Today, however, Adalberto is at peace, following the gentle curves of the road, his elbow nonchalantly leaning on the open window, since Lamberto died, all this land is mine, although, in fact, not all of Lamberto’s land went to him, because that would make another good story, the divisions and redivisions, the amalgamations and accretions, but we don’t have time right now, we should have started earlier, now Adalberto’s car appears among the trees, the sun glinting on its polished body and on the chrome, and suddenly he stops. He’s probably seen us, we’d better go a little farther down the hill, just to avoid any awkward questions, because I’m a peace-loving man and a respecter of other people’s property, and when we look back to see if a furious Adalberto is following hard on our heels, we see, with horror, that he is getting out of his car and staring, enraged, at the languid flock, which takes no notice of him, just as they took no notice of us, not even the dogs see him, intent as they are on sniffing out rabbits, and then, shaking his fist, he gets back in the car, turns around, jolting over the rough ground, and, as they say in novels, disappears in a cloud of dust. We, needless to say, have legged it already, something is about to happen, why did he storm off like that, after all, this is a flock of sheep, not a pride of lions, but only Adalberto knows why as he hurtles back to Monte Lavre in search of reinforcements, namely the guards, who, at this very moment, are dying of boredom at the barracks, but that’s what the latifundio is like, it’s either man the barricades or complete idleness, such is the fate of those who choose the military life, and the reason why their superiors put on maneuvers and exercises, otherwise, Corporal, it’s all or nothing.
Adalberto arrives at the entrance to the barracks in the aforesaid cloud of dust, and although his body is heavy with age and other excesses, he steps lightly in, it’s not a large space but it coped easily enough, as I’m sure you’ll recall, with all those orchestrated entrances and exits during that business over the thirty-three escudos, and when he leaves, he is not alone, he’s joined by Corporal Tacabo and by a private, and all three climb into Adalberto’s car, Holy Mother, where are those guards off to in such a hurry, the old ladies standing at their doors do not know, but we do, they are coming here where the flock is grazing, while the shepherd rests beneath a holm oak, and his assistants, with the help of the dogs, watch the sheep, it’s not a major operation but it’s not without its problems either, keeping such a large flock together, without too many gaps, after all, a sheep, too, needs a little breathing space, And what next, while we wait for Adalberto, there’s something I don’t quite understand, why this close relationship between the latifundio and the guards, You’re either very naïve or you haven’t been paying attention, how can you still be asking such questions at this stage in the story, or are you just play-acting, pretending that you don’t know, perhaps it’s a mere rhetorical device, the effective use of repetition, be that as it may, even a child knows that the guards are here to guard the latifundio, To guard it from what, it’s not going anywhere, From the risk of theft, looting and other such wickedness, because the ordinary people we’ve been talking about until now have bad blood, by which I mean that the wretches and their parents and grandparents and the parents of their grandparents have known nothing but hunger all their lives, how could they not covet another’s wealth, And is that wrong, It’s the worst sin there is, You’re kidding, Of course I am, but there are plenty of people who genuinely believe that this band of rustics want to steal their land, these sacred lands that go way back, and so the guards were posted here to maintain order, to suppress the slightest murmur of discontent, And do the guards like that, Oh, they do, the guards have their reward, a uniform, boots, a rifle, the authority to use and abuse, and the gratitude of the latifundio, let me give you one example, in payment for this extraordinary military operation, Corporal Tacabo will receive a few dozen liters of olive oil and a few cartloads of firewood, and while he may receive seventy of something, the mere guard will receive less because he’s lower down the ranks, but he’ll nonetheless receive some thirty or forty of whatever is on offer, because the latifundio is very reliable on that score, it always repays a favor, and the national guard is pretty easy to please, just imagine what must go on in Lisbon behind closed doors, How sad, Don’t start crying now, imagine coming back from a day spent clearing land and walking miles with a sack of kindling on your back, panting like a beast of burden, and the guards ambush you, rifles cocked, hands up, what have you got in that sack, and you say, I’ve been working in such-and-such a place, and they’ll check to see if you’re telling the truth, and if not, you’re in trouble, Personally, I’d rather be ambushed by José Gato, for at least he, Yes, José Gato would be preferable, but even worse would be to find, farther on, a whole cartload of six or seven hundred or a thousand kilos of firewood set aside for the guards, a gift from the latifundio in payment for their good and loyal service, They sell people very cheap, Whether they sell them cheap or dear doesn’t matter, the problem isn’t how much or how little.
This conversation went no further, what would be the point, although the narrator is free to say what he likes, that’s his privilege, but now Adalberto has arrived along with his army, he stops the car, the doors open, it’s an invasion, a landing, and from high up they wave to the shepherd, but he’s a lazybones, a native of these parts, seated he is and seated he remains, then, finally, he gets to his feet, making it quite clear what an effort this entails, and yells, What’s the problem, and Corporal Tacabo gives the order to charge, to attack, to release the bombs, take no notice of these warlike exaggerations, what do you expect, they have so few opportunities, by now, the shepherd has understood the situation, the same thing once happened to his father, laughter bubbles up inside him, the lines around his eyes betray him, it’s enough to make you split your sides, Do you have permission to be on this land, the question comes from Corporal Tacabo, who, as master of the law and the carbine, thunders, That’s a fine of five escudos per sheep, let’s see, six hundred sheep at five escudos each, six times five is thirty, add the zeros, why that’s three thousand escudos, that’s very expensive grazing, and the shepherd says, There must be some mistake, the sheep belong to the boss here and I’m on his land, What did you say, asks Corporal Tacabo foolishly, and the private with them gazes up at the skies, and Adalberto, backtracking, says, You mean this is mine, Yes, sir, I’m in charge of these sheep, and these sheep are yours, Go, beloved muses, my song is ended.
The troops returned to the barracks, the three men on the expedition said not a word, and when Adalberto arrived home, he issued orders about the olive oil, while Corporal Tacabo and the private put away their weapons, totting up how much they would earn and praying to Saint Michael the archangel for more such dangerous but profitable adventures. This is the kind of minor incident that occurs on the latifundio, but many pebbles go to make a wall and many grains make a harvest, What’s that noise, It’s an owl, any moment now the other owl will respond, Domingos, he’s the one nearest the nest.
JUST BECAUSE Sigismundo Canastro told that story about the dog Constante and the partridge doesn’t mean he has a monopoly on strange hunting tales. António Mau-Tempo has his own tales to tell, as well as those he has picked up from others, indeed, so many and so various are they that he could easily have told the aforementioned story, with Sigismundo Canastro chipping in to confirm its truth with the irrefutable proof that he had dreamed about it. To those surprised at the freedom with which people add to, subtract from and generally alter stories, we need only remind them of the vastness of the latifundio, of the way in which words are lost and found, whether mere days or centuries later, when you sit beneath a cork oak, for example, and listen in on the conversation between that tree and its neighbor, ancient, albeit somewhat confused stories, because cork oaks do get muddled as they grow older, but whose fault is that, ours perhaps, because we’ve never bothered to learn their language. Anyone who has ever got lost on the latifundio always ends up being able to distinguish between th
e landscape and the words it conceals, which is why we sometimes come across a man standing in the middle of the countryside, as if, as he was walking along, someone had suddenly grabbed his hand and said, now listen to this, he is sure to be hearing words, stories and ripostes, simply because he happened to be in the right place at the right time, when the air unleashed its story, whether it was the magnificent tale of Constante the dog or one about the proven curiosity of hares, as explained by António Mau-Tempo and backed up by all of Sigismundo Canastro’s dreams, unless there’s someone else here eager to tell us about his dreams.
First, find a good, flat stone, about a span high, and wide enough to cover half a sheet of newspaper. You can’t do it on a windy day, mind, because the wind will blow away the little pile of pepper that, among the tangle of headlines and the tiny italic and roman type, will form the trigger of this particular rifle. Now the hare, as everyone knows, is a curious creature, What, you mean even more than the cat, Oh, there’s no comparison, the cat isn’t interested in what’s going on in the world, he simply doesn’t care, whereas if a hare sees a newspaper lying on a path, he’ll immediately go over to find out the latest news, so much so that some hunters have come up with a game plan, they stand behind a hedge and, when the hare approaches to read the news, bang, they shoot him, the trouble is that the newspaper gets completely shredded by the lead shot and you have to buy yourself another one, some hunters have been seen with their cartridge belts stuffed with newspapers, it’s not right, But why the pepper, Ah, yes, the pepper, that’s the secret ingredient, but it’s essential to choose a windless day, because if you were to leave a newspaper on the path, the wind would catch it and send it flying, and the hare wouldn’t be interested, because he likes to read the news in peace, You don’t say, Oh, I could say much more on the subject if you have the time, anyway, once you’ve laid the trap, stone, newspaper and pepper, all you have to do is wait, and if you have to wait a long time, that’s because it’s not a good place for hares, it can happen, but don’t go complaining that you didn’t kill any hares, that’s entirely your fault, because when you know the area, it never fails, anyway, in a little while, up will hop the first hare, a nibble here, another nibble there, and suddenly its ears go up because it’s seen the newspaper, And what does he do then, Poor creature, he never learns, he’s so keen to get the latest news that he runs over to the newspaper and starts reading, he’s a really happy, contented hare, he doesn’t miss a line, but then he sniffs the pepper and sneezes, And what happens next, Exactly what would happen to you if you were him, he sneezes, hits his head on the stone and dies, And then, You just have to go and find him, or, if you like, go a few hours later and you’ll find a whole line of hares, one after the other, they’re so curious that they can’t see a newspaper without wanting to read it, Is that true, Ask anyone, even a babe in arms knows about these things.
António Mau-Tempo had no rifle at the time, which was just as well. If he’d had one, he would have been just another ordinary hunter with a ready-made weapon, rather than the inventor of Saint Hubert’s pepper, but this doesn’t mean that he scorned the art of marksmanship, the proof is the muzzle-loading rifle he bought one day for twenty escudos from a spendthrift tenant farmer and with which he performed miracles. City dwellers are brought up to be suspicious of miracles, they always want proofs and oaths, which is quite wrong, for example, there was the time when António Mau-Tempo, by then the proud owner of said muzzle-loading rifle, found himself with plenty of gunpowder but no lead shot. We should perhaps mention that it was rabbit-hunting season, in case someone should come along and ask why he didn’t use the same stone-newspaper-pepper method as he did with hares. Only someone ignorant of the art of hunting could fail to be aware that rabbits have no curiosity at all, seeing a newspaper lying on the ground or a cloud in the sky is all the same to them, except that rain falls from clouds and not from newspapers, which is why the rabbit hunter still needs a rifle, trap or stick, but in this case we’re talking rifles.
There is no greater misfortune for a hunter than to be in possession of a good weapon, even if it’s only a flintlock, plenty of gunpowder but no lead shot, Why didn’t you buy some, No money, that was the problem, So what did you do, At first I didn’t do anything, I just thought, And did you come up with an idea, Of course, that’s what thinking is for, So tell me how you solved the problem, because I still don’t see how you did it, Well, I had a box of tacks for my boots and I loaded them into the rifle, What, you loaded your rifle with tacks, You may not believe me, but I did, Oh, I believe you, it’s just that I’ve never heard of such a thing, At some point, you’ll have to start believing in things you’ve never heard of, Tell me the rest of the story, then, All right, I was heading out into the countryside when I had a thought that almost made me turn back, What was that, It occurred to me that any rabbit I hit would be reduced to a pulp, torn to shreds, inedible, So, So I started thinking again, And you came up with an idea, Of course, like I said, that’s what thinking is for, anyway, I positioned myself opposite a big old tree with a really thick trunk and I waited, Did you wait long, As long as I had to, one never waits too long or too little, So you waited until the rabbit appeared, Yes, when he spotted me, he ran away from me and toward the tree, I had studied the lay of the land, you see, and as soon as he passed close by, I shot him, And he wasn’t shot to pieces, No, why else did I do all that thinking, the tacks pierced his ears and nailed him to the tree, which was a holm oak, by the way, Amazing, Yes, it was, and all I had to do was give him a quick blow to the back of the head with my stick, and once I’d eaten the rabbit, I still had the tacks to mend my boots with.
Men are made in such a way that even when they’re lying, they tell a kind of truth, and if, on the contrary, it’s the truth they want to blurt out, it’s always accompanied by a kind of lie, however unintentional. That’s why if we started debating what was true and what was false in António Mau-Tempo’s hunting tales, we would never reach a conclusion, we should simply be man enough to recognize that everything he described could be touched with one’s fingers, be it the hare or the rabbit, the muzzle-loading rifle, of a kind that still exists, gunpowder, which is cheap, the tack with which we shoe the poverty of the ill shod, the boot, which is witness to that, the miraculous pile of pepper all the way from India, the stone of course, the newspaper that hares can read better than humans, and António Mau-Tempo, who is right here, the teller of tales, because if there was no one to tell them, there would be no tales.
I’ve told you one story, I’ve told you two, and I’ll give you a third, because three is the number God made, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost of the ear by which the rabbit was caught in the excellent tale I’m about to tell you, You’ve spoiled it for us now that we know how the story ends, So what, we all die, what matters is the life we’ve led or will lead, not the end, All right, tell me about the rabbit, Well, I still had the same rifle, in fact, I’d got so used to it that the sight of those double-barreled ones used to make me laugh, let alone the ones with four barrels, like cannons they are, they should be banned, Why, Think how much nicer it is for a man to slowly and quietly prepare his rifle, loading the gunpowder, tamping it down, measuring out the lead shot, when you have it that is, and watching one of the animals you’re hoping to hunt pass you by, saying to itself, phew, that was a close shave, and you feel full of friendly feelings for the feathered or furry creature moving off, it’s all a question of believing in fate, for their hour had clearly not yet come, That’s one way of looking at it, anyway, what happened next, Next, you mean before, well, on that occasion, too, I had no money to buy lead shot, You never seem to have any money, To listen to you, anyone would think you had never lacked for it yourself, Don’t change the subject, my finances are my affair, carry on with the story, All right, so I had no money to buy some shot, but I had a steel ball, one of those ball-bearing things, I found it among the rubbish in a workshop, and I used the same method, but without the tree this time, the
tree worked only with the tacks, What do you mean, It seemed to me that if I could somehow sharpen the ball bearing, it would be like a bullet, and wouldn’t destroy the animal’s flesh or skin, it was all a matter of marksmanship, and, if I do say so myself, I’m a pretty good shot, And then, Then I went into the countryside, to a place I knew, a sandy area where I’d seen a rabbit as big as a baby goat, he was obviously the father rabbit, because no one has ever seen the mother rabbit, she never leaves the burrow, which is as deep as the pool at Ponte Cava, she goes underground and no one knows where she is, Fine, but that’s another story, That’s where you’re wrong, it’s exactly the same story, but I don’t have time to tell it now, So what happened next, This rabbit had given me the slip on other occasions, and had a way of scooting out of sight as soon as I raised my rifle, but that had been when my rifle was loaded with shot, Ah, so you weren’t bothered about spoiling its skin, With a rabbit that big, it wouldn’t matter, But you just said, Look, if you’re going to keep interrupting, All right, carry on, So I waited and waited, one hour passed, then another, and finally it hopped into view, well, leapt really, because, as I said, it was the size of a small goat, and when it was airborne, I pretended to myself that it was a partridge and shot it, Did you kill it, No, it just shook its ears, gave another hop and then another, and of course I had no more ammunition left, anyway, it ran off into some bushes, gave another leap, one of those really long ones, from here to over there, say, and what did I see, What, The rabbit was caught, squirming and wriggling, as if someone were holding it up by one ear, and then I went over and saw what had happened, Don’t keep me in suspense, I’m dying of curiosity, Just like the hares, Stop playing around and tell me the rest of the story, Well, it so happened that someone had been cutting back the bushes, and a few twigs the size of a finger had been left sticking up, and, can you believe it, the rabbit had got caught on a twig through the hole the ball bearing had made in its ear, So presumably you freed him and hit him hard on the back of the neck, No, I freed him and let him go, You don’t say, I do, catching him in the ear like that had nothing to do with marksmanship, it was chance, sheer luck, and the father rabbit couldn’t be allowed to die by chance, It’s a great story, And it’s all true, just as it’s true that on that same night, the rabbits came out to dance into the small hours, by the light of the full moon, Why, Because they were so pleased that the father rabbit had escaped, You saw them, did you, No, but I dreamed it.
Raised from the Ground Page 28
