Raised from the Ground

by José Saramago

  And since we always have to overlay what we are allowed with what we imagine, if not, we do not deserve the bread that we eat, people started saying that we should hang bedspreads out the windows and deck everything with flowers, as we do for religious processions, any moment now they’ll be sweeping the streets and whitewashing the houses, that’s how easy it is to climb the steps of contentment. This, however, is also how human dramas are created, well, it’s an exaggeration to call them dramas, but they are genuine quandaries, what if I have no bedspreads in my house and no garden full of carnations and roses, whose idea was that. Maria Adelaide partly shares this anxiety, but being young and optimistic, she tells her mother that they must do something, if they don’t have a bedspread, then a large white tablecloth will do, draped over the door, a flag of peace in the latifundio, any civilian passing by should, out of respect, doff his hat, and any guard or soldier stand at attention and salute in homage outside the door of Manuel Espada, a good worker and a good man. And don’t worry about flowers, Mother, I’ll go to the spring at Amieiro and pick some of the wild flowers that cover the valleys and hills in May, and I’ll bring back some orange blossoms too, that way our front door will be as finely decked out as any castle balcony, we won’t be seen to be inferior to anyone, because we are the equal of everyone.

  Then Maria Adelaide went down to the spring, although why she chose that particular place she herself doesn’t know, after all, as she said, the hills and valleys are covered in flowers, she takes the path that leads between two hedges, and even there she had only to reach out her hand, but she doesn’t, these are ancient decisions that run in the blood, she wants flowers picked in this cool place, with its abundant bracken, and farther on, in an especially sunny spot, there are daisies, the very daisies whose name changed when António Mau-Tempo picked one for his niece, Maria Adelaide, on the day she was born. She has her arms full of greenery now, a constellation of suns with yellow hearts, now she will go back up the path, she will cut some orange blossoms from the branches overhanging the wall, but she feels a sudden strange pang, I don’t know quite what I feel, I’m not ill, I’ve never felt so well, so happy, perhaps it’s the smell of the ferns clasped to my chest, I do sweet violence to them and they to me. Maria Adelaide sat down on the low wall by the spring, as if she were waiting for someone. Her lap was full of flowers, but no one came.

  They’re interesting, these stories of enchanted springs, with Moorish girls dancing in the moonlight and Christian girls left raped and weeping on the bracken, and all I can say is that anyone who doesn’t think so has clearly lost the key to his own heart. However, only a short time after April and May, the same harsh measures returned to the latifundio, not as applied by the guards or the PIDE, for the latter has been abolished and the former live shut up in their barracks, peering at the street through closed windows, or, if they must go out, they keep close to the houses, hoping not to be seen. The harsh measures are the usual ones, it makes one feel like turning back the pages and repeating the words we said previously, The wheat was ripe but no one was harvesting it, they weren’t allowed to, the fields have been abandoned, and when the men go to ask for work, they are told, There is no work, what kind of liberation is this, people are saying that the war in Africa is nearly over, and yet the war on the latifundio rages on. All that talk of change and hope, the soldiers leaving their barracks, the cannons decked with eucalyptus and scarlet carnations, call them red, madam, say red, because we can now, on the radio and the television they preach democracy and equality, and yet when I want work, there is none, tell me, what kind of revolution is this. The guards are lolling in the sun now, the way cats do when they’re sharpening their claws, the same people continue to dictate the laws of the latifundio so that the same people obey them, I, Manuel Espada, I, António Mau-Tempo, I, Sigismundo Canastro, I, José Medronho of the scarred face, I, Gracinda Espada and my daughter Maria Adelaide, who wept when she heard them say Viva Portugal, I, the man and the woman of this latifundio, heir to only the tools of my trade, if they’re not as spent and broken as I am, desolation has returned to the fields of the Alentejo, there will be more blood spilled.

  Don’t give them any work and then we’ll see who’s strongest, says Norberto to Clariberto, it’s simply a matter of letting time pass, and the day will come when once again they’ll be eating out of our hand, these are the scornful, rancorous words of someone who has just had a nasty fright and who, for some time, remained meekly closeted in his own little domestic shell, whispering with his wife and relatives about the dreadful news of revolution emanating from Lisbon, the rabble in the streets, the demonstrations about everything and nothing, the flags and banners, about how, on the very first day, the police were forced to hand over their weapons, poor things, a grave insult to a fine body of men, who had rendered them so many services and could still do so, but it’s like a wave, you see, you mustn’t confront it full on, because while that might look like courage, it is, in fact, rank foolishness, no, crouch down as low as you can and it will pass right over, almost without noticing you, having found no obstacle to strike, and now you’re safe, out of reach of the break line, the foam and the current, these are fishermen’s terms, but how often must we repeat that the latifundio is an inland sea, with its barracuda, its piranha, its giant squid, and if you have workers, dismiss them, keep only the man in charge of the pigs and the sheep, and the estate guard in case the herdsman gets uppity.

  The fate of the wheatfields is clear, the crops are lying here on the ground, and it won’t be long before it’s time to start sowing, what will Gilberto do, let’s go to his house and ask him, after all, it’s a free country and we all have to give an account of ourselves, Tell your master there are some people here who want to know what he’s doing, the first rains have fallen and it’s time for sowing to begin, and while the maid goes off to get an answer, we stand at the door, because we haven’t been asked inside, and the maid returns and declares rudely, I hope she isn’t the Amélia Mau-Tempo mentioned in this story, The master says it’s none of your business, the land is his, and if you come here again, he’ll call the guards, and with that she slams the door in our face, they wouldn’t even do that to a vagrant, because the masters are scared stiff of such wanderers, fearing that they might have a knife. There’s no point asking again, Gilberto isn’t sowing, Norberto isn’t sowing, and if someone of another name is sowing, that’s because he’s still afraid that the soldiers might come and start asking questions, What’s going on here, but there are other ways of swatting these flies, by smiling and pretending to oblige, yes, of course, and then doing exactly the opposite, encouraging intrigue, withdrawing money from the bank and sending it abroad, there’s always someone happy to do this in exchange for a reasonable commission, or stashing it away in the car somewhere, the border guards will close their eyes, poor things, they don’t want to waste their time crawling underneath the chassis or removing the mudguards, they’re not young lads anymore, they’re worthy public servants, they have to keep their uniforms clean, and thus five or ten or twenty million escudos or the family jewels, the family silver and gold or whatever, slip out of the country, no problem. What hopeless fools they were, these workers, who, seeing the olive trees laden with fruit, ripe and black and glossy, as if the oil were already oozing out, finally, after much thought and discussion, what’s the best way to go about this, picked and sold the olives, then took the money they would have earned, charging the going rate, and gave the rest to the latifundio owner. Who gave them permission, it’s a shame the estate guard didn’t catch them, they should have been shot, that would teach them to meddle in other people’s business, Sir, the olives were ready to be picked, if we had waited any longer, they would have all gone to waste, here’s the money left over after we’ve taken our day’s pay, it’s more than the amount we set aside for ourselves, the sums are easy enough to do, But I didn’t give you permission, and wouldn’t have even if you’d asked, We gave ourselves permission. This w
as one case, a sign that the wind had changed direction, but how could we save the fruits of the earth if Adalberto cut the corn down with machines, if Angilberto let the cattle into the fields, if Ansberto set fire to the wheat, so much bread lost, so much hunger.

  Standing at the top of the tower, resting his warrior’s hands on the ramparts, his conquistador’s hands, grown calloused from gripping his sword, Norberto looked on everything he had made and saw that it was good, and then, as if he had lost track of the number of days, he did not rest, Those devils in Lisbon may be willing to ruin the legacy our grandparents left us, but here on the latifundio we respect the sacred fatherland and the sacred faith, send in Sergeant Armamento, Things are going much better, sir, send in Father Agamedes, You’re looking very well, Father Agamedes, you look younger, That must be because I have been praying for your excellency’s health and the preservation of our land, Of my land, Father Agamedes, Yes, sir, of your land, that’s what the sergeant here says too, Yes, those were the orders I received from Dom João the First, and I have passed them on to generation upon generation of sergeants, but while these three have been talking in the warmth and shelter of the house, winter has arrived and bitten the workers, and just because they’re used to it doesn’t mean they feel it any less keenly, The bosses are the owners of the land and of those who work it, We are even less important than the dogs that live in the big house and in all the big houses, they eat every day and from a full bowl, no one would let an animal die of hunger, Well, if you don’t know how to look after an animal, you shouldn’t keep one, But with men and women it’s different, I’m not a dog and I haven’t eaten in two days, and these men who have come here to make their demands are a pack of dogs who have been barking for a long time, any day now we’ll stop barking and we’ll bite, just like those red ants, the ones that raise their heads like dogs, yes, we’ll learn from them, see those pincers, if my skin wasn’t so tough and calloused from wielding a scythe, I’d be bleeding.

  This is empty talk, which relieves one’s frustrations but changes nothing, for the moment, it makes no difference whether I’m unemployed or not, I mean what is the point of working, the overseer arrives with the cynical air of one who doesn’t care, who knows how deep his cynicism goes, and says, There’s no money this week, you’ll have to be patient, maybe next week, meanwhile, in his pocket, Dona Maria the First and Dom João the Second* are singing a duet, and a week later, he says exactly the same thing, and one or two or three or four or six weeks later, there’s still not so much as a whiff of money. The boss has no cash, the government won’t allow the banks to release it, no one believes the overseer, of course, he’s been lying for so many centuries now that he doesn’t need to use his imagination, but the government should come here and explain the situation, there’s no point setting it down in newspapers that we can’t read, and they talk so quickly on the television that by the time we’ve understood one word, they’ve gabbled another hundred more, what did they say, and on the radio we can’t see people’s faces, and how can I believe anything you say if I can’t see your face.

  And somewhere on the latifundio, history will record the exact spot, the workers occupied a piece of land. Just so as to have some work, that’s all, may my right hand wither away if I’m lying. And then other workers turned up on another estate and said, We’ve come to work. And this happened first here and then there, and as in the spring, when a solitary daisy blooms in a field, always assuming there’s no Maria Adelaide to come along and pick it, thousands more are born on a single day, where’s the first one gone, and all of them are white, their faces turned to the sun, it’s like the earth’s bridal day.

  However, these people are not white but swarthy, a colony of ants spreading over the latifundio as if the land were covered in sugar, you’ve never seen so many ants, all with their heads raised, I’ve received bad news from my cousins and from other relatives, Father Agamedes, God did not listen to your prayers, to think the day would come when I would witness such misfortunes, that I should be put to the test like this, seeing the land of my ancestors in the hands of these thieves, it’s the end of the world when people start attacking property, the divine and profane foundation of our material and spiritual civilization, You mean secular, my lady, not profane, and forgive me for correcting you, No, profane is the word, for what they are doing is profanation, they’ll do the same as they did in Santiago do Escoural, mark my words, but they’ll pay for it, in fact, we were talking about that just the other day, what will become of us, We must be patient, Senhora Dona Clemência, infinitely patient, for who are we to question the Lord’s plans and his wayward paths, for only he knows how to write straight on crooked lines, perhaps he is casting us down in order to raise us up tomorrow, perhaps this punishment will be followed by our terrestrial and celestial reward, each in its appointed time and place, Amen.

  This, albeit using different words, is what Lamberto is saying to Corporal Tacabo, who is a shadow of his former martial self, It doesn’t seem possible, the national guard simply standing by to witness such apocalyptic events, allowing the invasion of lands that it is their duty to defend on my behalf, without so much as lifting a finger, not a shot do they fire, not even a well-aimed kick or punch or blow with the butt of a rifle, they don’t set the dogs on these idlers’ backsides, what’s the point of having such expensive, imported dogs, is this what we pay our taxes for, taxes I have long since ceased paying, by the way, oh, we’re on the slippery slope all right, I’m moving abroad, to Brazil, to Spain, to Switzerland, so reassuringly neutral, far from this shameful country, You’re quite right, Senhor Lamberto, but the national guard of which I am a corporal has its hands tied, with no orders what can we do, we were used to taking orders and they no longer come from the people who used to issue them, and just between you and me, sir, the commander of the guards has gone over to the enemy, I know I’m breaking all the rules by saying this, but perhaps one day they’ll promote me to sergeant, and then, I swear, I’ll pay them back in spades. These are empty threats, they relieve one’s frustration but change nothing, meanwhile, let us not forget the morning round of gymnastics and weapons instruction, How’s my heart, Doctor, Defective, Just as well.

  IN THE INLAND SEA of the latifundio the waves continue to roll in. One day, Manuel Espada went to see Sigismundo Canastro, the two of them then sought out António Mau-Tempo, and these three then went to find Damião Canelas, We need to have a talk, before calling on José Medronho and Pedro Calção, who made a sixth, and that was their first meeting. At the second meeting, another four voices joined them, two male, Joaquim Caroço and Manuel Martelo, and two female, Emília Profeta and Maria Adelaide Espada, which is her preferred name, and all spoke in secret, and since they needed a spokesperson, they chose Manuel Espada. In the following two weeks, the men went for seemingly casual walks about the estate and, using the old familiar methods, left a word here, another there, discussed and agreed to a plan, for we each have our own war to fight, but let’s forgive them this belligerent vocabulary, then they moved on to the second phase, which, one hot midsummer’s night, involved summoning the foremen on the estates still being worked and saying, Tomorrow at eight o’clock, all the workers, wherever they are, should get into trailers and head for the Mantas estate, which we’re going to occupy, and having gained the agreement of the foremen, who had been spoken to individually beforehand, and having warned many of those who would be the principal combatants in the battle, they all went off to sleep their last night in prison.

  This is a just sun. It burns and sears the dry stubble, which is the yellow of washed-clean bones or like the tanned hide of old wheatfields scorched by excessive heat and immoderate rains. The machines flow forth from every workplace, the advance guard of armored vehicles, oh, dear, this bellicose language, it creeps in everywhere, they’re not tanks but very slow-moving tractors, intending to meet up with more tractors coming from other places, those that have already met call to each other, and the column grows in si
ze, it’s even larger up ahead, the trailers are laden with people, some, the younger ones, are walking, for them it’s like a party, and then they reach the Mantas estate, where one hundred and fifty men are cutting cork, they all join forces, and on each parcel of land that they occupy, they appoint a group of workers to be in charge, the column is more than five hundred strong, men and women alike, now there are six hundred, soon there will be a thousand, it’s a pilgrimage retracing the paths of martyrdom, following the stations of this particular cross.

  After Mantas, they go to Vale da Canseira, to Relvas, to Monte da Areia, to Fonte Pouca, to Serralha, to Pedra Grande, and at each farm they take the keys and draw up an inventory, we are workers, not thieves, not that there is anyone there to contradict them, because in each place they occupy, in each house, room, cellar, barn, stable, hayloft, pen, run, corral, pigsty, chicken coop, cistern and irrigation tank, there are no Norbertos or Gilbertos to be seen, whether talking or singing, silent or weeping, who knows where they have gone. The guards stay in their barracks, the angels are busy sweeping heaven, it’s a day of revolution, how many of these workers are there.

  Overhead, the red kite is counting, one million, not to mention those we can’t see, for the blindness of the living always overlooks those who went before, one thousand living and one hundred thousand dead, or two million sighs rising up from the ground, pick any number and it will always be too small if we do the sums from too great a distance, the dead cling to the sides of the trailers, peering in to see if they recognize anyone, someone close to their body and heart, and if they fail to find the person they’re looking for, they join those traveling on foot, my brother, my mother, my wife and my husband, which is why we can see Sara da Conceição over there, carrying a bottle of wine and a rag, and Domingos Mau-Tempo with the noose still around his neck, and here’s Joaquim Carranca, who died sitting at the door of his house, and Tomás Espada, hand in hand with his wife Flor Martinha, what kept you so long, how is it that the living notice nothing, they think they’re alone, that they’re carrying on their task as living people, the dead are dead and buried, that’s what they think, but the dead often visit, usually in dribs and drabs, but there are days, rare, it’s true, when they all come out, and who could keep them in their graves on a day like this, when the tractors are thundering across the latifundio and there are no words that need go unspoken, Mantas and Pedra Grande, Vale da Canseira, Monte da Areia, Fonte Pouca, little water and much hunger, Serralha, home of the sow thistle, and so on over hill and vale, and here, at this turn in the road, stands João Mau-Tempo, smiling, he’s probably waiting for someone, or he can’t stir from the spot, perhaps because when he died he couldn’t move his legs, we take with us to our death all our ills, including the final ones, but no, we’re quite wrong, João Mau-Tempo has had his youthful legs restored to him, and he’s leaping about, he’s a dancer in full flight, and he’s going to sit down beside a very old deaf lady, Faustina, my wife, you and I ate bread and sausage one winter’s night and you got your skirt wet, ah, those were the days.