Barren Lives

by Graciliano Ramos

  They made a halt. Fabiano put part of his burden on the ground and looked at the sky, shading his eyes with his hands. He had dragged himself there, unsure whether it was really a move they were making. He had hung back and had reproved the boys who had gone on ahead, counseling them to save their strength. The truth was that he didn’t want to go away from the ranch. The trek seemed a bungle to him; he didn’t really believe in it. He had prepared for it, slowly; he had put it off and had again prepared for it; and he had finally resolved to leave only when everything was definitely lost. Could he go on living in a cemetery? Nothing bound him to that hard earth; he could find some place less dry to be buried. That was what Fabiano said as he thought of other things—the goat pen and the corral, whose fences needed mending; the horse the boss had given him to use and that had proved a good companion; the sorrel mare; the catingueira trees; the pots of wormwood; the stones on which they did the cooking; the bed of tree branches. His feet lost all enthusiasm; his sandals were silent in the darkness. Would he have to abandon everything? His sandals began to squeak again on the pebble-covered road. Fabiano studied the sky, where a line of light brightened the horizon. He refused to accept reality. His heart filled with misgiving, he sought to make out something different from the reddishness which all the others saw. His thick hands trembled under the curved brim of his hat as they protected his eyes against the brightness.

  He dropped his arms dispiritedly.

  “It’s all over.”

  Even before looking at the sky he knew it was black in one direction and blood red in the other and that it was going to turn bright blue. He shuddered as if he had discovered something profoundly evil.

  Ever since the appearance of the birds of passage he had been uneasy. He had worked long hours, to make sure he would sleep, but in the midst of his labor a shiver would run down his spine, and at night he would awaken in agony and curl up in a corner of the bed of tree branches, where, devoured by fleas, he would conjure up visions of coming misfortunes.

  The light increased and spread over the range. Only then did the trek really begin. Fabiano picked up the flintlock and the bag of provisions, gave a look at his wife and sons, and with a hoarse cry ordered them to set off.

  They walked rapidly, as if someone were goading them on, Fabiano’s sandals all but treading on the boys’ heels. The herdsman had to get away from that hostile land, where mandacarus and other cactus covered the range, where nothing but thorns were to be seen on every side. He couldn’t get the dog out of his mind; the recollection pricked unbearably at his conscience.

  The boys ran along. Vitória glanced down at her rosary of blue and white beads, tucked in her bosom; at this movement of her head the painted tin trunk all but fell. She straightened up, adjusted the trunk’s position, and moved her lips in a prayer. God our Savior would protect innocent sufferers. Vitória had a moment of weakness as an immense tenderness filled her heart. Her courage soon returned, however, and she tried to rid herself of sad thoughts by talking with her husband in monosyllables. Though she had a good tongue, a lump in her throat now kept her from expressing her thoughts. She felt small and alone in the midst of that solitude; she needed someone for support, someone to give her courage. She longed for a sound of some sort, but no voice of bird, rustle of leaf, or whisper of wind broke the deathlike silence of the morning. The red band of the horizon had disappeared, melting into the blue which filled the sky.

  Vitória simply had to talk. If she kept silence she would be like a cactus plant, drying up and dying. She wanted to deceive herself, to cry out that she was strong and that all this—the frightful heat, the trees that were no more than twisted branches, the motionlessness and silence of the range—meant nothing. She drew apace with Fabiano. Deriving comfort for herself from that which she offered him, she forgot nearby objects, the thorns, the birds of passage, and the vultures looking for carrion. She spoke of the past, confusing it with the future. Couldn’t they go back to being what they had been?

  Fabiano hesitated, scratched his beard, and mumbled as he always did when people addressed him in terms he did not understand. He was glad though that Vitória had started a conversation. He was completely discouraged; the bag of provisions and the haversack were beginning to be unbearably heavy. Vitória put her question; Fabiano went a good half league meditating without understanding. At first he was inclined to answer that of course they were what they had been; then he decided they had changed: they were older and less strong. To put it right, they were different. Vitória insisted. Wouldn’t it be good to live again as they had lived, far away? Fabiano shook his head in vacillation. Perhaps, perhaps not. They had a long whispered conversation, broken off at intervals, full of misunderstandings and repetitions. To live as they had lived in a little house sheltered by Tomás’ mill. They discussed the matter and ended by recognizing that it wouldn’t be worth while, as they would always be on tenterhooks, thinking of drought.

  They were now on their way to inhabited areas. They should find a place to live there. They couldn’t always go wandering like gypsies. The herdsman’s spirit was clouded at the thought that he was going toward lands where perhaps there was no stock to care for. Vitória tried to cheer him by saying that he could take up other occupations. Fabiano trembled, turned, and gazed in the direction of the abandoned ranch. He remembered the cattle with their sores, but then he wiped the thought from his mind. What was he doing looking back? The animals were dead. He closed his eyes tightly to hold back tears as a great homesickness filled his heart. A moment later, though, images he could not bear to recall came to his mind: the boss, the policeman in khaki, the dog stiff in death by the stones at the end of the yard.

  The boys disappeared around a curve in the road. Fabiano moved to catch up with them. Advantage had to be taken of their eagerness; they must be allowed to go as they pleased. Vitória accompanied him and soon they overtook the children. On rounding the curve, Fabiano felt himself a little farther from the place they had lived for a few years; the figures of the boss, the policeman in khaki, and the dog faded from his thoughts.

  The conversation resumed. Fabiano was now a bit more optimistic. He adjusted the position of the sack of provisions; he examined his wife’s full face and thick legs approvingly. He felt like smoking, but he was holding the mouth of the sack and the butt of the flintlock and could not satisfy his desire. He was afraid of giving up, of not continuing the journey. He went on chattering, tossing his head to keep off a cloud which, if viewed closely, would be seen to conceal the boss, the policeman in khaki, and the dog. His callused feet, hard as hoofs, shod with new sandals, would hold out for months. Or would they? Vitória thought they would. Fabiano was grateful for her opinion and praised her sturdy legs, her broad hips, and her full breasts. Vitória’s cheeks reddened, and Fabiano repeated his compliment with enthusiasm. What he had said was right: she was big and strong and could walk a long way. Vitória laughed and lowered her eyes. He was exaggerating. She would soon be thin and slack-breasted. But she would put on weight again. And perhaps the place where they were going would be better than the ones where they had been before. Fabiano stuck out his lower lip doubtfully. Vitória combated his doubt. Why couldn’t they live like other people, have a bed like Tomás the miller’s? Fabiano scratched his head; there came her crazy ideas again! Vitória insisted, dominating him. Why should they always be out of luck; why should they always be fleeing off to the wilds, like animals? There were wonderful things to be seen in the world. Surely they couldn’t go on living in hiding like beasts. Fabiano agreed.

  “The world is a big place.”

  In reality their world was a very small one, but they declared it was big and walked on, half trusting, half uneasy. They looked at the children, who were staring at the distant hills, where they divined mysterious beings.

  “What do you suppose they’re thinking of?” Vitória murmured.

  Fabiano wondered at the question and mumbled an objection. Boys are small fry; t
hey don’t think. But Vitória repeated her question, and her husband wasn’t so sure. She must be right. She was always right. Now she wanted to know what the boys were going to do when they grew up.

  “Herd cattle,” was Fabiano’s opinion.

  Vitória made a face of disgust, shaking her head in disagreement, at the risk of causing the tin trunk to fall. Our Lady save them from such misfortune! Herd cattle! What an idea! They were going to a far country, where they would forget the brushland with its hills and hollows, its pebbles, its dry rivers, thorns, vultures, dying cattle, and dying people. They would never come back; they would resist the homesickness that attacks backlanders in green country. Were they to die of sadness for lack of thorns? They would settle down far away and would take on new ways.

  Fabiano listened to his wife’s dreaming in fascination; his muscles relaxed and the bag of provisions slipped from his shoulder. He straightened up and gave a yank at his load. Vitória’s conversation had helped a lot; they had walked for leagues and scarcely noticed it. Suddenly they felt weak. It must be hunger. Fabiano raised his head and squinted out under the black, burnt brim of his leather hat. It was around noon. Lowering his half-blinded eyes, he sought to make out a sign of shade or water on the plain. He felt as if he had a hole in his stomach. He straightened the sack again and, so as to keep it from slipping, he walked leaning to one side, one shoulder higher than the other. Vitória’s optimism no longer made any impression on him. She still clung to dreams, poor thing. Making plans like that when she was bending under the weight of the trunk and the water gourd that pushed her neck down into her shoulders!

  They sought rest under the bare branches of a quixaba tree. They chewed on some handfuls of manioc flour and bits of dry meat and had a few sips of water from the gourd. On Fabiano’s brow the sweat was drying, mingling with the dust which filled the deep wrinkles, or soaking into the hat strap. His dizziness had disappeared; his stomach was calm. When they set out again, Vitória’s spine would no longer bend under the weight of the water gourd. Instinctively his eyes swept over their desolate surroundings in search of signs of water. A cold chill ran over him. His yellow teeth showed in a childish grin. How could he be cold with such heat? For a moment he stood there like a simpleton, looking at his sons, his wife, and the heavy baggage. The older boy was picking a bone with gusto. Fabiano remembered the dog, and another shiver ran down his spine. His foolish smile faded.

  If they found water near at hand, they would drink a lot and go on their way full, dragging their feet. So said Fabiano to Vitória, pointing out a low-lying place in the terrain. It was a water hole, wasn’t it? Vitória stuck out her lip in indecision, and Fabiano now affirmed what he had first asked. Didn’t he know that country? Was he talking nonsense? If his wife had agreed with him, Fabiano’s assurance would have waned, since he lacked conviction, but since she expressed doubt Fabiano worked himself up, trying to put courage into her. He invented the water hole and described it, lying without realizing he was lying. Then Vitória became excited and transmitted hope to him. They were traveling through country with which they were acquainted. What was Fabiano’s job? Looking after stock, exploring the country from horseback. And he explored everything. Beyond the distant hills was another world, one to be feared, but here on the plain he knew plants, animals, holes, and stones by heart.

  The boys stretched out and went to sleep. Vitória asked her companion for the tinder and lit her pipe. Fabiano made himself a cigarette. For the time being they were at peace. The possibility of a water hole had become a reality. They went back to making plans in a low voice as the smoke from the cigarette mingled with that of the pipe. Fabiano insisted on his topographical knowledge and spoke of the horse the boss had given him to use. It was surely going to die. Such a fine animal! If it had come with them, it would have carried their belongings. For a while it would have lived on dry leaves, but beyond the hills it would have found green things to eat. Unfortunately, it belonged to the ranch owner, and it was wasting away with no one to give it feed. His friend was going to die, full of sores and with spavins, in a fence corner, seeing the vultures come hopping unsteadily, their bills threatening his eyes. The thought of the frightful birds with their hooked beaks menacing the eyes of living creatures filled Fabiano with horror. If they would be patient they could eat the carrion at ease. But they weren’t patient, those voracious devils that flew in circles up there overhead.

  “Devils!”

  They were always flying around. You couldn’t figure where so many vultures came from.

  “Devils!”

  He looked at the moving shadows that covered the range. Perhaps they were circling around the poor horse, lying faint in a fence corner. Fabiano’s eyes grew damp. The poor horse. It was thin, it had lost its hair, it was hungry and turned on him big, round eyes like those of people.

  “Devils!”

  What angered Fabiano was the habit the wretches had of pecking at the eyes of creatures that could no longer defend themselves. He arose with a start, as if the birds had come down from the blue sky and were close at hand, flying in ever smaller circles around his body and those of Vitória and the boys.

  Vitória noted the uneasiness in his tortured face and got up too. She awakened her sons and packed the household belongings. Fabiano took up his burden. Vitória untied the thong from his belt and took the gourd from it. She placed it upside down on a pad of rags on the older boy’s head, then set a bundle on top. Fabiano approved of the arrangement, smiling and forgetting the horse and the vultures. Yes, sir! What a woman! That way his load would be lighter and the youngster would have a sunshade. The weight of the gourd was insignificant, but Fabiano felt light and walked firmly in the direction of the water hole. They would arrive there before night; they would drink, rest, and continue their journey by moonlight. All this was dubious, but it was taking on credibility. And the conversation resumed as the sun sank in the west.

  “I’ve had harder nuts to crack,” Fabiano declared, defying the sky, the thorns, and the vultures.

  “You think so?” Vitória murmured, not so much questioning as confirming what he said.

  Little by little a new life, as yet indistinct, took hold of their imagination. They would settle on a small farm, though this seemed hard to Fabiano, who had grown up running loose in the brush. They would cultivate a piece of ground. Afterwards they would move to the city and the boys would go to school. They would be different from their parents. Vitória waxed enthusiastic. Fabiano laughed; he wanted to rub his hands together, but they were holding the mouth of the sack and the butt of the flintlock.

  He did not feel the weight of the gun or the sack, or the small pebbles that had got into his sandals. Neither did he note the stench of carrion that hung over the road. He was under the spell of Vitória’s words. They would go forward; they would come to an unknown land. Fabiano was happy; he believed in that land because he didn’t know what it was like or where it was. Docilely he repeated Vitória’s words—words which she murmured because she had confidence in him. They trudged southward, enveloped in their dream.

  A big city, full of strong people. The boys at school, learning difficult but necessary things. The two of them old, ending their lives like a pair of useless dogs—like the dog they once had.

  But what were they going to do? They hung back, fearful. They were on their way to an unknown land, a land of city ways. They would become its prisoners.

  And to the city from the backland would come ever more and more of its sons, a never-ending stream of strong, strapping brutes like Fabiano, Vitória, and the two boys.

 

 

 
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