Vitória rummaged in the trunk. The boys went to break off a branch to serve as a spit. The dog, her ears pricked up, sitting on the ground with her front paws raised, kept a watchful eye as she awaited the part that would be her lot—probably the bones, and perhaps the skin.
Fabiano took the drinking gourd and went down the slope to the riverbed. There where they had used to water the cattle he found a bit of damp earth. Digging at the sand with his fingers he waited for water to well up and then, bending to the ground, he drank at length. His thirst quenched, he lay on his back, watching the stars that were beginning to come out. One, two, three, four—there were many stars, more than he could count, in the sky. To the west it was filling up with cirrus clouds. A wild joy filled Fabiano’s heart.
His thoughts turned to his family and suddenly he felt hungry. On their trek his movements had been purely mechanical, not very different, in fact, from that of the wheel of Tomás’ mill. Now, as he lay there, he clutched at his belly and his teeth chattered. What had become of Tomás’ mill?
He looked at the sky once more. The cirrus clouds loomed ever larger and the moon had come up, huge and white. It was surely going to rain.
Tomás too had fled from the drought and the wheel of his mill had ceased to turn. He, Fabiano, was like the mill wheel. He didn’t know why, but he was.
One, two, three—there were more stars than he could count in the sky. The moon was encircled by a milky halo. It was going to rain. Good. The brush would come back to life; cattle would return to the corral, and he, Fabiano, would be the herdsman of the once-dead ranch. Bone-clappered cowbells would ring out on the lonely air. The boys, chubby and rosy-cheeked, would play in the goat pen. Vitória would have bright-flowered skirts to wear. Cows would fill the corral and the brushland would be covered with green.
He remembered that his sons, his wife, and the dog were thirsty up there under the jujube. He thought of the cavy. He filled the gourd, got up, and started off slowly so as not to spill the brackish water. As he climbed the slope a warm breeze stirred the cactus. A new beat of life sent a shiver through the brushland, through the twigs and dry leaves.
Coming up to the others he set the gourd on the ground, propping it up with stones, so that the family could satisfy its thirst. Then he squatted down, reached into the haversack, drew out the flint, and set fire to the roots he had gathered. Swelling his hollow cheeks he blew on the flames, which trembled and rose, casting a glow on his sunburned face, his ruddy beard, and his blue eyes. A few minutes later the cavy was turning and sizzling on the spit.
Happiness filled them all. Vitória would have a long flowered skirt to wear; hér withered face would grow young again; her flabby haunches would fill out; her scarlet dress would be the envy of other women of the backlands.
The moon grew brighter; the milky haze surrounding it spread; the stars gradually faded in the whiteness that filled the night. One, two, three—there were only a few stars in the sky now. Close by, the cloud darkened the hillside.
The ranch would come back to life, and he, Fabiano, would be the herdsman, the real lord of that world.
Their few belongings were piled up on the ground—the flintlock, the haversack, the drinking gourd, and the painted tin trunk. The fire crackled, and the cavy hissed on the coals.
It would be a resurrection. The colors of health would come back to Vitória’s sad face. The boys would wallow in the dirt of the goat pen. Cowbells would tinkle in the surroundings. The brushland would be covered with green.
The dog wagged her tail, looking at the coals. Since she couldn’t be concerned with higher matters, she waited patiently for time to gnaw the bones. Afterwards she would go to sleep.
Fabiano
Fabiano was seeking to cure the wily heifer’s maggot-infested sores by praying over the trail she had left. He carried a bottle of disinfectant in his haversack and if he had found the animal he would have applied treatment in the usual fashion. He couldn’t find her, but he thought he made out her tracks in the sand, and squatting down he crossed two twigs on the ground and uttered an invocation. If the animal was still alive she would come back to the corral, for his prayer possessed great power.
His obligation fulfilled, Fabiano straightened up with a clear conscience and walked in the direction of the house, taking a course close to the riverbank. Soft sand was tiring to walk on, but there the hard mud made his sandals go slap-slap. The clappers of bells hanging from leather straps slung over his shoulders clinked dully. His head leaning forward, his back bent, he swung his arms to the right and left. These movements were useless, but the herdsman, his father, his grandfather, and still more remote ancestors had been used to going along narrow trails, pushing back the bushes with their hands. His sons, who were following along behind, were already beginning to imitate this hereditary gesture.
Slap-slap. The three pairs of sandals flapped against the cracked mud, dry and white on top, but soft and black underneath. The earth of the river edge gave under the weight of their feet.
The dog ran along in front, wrinkling her nose, seeking the smell of the foxy heifer in the brushland.
Fabiano was content. Yes, sir! He had fixed himself up all right. He had arrived in a terrible state, his family dying of hunger, gnawing on roots. They had dropped down in a corner of the yard under a jujube tree; later they had taken over the deserted house. He, his wife, and the boys had got used to the dark bedroom, in which they felt rather like rats, and the memory of past suffering had faded away.
He walked boldly on the cracked ground. Pulling out his sharp-pointed knife, he used it to clean his nails; then, taking from his haversack an end of rope tobacco, he crumbled it into fine bits which he rolled in a piece of cornhusk to make a cigarette. Lighting it with his tinder, he puffed away with a sense of well-being.
“Fabiano, you’re a real rancher,” he exclaimed aloud.
Then he restrained himself, noting that the boys were near by. They would surely be surprised to hear him talking to himself. Besides, thinking better of the matter, he wasn’t a rancher after all; he was just another half-breed hired to look after other people’s property. He was red-skinned and sunburned, had blue eyes and a ruddy beard and hair, but as he lived on other people’s land and looked after other people’s cattle, he considered himself a half-breed, taking off his hat and feeling ill at ease in the presence of white gentry.
He glanced around, fearful that someone besides the boys might have heard his imprudent remark. He amended it, murmuring, “Fabiano, you’re a crack ranch hand.” That seemed to him something to be proud of—a crack, a fellow who could handle any kind of situation.
When he had arrived at the ranch he had been in a dreadful state. And now look at him—strong, with meat on his bones, smoking his cornhusk cigarette. “Yes, sir! A crack ranch hand, Fabiano.”
And he was. He had taken over the house for lack of any other lodgings and had spent a few days living on hog-plum roots and velvetbean seeds. Then the thunderstorm had come, and after that the ranch owner, who had told him to get out. But Fabiano had pretended not to understand. He had offered his services, mumbling, scratching his elbows, and exhibiting a worried smile. He was prepared to stay. And the owner had taken him on, handing over the branding irons to him.
Now Fabiano was a herdsman, and no one would drive him away. He had appeared like a stray animal, and had holed up like one. Now he was firmly planted there, more firmly than the thistles, the mandacarus, and the other cactus. He was stronger than any of them; he was like the catingueira and brauna trees. He, Vitória, the boys, and the dog were deeply rooted in the land.
Slap-slap. His sandals flapped against the cracked earth. The herdsman’s body sagged, his legs were bowed, his arms dangled awkwardly at his sides. He looked like a monkey.
Sadness overtook him. What a mistake to think of himself as rooted in another man’s land! His fate was to roam aimlessly up and down the world, like the Wandering Jew. He was a vagrant, driven by droug
ht. He was only a temporary lodger there, one who had lingered on, who had taken a liking to the house, the corral, the goat pen, and the jujube that had given them shelter for a night.
He snapped his fingers. The dog came leaping to lick at his rough, hairy hands. Fabiano was touched by the animal’s show of affection.
“You’re a fine dog, you are.”
Living far from other men, he got along well only with animals. His feet were hard enough to crush thorns and be quite insensitive to heat. His walk, however, was awkward; he leaned first to one side and then to the other in an ugly, lopsided twist, whereas on horseback he was one with the steed, as if glued to it. His was a sing-song language of guttural monosyllables, of cries and interjections, which his animal companions had no trouble in understanding and with which he occasionally addressed humans. In all truth, he spoke very little. He marveled at the long, difficult words used by town folk, and sought vainly to repeat some of them, though he knew they were useless and perhaps dangerous.
One of the children came up to him with a question. Fabiano stopped, wrinkled his brow, and waited for the question to be repeated. Not understanding what the boy wanted, he took him to task. The boy was becoming entirely too curious. If he kept up that way, nosing into things that were none of his business, what would become of him? He shooed the boy away in annoyance.
“These little devils seem to have the idea that—”
He did not complete the thought. He had decided that he was wrong. He tried to recall his own childhood. He saw himself as a stunted youngster in a dirty, torn shirt, tagging along after his father as he did the field chores, asking him questions that got no answers. He called to the boys, talked to them of things near by, and sought to arouse their interest. He clapped his hands and gave a cry.
“Sic ’em!”
The dog dashed off through the runners and thistles, trying to smell out the foxy heifer. After a few minutes she came back, sad and dejected, her tail drooping. Fabiano consoled her with a pat. He had only wanted to teach the boys something. It was good for them to know that this was the way they should act.
He took longer strides and, leaving the dry mud of the river edge, came to the slope that led to the yard. He was disturbed. A cloud darkened his blue eyes. It was as if an abyss had opened in his life. He needed to talk to his wife, to shake off his perturbation, to fill up the baskets, to give pieces of saguaro to the cattle. Fortunately the heifer had been cured by his prayer. If she died, it would not be his fault.
The boys cried out as their father had done, “Sic ’em!” and the dog dashed off once more into the bushes, again in vain. The children were amused and excited, and Fabiano’s spirits brightened. That was right. The dog couldn’t find the heifer in the bushes, but it was good for the boys to get used to the easy exercise, clapping their hands, shouting, and following the movements of the animal. The dog came back, her tongue hanging out, panting. Fabiano took the lead, satisfied with his lesson, and thinking of the mare he was to break—one that had never been shod or had worn a saddle. There was going to be an awful commotion in the brush!
Right now he wanted to have a talk with Vitória about the boys’ upbringing. Certainly she was not to blame. Busy with the housework, watering the pinks and the pots of wormwood, taking the empty jar down to the stream and bringing it back once she had filled it, she left the boys free to play in the clay pit, as muddy as pigs. And they were at the unbearable age when they asked one question after another. Fabiano was perfectly content to be ignorant. Did he have a right to know anything? No.
If he learned anything at all, he would need to know more and would never be satisfied. That was the rub.
He recalled Tomás the miller. Of all the men of the backlands, Tomás the miller had been the most completely ruined. Why? It could only be because he read too much. Fabiano had often said to him, “Tomás, you’re touched in the head. Why all this paper? When trouble comes, you’ll be in just as bad a fix as everyone else.” Well, the drought had come, and the poor old man, with all his goodness and all his book learning, had lost everything and had had to take to the road, with nowhere to go. Perhaps he had already given up the ghost. A person of his kind couldn’t stand a long, hard summer.
To be sure, his knowledge inspired respect. When Tomás the miller went by, yellow, hunchbacked, and pensive on his slow, blind horse, Fabiano and his likes took off their hats. Tomás answered by touching the brim of his straw hat, turning from one side to the other, his legs bowing in their black boots with red patches.
In moments of madness, Fabiano tried to imitate him. He mouthed big words, which he got all wrong, and tried to convince himself he was improving. This was nonsense. It was perfectly obvious that a fellow like him was never intended to talk properly.
Tomás the miller talked properly. He wore his eyes out over books and newspapers, but he didn’t know how to order people to do things. He asked them instead. There was something queer about so much politeness from a man who was well-to-do. People even criticized such ways. But they all obeyed Tomás. Who said they didn’t?
Other gentry were different. His present boss, for instance, yelled over nothing at all. He almost never came to the ranch, and when he did it was only to find fault with everything. The cattle were increasing and the work was going well, but the boss bawled the herdsman out. It was quite natural: he bawled him out because his position permitted him to, and Fabiano listened with his hat under his arm, making excuses and promising to do better. All the while he was swearing to himself he would do just as before, because everything was in order and the boss only wanted to show his authority and yell that the place was his. Who said it wasn’t?
Fabiano was just part of the ranch equipment, a tool of little value; he would be dismissed when he least expected it. When he was hired he was furnished with a horse and with leg and chest protectors, a jacket, and heavy shoes, all of untanned leather, but when he left he would hand all these over to the herdsman who took his place.
Vitória wanted a bed like Tomás the miller’s. This was sheer madness. He didn’t say anything, so as not to hurt her feelings, but he knew it was madness. Luxuries weren’t for ranch hands. Besides, they were there only temporarily. Any day the boss might turn them out, and they would have to take to the road, with no place to go and no way of carting around household possessions. Their bundles were always made, and they could sleep quite well under a tree.
He looked out over the yellow brush, which the setting sun tinged with red. If drought came, not one green plant would be left. A shiver ran over him. Of course it would come. It had always been that way, as long as he could remember. And even before he could remember, before he had been born, there had been good years mixed with bad years. Misfortune was on the way; perhaps it was near at hand. It really wasn’t worth while working. There he was, walking toward the house, climbing the slope, kicking pebbles out of the way with his sandals, and disaster was coming at a gallop, aiming to get him.
Turning so as not to arouse the boys’ curiosity, he crossed himself. He didn’t want to die. He still planned to travel, to see a little of the world, and to meet important people like Tomás the miller. His was a bad lot, but Fabiano was determined to struggle against it and felt strong enough to come out the winner. He didn’t want to die. He was hidden in the brush like an armadillo—as hard and as clumsy as an armadillo. Some day, though, he would come out of his hiding place and walk with his head up, his own boss.
“Your own boss, Fabiano.”
He scratched the stubble of beard on his chin, stopped, and relit his cigarette. No, he would probably never be his own boss. He would always be just what he was now, a half-breed, ordered around by gentry, little more than a piece of livestock on another man’s ranch.
But afterwards? Fabiano was sure it wouldn’t be over so soon. He had gone days without eating, tightening his belt, drawing in his stomach. He would live for years, for a century. But if he should die of hunger or on the horns of a bull
, he would leave sturdy sons who would beget sons of their own.
Everything around was dry and harsh. And the boss was harsh too, peevish, exacting, thieving, and as ticklish to handle as a spiny cactus.
It was of prime importance for his sons to get started on the right road, learning to cut saguaro for the cattle, to repair fences, and to break horses. They had to be hard, like armadillos. If they didn’t become calloused they would come to the same end as Tomás the miller. Poor fellow! What use had all his books and newspapers been to him? He had died of a sick stomach and weak legs.
Some day— Yes, when droughts went away and everything ran right— But would droughts ever go away and things run right? He didn’t know. Tomás the miller must have read about that. Free of that danger the boys could talk, ask questions, and do anything they liked. But now they had to behave like the kind of people they were.
He came to the yard, where he could make out the low, dark house with its black tile roof. Behind him were the jujube trees, the pile of stones on which they threw dead snakes, and the oxcart. The boys’ sandals flapped on the smooth, whitish ground. The dog trotted along panting, with her mouth open.
At that hour of the day Vitória must be in the kitchen, squatting beside the stones on which she did the cooking, her flowered skirt gathered up around her thighs, fixing dinner. Fabiano was hungry. After the meal he would talk with her about the boys’ upbringing.
Jail
Fabiano had gone to the market in town to buy supplies. He needed salt, manioc flour, beans, and brown sugar. Vitória had also asked for a bottle of kerosene and a cut of red calico, but the kerosene Inácio sold was mixed with water and the calico of the sample cost too much.
Barren Lives Page 4
