Raised from the Ground

by José Saramago

  Every three hours, one man leaves and another enters. The victim doesn’t change his story, So what were you up to in your village, Working to earn enough money to feed my family, the first question and the first answer, the question is as predictable as the answer is true, and this man should be allowed to go free because he has told the truth, Do you mean working or do you mean distributing communist newspapers, you can’t fool us, you know, But I wasn’t involved in that kind of thing, sir, All right, so you weren’t distributing newspapers, you were taking it up the bum, you and your friends were taking it up the bum from the man in charge so that he would teach you the Moscow doctrine, isn’t that right, look, if you want to go back to Monte Lavre and see your children again, tell us the full story, don’t cover up for the buddies you held meetings with, think of your family, think of your own freedom. And João Mau-Tempo is thinking about his family and his freedom, but he remembers the story about the dog and the partridge told by Sigismundo Canastro, and says nothing, Go on, tell us the story, what is it you lot say, you bastards: Those thieves in government won’t give us what we want, so we’re going to get rid of them, we’re going to rebel against them and against Salazar’s laws, isn’t that what you say to each other, isn’t that what you intend doing, tell me the truth, commie, don’t cover up, if you tell us the whole story, you can leave for Monte Lavre tomorrow and see your children again, and João Mau-Tempo, thinking of the skeleton of the dog face to face with the partridge, says again, Sir, I’ve told you my story, I was arrested in nineteen forty-five, but since then I’ve never been involved in anything political, and if someone has told you otherwise, he’s lying. They hurled him against the wall, beat him, called him every name under the sun, and this they did over and over, without letup, but the victim still did not change his story.

  João Mau-Tempo will stand there like a statue for seventy-two hours. His legs will swell up, he’ll feel dizzy, and every time his legs give way, he’ll be beaten with the ruler and the stick, not that hard, but enough to hurt. He didn’t cry, but he had tears in his eyes, his eyes swam with tears, even a stone would have taken pity on him. After a few hours, the swelling went down, but beneath his skin, his veins became as thick as fingers. His heart shifts position, it’s a thudding, deafening hammer echoing inside his head, and then finally his strength deserts him, he can no longer remain on his feet, his body droops without his realizing it, and he’s crouching now, he’s a poor farm laborer from the latifundio, squeezing out a final turd, the turd of cowardice, Get up, you swine, but João Mau-Tempo couldn’t get up, he wasn’t pretending, this was another of his truths. On the last night, he heard screams and moans coming from the room next door, then Inspector Paveia came in, accompanied by a large number of policemen, and when the screams started again, growing ever shriller, Paveia walked over to him with calculated slowness and said in a voice intended to terrify, So, Mau-Tempo, now that you’ve been to Monte Lavre and back, you can tell us your story. From the depths of his misery, his hunched body almost pressed against the floorboards, his eyes clouded, João Mau-Tempo answered, I have no story to tell, I’ve said all I have to say. It’s a modest sentence, it’s the skeleton of the dog after two years, a sentence barely worth recording compared to what others have said, From the top of those pyramids, forty centuries look down on you, I’d rather be queen for a day than duchess for a lifetime, Love one another, but Inspector Paveia’s blood is boiling, And what about the twenty-five newspapers you distributed in your village, if you deny it, I’ll kill you right now. And João Mau-Tempo thought, Life or death, and said nothing. Maybe Inspector Paveia was once again late for mass, or perhaps leaving his prisoner seventy-two hours on his feet was enough for the first round, but what he said was, Take the bastard back to Aljube and let him rest there, then bring him back here again to tell his story, otherwise he goes straight to the cemetery.

  Two dragons approach, grab João Mau-Tempo by the arms and drag him down the stairs, from the third floor to the ground floor, and while they’re hauling him along, they say, Tell him your story, Mau-Tempo, it will be better for you and for your family, besides, if you don’t, the inspector will pack you off to Tarrafal,* he knows everything, a friend of yours from Vendas Novas told him, all you have to do is confirm what he said. And João Mau-Tempo, who can barely stand, who feels his feet flopping from step to step as if they belonged to someone else, answers, If they want to kill me, let them, but I have nothing to tell. They bundled him into the police van, it was a short journey, there had been no earthquake, all the churches were still triumphantly standing, and when they reached Aljube and opened the door, Out you jump, he missed the step and fell, and again was dragged inside, his legs were slightly steadier now, but not much, and then they shoved him into a cell, which, either by chance or on purpose, was the one he had been in before. Almost fainting, he collapsed face-forward onto the rolled mattress, but although he felt as if he were in a dream, he had just enough strength to unroll and fall on top of it, and there he lay for forty-eight hours, as if dead. He is clothed and shod, a broken statue held together only by his internal wiring, a puppet from the latifundio who peers over the top of the curtain and makes faces while he dreams, his beard continues to grow, and from one corner of his mouth a trickle of saliva forges a slow path through the stubble and the sweat. During those two days, the guard will look in now and then to see if the cell’s occupant is alive or dead, the second time he looks in, he feels relieved, because the sleeper has, at least, changed position, but the guard knows the routine, whenever these men come back from playing statues, they always sleep like this, they don’t even need to eat, but now the prisoner has slept enough, he’s sleeping less profoundly, Wake up, your lunch is here on the shelf, and João Mau-Tempo sat up on the mattress, uncertain as to whether he had dreamed those words or not, because although no one else is in the cell, he can smell food, he feels a great and urgent hunger, but when he makes a first attempt to stand, his legs buckle and his eyes grow dim from the sheer effort, he tries again, it’s only two steps from there to the shelf, the worst thing is that he won’t be able to sit down to eat, because in prison you eat standing up so as to get the food down more quickly, and João Mau-Tempo, who had been small for his age as a child and never grew much taller, has to stand on tiptoe, a torment for someone in his weakened state, and if he drops any food on the floor, he knows he’ll be punished, he who gives the food gives the orders.

  Five days passed, which would have had as much to tell as any of the others, but that is the trouble with stories, sometimes they have to leapfrog over time, because suddenly the narrator is in a hurry, not to finish, not yet, but to reach an important episode, a change of plan, for example, the beat that João Mau-Tempo’s heart skips simply because the guard comes into his cell and says, Mau-Tempo, get ready to leave, I want those blankets returned to the stores, along with the bowl and the spoon, have this place shipshape by the time I come back. The problem with these men from the latifundio, especially when they’re innocent, is that they take everything so literally, call a spade a spade, which is why João Mau-Tempo is so happy, hoping for the best, Perhaps they’re going to set me free, the man’s a fool, as becomes immediately evident when the policeman returns to accompany him to the quartermaster’s store, where he deposits blankets, spoon and bowl, and where he receives the few personal items that have been kept there, and now, We’re taking you to the mixed cell, you’re not incommunicado anymore, which means you can write to your family and ask them to send anything you need, and then he opened the door and inside was a whole world of people, of all nationalities, well, that’s just a manner of speaking, meaning that there were a lot of people, some of whom were foreigners, but João Mau-Tempo is too shy and too constrained by his strong Alentejo dialect ever to be on friendly terms with them, however, as soon as the door closed, all the other Portuguese men surrounded him, wanting to know why he was there and if he had any news from outside. João Mau-Tempo has nothing to hide, he tell
s them everything that has happened to him, and so steadfast is he in his declaration that he hasn’t been involved in any political activities since nineteen forty-five that he repeats it there and then, though there’s no need, because no one has asked him.

  João Mau-Tempo proved very popular, and once, coming across a fellow prisoner smoking, he asked him for a cigarette, which was rather cheeky given that he didn’t know him from Adam, but other prisoners immediately offered him tobacco too, and best of all was when another man, who had overheard their conversation, came bearing an ounce of superior tobacco, a pack of cigarette papers and a box of matches, Just say if you need anything, comrade, it’s share and share alike here, you can imagine João Mau-Tempo’s feelings, with the first puff he grew six inches, with the second he returned to his normal height, but greatly fortified, a diminutive figure among the other men, who smiled as they watched him smoking. And since even in the lives of prisoners there are happy events and coincidences, two days later, João Mau-Tempo was summoned to a room outside the mixed cell, where the guard, beaming as if he himself were the donor, for guards are contradictory creatures, said, Mau-Tempo, a gentleman from your village has brought you these clothes, four ounces of tobacco and twenty escudos. João Mau-Tempo was touched, more by the reference to Monte Lavre than by the unexpected gift, and he asked, Who was the gentleman, and the guard answered, It doesn’t matter, to us a donor is a donor, which was something João Mau-Tempo didn’t know. He went back into the room clutching his treasure, and as soon as he did, he let out a shout that could have been heard all over the latifundio, Right, comrades, if anyone wants to smoke, here’s tobacco for you, and another voice responded equally loudly, for these are things that need to be trumpeted abroad, That’s how it is, comrades, share and share alike, we’re all brothers here and we all have the same rights. Normally, one would choose quite different substances as proof of solidarity, but everyone takes what he needs or gives what he has, in this case cigarettes, little threads of tobacco rolled up inside the white cigarette paper, and now the tremulous tip of the tongue running along the edge and sealing it up, job done, humanity would be in a bad way indeed if it failed to understand such large gestures.

  Some leave, others do not, new faces arrive, but they are rarely strangers, there is always someone who says, Well, fancy seeing you here, and after a few days, a policeman comes to the door of the room and says, Mau-Tempo, put your jacket on, we’re going for a stroll, but you’ll be right back, no need to take anything else. Perhaps he’ll be back, perhaps he won’t, but João Mau-Tempo is there to say that his heart dropped into his boots, and this is far truer than his statement that he hasn’t been involved in political activities for four years. He repeats the journey with a hound at his side, this time a big, almost beardless lad who seems nervous, perhaps he’s not yet used to this work, he keeps reaching around to feel his back pocket and doesn’t utter a word, but at least João Mau-Tempo can look at the people passing by, they must know I’m a prisoner, he can see the trams, peer in at shop windows, this time it really is almost a stroll, so much so that he nearly forgets to feel afraid, then the fear comes flooding back, jumbling his thoughts, troubling his blood, and he misses the mixed cell, the shared cigarettes and the conversations. He feels a sudden sympathy for statues, because for all we know the bronze and marble variety might find it hard to stay standing, how is it that they don’t get a cramp, those men with their arms outstretched, those animals frozen in the same posture, never giving in, never running away, though they lack man’s strength of will, despite which a man so often weakens and crouches down, and no amount of kicking will make him stand, he could die for all he cares, as long as his tongue doesn’t speak, except to repeat the same lie over and over. But the idea that the torment is about to start again, that he is going to experience the same pain or worse, this is what fills João Mau-Tempo’s mind, and suddenly a great darkness falls on the city, despite its being broad daylight and hot, as it always is in August, but all the ungrateful creature can think is, what will become of me, what torture awaits me.

  The door opened again, João Mau-Tempo went up the steps, followed by the hound, and entered the room, and look who’s here, it’s the man from Vendas Novas who traveled with João Mau-Tempo as far as Terreiro do Paço, his name is Leandro Leandres, and now he says in a scornful voice, Do you know why you’ve been brought here, and João Mau-Tempo, always polite and respectful, says, No, sir, I don’t, and Leandro Leandres says, You’ve come to tell the rest of your story, but there’s no point now describing what happens next, it’s the same old thing, the same conversation, how many newspapers were distributed, and how local committees were formed and why did they stop meeting, and how many members were there, and who, look, someone here gave us your name, so it must be true, and if you don’t confess, you won’t get out of here alive, it would be best for you if you talked, you know, but João Mau-Tempo isn’t at all sure about that, and even if he was, It’s been four years since I so much as touched any political papers, and they were only ones I picked up in the streets or along the way, apart from that I can’t remember anyone actually giving them to me, that was years ago, all I think about is my work, I swear. The conversation was always the same, the same questions and answers, the same grilling and the same lying, but this time there were no beatings and the statue that is João Mau-Tempo remained in his natural position, sitting on a chair, he looked as if he were posing for a portrait, except that his soul was jumping about inside his heart like a poor, frightened lunatic, and his pale but constant will kept saying, You mustn’t talk, lie all you want but don’t talk. There was another difference too, the fact that a hound of a lower category was typing out all the questions and answers, but after a few pages there was nothing more to write, because the conversation was like dredging up water with a wheel equipped with bottomless buckets, going round and round, the mule was treading in its own dung now and the sun sinking, and that was where the statements ended, and the man at the typewriter asked, Where’s this guy’s original statement, and Leandro Leandres, not realizing what he was saying, answered, It’s over there, along with Albuquerque’s statement, João Mau-Tempo had tormented himself over and over as to who had given them his name, and now he knew, it was Albuquerque, and knowing this was so painful and so sad, what must they have done to him to make him talk, or did he do so willingly, what could he have been thinking, well, it happens, and João Mau-Tempo cannot know that some years later, he will see Albuquerque, the squealer, in Monte Lavre, and remember that he was the one who once said, If they turn up here, I’ll shoot them, I mean it, and yet in the end he had squealed on him, and when Albuquerque got out of prison, he became a Protestant priest, not that we have anything against religion, but why go around proclaiming the salvation of all men when he couldn’t even save his few comrades, what will he have to say for himself at the hour of his death, but now all that João Mau-Tempo feels is a great sorrow and a great sense of relief that at least he has not talked, perhaps they won’t beat me again or make me play the statue, I’m not sure I could take it.

  João Mau-Tempo returned to Aljube, then, after a few days, he was taken from there to Caxias, and news of this finally reached Monte Lavre. Letters will come and go, everything has to be meticulously arranged between Faustina and João Mau-Tempo, because these things are no joke, everything has to be worked out to the last detail if a person is traveling a long way to be at a certain place at a certain time, even when the meeting is not a clandestine one, even when it’s the police themselves who open the door and say, Come in. No, you have to take account of every eventuality, from Monte Lavre to Vendas Novas by cart, then from Vendas Novas to Barreiro by train, possibly in the same carriage that brought João Mau-Tempo and Leandro Leandres, and then by boat, it’s only the second time Faustina Mau-Tempo has seen the sea, this vast estuary, and then again by train to Caxias, where the sea is suddenly much bigger, This is real sea, she says, and the woman who met her at Terreiro do Paço
and who lives in the city smiles sympathetically and kindly at her friend’s limited experience and says, Yes, that’s the sea all right, but says nothing of her own ignorance about what the sea really is, not this modest opening of arms between two towers, but an infinite, liquid longing, a continuous sifting of glass and foam, a mineral hardness that softens and chills, the home of the great fish and of sad shipwrecks and of poems.

  It is very true that while one may know some things, one cannot know everything, and Faustina Mau-Tempo’s friend knows where to get off the train in Caxias but not where the prison is, however, she doesn’t want to admit that she doesn’t know and sets off in one direction, saying, It must be down here. It’s August, and it’s baking hot at this hour, which is fast approaching the hour so laboriously communicated and memorized, the hour of the visit, in the end, they had to ask a passerby, realized they had gone entirely the wrong way and turned back, already weary with all the toing and froing, and Faustina Mau-Tempo took off her tight shoes, to which her feet were unaccustomed, and was left in her stocking feet, this, however, was a big mistake, and only someone with no heart could laugh, this is the kind of humiliation that burns itself into the memory for the rest of one’s life, the tarmac had half melted in the heat, and her stockings stuck fast as soon as she planted her feet on it, and the more she pulled, the more the stockings stretched, it was like a circus act, the funniest of the season, enough, enough, the clown’s mother has just died, and everyone is crying, the clown isn’t funny, he’s frightened, and that is how we feel about Faustina Mau-Tempo, and we form a screen so that her friend can help her off with her stockings, modestly, for women who have only ever known one man are incurably shy, and now she’s barefoot, and we can go home, and if any of us do smile, it’s out of tenderness. But when Faustina Mau-Tempo arrives at the fort, her feet are in a terrible state, made worse by wearing shoes without stockings, they are black with tarmac and bleeding from where the skin has been rubbed raw, what a hard life the poor have.