by Jorge Amado
At that moment, Virgilio reflected, Juca would have received the bullet and would be no more than another corpse along the highway. But he would not, like the others, be buried beside a tree, with only a rude cross to mark his resting place. Juca was a wealthy planter; his body would be brought to Ilhéos and buried with great ceremony, and Lawyer Genaro would deliver an address at the cemetery comparing the deceased with historical figures of the past. Virgilio himself might even go to the funeral; for in this country it was nothing new for the assassin to follow his victim’s casket to the grave—it was said that there were even those who, with mournful air and clad in ceremonial black, would help carry the coffin of the man they had killed. No, he would not go to Juca’s funeral; for how would he ever be able to look Dona Olga in the face? Juca had not been a good husband, he had lived with other women, had gambled in the café; but all the same, Dona Olga would surely weep and suffer. How would he be able to look at her at such a moment as that? The only thing for him to do was to go far away, to travel, where he might forget all about Ilhéos, cacao, and deaths in the night; where he would no longer recall that night in Ester’s house, the scene in the colonel’s study when he had consented to their summoning the cabra. Why had he done so if it was not that he was irremediably bound to this land? As for his longing to take Ester away, what was that but a dream that was always receding into the future? Yes, he was bound to this land, hoping himself to become a cacao-planter, hoping in his heart of hearts that Horacio would be slain in one of the Sequeiro Grande fracases so that he might be able to marry Ester.
Only now did he admit to himself that this had been his desire all along, that he had been waiting day after day for the news of the colonel’s death, for word that he had been brought down by one of the Badarós’ bullets. Even as he laid his plans to procure employment in Rio and exerted himself to make more money so that they might be able to leave, meanwhile finding excuses for postponing his flight with Ester—all this while he had simply been waiting for what he looked upon as the inevitable to happen: for the Badarós to send out and have Horacio killed and thus put an end to the problem. This thought had occurred to him once before and he had endeavoured to put it out of his mind. If anything did happen and Horacio was killed, he told himself, he would advise Ester to come to terms with the Badarós, to agree to a division of the forest and the termination of the feud. But on this occasion he had deluded himself by the thought that he was regarding it merely as a likely event, telling himself that he could not fail in his duties as a family lawyer.
Now, in the bed here, as he watched the tears of the rain glide down the window-pane, he forced himself to admit the truth: that he was no longer free to leave this land, that he was definitely bound to it, bound to it by a corpse, by Juca Badaró, for whose murder he was responsible. And so there was nothing to do now but to go on waiting, day after day, until Horacio’s turn should come and he, too, should be buried. Then he would have Ester; he would have the estate and the forest of Sequeiro Grande as well. He would be rich and repected, a political leader, a deputy, a senator, what would you? They would talk about him in the streets of Ilhéos, but they would greet him servilely and bow low to him. There was no other way out. There was no use thinking any longer of flight, of going away and beginning life anew; for wherever he went he would take with him the vision of Juca Badaró tumbling from his horse, a hand to his wound, a vision that Virgilio saw reflected in the dripping window-pane. He beheld it with dry, tearless eyes, and the thought came to him that his heart, too, was withered, overcast with the sombre cacao’s shade.
There was no use thinking of flight. His feet were caught now in the slime of this earth, the soft cacao slime, a blood-slime as well. Never more would it be possible to dream of a different life. On this Thursday night, along the Ferradas highway, a man was bringing Juca Badaró down from his horse. Virgilio turned to embrace the woman beside him. Half asleep, Ester smiled.
“Not now, dear.”
His anguish increasing, he threw on his clothes as quickly as possible. He must let the rain fall upon him, upon his burning head, he must bathe his hands, foul with blood, his hands and his blood-stained heart. He forgot to exercise his customary caution as he went out through the garden and onto the railway tracks. Removing his hat, he let the rain trickle down his face, as though these were the tears he himself was unable to shed.
5
There was, however, no foundation in fact for Virgilio’s anguish, any more than there was for those high spirits which Dr. Jessé thought he could discern in Horacio’s face when the colonel came to spend the night at the physician’s home in Tabocas that Thursday. Ever since the start of the struggle for Sequeiro Grande, Horacio had left off travelling along the highways after dark, in spite of the guard that accompanied him. Since it was too late to set out for the plantation that afternoon, business having detained him in the town, he had put off his departure until the following morning, and meanwhile amused himself, toward the close of the day, by sitting in Dr. Jessé’s consulting-room as the doctor interviewed his patients. Inasmuch as nearly all of them were acquaintances and political followers of his, he was not wasting his time. He had something to say to each of them and asked after their business, their private affairs, and their families. He could be amiable when he chose to be, and today he was in a particularly pleasant mood, and his feeling of goodwill increased as the day wore on.
From the window of the doctor’s office he caught sight of Juca Badaró, booted and spurred, coming out of Azevedo’s hardware shop and going down the street. There was a satisfied smile on Colonel Horacio’s face as he surveyed his enemy walking along with a nervous gait. By this time the cabra whom he had sent out would be on his way to his hiding-place on the Ferradas road. It had cost Lawyer Virgilio something to make up his mind to that. Horacio liked the young attorney and was certain that he was doing him a real favour by thus giving him the credit, without any of the risks, for Juca Badaró’s “liquidation.” He turned from the window to speak to a woman who had come in, the wife of Silvio Mãosinha, who owned a little piece of land near Palestina and was one of Horacio’s right-hand men in that region. Her husband was burning up with fever and she had brought him in from the grove that day and had come in search of Dr. Jessé. They were stopping in the little house that they owned on the other side of the river. The woman was alarmed over Silvio’s condition. It had been necessary to carry him in a hammock, she said, for he had not been able to mount.
Horacio accompanied Dr. Jessé to the patient’s house and helped lift the sick man onto the bed so that the doctor could examine him. He asked the woman if she needed any money and proffered his assistance. Dr. Jessé knew that the colonel was friendly toward his political henchmen and his friends, but today it struck him that there was something exaggerated in his manner, for he would not even leave the room while the physician was making his examination, but insisted on helping the wife adjust the urinal, change Silvio’s clothes, which were sticky with sweat, and administer the medicine that had been sent over from the pharmacy.
As Dr. Jessé was leaving, he took the colonel to one side.
“It’s a hopeless case.”
“You don’t say—?”
“This fever takes them off. He won’t live the day out. You had better come with me, sir, take a bath, and wash your hands with alcohol. It’s nothing to fool with.”
But Horacio only laughed. He remained at Silvio’s house until dinner time, promising to come back later. It was not until just before he sat down at the table that he did wash his hands, laughing still at Dr. Jessé’s fears. The fever, he remarked, would keep its distance from him. Dr. Jessé thereupon went into scientific explanations; for this unclassifiable fever was one of his major preoccupations. It killed in a few days’ time and there was nothing that could be done for it. Nothing, however, could dampen Horacio’s spirits tonight. He was feeling so good that he went back to Silvio’s to play t
he nurse again, and he was the one who came running for Dr. Jessé as the patient lay dying, stopping on his way to notify the priest. By the time they arrived Silvio was already dead and his wife was weeping in a corner of the room. Horacio then remembered that by this time Juca Badaró also would be lying dead, stretched out along the highway, his eyes wide-staring and glassy like Silvio’s. He informed the widow that he would be glad to pay the funeral expenses, and again assisted her in changing her husband’s garments.
The truth was, nevertheless, that Horacio had no real cause for his high spirits nor Virgilio for his mood of depression; for the object of their thoughts, Juca Badaró, was at this moment riding toward his plantation, leaving behind him in the road the body of the man who had been sent to ambush him. Bent over a burro, which Viriato led by the rein, was Antonio Victor, who a second time had saved his boss’s life and who had been wounded. It has happened quite by accident. Just as the man in hiding was getting his rifle ready, listening attentively to the approaching hoof-beats, his eyes fixed on the horseman up ahead, whom he recognized as Juca—just at that moment Antonio Victor had heard a slight rustling sound at the side of the road and, thinking it must be a cavy or an armadillo, he had ridden his burro over to the underbrush with the idea in mind of taking some game home as a little present for Don’ Ana. Catching sight of the cabra with his upraised weapon, he had fired at once, but had missed his aim. The man had then whirled on him and fired, wounding Antonio Victor in the leg. If the latter did not receive the bullet in his chest, it was because he was in the act of dismounting. Hearing the shots, Juca and Viriato came running up and the cabra did not have time to flee. Before killing him, before they attended to Antonio Victor’s wound, even, Juca had questioned the fellow.
“Tell us who sent you and I will let you go in peace.”
“It was Lawyer Virgilio,” said the man, “but Colonel Horacio—”
As the cabra walked away, Viriato raised his rifle, there was a flash in the night, and the man fell face downward. Juca, who was engaged in bandaging Antonio Victor’s leg with a piece torn from his own silk shirt, upon hearing the shot rose to his feet.
“Didn’t I say that he could go in peace?” he shouted angrily.
Viriato sought to excuse himself. “It’s one the less, boss.”
“I’m going to have to teach you to obey me. When I say a thing, I mean it. Juca Badaró doesn’t go back on his word.”
Viriato hung his head and made no reply. They then went over to the man, who was dead by now. Juca made a face.
“Come give me a hand,” he said to Viriato. They placed Antonio Victor on the burro, Viriato took the reins, and they were on their way. By the time they reached the plantation, the kerosene lamps had been lighted, which showed that Sinhô was worried, for he had expected his brother much earlier than this. They all came out on the lawn, and a number of jagunços and workers came up to help get Antonio Victor off the burro. There was a babble of questions as the plantation folk crowded around in their anxiety to help the wounded man; and it was Sinhô Badaró himself who took the lad by the shoulders and helped carry him inside. They put him down on a bench and Don’ Ana shouted for Raimunda to fetch the alcohol and cotton. At the sound of the mulatto girl’s name, Antonio Victor turned his head; and only he and Don’ Ana noticed that Raimunda’s hands were trembling as she handed her mistress the bottle and the package of cotton. She remained close by to help Don’ Ana treat the wound (the bullet had torn the flesh but had not reached the bone), and her rude, heavy hands now became tender and delicate ones, as soft as the hands of a woman should be; and to Antonio Victor they seemed gentler by far, softer and more tender, than Don’ Ana’s light and finely shaped ones.
6
On a bright, mild, sunny morning the mulatto girl, Raimunda, entered the workers’ bunkhouse, bringing with her some bread and milk that Don’ Ana had sent out to Antonio Victor. The place was empty, the workers having gone to the groves to gather cacao, and the wounded man was tossing fitfully in a feverish slumber. The girl paused beside his bunk and looked down upon him. His bandaged leg was sticking out from beneath an old counterpane and she had a glimpse of his enormous foot covered with dried cacao slime. This evening he would not be waiting at the river bank to help her lift the pail of water.
Suddenly Raimunda was afraid. Could it be that he was going to die? Sinhô Badaró had said that his wound was nothing at all, that in three or four days Antonio Victor would be up and around again, ready for another one. But even so she was afraid. Had black Jeremias been alive still, she would have taken her courage in hand and would have made her way through the forest in search of a remedy from the witch-doctor. She had no confidence in this medicine from the pharmacy, which stood beside the bunk and which she had to give him now. She knew a prayer against fever and snake-bite that her mother had taught her in the kitchen of the Big House; and so, before giving Antonio Victor his medicine, she knelt on the floor and prayed:
“Cursed fever, I bury you three times in the bowels of the earth. The first in the name of the Father, the second in the name of the Son, and the third in the name of the Holy Ghost, with the grace of the Virgin Mary and all the saints. I conjure you, cursed fever, and order you to return to the bowels of the earth, leaving my—”
According to old black Risoleta, upon reaching this point it was necessary to specify the relationship of the patient to the one who was praying—“my brother,” “my husband,” “my father,” “my boss,” and so on. Raimunda was undecided for a moment. Perhaps if it had not been so serious a matter, and if he had not been asleep, she would not have concluded the prayer:
“—leaving my man cured of all evils. Amen.”
Antonio Victor awoke, and Raimunda’s face grew hard again, her manner brusque. “It’s time for your medicine.” She raised his head with her big round arm and he swallowed the teaspoonful of liquid, then gazed at her with feverish eyes. She went over to what was called a hearth: three stones with a few spent coals and bits of half-burned wood and a kettle of water resting on the stones. Throwing out the water, Raimunda filled the kettle with milk from the bottle she had brought and lighted the fire. Antonio Victor followed her movements with his eyes. He did not know how to begin. The girl was squatting beside the hearth, waiting for the milk to boil.
“Raimunda,” he called to her. She turned her head and looked at him. “Come here.” She came over with ill grace, taking short, slow steps. “Sit down,” he said, making room for her on the bunk.
“No,” was her only reply.
Antonio Victor looked hard at her; then plucking up his courage, he asked: “Will you marry me?”
She appeared to be half vexed still; her face was expressionless and her hands played with the hem of her petticoat as she gazed down at the earthen floor. She did not answer, but ran over to the milk, which was beginning to boil.
“It almost boiled over.”
Antonio Victor sank back, exhausted with the effort he had made. She was now heating water for coffee, serving him in a tin cup and moistening the bread to save him the trouble. Then she washed the cup and put out the fire.
“I’ll be back at lunch time.”
Antonio Victor said nothing, merely looked at her. Before leaving she paused beside his bunk again, her eyes once more on the floor and her hands busy with her petticoat, a look of vexation on her face and a trace of annoyance in her voice as well.
“If godfather will let me, I will.”
With this she went out the door, and Antonio Victor felt his fever mounting.
7
Juca Badaró had just done arranging with Sinhô, down to the last detail, for the felling of the forest. They were to begin on Monday. The men for the job had already been picked: those who were to do the actual work of cutting down the trees and burning over the land, and those who were to stand guard over them with their rifles.
“It’s understood,
then: I’m starting Monday.” Seated in his high-backed Austrian chair, Sinhô waited, for he knew that Juca had more to say. “He’s a good cabaclo, that Antonio Victor.”
“Yes, he’s all right,” Sinhô assented.
“He’s funny, though,” Juca went on with a laugh. “I went down to the bunkhouse to have a talk with him. This is the second time, you know, that he’s got me out of a tight place. The first was that time in Tabocas, remember?”
“Yes, I remember it.”
“And then again last night. So I went down there to find out if there was anything I could do for him. I told him I was thinking of giving him that piece of burnt-over land which was left from last year and which has not been planted yet. Down by the Border Line Grove. It’s good land and you could raise a fine grove there. But do you know what he said to me?”
“No. What?”
“He said,” and Juca laughed again, “that there was only one thing he wanted, and that was for you to let him marry Raimunda. Well, there you are. Everyone has his—here I was, wanting to give the poor wretch a piece of land, and all he could think of was that horrible-looking hag. I promised him you would give your consent.”
