Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  The spectators rose and almost everyone, standing up, began to applaud. Judge Fernandes rapped his gavel on the table, demanding silence, then perceived the uselessness of the gesture. Either he could clear the chamber or he could permit that explosion of emotion, provoked by the talk of a man as pure as a mountain brook.

  “Lunatic! Lunatic!” cried Soares.

  Asbal left, led away by Romão and Colares. Until the end I had continued to hear the prophet’s words as if mesmerized. Alice had touched me lightly on the arm. I had gripped her and so we remained, hand in hand, fixated on that narrative, which had seemed more a sermon than testimony.

  Chapter 17

  The hamlet of Mari is bisected by the tracks of the old English-named Great Western railroad. Its small bungalows are painted in quaint hues and covered with colorful tile. Under a myrtle tree an old man sat in a truck cab as if it were a throne. Nearby, mechanical shops fixed tractors and trucks, water pumps, and low-powered generators.

  As Luís passed in front of one of the shops, a man was spray-painting a mudflap red, while a strong black man ran the compressor. The air reeked of acetone, oil, and gasoline. Luís remembered the time he’d tried to be a truckdriver. And he’d worked in a shop in Guarabira that did everything from straightening out the frames of welded-chassis Volkswagen beetles and fixing axle sleeves to adjusting carburetor settings. Too bad he hadn’t stuck with it. He could have been driving a three-axle Mercedes truck loaded with cane or pineapple. But events didn’t allow him to pursue that goal. He was paid as an apprentice, and the money hardly covered the bus fare to and from work; he would eat sandwiches every day. That was no way to live. With these memories welling up, Luís asked the mechanic where he could find the Cigana Guest House.

  The man stopped what he was doing. “Just go left, cross the tracks; it’s in front of the Matriz church. It’s got a wooden porch.”

  Luís went. He walked by the old man sitting in the truck cab. In the windless afternoon the leaves of the myrtle tree standing out against the blue sky and the listlessness of the day seemed as still as porcelain. Far away, beyond the church, he could see the hostelry’s verandah. A plantation house minus the grounds. He was afraid. The sun was hot, the street deserted. How would he do it? He rummaged in his pockets and checked his money. He decided to rent a room.

  There was nobody behind the tiny reception desk. He knocked loudly, and an older Indian woman appeared. She waited for him to speak.

  “I want a room, but some information first.”

  “What exactly?”

  “I’ve got a friend staying here. I’d like to make sure.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jerônimo Pessoa. But everyone calls him Vinte e Cinco.”

  “A white guy, strong, hair like this on his head?”

  “Sounds right.”

  “He checked in yesterday, took the key and hasn’t come back. Want your fortune told?” The Indian insisted.

  He held out one hand, gripping the key with the other. The woman examined the lines that crossed to form an M-shape and smiled weirdly.

  “This side says you’ll be happy, but there’s bad luck on this other. Which road do you wish to take?”

  The discussion didn’t interest him. He had only one objective: to find Vinte e Cinco, catch him by surprise, and force him to listen and to talk. The old woman couldn’t understand that.

  “Which do you think is most prudent for me?”

  “Only the stars can tell.”

  “The narrow road?” he ventured.

  “I’ll tell you for two thousand more.”

  He nodded yes and the woman brightened up somewhat.

  “The narrow road has one cross. On the other, a cemetery.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “They’re fixing to ambush you, sir. Two men and a pretty woman. But the narrow road is worth taking.”

  “Why?”

  “The cross is a sign of suffering and penitence. Beyond, everything will smooth itself out and the flowers will open. There’s an old man with a long beard to protect you. He prays for you. Is he your father?”

  “No—my father’s dead.”

  “Yet this old man—who shows up well here,” the medium emphasized, touching one part of his hand—”is savvy; he knows what he talks about.”

  “What can you tell me about today?”

  The woman seemed a bit startled; her features changed and she smiled inscrutably.

  “For today the peace of God is with you.”

  The palmreader let on that her work was done, particularly because another old woman had appeared carrying a basket of clothes. He asked for the room number, and the Indian woman yelled a man’s name.

  “Alberto! Oh, Alberto!”

  A balding, weather-beaten man walked in with the aid of a cane. He was attired in an open-necked shirt.

  “Take the boy up. Room thirty-five.”

  Alberto shuffled forward.

  “What about your baggage? Don’t you have any?”

  “I left it in the truck. I’ll get it in a while.”

  Alberto’s cane rapped loudly on worn-out diagonal floor planks that formed a no longer discernible design. Luís turned the key in the lock and drew a ten-spot from his pants pocket.

  “And Vinte e Cinco, where’s he? He’s an old friend.”

  Alberto took the money and flashed a smile of decaying teeth. His face was sweaty.

  “In number nineteen. Other side.”

  “Vinte e Cinco sure knows how to live!”

  Alberto left tapping his cane and laughing.

  The bed was made and its two pillows had clean cases. Luís opened the window to let in fresh air. He took off his shirt and stuck the gun under the mattress. He wanted to smoke—a habit he rarely indulged. He lit a cigarette, stretched out on the bedspread, and stared at the tiled ceiling. Would Vinte e Cinco come back soon or only in the morning? Would he bring some woman with him? This possibility worried him. He hadn’t prepared for it. What would he do? It continued to bother him. He heard noise at a distance, but nothing that sounded like Vinte e Cinco returning. He knew what he was like: always enveloped in a haze of loud laughter and foul language. Why would he act any differently in this inn? It seemed well suited for such conduct.

  All he needed to do was wrap the 7.65 in a pillow and everything would happen in complete silence. Only then did he figure out what to do about the woman who might come back with him. She would die too.

  As evening drew near the sounds changed and lights started to come on. Luís managed to extract a metal strip from the box spring. He crept along the wooden planks to room nineteen. He stuck the metal in the lock. The hinges creaked. The room was steeped in shadow. He examined a jacket hanging on a chair back and that was it. Neither the bedclothes nor the pillows had been rumpled. Another thought occurred to Luís. What if someone else was in room nineteen? He’d have to check that right away. Why had the Indian woman read his palm as he was renting the room? Might she be in league with the man he was looking for?

  Vinte e Cinco was at a table with two friends and a prostitute who didn’t interest him. Alberto entered, wobbling on his cane, bent over and, laughing, told the hoodlum something.

  “He believed it.”

  Vinte e Cinco rubbed his hands.

  “What’s going on? Won the lottery?” asked the woman. Large metal baubles hung from her ears.

  “Better than that. Destiny wants me to eat a tender young chicken!”

  His friends began to laugh. Alberto was about to leave, but Vinte e Cinco banged on the table.

  “Little Peacock, what’s going on? We’re dying of thirst over here.”

  The waiter came over and opened a bottle of beer, letting the foam overflow. He poured a glass and gave it to Alberto.

  “Why don’t you just go up there and cut the jerk’s throat?” asked a dark-skinned man dressed in an American cowboy hat.

  “Relax! If I dirty my hands with
the louse, how am I going to get up the energy to mess with that wife of his? Do you think I’m some savage?”

  Laughter.

  “Where’s this going to take place?” asked the prostitute, increasingly taking offense. “Can I see it maybe?”

  “Might not be a bad idea, now that I think about it.”

  “And what woman is this?” the second man wanted to know. He was short and heavy-set, with a boxer’s crooked nose.

  “Hey!” yelled Vinte e Cinco happily. “What if I wanted to give a poke to your girls?”

  The laughter grew louder. The prostitute draped her arm over his shoulders.

  “And with me? Tired of mommy?”

  “It’s nothing to do with you, honey. A guy needs variety. Today I’m drinking beer, tomorrow cognac; later, depending on the weather and money, I might want whiskey, like the boss drinks. Jonas, take care of my would-be murderer,” said Vinte e Cinco, getting up and lifting his jacket over the back of the chair. The woman tried to grab him; he freed himself with a swipe at her.

  Jonas pushed his cowboy hat backward. He took the woman’s hand and pulled her until he could grab her between his legs.

  “Just stick there, let’s go!”

  More laughter. Little Peacock brought another round of beers. In the truck cab, Vinte e Cinco could hear his friends’ guffaws. He turned the key and started the motor, turned on the radio, and put it in first. Once on the paved road he shifted into second and third. The truck sped along, the headlights on high beam. He turned up the radio.

  In the hotel room, the wait was taking its toll on Luís. Why sit there waiting like an animal ready to spring? He was afraid. Was that the life of an assassin? He heard Alberto’s footsteps. What could he possibly want?

  “Would you like a sandwich and a beer?”

  Luís appreciated the gesture. He had little money but decided to go ahead.

  “A beer.”

  As he turned to close the door, the crippled man smiled and assured him: “Your friend is coming soon!”

  In their hut surrounded by the cane-stalk fence, a light breeze whispered through the long, dry leaves. Janaína was waiting for Jeruza to finish eating. She cleaned up the kitchen, leaving the door open. It was still early, and from time to time someone passed by on the road. She thought of Luís’s return and without knowing why hoped he would bring her more presents. Maybe another dress for her to show off; maybe a bigger mirror, in which she could admire her twenty-eight-year-old beauty.

  “I don’t want any more, mommy!”

  “Eat. The cane elf comes to take away girls who don’t eat.”

  Jeruza laughed, displaying her white teeth, and put another spoonful of food in her mouth.

  In the glare of the headlights, Vinte e Cinco could make out a man, a woman, and three children. Each was carrying suitcases and balancing a load on his or her head. It was a long section of road, without any houses. The canefields stretched out on both sides. He honked a few times and pulled over on the shoulder.

  “Where are you all going?”

  The man approached nervously.

  “We’re goin’ to Mamanguape.”

  “Mamanguape!?” said Vinte e Cinco, taken aback. “You’ll never get there from here!”

  The peasant remained silent. Vinte e Cinco turned to look at the others. He smiled.

  “Let’s go. Everyone up in back.”

  Luís drank the beer and opened the window onto the verandah. From time to time he could hear a woman’s laughter and the indistinct conversation of some men, the noise coming from a bar that had to lie to one side of the hostelry. Might Vinte e Cinco have come back; was the disabled man trying to fool him? He sidled out once again onto the shadow-filled porch. Again he used the piece of metal to break into the room. Nobody there. He walked listlessly and in a half-stupor. Where could that good-for-nothing be? He adjusted the 7.65 in his belt and felt safe.

  Back at his own room, there was music and the lights were on. He didn’t get it. What type of trap had they set for him? He pushed open the door and discovered the gypsy prostitute with the great metal earrings. Her thighs swayed to the sound of music coming from a battery-operated transistor radio.

  “Who are you?”

  “Mara, the daughter of the woman who owns this place.” She smiled, revealing pretty teeth.

  “What do you want?”

  “You. Or is that prohibited?”

  Mara drew up to him. Luís could feel her breath. She had the eyes of a cat; her black hair cascaded down her back. Her blouse, clinging to her body, caused her breasts to jut out. She put her arms around Luís’s shoulders and began to kiss him eagerly.

  “Why such a sudden visit?”

  “At night I’m the hunter, you the prey. I didn’t meet anyone down there I liked.”

  Mara opened her blouse, revealing her dark, ample breasts. She played with one of them on Luís’s face. The peasant fondled it and she went back to kissing him again. Luís expected her to try to get his gun, but it didn’t happen. The two ended up clinging to each other in the bed, the battery-powered radio playing new selections. Mara was smoking the same cigarette Luís had lit earlier.

  “Why live this way?…What does your mother think?”

  “Don’t worry about it. She watches over my future.” Mara began to laugh.

  “As soon as I arrived, she told my fortune,” Luís said.

  “What did she come up with?”

  “There were two roads: one narrow, with a single cross; the other wider, with a cemetery.”

  “No kidding! You’ve got to fix up a better fate than that. Know what mine is? I’m going to walk through a sandy plain until I find a river with golden fish.”

  “Then what?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. First, I’m not the walking type; second, I don’t like fish.”

  She rubbed against Luís, kissing him and running her fingers through his hair.

  In the courtroom, the lights remained on. People continued to occupy the gallery. Judge Fernandes looked tired. I took notes as Dr. Jansen went up to the bench twice and told the judge he should rest. He knew how right the doctor was, but he couldn’t interrupt the testimony. After all, they were hearing former police officer Antonhoé who, in 1962, had been assigned to catch those responsible for killing Teixeira. The police officer didn’t have much to say, but stated several times that the former police chief, Luiz de Paula, had ordered him to investigate without arriving at too positive a result.

  “He wanted us to keep an eye on the killers, but not for them to be caught. Me and the other four officers, we wandered all over the Jungle Zone. Seemed like the plan was for us to stay out there!…”

  The jurors seemed surprised by the former officer’s declaration. Romão countered Soares’s fierce cross-examination with a few brief questions that prompted Antonhoé to fill in some details.

  Alice remained near me. As soon as there was a recess I intended to take her out of there so we could get dinner. But where? After ten o’clock in Sapé only a few cheap spots remained open. The others turned into nightclubs that filled up with youngsters listening to rock music from São Paulo at full volume. Alice didn’t mind. She seemed happier than ever before.

  Janaína got Jeruza into bed, putting a doll next to her as usual. She closed the kitchen door, let out her hair, stretched out on the bed, and spent considerable time listening to the night’s secrets. Amidst the gentle breeze she could distinctly hear the humming of bats. And far, far away, the drone of a motor: truck-drivers delivering cane to the Pindova sugarmill. They used the road day and night, unpaved though it was. If Luís’s truck-driving job had worked out he could be one of those drivers. She used to hear him passing by out there, and knew where he was going. She could tell his truck apart from the others. All it took was a faster run-up through the gears or a faraway honk, like the chirp of a bird that flits past, emblazoning its colors in the sky. She turned out the lantern and pulled up the sheets. Then, thinking of Lu
ís and Jeruza, and of the new location to which they had to move, she fell asleep.

  Vinte e Cinco stopped the truck some three kilometers outside Sapé. He rapped on the roof of the cab.

  “Out you go, you scum!”

  The hitchhikers got moving. The children helped their mother descend and the head of the family signaled with his hand. Vinte e Cinco put the truck in first and drove onto a potholed dirt farm road. Keeping a shirt wrapped around his neck, he smoked a cigarette from time to time. He went down Dog’s Curve and decided to stop just before having to cross Fish Brook. He turned off the motor and killed the headlights, leaving only the cab light on. He stretched out a bed that lay behind the driver’s seat. Getting out of the truck, he adjusted his belt, which held a gun on one side and a fish scaler on the other. His steps were firm, but at the same time a certain anxiety overcame him. He tried to control himself but couldn’t. He walked faster, then ran. What was happening? Why so much nervousness? It was only a woman just like all the others he’d had.

  He walked up to the shack and stood silently. There was neither light nor sound. He put the toe of his boot on the kitchen door, which emitted a loud, dry creak. He stopped, then forced the door. Walking through the kitchen, he pushed aside the light cloth curtain and looked at the sleeping woman, the girl, and the doll. He wanted to touch her. He knelt at Janaína’s side. He put his strong hand over her mouth, swept her up in his arms, and started to spirit her away. Even as they reached the landing the woman had no idea what was happening. He took her over to the truck and kissed her, letting her fragile, nervous hands hit and scratch him.