound of kisses in a night of delirious love-making. But Margot would find herself left each time with an ever greater longing for the merry life of Bahia, strengthened by the certainty that Virgilio would never leave this country. For one reason or another their quarrels grew more frequent, coming every few days now as she began complaining about the lack of dressmakers and similar inconveniences: she was losing what hair she had, she was getting fat, and she had forgotten how to dance, it had been so long since she had had an opportunity.

  But this afternoon things were more serious. When he had announced that he was going to Ilhéos for a couple of weeks or more, she had been very happy about it. Say what you might, Ilhéos was a city; she would be able to dance in Nhôzinho’s café, and there were a few women there with whom it was possible to hold a conversation—they were not like these filthy whores in Tabocas, most of whom came from the groves, having been deflowered by the colonels or their overseers, after which they had fallen in with the life of the town. Even the woman with whom she lived, the merchant’s mistress, was a mulatto girl who could not read, with a pretty figure and an idiotic laugh; a planter’s son had been her downfall, and the merchant had then taken her out of the rua do Poço, which was the street where the women of easy virtue lived. In Ilhéos there were girls who had been to Bahia and Recife and even to Rio, and with them one could talk about clothes and ways of doing one’s hair. It was not strange, then, if she was overjoyed when Virgilio had spoken of a stay in Ilhéos. Running up to him, she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him time and again on the mouth.

  “How nice! How nice!”

  But her happiness was of short duration, as he informed her that he could not take her with him. Before he had a chance to explain, she had burst out weeping and sobbing.

  “You’re ashamed of me!” she screamed. “Or else you’ve got somebody else in Ilhéos. You’re quite capable of taking up with some brazen hussy. But I’m telling you, I’ll scratch her eyes out, I’ll make such a scandal that all the world will know about it. You don’t know what I’m like when I’m angry.”

  Virgilio let her scream. When her tears and sobs had at last subsided, he began explaining, in a voice that he strove to make as caressing as possible, why it was that he could not take her. He was going on business, important business, and there would be no time for him to look after her. Surely she knew of the ugly situation between Horacio and the Badarós over the forest of Sequeiro Grande? She nodded her head; yes, she knew. But she could not see that that was any reason for his leaving her behind. As for his not having time to spend with her, that did not matter. He would not have to work all night long, and at night she could go to the café with him while they were in Ilhéos.

  Virgilio was still seeking for arguments. He sensed that there was a reason for her attitude; the note of distrust that had crept into her voice, her vague accusations with regard to another woman, the half-angry, half-frightened look that she gave him—all of these signs were not lost upon him. If he was not taking her with him on this trip, it was not because he was going to be occupied solely with Horacio’s affairs; he was also planning to have some time for Ester. For he was unable to put Ester out of his mind. He could still hear, day and night, that murmured plea for help, while her husband was on the veranda:

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

  Virgilio knew that if Margot were in Ilhéos, it would not be long before she heard some bit of malevolent gossip, and then his life would be a hell; for she was capable of making a scandal that might involve Ester. Ester and Margot: he could not think of the two of them together; their names were not to be uttered in the same breath. The one had been the sweetheart of his wild student days. The other was the love that he had found among the forests, the love that comes one day and is stronger than the world. No, he did not want Margot with him, his mind was made up as to that. But he did not wish to hurt her, for he could not hurt a woman. Like a despairing man, he sought for some argument that would clinch the matter; and he believed that he had found it when he told Margot that if he did no
t want to leave her alone during the day in Ilhéos it was because he was jealous; Machadão’s house, where she always put up, was the one most frequented by the wealthiest of the colonels. Yes, that was the reason that he was not taking her: he was jealous. As he said this, he endeavoured to put into his voice all the conviction that he could muster. Margot now was smiling through her tears, and he felt that he had won. He hoped that the matter was settled as she came over and seated herself in his lap.

  “So you’re jealous of your little girl?” she said. “Why? You know very well that I never pay attention to any propositions that are made to me. If I let myself be stuck away out here, it is for your sake. What reason, then, would I have for deceiving you?” Kissing him again, she went on: “Take me with you, honey; I swear I won’t put my foot out the door except to go with you to the café. I won’t leave my room; I won’t talk to any man. While you’re busy, I’ll spend the day shut up in my room.”

  Virgilio felt himself weakening. He decided to change his tactics.

  “I don’t know what you find so terrible about Tabocas that you can’t spend ten days here without my company. You only want to be in Ilhéos.”

  It was then that she rose and pointed to the street. “It’s a cemetery.”

  With this she began talking once more about what a mistake it was, his sacrificing his own future and her life like this. Again Virgilio thought of attempting an explanation; but he realized that it was of no use, that his affair with Margot had come to an end. Ever since he had known Ester he had had eyes for no other woman. Even in bed with Margot he was not the lover of old, sensual and passionately desirous of her body. Already he looked upon her charms with a certain indifference: the rounded thighs, the virgin breasts, all the little tricks that she knew by way of rendering the hour of love more pleasurable. His bosom was filled with desire, but it was desire of Ester; he wanted her, the whole of her: her thoughts, her body, her heart—everything. That was why it was he had remained open-mouthed, as if about to say something. Margot waited, and when he did not speak but merely raised a hand, as much as to say it was not worth the effort, she returned to the charge.

  “You treat me like a slave, taking yourself off to Ilhéos and leaving me here. And now you come around with this story about being jealous. It’s all a lie. I’m the one that’s being made a fool of. But I’m not going to be one any longer. The next time anyone wants to take me to Ilhéos or Bahia, I’m going to clear out.”

  Virgilio was losing his temper. “So far as I’m concerned, my dear, you can go ahead. Do you think I’m going to die of a broken heart?”

  She was furious. “Oh, what a fool I am! And with all the men there are running after me. Juca Badaró is just waiting for me to say the word. And here I am, making a fool of myself over you, while all you think about is traipsing off to Ilhéos. You’ve got some rich girl that you’re marrying for her money. I’m sure of that.”

  Virgilio rose from his chair, his eyes flaring with anger. “Shut your mouth!”

  “I won’t shut my mouth! It must be true, all the same. You’re out to pull the wool over some country girl’s eyes and get your fingers on her money.”

  With the back of his hand Virgilio struck her on the mouth. As the blood spurted from her lip, a look of fright and astonishment came over Margot’s face. She was about to hurl an insult at him, then broke into sobs.

  “You don’t love me anymore or you wouldn’t have struck me.”

  He, too, was disturbed by what he had done; he could not understand how he had come to do a thing like that. It occurred to him that the very atmosphere of this country must be getting into his blood, must be changing him. He was not the same man who had arrived some months before from Bahia, every inch the gentleman, who never would have thought of striking a woman. Upon him, also, a civilized being from another region, the land of cacao had begun to weigh heavily. He hung his head in shame, gazing regretfully at his hand, then went up to Margot, took out his handkerchief, and wiped the drop of blood from her lip.

  “Forgive me, my dear. I lost my head. I have so much on my mind, it makes me nervous. And then your talk about leaving me for Juca Badaró, about going away with another man. I didn’t mean to—” She sobbed, and he added: “Don’t cry any-more; I’ll take you to Ilhéos with me.”

  Margot raised her head; she was smiling already, for she believed that it was out of jealousy that he had struck her. She felt more his than ever now: Virgilio was her man. She huddled against him, making herself very small. And then, filled with desire, she drew him with her to the bedroom.

  6

  The shouts of the tailors reached Dr. Jessé as he went down the street: “Doctor! Dr. Jessé! Come here!”

  The four tailors stood in the doorway of the Parisian Shears, the best tailor-shop in Tabocas, owned by Tonico Borges, who at the moment held the pieces of a pair of trousers in one hand and a needle and thread in the other. The Parisian Shears was not only the best tailor-shop in Tabocas; it was also, as everyone admitted, the headquarters for the most malicious local gossip. Here everything was known, even to the food that was eaten in private homes, and everything that happened was duly discussed. On this particular day the Parisian Shears was buzzing with excitement on account of the news that had just arrived from Ferradas in the wake of Horacio and his retinue. It was for this reason that Tonico Borges was shouting at the top of his voice for Dr. Jessé. The latter’s presence was urgently needed by way of throwing light on a number of matters.

  Short, squat, and puffing, his hat on the back of his head, his spectacles falling down over his nose, his boots thoroughly splashed with mud, the physician came up to them and inquired what it was they wanted of him. One of the tailors hastened to bring him a chair.

  “Make yourself comfortable, doctor.”

  Dr. Jessé sat down, depositing his instrument-case on the brick floor. That case was famous in the town, for in it was to be found the most diverse collection of objects imaginable: everything from a bistoury to dried cacao seeds, from injections to ripe fruit, from medicine phials to rent receipts for the houses that the doctor owned. Tonico Borges, who had gone to the rear of the shop, now returned with a big, ripe avocado.

  “I was saving that for you, doctor,” he said.

  Jessé thanked him and stowed the fruit away in his case. The tailors formed a circle about him, having drawn up their chairs as close to him as possible at a point that afforded them at the same time a view of the entire street.

  “Well, what’s new?” said Dr. Jessé.

  “That’s for you to tell us, doctor. You’re the one that knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “Well, they’re saying around here that things are getting hot between Colonel Horacio and the Badarós,” one of the other tailors began.

  “And that Juca Badaró is lining up people for his side.” Tonico completed the sentence for him.

  “You call that news?” said the doctor. “I could have—”

  “But there’s one thing I’ll guarantee you don’t know, doctor.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “That Juca Badaró has already sent for an engineer to survey the forest of Sequeiro Grande.”

  “What’s that you say? Where did you hear it?”

  Tonico made a mysterious gesture. “A little bird told me, doctor. Is there anything in Tabocas that everybody doesn’t know? When they have nothing to talk about, they make something up.”

  But Dr. Jessé was not satisfied with this. “Seriously speaking,” he said, “who was it that told you?”

  Tonico Borges lowered his voice: “It was Azevedo, who runs the hardware store. It was in his place that Juca wrote out the telegram sending for the man.”

  “That I didn’t know. I’ll have to get a message to friend Horacio this very day.” The tailors glanced at one another; they did not like the look of things.

&n
bsp; “They say,” Tonico went on, “that Colonel Horacio has sent Dona Ester to Ilhéos, so that she will not be in danger on the plantation. They say he means to go into the forest this week, that he has an agreement with Braz, with Firmo, with José da Ribeira, and with Jarde for the division of the timberland. He is to take half, and the rest is to be divided among them. Is that true, doctor?”

  “It’s news to me,” replied the latter evasively.

  “But, doctor,” and Tonico Borges rolled his eyes, “it is even known that it was Lawyer Virgilio who drew up the contract, with a seal and everything. Ah! and Maneca Dantas, he’s in on it, too. Everybody knows it, doctor; it’s an open secret.”

  Dr. Jessé finally owned up, confessing, even, that he himself was to get a slice of the forest.

  “So you have a finger in the pie, do you, doctor?” said Tonico, jestingly. Have you bought your Colt .38 yet? Or maybe you’d like an old-fashioned horse-pistol? I have one that I’ll sell you, in good condition.”

  Dr. Jessé joined in the laugh that greeted this remark: “I’m pretty old to start out being a bad man.”

  They all laughed loudly, for Dr. Jessé’s cowardice was proverbial. And the astonishing part of it was that, in spite of this, he was looked upon with respect in the land of cacao. For the one thing that would utterly ruin a man in the region that extended from Ferradas to Ilhéos was a reputation for being a coward: such a man was one without a future in these towns and highways. If there was one virtue that was required of any male who undertook to live in southern Bahia in this period of the opening up of the country, it was that of personal courage. How otherwise venture among these jagunços and conquistadores, these unscrupulous lawyers and remorseless assassins, unless one had a complete disregard as to whether one lived or died? The man who did not react to an insult, who fled from a row, who did not have some tale of personal bravery to relate—such a man was not taken seriously by the grapiúnas.