Barren Lives

by Graciliano Ramos

  Vitória fanned briskly so as not to hear the noise of the approaching river. Was it really going to rise still more? The fan swished, and the sound of the flood was like a breath that died away on the other side of the jujubes.

  Fabiano was telling of great deeds he had done. He began modestly, but he gradually warmed to the subject, and taking an exaggeratedly optimistic view of the events he came to the conviction that he had performed some real feats. He needed such a conviction. Not long before there had been that trouble with the policeman at the market, who had provoked him, beaten him with the flat of his knife, and thrown him in jail. Fabiano had gone around blue for weeks, imagining various kinds of revenge, seeing the stock waste away on the baking brushland. If a drought came, he would leave his wife and sons and would cut the policeman to bits. Afterwards he would kill the judge, the district attorney, and the chief of police. He had been that way for days, dejected, thinking of the drought, and with the recollection of his humiliation gnawing at his soul.

  But then the rumble of thunder had come, followed by the floodwaters, and now the gutters were dripping and the wind was coming in through the holes in the walls.

  Fabiano rubbed his hands in contentment. As the cold was great, he drew nearer to the flames. He was telling of a terrible brawl. He had forgotten about jail and the beating he had taken, and felt he was capable of great deeds.

  The river was coming up the slope; it was near the jujubes. There was no report that it had ever reached them, however, and Fabiano, secure in the information he had had from old-timers, was telling the tale of a fight he had won. The fight was purely imaginary but Fabiano believed in it.

  The cows had come for shelter to the side of the house by the corral. The rain lashed them; their bells clanged. They would get fat on the new grass and would have calves. Grass would grow in the fields, the trees would take on new leaves, the cattle would multiply. They would all put on weight—Fabiano, his wife, their two sons, and the dog. Perhaps Vitória would have her leather-bottomed bed. Really, the bunk of tree branches on which they slept was anything but comfortable.

  Fabiano made gestures, while Vitória continued fanning the flames that rose from the damp mimosa. The boys, hot on one side and cold on the other, unable to sleep, lent an ear to their father’s tall tale. They began in a low voice to discuss an obscure point of the story. Unable to come to agreement, they grew angry and were on the point of blows. Fabiano, annoyed at their impertinence, thought of punishing them, but then, calming down, he repeated, with different words, the part they hadn’t understood.

  The younger boy clapped his hands as he watched by the light of the flickering flames Fabiano’s agitated gestures. The backs of Fabiano’s hands remained in the shadow, but the palms shone bloodred in the light. They looked as if he had just finished flaying an animal. His tangled, ruddy beard could not be seen; his bluish eyes stared fixedly at the burning brands; his harsh, hoarse voice lapsed from time to time into silence. Fabiano sat on the mortar, his body sagging, ugly and coarse, like that of an animal too heavy to stand on two feet.

  The older boy was not satisfied. Since he couldn’t make out his father’s features he closed his eyes, the better to understand what he was saying. But a doubt had crept into his mind. Fabiano had changed the story, and that lessened its verisimilitude. The boy was disenchanted. He stretched and yawned. It would have been better for Fabiano to have repeated the same words. He would have argued with his brother over their meaning. They would have fought over the words and the conviction of his rightness would have grown. Fabiano should have repeated the words. But no, instead he had introduced a variation, and the hero had become a common man, with common human contradictions.

  The older boy remembered a toy he had once possessed, a present from Tomás the miller. He closed his eyes and then opened them, but they were heavy with sleep. The draft that came in through the cracks in the wall chilled one of his arms and legs—his whole right side. He turned over, and the parts of Fabiano which had been visible vanished from his sight. The toy had got broken, and the youngster had wept over the useless pieces. He remembered the little corrals he had built of small pebbles, under the catingueira trees. Now the pond was full and had spread over the corrals he had made. The clay pit too was full; its water reached to the kitchen wall and mingled with that of the pond. In order to get to the garden plot, with its pinks and pots of wormwood, Vitória had to go out the front door, down past the shed, through the brauna-wood gate. Behind the house, the fences, the Jerusalem thorn, and the catingueiras were standing in water. The gutters dripped, the cowbells clanged, the toads croaked. The sound of the cowbells was familiar, but the voices of the toads and the drip of the gutters were strange to his ears. Everything was different. It rained all day and all night. The thickets and clumps of trees in which mysterious creatures dwelled had been violated. There were toads out there. Their music rose and fell and a mournful cadence filled the surrounding air. The boy tried to count the voices, but got mixed up. There were too many of them, more toads than anyone could count out in the thickets and among the trees. What could they be doing? What was the meaning of their sad, croaking tune? He had never seen a toad, and he confused them with the invisible inhabitants of the hills and the clumps of macambira. He curled up, made himself comfortable, and went to sleep, one side warmed by the fire, the other protected by Vitória’s thighs.

  The fan waved back and forth; the damp wood hissed; Fabiano’s face first shone in the light and then disappeared in the darkness.

  The dog, motionless and patient, stared into the coals and waited for the family to go to bed. The noise Fabiano was making wearied her. Out in the fields, following a steer, he could yell his lungs out. That was natural. But here beside the fire, why should he be shouting so? Fabiano was wasting his breath for no purpose at all. The dog was sick of it. She tried to doze off, but couldn’t sleep. Vitória should take out the coals and the ashes, sweep the floor, and go to bed with Fabiano. The boys would settle themselves on the straw mat under the corner shelf in the sitting room. It would be nice if they would leave her in peace. She spent the whole day watching people’s movements, trying to understand incomprehensible things. Now she needed to sleep, to get rid of her fleas, to be freed from the vigilance to which they had accustomed her. Once the ground had been swept with the broom she would slip in among the stones, curl up and go to sleep in their heat, with the smell of the damp goats in her nostrils and strange noises in her ears—the drip-drip of the water from the eaves, the toads’ chorus, and the roar of the swollen river. Small, ownerless insects would come to pay her a visit.

  Feast Day

  Fabiano, Vitória, and the boys were going to the Christmas celebrations in town. It was three in the afternoon and exceedingly hot; small whirlwinds spread clouds of dust and dry leaves over the yellowed trees.

  They had closed up the house, crossed the yard, gone down the slope, and were stumbling along on the stones, like sorehoofed oxen. Fabiano, cramped in the suit of duck old Miss Terta had sewed for him, wearing a baize hat, a collar and tie, and thin-leather gaiters, tried to hold himself straight, something he did not ordinarily do. Vitória, clad in her red, flowered dress, had a hard time keeping her balance in her high-heeled shoes. She insisted on wearing the kind city girls did, and she stumbled as she went along. The boys were wearing jackets and trousers for the first time. At home they wore just a little shirt of stripped cotton or else went naked. Fabiano, however, had bought ten ells of white cloth at the store and had charged old Miss Terta with making suits for him and his boys. Old Miss Terta had said the cloth was hardly enough, but Fabiano had paid no attention, sure she only intended to steal the scraps. As a result the suits were short and tight, and showed much patching.

  Fabiano tried to overlook these disadvantages. He walked along stiffly, his belly sticking out and his shoulders thrown back, gazing at the distant range of hills. Normally he looked at the ground, so as to avoid stones, stumps, holes, and
snakes. The forced posture wearied him. When he got to the sand of the riverbed he realized he could never go the three leagues to town that way. He pulled off his gaiters, stuffed his socks in his pocket, took off his coat, collar, and necktie, and heaved a sigh of relief. Vitória decided to follow his example. She took off her shoes and stockings, tying them up in her kerchief. The children put their sandals under their arms and felt quite at ease.

  The dog, who had been tagging along behind, joined the group at this point. If she had appeared sooner, in all probability Fabiano would have chased her back and she would have spent the holiday with the goats that dirtied the shed with their droppings. With his collar and tie rumpled in his pocket, his coat over his shoulder, and his gaiters on the end of a stick, the herdsman felt closer to her and accepted her company.

  He resumed his normal stance, walking with a sway, his head bent forward. Vitória, the two boys, and the dog accompanied him. The afternoon went by rapidly, and by nightfall they were at the creek bank where the street began.

  There Fabiano stopped, sat down, and washed his horny feet, striving to get the dirt out of their deep cracks. Without drying, he tried to put his gaiters and socks on. It was a struggle: the heels of the cotton socks got balled up on his instep and the thin-leather gaiters resisted like shy virgins. Vitória pulled up her skirt, sat down on the ground, and likewise washed. The two boys waded into the brook, where they scrubbed their feet, then got out, put on their sandals, and stood watching their parents’ movements. Vitória finished and got up, but Fabiano was puffing with exasperation. He had overcome the obstinacy of one of those cursed gaiters, but the other was stuck and all his tugs on the straps were in vain.

  Vitória offered suggestions which only served to irritate her husband. There was no way of getting his heel down where it belonged. A harder pull on the strap at the back caused it to break off in his hand. Fabiano energetically grasped at the elastic instead, but to no avail. He got up, resolved to start down the street like that, limping, with one leg longer than the other. In rage, mingled with hope, he gave a violent stamp on the ground. His flesh squeezed, his bones cracked, his damp sock tore, and his cramped foot slipped into place in its leather prison. Fabiano heaved a long sigh of relief and pain. Then he tried to fasten his hard collar around his neck, but his trembling fingers weren’t equal to the task. Vitória came to his aid; the collar button slipped into its little hole and the tie was knotted. Their dirty, sweaty hands left black marks on the collar.

  “It’s all right now,” grunted Fabiano.

  They crossed the plank bridge and started down the street. Vitória stumbled as she walked, because of her high heels, and held her umbrella, handle down, ferrule up, wrapped in her kerchief. It would be impossible to say why she carried it handle down. She herself could not have explained it. She had always seen other country women do thus and she had adopted the custom.

  Fabiano marched along stiffly.

  The two boys stared at the street lamps and divined wonders. They were afraid, rather than curious, and consequently walked softly, lest they attract other people’s attention. They had always supposed there were worlds different from that of the ranch, marvelous worlds in the blue hills. This, however, was peculiar. How could there be so many houses and so many people? Surely the men were going to have a fight. Would these people be hostile and forbid them to go in among the stands? They were used to having their ears pulled and their heads cracked. Perhaps the strangers wouldn’t whack them as Vitória did, but the youngsters shrank back, clung to the walls, half-dazzled, their ears full of strange sounds.

  They arrived at the church and went in. The dog stayed trotting around on the sidewalk, looking at the street with distrust. In her opinion everything ought to be dark, because it was night, and the people walking in the square should go to bed. Raising her muzzle, she noted an odor that made her want to cough. They were making entirely too much noise around there and the light was too bright, but what really bothered her was that smell of smoke.

  The boys too were astonished. In their suddenly expanded world Fabiano and Vitória loomed up much less impressively: they were smaller than the figures on the altars. The boys didn’t know what altars were, but they gathered that the objects on them must be precious. The lights and the singing enchanted them. The only light on the ranch was that of the kitchen fire and the kerosene lamp that hung by its handle from a peg in the wall; the only singing consisted of Vitória’s blessing and Fabiano’s halloos. The halloo was sad-sounding, a monotonous, wordless tune that lulled the cattle.

  Fabiano remained staring at the images and the lighted candles in silence. He was uncomfortable in his new suit; he held his neck stretched and walked as if on coals. The crowd cramped and hampered him more than his suit. When he had his chaps, jacket, and chest protector on, he was boxed in like an armadillo in its shell, but he could leap on the back of an animal and go flying off across the brushland. Now he couldn’t even turn around; hands and arms brushed against his body. He remembered the beating he had taken and the night he had spent in jail. The feeling he now had wasn’t very different from that which he had experienced as a prisoner. It was as if the hands and arms of the crowd were trying to grab hold of him, subdue him, and press him into a corner. He looked at the faces around him. Obviously the people who had gathered there didn’t notice him, but Fabiano felt as if he were surrounded by enemies; he feared he might get into arguments and that the night might end badly. He puffed and tried uselessly to fan himself with his hat. It was difficult to move; he was practically tied. Slowly he managed to make his way through the throng, slipping over to the holy-water font, where he stopped, fearful of losing sight of his wife and sons. He stood on tiptoe but this only brought a groan from him: his blistered heels were beginning to hurt. He made out the bun of Vitória’s hair. She was more or less hidden by a pillar. Probably the boys were with her. The church got fuller and fuller. To make out his wife’s head, Fabiano had to stretch and turn his own. And his collar was digging into his neck. The gaiters and the collar were indispensable. He couldn’t go to the novena wearing sandals and a cotton shirt, open in front, exposing his hairy chest. That would be a lack of respect. Since he had religion he went to church once a year, and as long as he could remember he had seen people dress like this on feast days, in starched trousers and jacket, gaiters, baize hat, collar, and necktie. He would not risk breaking tradition, even if he suffered for it. He thought he was performing a duty. He tried to straighten up, but his will flagged. His spine sagged naturally, and his arms dangled awkwardly.

  Comparing himself with the city folk, Fabiano held himself inferior. This was why he was afraid the others would make fun of him. He assumed a surly expression and avoided conversations. People talked to him only to get something out of him. The tradesmen cheated on measure, price, and accounts. The boss’s figuring with pen and ink he could not understand; the last time he met with him there had been some confusion about numbers, and Fabiano, his brain awhirl, had left the office in indignation, sure he had been cheated. He took a beating from all of them. The clerks, the tradesmen, and the landowner stole the shirt off his back, and those who had no dealings with him laughed when they saw him go stumbling down the street. This was why Fabiano tried to avoid those people. He knew his new suit, cut and sewed by old Miss Terta, his collar, his tie, his gaiters, and his baize hat made him look ridiculous, but he didn’t want to think about that.

  “Lazy, thieving, gossiping, good-for-nothings!”

  He was convinced that all the town folk were evil. He bit his lips. He couldn’t afford to say anything like that. For a much lesser offence he had been whacked with a knife and had had to sleep in jail. Now that policeman in khaki— He shook his head to get rid of the unpleasant recollection and sought for a friendly face in the crowd. If he found someone he knew, he would call him out on the sidewalk, embrace him, smile, and clap his hands. Then they would talk about cattle. He shivered, and tried to make out the bun of V
itória’s hair. He had to be careful not to get too far from his wife and children. He moved in their direction and came up to them at the moment that the church was beginning to empty.

  Pushing and shoving they made their way out and down the steps. Bumped and jostled, Fabiano again thought of the policeman in khaki. Out in the square, on passing by the courbaril tree he turned his face away. For no reason at all the wretch had gone and provoked him, stepping on his foot. He had turned away, politely. But since the other fellow had persisted, he had lost his patience and had flown off the handle. The result: he had been whacked on the back with a knife and had spent a night in jail.

  He invited his wife and the boys to take a ride on the merry-go-round, saw them seated, and amused himself for a while watching them ride by. Then he went to the gambling booths. He scratched, pulled out his handkerchief, untied it and counted his money, tempted to risk it on a game of dice. If he were lucky he could buy the bed of untanned leather his wife dreamed of. He went and had a drink of rum at one of the stands, came back, and circled around in indecision, looking at Vitória in a mute appeal for her opinion. She made a gesture of disapproval and Fabiano withdrew, remembering the game at Inácio’s with the policeman in khaki. He had been cheated; he was sure he had been cheated. He went back to the stand and had another drink of rum. Little by little he lost his inhibitions.

  “Feast days a fellow has to celebrate,” he declared.

  He had still one more drink; then, straightening up, he stared at the passers-by in defiance. He was resolved to do something crazy. If he came on the policeman in khaki there would be a real row. He walked around among the stands, swaggering, kicking at the ground, oblivious of the blisters on his feet. He was looking for trouble: he wanted to show that good-for-nothing! He paid no attention to his wife and sons, who were following him.