The Violent Land

by Jorge Amado

  João Magalhães would not have agreed with him on this. It was possibly her eyes—eyes that recalled another adored pair—that first attracted him. Striving to be exquisitely polite in words and manner as he addressed her, he was lost in contemplation of those lovely eyes, which of a sudden would light up with an intense glow, like the others which, once upon a time, had gazed at him with so much contempt. Later he came to forget those of the girl he had left behind in Rio de Janeiro, as the days went by and he became better acquainted with Don’ Ana.

  In the Badaró household the sole topic of conversation was the forest of Sequeiro Grande and the plans of Horacio and his friends. They made guesses, suppositions, reckoned the possibilities. What would Horacio do when he learned that the Badarós were surveying the forest and were going to have it registered and take out title to the property? Juca had no doubts in the matter. Horacio would attempt to go into the wood immediately, while filing suit in the court at Ilhéos for possession of the land, basing his claim upon the survey entered in Venancio’s office. Sinhô, however, was not so sure of this. He felt that, since Horacio was without government support, being in the opposition, he would first attempt to legalize the situation by an ouster of some sort before having to resort to force.

  From Ilhéos Juca had brought back the latest news: the scandalous affair of Ester and Virgilio—the whole town was talking about it. Sinhô was not inclined to believe this.

  “That’s just talk on the part of people who have nothing else to do.”

  “But Sinhô, he has even left the woman he was keeping—what do you say to that? It’s a fact, as I have reason to know.” And glancing at João, he laughed as he thought of Margot.

  The captain took part in all these conversations and discussions as if he were one of the Badarós, just as Teodoro das Baraúnas did the night he slept there. He felt like a relative; and each time that Don’ Ana looked his way and respectfully asked “the captain’s opinion,” he would be lavish in his insults for Horacio and those associated with him. Once when he noted that those eyes were a little more interested and tender than usual, he had gone so far as to place at the disposition of the Badarós his “military knowledge, as a captain who had taken part in eight revolutions.” There he was, at their orders. If there was to be a fight, they could count on him. He was a man for anything, come what might. As he said this, he smiled at Don’ Ana, and the latter, grown suddenly timid and overcome with blushes, fled into the house as Sinhô Badaró was thanking the captain for his offer. Sinhô was grateful, but he hoped the captain’s services would not be needed, that everything could be settled peaceably, without need of bloodshed. It was true, he said, that he was preparing for any eventuality, but in the hope that Horacio would give up the idea of disputing possession of the forest with him. As for abandoning the stand that he himself had taken, he could not do that; he was the head of the family and had his responsibilities; moreover, he had an agreement with his friends, with people who, like Teodoro das Baraúnas, were making sacrifices for him. If Horacio wanted to go ahead, he, Sinhô, would do the same. But he still had hopes—Juca shrugged his shoulders; he was quite certain that Horacio would attempt to go into the forest by force, and that much blood would flow before the Badarós would be able to plant their cacao trees in peace on that new land. This was the cue for Captain João once more to volunteer his services.

  “Anything that I can do—I don’t like to boast about my bravery, but I’m used to these little fracases.”

  He did not catch sight of Don’ Ana again that day until the hour for Bible-reading came. As she entered the room, she was greeted with a burst of laughter from Juca, who pointed a finger at her.

  “What have we here? Is the world coming to an end?”

  Sinhô looked at her also. Don’ Ana was serious-faced and stern of mien. With the assistance of Raimunda, she had laboured to effect a head-dress of the kind that Ester had worn one feast-day in Ilhéos, and now they were laughing at her. She was wearing, too, one of her party gowns, which gave her a strange appearance here in the parlour of the Big House. Juca continued to laugh, while Sinhô could not understand what had happened to his daughter. João Magalhães alone felt happy. If he perceived clearly enough the ridiculousness of the situation, with Don’ Ana dressed as for a ball, he none the less preserved his gravity and gave the young woman a languishing glance. She, however, was not looking at any of them; all she could think of was that they were making fun of her. But when at last she raised her eyes and met the captain’s tender gaze, she found the courage to retort to Juca.

  “What are you laughing at?” she said. “Do you think that your wife is the only one who can dress well and do her hair?”

  “My daughter,” Sinhô reproved her, “what kind of talk is that?” He was astonished even more by her vehemence than by her clothes.

  “This dress is my own. It was you who gave it to me, sir. I’ll put it on whenever I want to, and nobody’s going to laugh at me.”

  “You look like a scarecrow,” said Juca jestingly. At this point João Magalhães resolved to take a hand.

  “It’s very fashionable,” he said. “You look like a carioca; that’s just the way the girls in Rio dress. Juca was only joking.”

  Juca gave the captain a look. His first impulse was to start a quarrel. Was that fellow trying to give him a lesson in good breeding? Then the thought occurred to him that, as a guest, the captain was under obligation to be polite to the young lady.

  “There’s no accounting for tastes,” he said with a shrug. Sinhô Badaró put an end to the discussion.

  “Read, my daughter.”

  But she ran out of the room so that they might not see her weeping.

  In Raimunda’s arms she gave vent to her stifled sobs. And that night it was João Magalhães, deeply thoughtful, who read the Bible passages for Sinhô Badaró as the latter watched him closely out of the corner of his eye, as if studying and measuring him.

  The next day, when the captain upon rising went out for his early morning stroll, he met Don’ Ana in the stable-yard, where she was helping to milk the cows. He went over and spoke to her, and she, leaving off milking for a moment, raised her face.

  “I made a fool of myself last night,” she said to him. “You must be thinking all sorts of things about me, sir. It’s always like that when a country girl tries to be a city girl,” and she laughed, showing her white perfect teeth.

  Captain João seated himself on the gate.

  “You looked very pretty,” he said. “If it had been at a ball in Rio, you would have been the prettiest woman there, I swear it.”

  She stared at him. “Don’t you like me better the way I am every day?”

  “To tell you the truth, I do,” and it was the truth that the captain spoke. “I like you as you are now, that’s pretty enough for me.”

  With this Don’ Ana drew herself erect, picking up her milkpail as she did so.

  “You’re a straight-spoken man, sir. I like anyone who tells the truth.” And the glance that she gave him was her manner of declaring her love.

  Raimunda came running up, laughingly—a little laugh of complicity—to take the pails from her mistress, and they both went away.

  “It would seem,” said João Magalhães in a low voice, addressing the cows in the barnyard, “it would seem that I am going to be married.” And he glanced around him at the Big House and the lawn about it and the cacao groves in the distance with an air of proprietorship. Then he remembered Juca, Sinhô, and the jagunços on the plantation and he shuddered.

  Today there was more stir and bustle than usual. Every morning workers would set out for the groves to gather cacao, while others trod the vats or the dried product in the troughs; and as they laboured they would sing their mournful songs:

  A Negro’s life is a hard one,

  Hard as hard can be.

  Laments that the w
ind carried away, the moanings of those who, from morning to night, beneath the blazing sun, had to toil in the grove.

  This night I want to die,

  Far away in some hidden place;

  Lashed by the hem of your garment,

  I would die for your sweet face.

  The workers sang their mournful songs as they went to their labours, songs of servitude and of unrequited love.

  But at the same time there was a population of a different sort on the plantation. In physical appearance and the sound of their rude voices, in their manner of speaking and their clothes, they resembled the workers; but these men who now came daily to the place, filling the huts to overflowing and sleeping even in the warehouses or sprawled out on the veranda of the Big House—these were the jagunços who had been rounded up by Juca or who had been sent over by Teodoro, by Corporal Esmeraldo of Tabocas, by Azevedo, or by Padre Paiva of Mutuns to guard the Badaró plantation and wait for what might happen. Some of them came mounted, but they were few in number; most of them came on foot, their rifles over their shoulders, their knives in their belts. They would come up to the veranda and wait for orders from Sinhô Badaró, meanwhile sipping the rum that Don’ Ana had sent out to them. They were as a rule men of few words, of an indefinable age, black men and mulattoes, with here and there a blond head among them standing out in contrast to the others. Sinhô and Juca knew them all, and so did Don’ Ana. This happened every day; João Magalhães estimated that as many as thirty men must have arrived since he had been there. He could not help wondering what would come of it all and what preparations were afoot at Horacio’s place. He felt interested, for he had come under the spell of this land, as if he had suddenly sunk roots there. Far away now were his plans for travel. He could not see how he was going to be able to leave Ilhéos, nor could he see why he should do so.

  Filled with thoughts such as these, he returned to the city. On the train, seated beside Sinhô Badaró, who slept all the way, he had ample opportunity for reflection. The night before, he had said good-bye to Don’ Ana on the veranda.

  “I am leaving in the morning.”

  “Yes, I know. But you will come back, won’t you?”

  “If you wish me to, I will.”

  She had looked at him and nodded her head and then had run into the house without giving him time for the kiss that he so desired and for which he had hoped. The next morning he saw nothing of her, but Raimunda gave him a message:

  “Don’ Ana wanted me to tell you that she will be in Ilhéos for the feast of St. George.” And she had also given him a flower, which he carried in his bill-fold.

  On the train he did his best to think seriously of the matter, and the conclusion that he came to was that he was in beyond his depth. In the first place there was that business of his having surveyed the land and signed the documents. He was neither an engineer nor a captain, and he might be prosecuted for it and go to prison. It would be better for him to take the first boat out; he had got hold of sufficient money to last him for a number of months without his having to worry. But the worst of it was this crush he had on Don’ Ana. Juca already suspected something, had laughed and made a few jokes—he seemed to approve. He had warned him, moreover, that whoever married Don’ Ana would have to go straight or he would get into trouble with his wife. And Sinhô had eyed him and studied him closely; and one night he had asked him all kinds of questions about his family, his relationships in Rio, and the state of his business.

  As a result Captain João Magalhães had let himself in for a monumental series of lies. And now, on the train, he was frightened as he thought of all this, his eyes every so often instinctively seeking out the barrel of the six-shooter that was visible under Sinhô’s coat. Upon thinking it over well, he decided that what he really ought to do was to leave; he ought to take a boat for Bahia, and even there he ought not to remain long, on account of that business of the survey. He would not be able to return to Rio, but he had the whole of the north country from which to choose; the sugar-mill owners of Pernambuco, the rubber-planters of Amazonia. In Recife, in Belém, or in Manáus his ability at poker would stand him in good stead and he might go on living his life with no greater complications than the occasional accusations of a suspicious player, his expulsion from a gambling-house, or an inconsequential summons to the police station. And so on the train João Magalhães made up his mind that he would catch the next boat. He had fifteen or sixteen hundred contos that he could lay his hands on and that would enable him to enjoy life for some little while.

  But when Sinhô Badaró awoke and the captain had a glimpse of his eyes, which reminded him of Don’ Ana’s, he remembered that the young lady had something to do with the case. He had always endeavoured to force himself to view their relationship in a cynical light, by seeing in it merely a possibility of getting into the Badaró family through marriage and getting at the Badaró fortune; but he now realized that there was more to it than this. He was feeling the absence of Don’ Ana, with that brusque way she had and her manner that was sometimes tender and sometimes austere, as she lived her virgin’s life apart, without kisses and without dreams of love. She had sent word to him that she would be in Ilhéos for the feast of St. George. It was not far off. Why not wait until she came and then decide what he should do? There would be no danger in that. The only danger was in Sinhô Badaró’s sending to Rio for information concerning him, in which case he most assuredly would not escape the vengeance of these rude but sensitive folk, and he would be lucky if he got off with his life. Once more he eyed that pistol-barrel. But there were Sinhô’s eyes, and Don’ Ana was seated beside him. Captain João Magalhães did not know what to do. The train whistled as it pulled into the Ilhéos station.

  That night he went to call on Margot, with a message from Juca for her. She had moved from Machadão’s place and was living alone in a small cottage with a maid to do the cooking and tidy things up. She had sent for her things from Tabocas and now, in her fashionable gowns, she paraded down the streets of Ilhéos with her lace parasol, amid the whisperings of the populace. Everybody knew by this time that she was Juca Badaró’s woman, but opinions were divided as to just how matters stood. The Badaró adherents asserted that Juca had taken her away from Virgilio, while Horacio’s friends maintained that Virgilio had already left her. Ever since the article in O Comercio had appeared, the whisperings had increased, and the Badaró faction would point her out in the street as “the woman who paid for Lawyer Virgilio’s schooling.” It was a triumph for Margot. Juca had had credit accounts opened for her in the stores, and the merchants bowed before her and were honey-sweet in their words.

  Margot offered him a chair in the dining-room and the captain sat down. He accepted the coffee that the maid brought in and proceeded to deliver Juca’s message: he would be in to see her the following week and wished to know if she needed anything. Margot then pumped the captain as to what was happening at the plantation, for she, too, had a feeling of proprietorship in the Badaró estate. She appeared to have almost entirely forgotten Virgilio, and only spoke of him once, when she inquired if João had read the article in O Comercio.

  “When anybody does me dirt, they pay for it,” she said. She went on to praise Manuel de Oliveira: “a sharp fellow, with brains in his head.” And she added: “What’s more, he’s a good sport, very amusing. He always comes here to keep me company. He’s so nice.”

  Captain João Magalhães at once became suspicious: was Margot “staying” with the journalist? There was no telling. But inasmuch as he was conscious of a certain kinship with her, both of them being adventurers and strangers in a strange land, he felt called upon to give her a bit of advice, as on a previous occasion.

  “Well you tell me one thing?” he asked. “You’re not playing around with this fellow Oliveira, are you?”

  She denied it, but not very vigorously. “I don’t see—”

  “Well, let me give
you a word of warning. You don’t need to tell me; it makes no difference; I don’t care to know. What I want to say to you is: be careful with the Badarós. They’re nobody to fool with. If you value your hide, never think of trying to deceive one of them. No, you can’t fool with them.” He was speaking to Margot, but he appeared to be endeavouring to convince himself. “It’s better to give up everything than to think of trying to pull the wool over their eyes.”

  8

  Down by the harbour, in a two-story building, was the export house of Zude Brothers and Company. The lower floor was a cacao warehouse, with the offices on the floor above. This was one of three or four firms that for some years past had been going in for the exportation of cacao. Previous to that time the local crop had been a small one, limited to home consumption; but as cacao-raising became more extensive, a number of Bahia merchants and a few foreign ones, Swiss and German, had founded enterprises to deal in the new commodity. Among these houses was that of Zude Brothers, who had formerly been engaged in exporting coffee and tobacco. They had now added a branch for the cacao trade, had opened an office in Ilhéos, and had sent down as branch manager Maximiliano Campos, an aged white-haired clerk of long experience. In those days it was the exporters who catered to the colonels, the managers and clerks fairly bending double in an effort to be courteous, while the heads of the firms provided luncheons for the planters when the latter were in the capital, and took them out to cafés and houses of prostitution. The firms that dealt in cacao exclusively were small ones as yet; for the most part the business was handled by the branches of the large tobacco, coffee, cotton, and cocoa houses.