by Jorge Amado
Dr. Jessé was the one exception to this rule. A physician in Tabocas, a councilman at Ilhéos, Horacio’s perpetual candidate, and one of the political leaders of the opposition, he was the sole person who could still retain the public’s esteem in spite of the fact that all knew him to be chicken-hearted. His cowardice was indeed proverbial, being employed as a standard of measurement for that of others: “He’s almost as big a coward as Dr. Jessé” or “He’s a bigger coward than Dr. Jessé ever thought of being.” This was not, as might be imagined, a gibe levelled at him by his political enemies; the members of his own party knew that they could not count on him when a row was brewing. Stories that went to prove the doctor’s lack of courage were told even in the wine-shops and the houses of prostitution.
For example, in connection with another brawl here in Tabocas, comparable to the one between Horacio and the Badarós, it was related how Dr. Jessé had gone down to a whorehouse and hidden himself underneath a bed. Then there was that rally in Ilhéos during the last campaign for the election of senators and deputies. There had come down from Bahia, as the opposition candidate for this region, a young fellow, son of a former Governor of the state, who was just beginning his political career. He was frightened out of his wits: for he had been told terrible things about this country, and he expected every minute to receive a bullet or a dagger-thrust. Horacio had sent his lads over to keep order at the meeting, and they had taken their places about the speakers’ platform, revolvers in their belts, ready for anything. The Badaró ruffians, meanwhile, had scattered out through the crowd, being anxious to hear the young fellow from Bahia, who had the reputation of being a good speaker. Half drunk as always, Lawyer Ruy had opened the meeting, with a few digs at the federal government. Then came Dr. Jessé, whose business it was to introduce the candidate to the voters; and finally the visitor himself. The latter walked to the front of the small platform, which had been hastily improvised out of planks and packing cases and which swayed beneath the weight of the speakers, and cleared his throat by way of claiming the attention of his hearers. A dead silence fell.
“Senhoras, senhores, and senhoritas,” he began. “I—”
That was as far as he got. There being no senhoras and no senhoritas present, some rowdy cried out: “Your mother was a senhorita!” There was a laugh at this, while others called for silence. The speaker then said something about “lack of breeding,” and in the hullabaloo that followed, the lads from the Badaró estate drew their guns and began firing, with Horacio’s men answering in kind. It was at this point, as the tale had it, that the youthful candidate tried to crawl under the platform in order to escape the bullets that were whirring about his head, but he found the space already occupied by Dr. Jessé, who not only refused to make room for him, but who reproved him severely.
“If you don’t want to ruin yourself forever, sir, you’d better get back up there. I’m the only one around here who has a right to hide, for everybody knows that I’m a coward.”
The youth from Bahia, however, could not see it that way, and when he forcibly insisted on crawling under the platform, a tussle ensued. This was said to be the one and only time that Dr. Jessé had ever been known to get into a brawl, and the bystanders, who were in a position to take it all in, asserted that it was the funniest sight they had ever seen—like a hair-pulling match between two women trying to scratch each other’s eyes out.
Tonico Borges drew up his chair to the doctor’s side. “Do you know who came to town this morning?”
“Who?”
“Colonel Teodoro. They say he’s siding with the folks up at the plantation.”
Dr. Jessé was astonished. “Teodoro? What has he got to do with it?”
Tonico could not tell him. “All I know is, he came in with a lot of jagunços. What he’s up to I couldn’t say. But he’s got nerve, eh, doctor?”
“I’ll say he has,” put in another of the tailors, “coming into Tabocas like that, with so many of Colonel Horacio’s men here. And then that answer he sent back—how did it go, Tonico?”
Tonico knew it by heart: “The answer he gave Maneca Dantas was: ‘You can tell Horacio that I’m not joining up with anybody like him, that I don’t do business with muledrivers.’”
Such was the response that Maneca had received when, in Horacio’s name, he had gone to invite Teodoro to join them in the conquest of the Sequeiro Grande forest. Dr. Jessé was fairly agape by this time.
“Why,” he said, “you know everything. Life is cheap here, and no one escapes.”
One of the tailors laughed. “It’s a great sport down this way, doctor.”
Tonico Borges then wanted to know if Horacio had given any orders concerning Teodoro, in case the latter came to Tabocas.
“I don’t know—I don’t know anything.” And the doctor picked up his case and hurriedly rose, as if he had remembered something urgent that he had to do. But before he left, Tonico had a final bit of gossip for him:
“They tell me, doctor, that Lawyer Virgilio is hanging around Dona Ester.”
Dr. Jessé’s manner was grave, as he paused with one foot in the door.
“If you want the advice of a man who has lived in these parts for going on twenty years,” he said, “here it is: say anything you want to about anything and anybody, say anything you want to about Horacio, even, but don’t ever say anything about that wife of his. For if he hears of it, I wouldn’t give a penny for your life. That’s a friend’s advice.”
With this he went out, leaving Tonico Borges ghastly pale with fright.
“Do you think he will tell Colonel Horacio?” Tonico asked the others.
Despite their assurances that Dr. Jessé would not do so, that he was a good fellow, Tonico could not rest until he had gone around to the physician’s consulting-room and had asked him not to tell the colonel; for that story had been told him “by the woman who lived with Margot, and who had overheard a quarrel between Virgilio and his girl about some wench or other, who, she thought, might be Dona Ester.”
“This is a terrible place, doctor,” he concluded. “They talk about everybody. No one can escape their tongues. But my mouth is sealed from now on. You won’t hear a peep out of me. I was only telling you, doctor.”
“Don’t let it worry you,” said Dr. Jessé soothingly. “So far as I am concerned, Horacio will never know anything about it. But now the best thing for you to do is to keep quiet. Unless you’re thinking of committing suicide.”
He opened the door, Tonico went out, and a woman came in. The doctor at once began rummaging in his surgical case for a stethoscope. In the waiting-room men and women sat conversing. One woman with a child by the hand, upon catching sight of the tailor, left her chair and came up to him.
“How are you, friend Tonico?” she inquired with a smile.
“Very well, Dona Zefinha. And you, senhora?”
She made no reply, for she was in a hurry to tell him what she knew.
“Have you heard of the scandal?”
“What scandal?”
“Colonel Totonho of Riacho Doce has left his wife and family to go chasing after a hussy, some flighty young thing from Bahia. They got on the train together, in plain sight of everybody.”
Tonico made a gesture of boredom. “That’s old, Dona Zefinha,” he said. “But I have some news that I’ll guarantee you haven’t heard, senhora.”
The woman was bursting with curiosity; her body was trembling all over from nervousness. “What is it, friend Tonico?” Tonico hesitated a moment, as Dona Zefinha waited anxiously. “Go ahead and tell me.” He glanced around in all directions, then drew her down the hall.
“They’re saying around here,” he began in a low voice, “that Lawyer Virgilio—” He whispered the rest in the old lady’s ear.
“Can it be possible!” exclaimed the latter. “Now, who would have thought of anything like that!”
<
br /> “I haven’t said a word, remember,” Tonico admonished her. “I’m only telling you, senhora.”
“Now, friend Tonico, you know very well that my lips are sealed. But who would have thought it? She always seemed such a perfect lady.”
Tonico disappeared through the doorway. Returning to the waiting-room, Dona Zefinha looked the other patients over. There was no one there worth her while, so she decided to let her grandchild’s injection go until the next day. Saying good afternoon to the others, she remarked that it was getting late and she could not wait any longer, as she had an appointment at the dentist’s. She went out dragging the child behind her. The tidbit she had just heard was burning her tongue, and she was as happy as if she had held the winning ticket in the lottery. With all speed she set out for the home of the Aventinos, three old maids who lived near St. Joseph’s Church.
7
Dr. Jessé examined the patient, mechanically tapped his chest, front and back, listened to his breathing, told him to say “thirty-three.” But the truth was his mind was far away, occupied with other things. His office had been full of people today. It was always like that. Whenever he was in a hurry or distracted, his waiting-room would be filled with patients who had nothing whatsoever the matter with them, who just came to take up his time. Telling the man to put his clothes on, he scrawled a prescription.
“Have that made up for you at St. Joseph’s Pharmacy; they will give you a better price there.” This did not happen to be the truth, but St. Joseph’s Pharmacy belonged to a member of the opposition party, whereas the Springtime was the property of one of the Badaró followers.
“Nothing serious, is it, doctor?”
“It’s nothing. Just a little catarrh from the forest rains. Take the medicine and you’ll be all right. Come back in a couple of weeks.”
“But I can’t do that, doctor. I lose money, you know, leaving the grove to run down here. The place where I work is a long way off.”
Dr. Jessé sought to cut the conversation short.
“All right, come back when you can. You’ve got nothing serious the matter with you.”
The man paid his fee and the doctor pushed him toward the door. Another patient then came in, an aged plantation labourer with bare feet and clad in working-clothes. He had come for medicine for his wife, who “has a fever that comes and goes and lays her flat on her back every month.” As the man told his long-drawn-out story, Dr. Jessé was thinking of what he had heard in the tailor-shop. There had been two pieces of disagreeable news. First there was Teodoro’s coming to Tabocas. What the devil was he up to? He must know that Tabocas was not a healthy place for him. But Teodoro was a man of courage, who liked to kick up a row. If he came to Tabocas, he was certainly up to no good. Dr. Jessé should have got a message to Horacio, who was in Ilhéos, but the worst of it was, the train had already left and he would not be able to do anything until the next day. In any case, he must talk to Lawyer Virgilio at once.
And then he recalled the second piece of news: the gossip that was going around town about Virgilio and Ester—the latter and Horacio had been the godparents of one of the doctor’s numerous progeny—he now had nine all together, like stairs, each being a year older than the preceding one. Dr. Jessé did some thinking. He remembered. Ester had spent four days in Tabocas while waiting for Horacio to arrange his affairs so that he might accompany her to Ilhéos. During those four days Virgilio had frequently been at the doctor’s house, where the colonel was a guest. He and Ester had spent an enormous amount of time together in the parlour, talking and laughing. Jessé himself had had to put a stop to the servants’ chattering. But worst of all had been that party at the home of Rezende, a merchant whose wife was having a birthday. There had been refreshments; and afterwards, since they had a piano in the house and young ladies who played it, they had got up a dance on the spur of the moment. Now, in Tabocas a married woman did not dance. Even in Ilhéos, when one who was “more modern” ventured to do so, it was with her husband. Hence the scandal when Ester stepped out on the floor to dance with Virgilio. Dr. Jessé recalled that Virgilio had asked Horacio’s permission to dance with her, and the latter had granted it, being proud to see his wife shine in company. But the people of the town did not know this and went on gossiping. It was bad business. As bad or even worse than Teodoro’s coming to town. Dr. Jessé scratched his head. Ah, if Horacio should come to hear of it! There would be the devil to pay. The patient had now finished telling of his wife’s troubles and was waiting silently for the doctor’s diagnosis.
“You don’t think it’s the ague, do you, doctor?”
Dr. Jessé gave him a startled look. He had forgotten all about the man’s being there. He had him repeat the details.
“Yes, it’s swamp fever,” he agreed.
He prescribed quinine and recommended St. Joseph’s Pharmacy; but his thoughts were once more with Tabocas and the complications of life. So the wicked tongues—and who in Tabocas did not have a wicked tongue?—were meddling with Ester’s personal affairs? Bad business, that was what it was. To hear these folks tell it, there was not a married woman who was respectable. There was nothing that the town so enjoyed as a scandal or a tragedy growing out of a love-affair. And then, on top of it all, that news about Teodoro. What the devil was he up to, anyhow?
Slipping on his coat, Dr. Jessé went out to call upon two or three of his patients. In each house he was obliged to enter into a discussion of the looming row over the forest of Sequeiro Grande. Everybody wanted the latest news; and seeing that the doctor was Horacio’s intimate friend, he ought to be in a position to give it to them. After that he went down to the school, of which he had been superintendent ever since a preceding government, that of his own party, had been in power. He had never been dismissed from the post, for that would have created too much of a scandal, in view of the fact that it was he who had had the new building erected, while the teachers, all of whom were women, strongly supported him. Entering the courtyard, he made his way through an outer room. By this time he had forgotten all about Ester, and all about Teodoro as well. He had forgotten all about the forest of Sequeiro Grande. He was thinking of the celebration the school was planning for Arbour Day, later in the week. The children playing in the courtyard came running up to clasp the doctor’s short, stout legs, and he now dispatched two or three of them to go in search of the assistant superintendent and the teacher of Portuguese. Then he crossed another classroom, the pupils rising as he came through. Making a sign for them to be seated, he went on to where the assistant superintendent and a number of the other teachers were waiting for him.
Dropping into a seat, and placing his hat and medicine-case on a table, he took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat that was streaming from his fat face.
“The program is all prepared,” the assistant superintendent informed him.
“Let’s hear about it.”
“Well, first we’ll have the meeting here, a speech—”
“Dr. Virgilio cannot be present, for he’s going into Ilhéos tomorrow on business for Colonel Horacio. Estanislau will speak, of course.”
Estanislau was a teacher in a private school and an obligatory speaker at any affair in Ferradas. In each address that he made, whatever the occasion, he invariably employed the same figures of rhetoric, the same metaphors, until the town had come to know by heart what they called “Estanislau’s speech.”
“That’s too bad,” said one of the teachers, regretfully. She was a thin little creature who was a great admirer of Virgilio. “He makes such a nice speech and he is so good-looking.”
The others laughed. Dr. Jessé was still mopping the sweat.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
The assistant superintendent went on outlining the arrangements.
“Well, then: first the formal meeting in the school; a speech by Professor Estanislau” (she corrected the name on the pro
gram as she read); “then a recitation by the pupils; and in conclusion they will all sing the ‘Arbour Day Song.’ After that they will form in line and march to Church Square. There they will plant a cacao tree, Dr. Freitas will give his talk, and Professora Irene will read a poem.”
“Very good, very good,” said the doctor, rubbing his hands. Opening his satchel, he took out a number of sheets of manuscript paper, folded in half lengthwise. This was his speech, which he now began to read to the teachers. As he read, in a loud and ringing voice, he grew more and more enthusiastic and rose to his feet so as to be better able to make all the appropriate gestures. The children crowded about the door and, in spite of repeated “shushes” from the assistant superintendent, could not keep silent. It made little difference to Dr. Jessé, however, for he was intoxicated with his own eloquence, as he read, with emphasis:
“The tree is a gift of God to men. It is our vegetable brother, which gives us cooling shade, luscious fruit, and wood that is so useful in the construction of furniture and other objects that go to increase our comfort. Out of the trunks of trees were built those caravels which led to the discovery of our beloved Brazil. Children ought to love and respect trees.”
“Very nice, very nice,” the assistant superintendent applauded; and the others chimed in: “Very pretty—it will be a big success.”
Dr. Jessé was sweating at every pore. Running his handkerchief over his face, he gave a bark at the children who were still standing in the door and who now scurried away.
