The Violent Land

by Jorge Amado

  Maneca was thinking of these letters while Virgilio was out in the dining-room preparing the drinks. Had he destroyed them all? The truth of the matter was, there was one letter that he had not destroyed and that he still carried to this day hidden away among the papers in his bill-fold. This was a daily risk that he ran—just imagine if Dona Auricidia should come upon it! She would certainly bring the roof down. Although he was alone in the room, Maneca glanced about him to make sure no one was looking, then opened his wallet and, from among the bills of sale for cacao, took out a letter written in a scrawling hand with numerous blots and mistakes in spelling. It was from Doralice, a little girl whom he had had in Bahia once when he had spent two months in the capital having his eyes treated. He had met her in a café and they had lived together during those months; and of all the women he had known, she was the only one who had ever written him a letter without once asking for money. For this reason he had kept her note; and despite the fact that Doralice was by now a dim memory, far in the past, it was a pleasing memory just the same. Hearing Virgilio’s steps, he replaced the letter in his purse as the lawyer came in with a bottle and glasses on a tray.

  Maneca drank his rum and then fell back once more on the story, which represented for him the furthest stretch of his imagination, to the effect that he “had heard a rumour that Sinhô Badaró was going to lay an ambush for Virgilio that night, along the road to Ferradas, to avenge himself for Juca’s death.” Virgilio laughed.

  “But, Maneca,” he said, “that’s idiotic, absolutely idiotic. The Ferradas highway is in Colonel Horacio’s territory. If there’s one safe road, it is that one. And I’m not going to leave my client cooling his heels. What’s more, he’s an elector of mine.”

  What appeared to amuse him was the idea of an ambush by the Badarós under such conditions as that: “On the road to Ferradas, under Horacio’s very nose?”

  Maneca rose from his chair.

  “And so, my dear sir, you’re determined to go in spite of everything?”

  “Yes, I’m going, that’s certain.”

  “And supposing,” said Maneca, “that it was our friend himself who wanted—”

  “Colonel Horacio?”

  “He knows everything.” Maneca glanced away; he could not look the lawyer in the face.

  “Knows what?”

  “That business of you and his wife. That crazy habit of writing love letters—he was rummaging through her things—” Again he averted his gaze, lowered his head as if he were to blame for everything; he could not meet Virgilio’s eyes.

  Virgilio, however, was not in the least embarrassed. He had Maneca Dantas sit down beside him and tell him everything. Letters? Yes, he had written letters; he had had letters from her, too; it was their way of keeping close to each other, those days when they could not be together with their love. He went to tell the whole story: how happy they had been; their plans for flight; their nights of love. His words were passionate ones as he recalled her death. He had understood and sympathized with Horacio’s despair the day she had died, and for that reason he had not gone away but had remained to keep the colonel company.

  “It was a way of being near to Ester. Do you understand that?”

  Maneca was not sure that he did, but that was the way it was with these lovers. Virgilio went on talking, without a pause. Why had he not gone away? Why had he wanted to stay with Horacio and go on helping him with his business? Because everything there reminded him of Ester, whom death had taken from him forever. With others it was the cacao that snared them, the ambition to make money. He, too, was trapped by cacao, but not for the money that was in it. It was the memory of her that held him, her body there in the cemetery, her presence, which was everywhere, in the house at Ilhéos, in Dr. Jessé’s home, down there at Tabocas, at the plantation, and in the person of Horacio—above all, in Horacio. Virgilio had no ambitions; he spent money like a fool, all that he earned; he had no desire to buy a cacao grove; all that he wanted was to remain close to her—and she was in those towns and plantations. Each time that a frog cried out in a snake’s mouth, he held her in his arms afresh, as that first time in the plantation Big House.

  “Do you understand, Maneca?”

  He gave a melancholy laugh. No, Maneca could not understand him, he was sure of that. Only when one had had a mad love, once in one’s life, only then would he be able to understand. At this point Maneca could think of nothing better than to show Virgilio the letter from Doralice. It was the one way of expressing the bond between them.

  Virgilio took the letter and read it, as Maneca’s eyes grew dim.

  My dear Maneca I hope these poorly written lines will find you enjoying the best of health. Maneca you are a very bad boy not to write to your Doralice who you have forgot but who is waiting for you. Maneca I write to ask when you are coming so that I can wate for you on the keys. Maneca every night when I go to slepe I dream of you. Of the walks we used to take you and me and Editi and Danda singing that song called I Gave My Heart. Maneca when you come to Ilhéos I don’t want you to go down to the strete where the hores are bekause I don’t want you to get sick. When you come here I want us to have a good time. My handsome little sonny boy when are we going to be together again???!!! I think of you all the time. Maneca write to me even if its only a few lines. Excuse the mistakes in this letter Maneca with many kisses from your black girl DORALICE. Thats all. Notise the adress 98 2nd of July Strete. Goodby from your FORGOTTEN Doralice.

  “Was she pretty?” Virgilio asked when he had finished reading the letter.

  “She was a little doll.” Maneca’s voice was tremulous. They could find nothing more to say to each other, as Virgilio watched his friend put the letter back among the papers in his bill-fold. So even an Ilhéos colonel had a love-story to tell. Virgilio served another drink of rum.

  Maneca Dantas then stubbornly came back to the subject they had been discussing.

  “I like you, doctor,” he said, “and I am asking you not to go. Take a boat, go to Bahia. You are young and intelligent; you can make a career for yourself anywhere.”

  But Virgilio refused. He would not give up the idea of going to Ferradas that night. Death meant nothing to him; the terrible thing was to go on living without Ester. Did the colonel understand that? What was life to him, anyway? He felt unclean, up to his neck in that filthy cacao slime. So long as Ester was alive there had been the hope of going away with her. But now nothing mattered.

  It was then that Maneca Dantas made his supreme offer, all that he had to give.

  “If it’s a question of a woman, doctor,” he said, “I can give you Doralice’s new address if you like. She’s a beauty, and you’ll forget.”

  Virgilio thanked him: “You’re a good friend, Maneca Dantas. The curious thing is how you people can do such things and still be so good.” Then he concluded abruptly: “I’m going to Ferradas tonight. And if there’s time, I’ll die as the law here commands, the law of cacao—by taking someone with me. Isn’t that the way?”

  And so it was that Maneca Dantas that night saw the young attorney ride off alone, in the direction of Ferradas, smiling sadly.

  “And he’s so young, poor fellow,” said Maneca to himself.

  Along the highway Virgilio heard a voice singing a song that had to do with the affrays of Sequeiro Grande:

  I am going to tell you a tale

  Will make your blood run cold.

  A tale to make your blood run cold, a tale of this land, a tale of love. A frog screams in the mouth of a snake. Virgilio had dreamed a dream once, a romantic dream: he had appeared at night, mounted on a black horse, on the veranda of the Big House; in the heavens an enormous yellow moon, above the cacao trees and above the forest. Ester had been waiting for him, timid and afraid. He had calmed her fears, however, had clasped her around the waist and lifted her to the crupper of his horse; and then, on his night-black stee
d, they had set out through the cacao groves and down the highways; through the towns and the cities and over the sea, among the freighters and the ocean liners, they had gone galloping to other, far-distant lands. The snake hisses, the frog screams. But Ester, her arms about him, is safe. A tale to make your blood run cold. They will go to the end of the world, their feet free of the cacao slime that holds them there. That steed has wings, and they go far from the snakes, far from the assassinated frogs, far, very far, from the groves of cacao, the dead men along the highway, the crosses lit up by candles on nights of longing. The black steed soars through the air, over the groves, over the forests, over the burnings and the clearings. Ester goes with Virgilio and they will moan with love this moon-drenched night. Through the air they go at an unbridled gallop. The moon envelops the night, and from afar there comes a song. A man is singing:

  And now I have truly told you a tale

  To make your blood run cold.

  It is like a wedding march. None would ever have thought that the last verse of the song was to be written this very night, along the road to Ferradas. What does it matter—what does death matter—a bullet in the chest, a cross by the roadside, a candle lighted by Maneca Dantas—so long as Ester goes with him on that galloping black steed, to other lands than this, the land of cacao? The song accompanies him like a wedding march. A tale to make your blood run cold.

  3

  The city of Ilhéos awoke in a state of feverish excitement. Its streets were carpeted with flowers, flags hung from the house windows, and bells were pealing merrily on this festive morning. A huge crowd was on its way down to the waterfront and filled the pier to overflowing. The pupils from the schools marched in a body: the young women from Our Lady of Victory Seminary, which was the nuns’ school (the building had recently been completed, on top of the hill overlooking the city); the boys and girls from the private institutions; and finally the children of the poor from the public school. They all were in holiday garb, and the nuns’ charges each wore a blue ribbon symbolizing the religious confraternity to which she belonged. There was a band as well, in showy red and black uniforms, playing a lively air on this day of stir and bustle. Braz was in command of the police troopers, who carried rifles on their shoulders, and on the crowded pier were all the most important citizens of the town, clad in the black Prince Alberts they donned on state occasions. Dr. Jessé, the present prefect of Ilhéos, was sweating in a stiff collar and was doing his best to remember the words of the speech he was shortly to deliver, which he had spent two whole days in embellishing. Sinhô Badaró was there also, with his daughter and son-in-law. The colonel still limped a little in his right leg, where he had been wounded at the time of the assault on the Big House. Here at the waterfront today members of the government party and members of the opposition mingled together, along with priests and nuns. Even Friar Bento had come down from Ferradas and stood conversing with some of the sisters in that foreign-sounding voice of his. Business houses were closed for the day, for everybody had gone to meet the boat.

  The wine-shop kept by the Spaniard, which was near the wharves, was filled with customers. The man with the false ring, who had generously forgiven the Spaniard for having turned him in to the police, was talking to the man in the sky-blue vest.

  “And now,” he was saying, “it’s a Bishop—what’s a Bishop that they have to make so much fuss over him? Why, I once knew an Archbishop, down south. And do you know what he looked like? Like a broiled lobster, that’s what!”

  The man in the sky-blue vest did not argue the matter. It might be the truth, who could say? In any event, the first Bishop of Ilhéos was arriving this morning; for a recent papal decree had elevated the city from a parish to a diocese, and a canon from Parahyba had been consecrated Bishop. According to the newspapers of Bahia, he was a man of great virtues and great learning; but for the residents of Ilhéos he was their Bishop, a symbol of the importance their city had achieved, a sign of progress. Despite the lack of religious sentiment that, if one was to believe Canon Freitas, was so characteristic of this region, the town was proud of the honour the Church had conferred upon it and was prepared to give the first incumbent a right royal welcome.

  People now came running down the beach: the boat had been sighted, out near the Rapa rock. Men and women, meanwhile, were still hurrying down the street on their way to the pier. The pious old ladies wore black shawls over their heads and were so nervous that for once they had lost their tongues. The young girls and their swains took advantage of the occasion to do a bit of ogling, and even the prostitutes had put in an appearance. The last, however, gazed on from a distance, having formed a convivial group in back of the booths where fish were sold. There were numerous priests in the throng also, and the inhabitants could not help wondering where they had all come from. They were from the towns of the interior, the vicars of Itapira and Barra do Rio de Contas having made a long and tiresome journey to pay their respects to the new Bishop.

  The big carpet from the grand staircase of the prefecture had been laid upon the pier, and over this the Bishop was to pass.

  The boat, decked out with flags, was now crossing the bar, and its whistle could be heard from a distance. Rockets went up in the air from the island of Pontal, and the police troopers discharged their rifles in a mock salute. The priests, the prefect, the colonels, and the nuns, the wealthy merchants as well, all crowded forward, and as the ship drew up to the pier, the sky above the city was filled with exploding rockets and the bells pealed, as the Bishop, a short, fat little man, descended the gangplank and Dr. Jessé began his address of welcome.

  The crowd accompanied the prelate to the home of Canon Freitas, where breakfast was served for the select few, and that afternoon there was a solemn benediction in the Cathedral of St. George. Maneca Dantas had brought his children along, and his son Ruy declaimed a few verses by way of welcome to the “spiritual father.” The Bishop praised the precocious lad’s intelligence. Sinhô Badaró likewise paid a visit to ask a blessing for his grandchild that was about to be born.

  That night there were more fireworks, while at the prefecture a state banquet was held, the tribute of the city of Ilhéos to its first Bishop. The new prosecutor spoke in the name of the people, and the guest of honour said a few words in reply, expressive of his happiness at finding himself among the grapiúnas. Following the banquet the Bishop withdrew, for he was tired; but the festivities kept up until a late hour, and it was two o’clock in the morning when Lawyer Ruy, thoroughly drunk, staggered out into the street. Finding no one with whom to talk, he went down to the waterfront and there, happening to run into the man with the false ring, he proceeded, for want of any other listener, to expound to him his view of things.

  “In this land, my son, a cacao grove can even produce a Bishop. It produces railroads, assassins, ousters, town houses, cafés, schools, theatres—even a Bishop. Yes, this country doesn’t only yield cacao, it yields everything.”

  All of which was not quite in keeping with an article that Lawyer Ruy had published that day in A Folha de Ilhéos. For the first and only time that paper and O Comercio found themselves in full agreement. Both praised the city and the municipality for the progress they had achieved; both stressed the importance of the Bishop’s coming; and both prophesied a brilliant future for the town.

  “Its elevation to a diocese,” wrote Manuel de Oliveira, “is no more than a recognition of the dizzying progress which Ilhéos has made, a progress that is due to the efforts of those great men who sacrificed everything for their country’s good.”

  “Ilhéos, cradle of so many sons of toil,” wrote Lawyer Ruy, “of so many men of character and intelligence who have blazed the path for civilization in the black and barbarous land of cacao . . .”

  In the meantime, still trying to steady himself on his feet, Lawyer Ruy was bellowing to the man with the false ring:

  “Cacao, my son, is everything. It even yields a
Bishop at the foot of the tree—even a Bishop.”

  To the man with the false ring nothing in the world was impossible.

  “It may be,” he said, “who knows?”

  4

  Following the election that elevated Dr. Jessé Freitas to the Federal Chamber as a government party deputy (“What’s that jackass going to do there?” Lawyer Ruy had inquired of his acquaintances), and which at the same time transformed the interventor into the constitutional Governor of the state of Bahia, a decree was issued creating the municipality of Itabuna, which was thereby dismembered from Ilhéos. The seat of the new municipality was to be the former borough of Tabocas, now the city of Itabuna. A bridge, in the interim, had been constructed joining the two portions of the town on either side of the river.

  Horacio, who had picked Maneca Dantas to succeed Dr. Jessé as prefect of Ilhéos, now chose for the corresponding post in Itabuna that same hardware dealer, Azevedo, who had been the Badarós’ devoted follower and who had gone bankrupt on their account. For Azevedo could not stand being the under-dog in politics and had come to an agreement with Horacio. His electors had voted for Dr. Jessé for deputy and so, in exchange, he was given the new prefecture.