The party from Monte Lavre escaped the patrols scouring and encircling the town, and all returned save one, António Mau-Tempo, who told his father, I’m going to stay here in Montemor, I’ll be back tomorrow, and there was no point arguing with him, he replied to all their arguments with, Don’t worry, I’m not in any danger, and though he had no clear idea of what he was going to do, he felt he had to stay, and then the others set off along ancient paths into the countryside, they’re going to be tired out by the time they get home, although perhaps, farther on, when they rejoin the road, someone will come along and give them a lift to Monte Lavre, where the news of what happened has already spread, and oddly enough, when they did arrive, Faustina Mau-Tempo immediately heard their knock at the door and understood everything they said as if she had the keenest hearing in the world, even though she’s deaf as a post, although some might hint that she sometimes only pretends to be deaf.
That night, which was again starry but moonless, while many women were grieving in Montemor, one woman more than all the others, there was a great uproar at the guards’ barracks. More than once, patrols were dispatched to search the surrounding area, they entered houses, woke people up, in an attempt to solve the mystery of the stones or pebbles that kept falling onto the roof, some tiles had been broken and some windows too, constituting damage to public property, perhaps it was revenge on the part of the angels or mere mischief-making born of sheer boredom up there on heaven’s balcony, because miracles shouldn’t only involve restoring sight to the blind and giving new legs to the lame, a few well-aimed stones have their place in the secrets of the world and of religion, or so thinks António Mau-Tempo, because that’s why he stayed behind, in order to perform that miracle, hidden away high up on the hill, in the pitch-black shadow of the castle, hurling the stones with his strong right arm, and whenever a patrol came by, he hid away in a cave from which he would later emerge as if from the dead, and fortunately no one spotted him. At around one in the morning, his arm grown weary, he threw one last stone and felt as sad as if he were about to die. A tired and hungry man, he went around the south side of the castle and down the hill, then spent the rest of the night walking the four leagues to Monte Lavre, following the road but keeping well away from it, like some malefactor afraid of his own conscience, occasionally having to go around the edge of some of the unharvested wheatfields blocking his path, because he couldn’t risk walking through them and had to remain hidden from both the latifundio guards with their hunting rifles and the uniformed national guards armed with carbines.
When he was within sight of Monte Lavre, the sky was beginning to grow light, a glow so faint that only expert eyes would notice. He forded the stream, not wanting to be seen by anyone watching from the bridge, and then he followed the course of the stream, keeping close to the willows, until he reached a point where he could climb up the bank and into the village, taking great care in case any insomniac guards should still be out and about. And when he drew near the house, he saw what awaited him, a light, a lantern, like the lantern on a small fishing boat, where the mother of this boy of thirty-one was watching and waiting for him to return home, late from playing at throwing stones. António Mau-Tempo jumped over the fence and into the yard, he was safe now, but this time Faustina Mau-Tempo, absorbed in tears and dark thoughts, did not hear him arrive, but she did notice the sound of the door latch or perhaps felt a vibration that touched her soul, My son, and they embraced as if he had returned from performing great deeds in a war, and knowing herself to be hard of hearing, she did not wait for his questions, but said, as if she were reciting a rosary, Your father got home safe and so did Gracinda and your brother-in-law, and all the others, you were the only one who had me sick with worry, and António Mau-Tempo again embraced his mother, which is the best and most easily understood of answers. From the next room, still in darkness, João Mau-Tempo asks, and not in the voice of someone who has just woken up, You’re back safe then, and António Mau-Tempo answers, Yes, Pa. And since it’s nearly time to eat, Faustina Mau-Tempo lights the fire and puts the coffeepot on the trivet.
THE LATIFUNDIO IS AN inland sea. It has its shoals of tiny, edible fish, its barracuda and its deadly piranha, its pelagic fish, its leviathans and its gelatinous manta rays, blind creatures that drag their bellies along in the mud and die there too, as well as other great, strangling, serpentine monsters. It’s a Mediterranean sea, but it has its tides and undertows, gentle currents that take time to complete the circuit, and occasional sudden churnings that shake the surface, provoked by winds that come from outside or by unexpected inflows of water, while in the dark depths the waves slowly roll, bringing with them nourishing ooze and slime, for how much longer, one wonders. Comparing the latifundio with the sea is as useful as it is useless, but it has the advantage of being easily understood, if we disturb the water here, the water all around will move, sometimes too far away to be seen, that is why we would be wrong to call this sea a swamp, and even if it were, it would still be a great mistake to believe in mere appearances, however dead this sea might seem to be.
Every day, the men get out of their beds, and every night, they lie down in them, and by beds we mean whatever serves them as a bed, every day, they sit down before their food or their desire to have enough food, every day, they light and extinguish a lantern, there is nothing new under the rose of the sun. This is the great sea of the latifundio, with its clouds of fish-sheep and predators, and if it was ever thus, why should it change, even if we accept that some changes are inevitable, all it needs is for the guards to remain vigilant, that’s why every day the armed boats put out to sea with their nets intending to catch fishermen, Where did you get that bag of acorns, or that bundle of firewood, or What are you doing here at this hour, where have you come from, where are you going, a man cannot choose to step out of his usual rut, unless he has been employed to do so and is, therefore, being watched. However, each day brings some hope with its sorrow, or is that just laziness on the part of the narrator, who doubtless once read or heard these words somewhere and liked them, because if sorrow and hope come along together, then the sorrow will never end and the hope will only ever be just that and nothing more, this is what Father Agamedes would say, for he lives off sorrow and hope, and anyone who thinks differently is either mad or foolish. It would be nearer the truth to say that each day is the day it is, plus the day just gone, and that the two together make tomorrow, even a child should know such simple things, but there are those who try to divide up the days like someone cutting slices of melon rind to give to the pigs, the smaller the pieces, the greater the illusion of eternity, that’s why pigs say, O god of pigs, when will we ever eat our fill.
This sea of the latifundio is subject to undertows, pounded by storms, lashed by waves, enough sometimes to knock down a wall or simply leap over it, as we understand happened in Peniche, and now you can see how right we were to mention the sea, because Peniche is both a fishing port and a prison-fortress, but still they escaped,* and that escape will be much discussed on the latifundio, but what sea are we talking about, this land is usually as dry as dust, that’s why men ask, When will we ever slake our thirst and the thirst of our parents, not to mention the thirst waiting under this stone for any children we might have. The news arrived and was impossible to hide, and there was always someone to fill in what the newspapers didn’t say, let’s sit down beneath this holm oak and I’ll tell you what I know. It’s time for the red kites to fly still higher, they cry out over the vast earth, anyone who can understand them will have much to tell, but for the moment we must make do with our human language. That’s why Dona Clemência can say to Father Agamedes, The peace we never had is over, which may seem like a contradiction and yet this lady never spoke a truer word, these are new times and they’re approaching very fast, It’s like a stone rolling down a hill, that is what Father Agamedes says, because he prefers to use secondhand words, a habit acquired at the altar, but let us have enough evangelical charity to try and
understand him, what he means is that if we don’t get out of the way of the stone, God knows what will happen, and let us forgive him this new ruse, because it’s quite clear that we don’t need to wait for God in order to know what will happen to someone who fails to get out of the way of a rolling stone, which gathers no moss and spares no Lambertos.
And no sooner had this conversation ended, well, that’s not quite true, because there were a few anxious months when negligence joined forces with sacrilege, because it was sheer negligence to allow those prisoners to escape and sacrilege to see a ship once named the Santa Maria sailing the seas under the new name of Santa Liberdade,* Dona Clemência is, of course, praying fervently and passionately for the salvation of the church and the nation, at the same time demanding punishment for the ruffians, We wouldn’t be in this situation if they had better examples to follow, you can’t play with other people’s lives, still less with my wealth. However, this is merely what the lady of the house says while safe within her four walls, always assuming Norberto is willing to listen to her, she would have no one to talk to if it wasn’t for Father Agamedes, for she barely leaves the house now, or only rarely for a trip to Lisbon to see the latest fashions, or to Figueira for the traditional family holiday by the sea, and to be honest, her mind seems to be wandering, it must be her age, talking about her wealth and some ship sailing the sea, it’s certainly not sailing on the inland sea of the latifundio, she must be going soft in the head, but there you’d be quite wrong, because she inherited shares in the colonial navigation company from her father, Alberto, God rest his soul, and that’s what bothers her.
This bitter cold isn’t just because it’s January on the latifundio. All the windows are shut, and if this were Lamberto’s castle rather than Norberto’s palatial mansion, we would see armed men on the ramparts, just as, not so long ago, we saw fearful, bloodthirsty people filling the ruins of Montemor, the times are changing, platoons of guards patrol the latifundio, in their boots and on a war footing, while Norberto reads the newspapers and listens to the radio and shouts at the maids, that’s what men do when they get upset. What really angers him is the air of sly contentment he sees on the faces of ordinary people, as if spring had arrived early for them, they don’t seem to feel the cold, at least their contentment proved short-lived, for two days later they had to change their tune, God does not sleep and they will be punished, the Santa Maria has risen from the deep, pray for us, and let us not think too badly of Father Agamedes, who succumbed to the sin of envy, it was a long time coming in such a holy creature, and all because he couldn’t hold a solemn Te Deum Laudamus as an act of thanksgiving, but that would not have gone down well in this wretched village of Monte Lavre with its godless inhabitants.
This is a bad year for the latifundio. There goes the maiden out for a ride on her fine steed, her skirt and saddle cloth flapping, her veil fashionably loose in the wind, the picture of composure, when suddenly the beast stumbles, for these are medieval roads, sir, and she falls flat on the ground, revealing all her most private penumbras, she doesn’t seem too seriously hurt, poor love, the worst thing was the way the animal reared up and kicked as it scrambled to its feet. They say that pride goeth before a fall, which is a horsey version of the more melancholy dictum, Misfortunes never come singly, why, only yesterday those prisoners escaped from Peniche, bloody communists, baby eaters, have you seen my children, neighbor, only yesterday souls and seas were all stirred up by that new tale of pirates, we should shoot the lot of them, such a lovely ship too, all dressed in white, Santa Maria walking on the water like her divine son, and now there’s news from Africa as well, about the blacks, Well, I always said we were too lenient with them, I said as much, but no one would believe me, you have to live there to know how to deal with them, they don’t like work, you see, they’re shirkers, they’ll always go to the bad, and now you see the result, we treated them too kindly, as if they were Christians, but all is not lost, we won’t lose Africa if we send in the army and have a proper war, remember Gugunhana,* brave words from the mayor, spoken quickly and boldly, he could have been a general if he’d had the military training, but at least he spoke out. The imperial dream soon faded, best to run away from the mess we made, the black man is now a Portuguese citizen, long live the black man who comes bearing no weapon, but keep your eye on him nonetheless, and down with the other sort, and one day, if we happen to wake up in a good mood, we’ll declare that these overseas provinces, our former colonies, are now independent states, well, what’s in a name, what matters is that the shit stays the same and that those who have eaten nothing else should continue to eat shit, whites and blacks, and anyone who can spot the difference wins a prize.
It would seem, Father Agamedes, that God and the Virgin have turned their benign eyes away from Portugal, look how discontented and restless people are, the devil has clearly taken hold of the gentle hearts of the Lusitanians, perhaps we didn’t pray enough, the priests told us as much, and I’ve done what I can, and I’ve always been ready with good advice, both in the pulpit and in the confessional, this is, in fact, a dialogue, in which two people take turns to speak, but when Father Agamedes returns to his house, he is thinking something quite different, something more suited to a man of this time or of that other time when souls were conquered with the sword and with fire, What they need is a sound beating, that’s telling them.
One really doesn’t know where to turn, now it’s the fortresses in India, weep, O souls of da Gama, Albuquerque, Almeida and Noronha,* no, that’s all we need, for grown men to weep, we must hold out to the last man, we will show the world what we Portuguese are worth, anyone who retreats is betraying the nation, better cut the shoe than pinch the foot, the government calls on everyone to do his duty. It’s a sad Christmas in Alberto’s house, not that there is any shortage of food or of the Lord’s blessings, at least it was a good year for cork, so that’s something, but there are black clouds with thunder in their bellies gathering over the country and over the latifundio, what will become of Portugal and of us, true, we have someone to protect us, for a start, there are the guards, to each of whom we give a gift, to the captain, lieutenant, sergeant and corporal, poor things, it’s only right, they earn so little and are always so ready to defend our property, imagine if we had to pay them out of our own pockets, it would cost us a fortune. It’s just as well, now that the last vestiges of a Portuguese presence in the East are being removed, along with our soldiers and sailors, that we never really took much interest in Goa, Daman and Diu anyway, a gift, you say, what an idea, I don’t mean that kind of gift, we’ve already mentioned the ones we gave to the captain, the lieutenant, the sergeant and the corporal, each of whom either came to fetch his own or, out of discretion and a desire to avoid prattling tongues, had it brought to him, no, this is a different kind of gift, that given by the soldiers and sailors who, on the point of death, raise themselves up on their elbow and, dying, cry out in response to the roll call, absent, an ancient practice, for when necessary even the dead can vote. The other good thing is that all this is happening a long way off, India and Africa are not exactly close, the fires are burning far from my borders, the sea, lots of sea, separates us from them, they won’t come over here, and Portugal won’t lack for sons to defend the latifundio from afar, don’t bite the hand that feeds you, you’ve been warned.
Tomorrow, said Dona Clemência to her children, and her nieces and nephews, is New Year’s Day, or so she had gleaned from the calendar, placing her hopes in the brand-new year and sending her best wishes to all the Portuguese people, well, that isn’t quite what she said, Dona Clemência has always spoken rather differently, but she’s learning, we all choose our own teachers, and while these words are still hanging in the air, news comes that there has been an attack on the barracks of the third infantry regiment in Beja, now Beja is not in India or Angola or Guinea-Bissau, it’s right next door, it’s on the latifundio, and the dogs are outside barking, though the coup was put down, they will spea
k of little else over the next weeks and months, so how was it possible for a barracks to be attacked, all it took was a little luck, that’s all it ever takes, perhaps that’s what was lacking the first time around, and no one noticed, that’s our fate, if the horse carrying the messenger bearing orders to commence battle loses a shoe, the whole course of history is turned upside down in favor of our enemies, who will triumph, what bad luck. And in saying this we are not being disrespectful to those who left the peace and safety of their homes and set off to try and pull down the pillars of the latifundio, though Samson and everyone else might die in the attempt, and when the dust had settled and we went and looked, we found that it was Samson who had died and not the pillars, perhaps we should have sat down under this holm oak and taken turns telling each other the thoughts we had in our head and heart, because there is nothing worse than distrust, it was good that they hijacked the Santa Maria, and the attack in Beja was good too, but no one came to ask us latifundio dogs and ants if either the ship or the attack had anything to do with us, We really value what you’re doing, though we don’t know who you are, but since we are just dogs and ants, what will we say tomorrow when we all bark together and you pay as little heed to us as did the owners of this latifundio you want to surround, sink and destroy. It’s time we all barked together and bit deep, captain general, and meanwhile check to see that your horse doesn’t have a shoe missing or that you have only three bullets when you should have four.
THESE MEN AND WOMEN were born to work, like good to average livestock, they leave or are dragged out of their mother’s womb, left to grow up one way or another, it doesn’t really matter, what matters is that they should be strong and good with their hands, even if they can make only one gesture, so what if, within a few years, they become stiff and heavy, they are walking logs who, when they arrive at work, give themselves a shake and produce from their rigid bodies two arms and two legs that move back and forth, you see how kind and competent the Creator was in making such perfect instruments for digging, scything, hoeing and generally making themselves useful.
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