by Jorge Amado
“So many things are happening, Lenita,” she said, “that we really don’t have time to discuss them the way we should. Everything moves so fast.”
The truth was that both Horacio and the Badarós were anxious to have it over with. Each of them wanted to fell the forest and start setting out cacao trees as soon as possible. The struggle was running into money; the jagunços had to be paid by the day and the Saturday payrolls were unprecedentedly high, while the cost of weapons was going up. For this reason neither the Badarós nor Horacio cared to waste any time; and so it was these months were so laden with events worth gossiping about that the good Church ladies actually lost count of them; they had not yet done talking of one when another would come along to claim their attention.
The same was true of the newspapers. Manuel de Oliveira would be writing an article tearing Horacio to shreds over some depredation when word would reach him of another much more important one. The violence of O Comercio and A Folha de Ilhéos knew no bounds this year. There were no insulting adjectives that were not hurled; and it was a red-letter day in the editorial room of O Comercio when Lawyer Genaro received his copy of the big Portuguese dictionary that he had ordered from Rio because the book-stores in Bahia did not carry it. This was a work published in Lisbon and specializing in sixteenth-century terms; and it was then that O Comercio, to the delight of the admiring citizenry, began alluding to Horacio and his friends as “knaves,” “coxcombs,” “varlets,” “villains,” “filibusterers,” and the like. A Folha de Ilhéos replied by falling back on the national argot, on which Lawyer Ruy was an authority.
As for the court suit Horacio had filed, it continued to drag along, with no end in sight. “Pending in the courts” was the most inadequate of judicial expressions where a lawsuit by the opposition against those of the government party was concerned, as was the case in this instance. The judge was there to protect the interests of the Badarós, and if he did not make a good job of it, the least that was likely to happen to him was to be transferred by the Governor of the state to some little town in the backlands where there were no modern conveniences and where he would be absolutely lost and forgotten by everybody, with nothing to do but vegetate year after year. On the other hand, the bench of Ilhéos was a stepping-stone to the state supreme court, where one might exchange the title of judge for that of justice, a more sonorous one and much better paid. And so it was in vain that Lawyer Virgilio and Lawyer Ruy bombarded the court with petitions, applications, requests for a writ of inquiry, and so on. As Horacio put it, things were going “at a snail’s pace” so far as the suit was concerned. He did not have much faith in legal measures himself, but relied rather on taking the land by force; and here he saw to it that, in contrast to the court proceedings, no time should be lost. The Badarós, likewise, wanted as much speed as possible. An election was due to be held the following year, and many people were saying that a break between the state and federal governments was almost certain, over the question of the presidential succession. Should the state government fall, the Badarós would then find themselves in the opposition, in which case there was no counting on the judge—Horacio’s case would then do something more than “pend.”
All this was the subject of much talk in the wine-shops, on the street corners, and in the homes of Ilhéos, and even on the boats that lay anchored in the harbour, among the stevedores and the sailors. And in distant cities, in Aracajú and in Victoria, in Maceió and in Recife, people discussed the affrays in Ilhéos just as they did those of the famous Padre Cicero in Joazeiro do Ceará.
Virgilio had gone to Bahia and had secured from a justice who was a supporter of the opposition a court ruling favourable to Horacio in the matter of the rights to the Sequeiro Grande tract. This had been added to the other documents in the case, and Lawyer Genaro had had to cudgel his brains over the law-books in an effort to “quash the ruling” and soothe the feelings of the judge, who was terrified by this intervention of a supreme court justice in a case still in its initial stage. However, what undoubtedly provoked Juca Badaró more than anything else, more than the obtaining of this writ, was the series of articles that Virgilio had written for the opposition paper in Bahia regarding the Ilhéos disorders. The Badarós were not in the least concerned with what A Folha de Ilhéos printed, but these articles in a daily paper published in the capital had repercussions outside the state; and though the government dailies had defended Sinhô Badaró, the Governor himself had let it be understood that it would be well to avoid publicity having to do with “such incidents” at a moment when the state government was not on the best of terms with the federal authorities. Horacio had learned of this, and Virgilio had walked the streets of Ilhéos like a conqueror.
One night he went to the café. He had not been there for a long time; his nights were spent in Ester’s arms, mad, delirious nights of love; for Ester’s flesh had been awakened to the delights of sensuality, and she was being educated in the refinements he had learned with Margot. But tonight Horacio was in Ilhéos, and Virgilio had no place to go. He had grown accustomed by this time to being out of an evening and so decided to drop in at the café for a whisky. He was accompanied by Maneca Dantas, who had come to town with Horacio. It was Virgilio who extended the invitation.
“Shall we step over to the café?” he suggested.
Maneca laughed. “Do you want to lead the father of a family off the straight and narrow path, doctor? I have a wife and child; you know I don’t go to places like that,” he jestingly remarked.
They both laughed and went up the stairs. In the back room Juca Badaró was playing cards with Captain João Magalhães and other friends. Nhôzinho informed the newcomers that “it was a terrible game, with an ante the highest he had ever seen.” Virgilio and Maneca went on into the dance hall, where the pianist and violinist were playing the current melodies. Seating themselves, they ordered a whisky, and Virgilio then noted that Margot was at a table with Manuel de Oliveira and other friends of the Badarós. The journalist nodded to the lawyer, for he never quarrelled with anyone; he was, he maintained, “a professional newspaper man; what he wrote in the paper was the Badarós’ opinion and had nothing to do with his own private one—they were two distinct things.” Virgilio replied to his nod, exchanging greetings with the others as well. Margot smiled at him; he looked handsome tonight, she thought to herself, and, as she remembered other nights, her lips parted in an initial gesture of desire. Nhôzinho came in with a bottle of whisky.
“This is good stuff—Scotch—I only serve it to a few select customers. It’s not for everybody.”
“What’s the proportion of water?” asked Maneca, who was still in a bantering mood.
Nhôzinho swore that he was incapable of mixing his whisky—above all, one like this, a real whisky—and he blew a resounding kiss from the tips of his fingers by way of indicating how good it was. Then he inquired why it was that Virgilio had not been around for some time. He had missed him.
“Busy, Nhôzinho, busy!” Such was his brief summary of his motives for staying away.
Nhôzinho retired, but Manuel de Oliviera, who had caught sight of the whisky bottle, came over to ask Virgilio for news of another newspaper man, a friend of both of them, who was working on the opposition daily in Bahia.
“Did you see Andrade when you were up there, doctor?” he asked, after having shaken hands with Virgilio and Maneca Dantas.
“We had dinner together once.”
“And how is he?”
“Oh, the same as ever. Drinking from the moment he wakes up until he goes to bed. The same old habits. He’s amazing!”
“Does he still write his articles while he’s drunk?” Manuel de Oliveira was becoming reminiscent.
“He’s staggering all the time.”
Maneca ordered another glass and served the journalist. Thanking him for his kindness, Manuel continued:
“He’s a colleague of min
e, colonel. The best writer in Bahia—an all-around newspaper man. But he drinks something terrible. The minute he opens his eyes, before brushing his teeth, he has his little ‘snifter’ as he calls it, a glass of rum. At the office nobody ever saw him when he could stand perfectly straight. But he has a head on him, colonel, always keeps his wits about him. Can write on any topic—a brilliant fellow.” With this he drained his glass and changed the subject: “Good whisky.”
He accepted another drink and with his full glass took his leave and went back to his own table. Before doing so, he turned to Virgilio.
“There is a lady friend of yours over at our table who sends you her greetings,” and they both glanced in Margot’s direction. “She says she would enjoy a waltz with you.” And as he walked away, he added with a wink: “Once a king, you know, it’s always Your Majesty.”
Virgilio laughed at this. At bottom he was wholly uninterested. He had come to the café for a drink and a chat, not to go chasing after a woman, much less one who was at present Juca Badaró’s mistress, being kept by him. Moreover, he was afraid that Margot, to whom he had not spoken since the night of their quarrel, would begin her recriminations again. He was not interested in her, so why dance with her? Why renew an attachment that had been severed? He shrugged his shoulders and took a drink of whisky. Maneca Dantas, on the other hand, was quite concerned with the episode. He would enjoy having the people in the café see Virgilio dancing with Margot. That way everyone would know that she was still infatuated with the young attorney and that she had only gone with Juca because Virgilio had left her. They would no longer be able to say that Juca had stolen her from her former lover.
“The young lady can’t take her eyes off you, doctor,” said Maneca.
Virgilio glanced around and Margot smiled, her eyes fixed on him.
“Why don’t you have one dance with her?”
But Virgilio was still thinking: “It’s not worth the trouble.” He moved back in his chair and Margot at the other table thought that he was coming for her and rose to her feet. This obliged him to make up his mind. There was nothing else to do but dance. It was a dreamy waltz, and as the two of them went out on the floor, everybody watched them and the prostitutes began gossiping. At the table where Margot had been sitting, a man started to rise from his seat; there appeared to be a discussion going on between him and Manuel de Oliveira. The journalist was trying to convince him of something; but the man, after listening to him, brushed Oliveira’s hand off and went out into the gaming-room.
The pianist was pounding out the slow-dragging waltz on his ancient instrument, and Virgilio and Margot were dancing without saying a word to each other, but her eyes were closed, her lips parted. At this moment Juca Badaró came in from the back room, followed by the man who had summoned him and by João Magalhães and the other players. From the doorway between the two rooms Juca stood gazing at the couple, his hands in his pockets, his eyes sparkling dangerously. As the music died down and the dancers clapped their hands for an encore, he darted across the room, seized Margot by her arm, and dragged her back to the table. She struggled a little, and Virgilio stepped forward. He was about to say something, but Margot stopped him.
“Please don’t get into this.”
He stood for a moment undecided, eyeing Juca, who waited expectantly. Then he remembered Ester. What did Margot mean to him?
“Thank you, Margot,” he said with a smile to his ex-mistress, and returned to his own table, where Maneca Dantas was standing, revolver in hand, anticipating a row.
Juca and Margot, meanwhile, back at their table, were quarrelling in a loud voice, so that all could hear. Manuel de Oliveria tried to interfere, but Juca gave him one look and the newspaper man decided it was better to keep still. The argument between the pair was growing heated. She wished to get up from her chair, but he pushed her back violently. At the other tables there was a complete silence, even the piano-player being engaged in watching the scene. Juca whirled on the musician.
“Why the hell don’t you play that God-damned piano!” he shouted, and the old fellow threw himself on the keyboard, and the couples once again went out on the floor. Juca at once took Margot by the hand, forcing her to come with him. As they passed the table where Virgilio and Maneca sat, Juca turned to the girl, whom he was almost dragging.
“I’ll teach you to respect a real man, you filthy whore. This must be the first time you ever lived with one.”
This was said for Virgilio’s benefit; and he, losing his head for the moment, was on the point of rising from the table, but Maneca Dantas held him back, for he knew that the lawyer would die at Juca’s hands if he so much as made a move. Juca and Margot went on down the stairs, and from inside the room they could hear the slaps that he was giving her. Virgilio was pale, but Maneca kept insisting that it was not worth while getting involved.
That was as far as the incident itself went, and by the next day Virgilio had entirely forgotten about it. He no longer gave it a thought, for Margot did not interest him. It was of her own free will that she had gone to live with Juca Badaró. His plan had been to send her back to Bahia with enough money to live on for a few months; but she had preferred to go with Juca the very night they had broken with each other; she had become Juca’s mistress and had given to the Badarós’ paper the details concerning her former lover’s student life. She now had Juca, and if she could not dance with whom she pleased, that was her fault; he, Virgilio, had nothing to do with it.
In a way, he could not but feel that Juca was right. Had Margot been his own mistress, he would not have liked seeing her dance with a man who formerly had kept her. For much less than that he had kicked up a rumpus in a café in Bahia a few years before. He felt that he could even afford to overlook Juca’s parting insult; after all, the colonel had simply been jealous and hot-headed. Virgilio was glad that Maneca Dantas had forced him to sit down when he himself was about to do something rash and get into a quarrel over Margot. He would not even snub Juca if the latter should speak to him in the street; he was not angry with him; he understood perfectly how it had happened. The thing was that he was not interested in quarrelling with anyone for Margot’s sake.
But from mouth to mouth the tale grew with the telling. Some said that Juca had snatched Margot from Virgilio’s arms and had struck the lawyer in the face, while others had a more dramatic version. According to the latter account, Juca had come upon Margot kissing Virgilio and had drawn his revolver. Virgilio, however, had not given him time to fire, but had grappled with him and they had struggled for possession of the girl. This version was the generally accepted one, but even those who had witnessed the incident became involved in glaring contradictions as they narrated it. According to some, Juca had left the café to keep Margot from dancing with Virgilio again and as he passed the table had begged the attorney’s pardon. But the majority held to the contrary: that Juca had invited Virgilio to start something and the lawyer had shown himself to be a coward.
Despite the fact that he knew that the most unimportant happenings were magnified in Ilhéos, Virgilio was astonished at the seriousness with which Horacio viewed the thing. The colonel the following day sent him an invitation to come to dinner, and he was delighted to accept, since it meant an excuse for going to the house and thus being near Ester for a moment, feeling her presence, hearing her beloved voice. Arriving shortly before the dinner hour, he met Maneca Dantas at the door, for his companion of the evening had also been invited. Maneca embraced him, and Horacio did the same as the pair entered the house. It seemed to Virgilio that the other men were both very grave, and he imagined that something new must have happened in the neighbourhood of Sequeiro Grande. He was about to ask what the news was when the maid came in to announce that dinner was served, Virgilio at once forgot everything—he would be seeing Ester now. But she, to his surprise, greeted him coldly; and he noticed that her eyes showed the trace of recent tears. The first thi
ng that occurred to him was that Horacio must know something about himself and Ester, and that the dinner was merely a subterfuge. Once more he looked at Ester, and then he realized that she was not merely sad, but offended; she was vexed with him. But Colonel Horacio was amiable enough, more so than usual. No, he was certain, it had nothing to do with Ester and himself. What the devil could it be, then?
Horacio and Maneca practically monopolized the conversation at the dinner table. Virgilio, meanwhile, could not help recalling another dinner, at the plantation, when he had met Ester for the first time. Only a few months had passed, and she was his; he knew all the secrets of that loved body; he had taken her for his own and had taught her all of love’s sweetest mysteries. She was his woman. All he could think of was taking her far away from this land of bloody frays and sudden death, to Rio de Janeiro, where they would have a home of their own and live their own life. And it was not merely a dream. Virgilio was only waiting until he should have made enough money—waiting, too, for a reply from a friend in Rio who was endeavouring to procure him a place in some law office or a good job in the public service. He and Ester alone knew of this secret; they had talked it all over between kisses, in the huge bed that took up almost the entire room. They had dreamed of the day when they would belong to each other wholly, without their love, as at present, being tinged by the fear that the servants might suspect that he was in the house. They had dreamed of the time when they would go down the street together, her arm in his, or hand in hand, each belonging to the other forever. While Maneca Dantas and Horacio were talking about the crops, the price of cacao, the rainfall, the amount of soft cacao they had lost, Virgilio was recalling those moments in the bed, amid caresses, in which they had planned their flight to the last small detail, ending always with joyous, lingering kisses that kindled their flesh for love, until the dawn came to expel him and, with furtive steps, he would leave Horacio’s house.
