I continued to doubt my judgment. What did I know about people? Who was Janete? Alice? Alves? From where did that woman draw so much vitality and optimism? I didn’t really know people. As a reporter, I noticed more what they said. That alone! Again I wondered about the judge. Was he a lunatic, and did only lunatics do what he was attempting? And Asbal, wandering down roads to tend crosses and the dead, in the silence of the faraway? What hurt most: death or solitude? I wrapped myself in the hammock as much as I could, but could not escape my thoughts—crazy, scattershot ideas. I turned on the radio and for a moment heard the music and noise of the other universe I knew: Rio and its streets and bars, sidewalk chairs, tables laden with beer and friends; Maracanã stadium on the day of a soccer game; the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema. When I was there, I never had time to go to the beach; now, what longing for bathing trunks and white sand! And the people who now surrounded me? Was I really worried about them or was I acting cynically? Luís, Janaína, Alice, old Asbal, the peasants! What did Almeida and Alves intend with their union activism foundering in a sea of obstacles? Were they aware of the danger, or were they mere megalomaniacs playing with fire? I couldn’t underestimate them. They knew which side their bread was buttered on. It was probably I who was not in tune with that world. That was why Veiga de Castro had warned me to be careful. Andrade had reminded me that owners of plantations and newspapers were “flour from the same sack.” Both were right: it was I who was wrong, playing the intrepid reporter when in truth I had no ability to distinguish wheat from chaff. That was my worst flaw: to hide myself away in the production of a prestigious newspaper, letting time go by, publishing cute, well laid out puff pieces, and imagining that therefore I could call myself a reporter. What an illusion. Perhaps I should thank the destiny that dragged me to this miserable hamlet, traversed by trucks loaded with sugarcane, inhabited by fearful people who rarely showed their faces in their windows. If I wanted to be a reporter, now was the time to start. If I avoided the events that were taking shape, I’d be no better than a rat jumping off a ship. I felt fear and indecision. To climb and descend the slum hills of Rio, to go into police stations where the police had forbidden my presence—these were acts of audacity, but in the protective penumbra of The Nation. Who would dare let the dogs loose on a reporter from a great newspaper, read by everyone, and especially by those who constituted the political class? In Sapé, few knew of The Nation. I had to stand on my own two feet. My sponsor counted for nothing here.
Desires, deliriums, and fears. I had never thought I would be able to appreciate them so neatly. They remained quiet, dormant, but they could attack me at any moment. Why not knock on the door of a humble cottage and begin anew with Alice our conversations of the early afternoon? Certainly she would talk about uncle Dilermando, would say she did not know he was called Azulão in Sapé; would say, too, she did not know he was one of Colonel Barros’s gangsters. And the life of Dilermando? His women, his relations with the world, his preferences and disappointments? What did a man like him feel, who seemed to know neither doubt nor fear? What did he mean to Janete? Why not solve that mystery once and for all, while I was willing and the night dragged out with my insomnia? This might be the right time. Janete revived when the lights went on. In the sun she shriveled, like so many other women I had known in the many cities where I’d spent time: Norma, Sueli, Marina, Verônica. Evil flowers of the night or each one with a type of caprice, a certain surface happiness but bitter deep down? Some revealed themselves with a second whiskey, while others remained silent, waiting. Verônica went Dutch and was proud of it. To make up for it, she didn’t let go easily. Encounters, dinners, comings and goings from no-tell motels, a bill to pay here, a surety bond to sign there, the sick brother who came up from Paraná, the mother who needed a hearing aid. Verônica never asked. Her life revealed itself around small tables in the darkest corners, music playing softly, a couple dancing, a white rose in the neck of a large bottle of tonic water. Where was Verônica now? And Janete, how would she be? I put on my jacket and stuck a pack of cigarettes in my pocket, some money. As I was leaving, I remembered the Heckler 9-mm. I tucked it in my belt, and walked around the room a bit to get used to it. To walk at that hour down the streets of Sapé was good practice for the difficulties that would come the next day—or maybe not.
Chapter 22
I walked and walked along Simplício Coelho Avenue. The houses were all closed up, but the characteristic sounds of television sets emanated from many of them. At that time the middle class would be watching American movies and soap opera reruns. I crossed João Suassuna Avenue and followed Orsino Fernandes Street, where the Sapé Peasant League had its headquarters. I stopped. The house had been transformed into a bar. To one side were old wooden gates that would open on the busiest days—Saturdays and Sundays—letting peasants through, alive with the promises of the future. For a moment I had the impression of seeing the murdered farmworkers Teixeira, Fuba and Fazendeiro. Legend and reality, that was it. The next day, too, was destined to become legendary. I walked on. Here and there I saw a stray dog or cats scampering along the walls, while all along disaster continued to brew. Were they innocent or guilty, those who hid behind doors and windows? Me, I had a conscience; I anguished. On a dark corner, an illuminated house. Stretched out among bushes in the dark, a ramp of paving-stones. As I rang the bell, I could hear voices and laughter. The door opened and the noise rose, the dispersed sounds of a band.
“Janete?”
She was there, in a comfortably furnished room, legs sprawled on a chair, a tape deck on, the tape reproducing the sounds of a bar. I stayed still; she watched.
“What do you want with me?” I asked.
“To return your documents and your clothes. Besides, I’d like to make a deal!”
“What type?” I asked, taking my documents.
“Start a newspaper.”
“Are you crazy? With what money?”
“I’ve got some, know where to get more.”
“Why a newspaper?”
“It’s the weapon the city needs.”
“Why did you try to kill me?”
“I saved you from death. Had you not been asleep, you’d have been killed.”
Janete’s eyes filled with tears.
“What about that goddamned drink, huh?”
“Don’t make me think about it. When I could go out freely, I used to like to see the men I loved sleep by my side. Like inoffensive children.”
Janete sat up in the armchair and ventured a timid laugh. I put my hand on hers; she cringed.
“Who are we in this faceless city, Janete?”
“I am the challenge. Get the paper going and you’ll know Sapé.”
“Why should I take on that particular task with so many assassins around here?”
“The city needs your compassion.”
“What would you do with the paper?”
“Be useful. I want to use the money I’ve gotten from the land barons against them.”
“Vengeance? It’s the opposite of journalism.”
“I’m not thinking of a paper to bring about chaos. I was envisioning it as the voice of the humble.”
“Are you crazy? Galho Dentro really has messed you up!”
“In a certain way he caused a new aspect of myself to be born. The prostitute died, but another woman arose who’s trying to imitate other women who are out there fighting for all of us.”
I was trying to contain myself, but couldn’t. Was Janete telling the truth, or was this just another trick?
“Do you know what’s happening in Sapé?”
“Judge Fernandes wants to give life to a dream. I admire him for it.”
“And the people on your side—what about them?”
“I no longer serve the colonels, nor their men. The judge sails his boat skillfully, but he’ll have trouble escaping with his life.”
“And you want to launch a newspaper into the midst of this powderkeg?”
“Why not? It’s enough that there’s a journalist around. I thought I could help.”
“Whatever happens, we won’t be in close touch. Even if you succeed in starting your paper, we’ll keep our distance. I have a girlfriend. She’s wonderful. One day you’ll meet her.”
“Alice. Azulão’s niece. She shows a great love for her father.”
“Forgive me, Janete. I’m here after midnight because I couldn’t sleep. Very soon Judge Fernandes is going to summon all the witnesses he can, so that the accused—Colonel Barros, Batista, Cordeiro, Paula, Wenceslau Martinho and his brother Júlio—will be held up to public scorn. He knows that the punishment meted out to the guilty will never take effect. Who’s going to keep a Colonel Barros in jail in Sapé or in João Pessoa? So he’s going to drag out the trial. Tomorrow at this time Sapé could be different: either because it will have changed politically, from hour to hour, as might happen in a surreal country like this; or it’ll have stayed the same, with hundreds of new crosses for old Asbal to tend.”
“I know about the new toughs who’ve been arriving. People from Rio and São Paulo. Ex-cop types who couldn’t hack it down there any more.”
“I didn’t want to talk about these matters again. But it happens that, once more, the facts impel me to extreme measures. I’m no hero, but the worst thing would be for me to turn my back. I’m a reporter and I’m here to tell a story. Except that this time it’s my story as well. When I met you in that bar, I thought I was beginning my reporting. I think I was right. What I intend to narrate involves the fate of this city, ours and that of many others, even that of those who manage to frequent sophisticated bars, talk loudly, argue, and permit me to hear tapes of those confused nocturnal sounds that nonetheless depict good times. My ambitions are great, but it’s a risk I’ll take. I may write a book.”
“When the newspaper’s publishing, I want to write a column called ‘People.’ Every day I’ll write about someone. Preferably someone I don’t know.”
As much as I might try, it was impossible to fathom Janete’s thinking. Why the sudden desire to start a newspaper?
“And Dilermando, what did he promise?”
Janete eyed me.
“He’s protected me ever since I gave a shot at a singing career in a nightclub in Recife. He wasn’t Azulão; I never imagined he might have that nickname someday. I felt attracted to him, but I’ve never told him so.”
“How did you meet up again in Sapé?”
“The day the all-powerful Martinho hired me to sleep with his brother, Senator João Alberto, owner of the Graúna Plantation. I was taken there under the guard of three hirelings. One of them was young Beto, whom I never saw again; the other, Galho Dentro. A brazen, cynical type. On the way we ran into a guy named Veraneio with some men; one of them was Dilermando, who decided to accompany us.”
Janete rummaged through the many tapes that littered the endtable to one side, chose one, and put it in the deck. I couldn’t get enough of the surprises that woman came up with. I heard noises, someone laughing; then, slow, ironic words:
“ ‘So my brother sent you. Nothing like a loyal brother.’ ”
These ruminations were interrupted but soon began again:
“ ‘Pretty, isn’t she, Alfredo?’ ”
Laughter.
“ ‘Ever sleep with a leper, huh? Well, that’s what you’re going to do today.’
“ ‘What if I refuse? Your brother didn’t say you were sick.’
“ ‘He keeps his end of our camaraderie. But, if you’re here and well paid, what’s bothering you? Hansen’s disease is my own particular and exclusive curse. True or false, Alfredo?’
“ ‘I’m getting out of here.’
“ ‘I like your arrogance. Alfredo, drag the girl over!’ ”
I could hear lumbering steps and the sounds of Janete trying to escape. A dish fell and broke.
“ ‘Don’t touch me! No!…’ ”
Another yell from Janete.
Alfredo’s laugh.
“ ‘Take off your clothes. Go on!’ ” brayed Alfredo.
Laughter and the sound of a scuffle and clothes being torn.
“ ‘What’s going on?’ ” asked a man with a steady voice.
“ ‘Who are you?’ ” demanded the senator.
“ ‘I don’t have a name. The girl comes with me.’ ”
Janete pushed a key and the recording stopped.
“That’s how I ran into Azulão again. On the road all the way back to Sapé he kept talking about our time in Recife. They say the girls who go with the senator end up being filmed and their protests recorded. Azulão found the tape and one other, a recording of people in a lively bar. Senator João Alberto is a man of refinement and well-traveled. Sickness may have deformed him but he doesn’t give in easily.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your troubles. We’re taking opposite paths. I have a story to write. Perhaps our link is Azulão. He always arrives on time to save you, but I was or still am on his blacklist. Why should I trust him?”
“Do as you wish, but I wanted you to know about the newspaper idea. The night is beautiful; we’re nocturnal animals.”
“It’s two in the morning!”
“So? Don’t forget our drunken walk down the sidewalks.”
Janete got up awkwardly, walked around a bit, supporting herself on the furniture, and went into her bedroom. I adjusted the Heckler 9-mm in my belt and lit a cigarette. Just being near Janete gave the night rhythm. Would it always be so for me? I could hear the grinding of gears, and Janete reemerged in a change of clothes, sitting in a gleaming nickel-plated wheelchair. She smiled lightly. I took hold of the rubber handgrips and began to push. We went down the ramp of paving-stones. For a long time in the street we could hear the wheels on the gravel and sand that had accumulated on the asphalt. In the gloom of night, there I was pushing a wheelchair and a woman I didn’t understand.
We crossed various intersections, and in a small, nameless square I pretended to beat a sudden retreat. Janete was trembling from laughing so hard. Near a lamppost she gestured to me, and I quit fooling around.
The street she had indicated was not lit. I took my pistol out of my belt. The small building had metal doors; it was still under construction. I pushed up the wheelchair and Janete knocked. I helped her, knocking with the muzzle of the gun. The lights went on and a dog began to bark. A man appeared, hunched over, draped in dark cloth and wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
“Dona Janete?!” he said in a falsetto voice.
The man propped open the door. I pushed the wheelchair inside and in so doing I came into a shop containing a rotary press, a layout and pagination table, two Cometa linotype machines, a mangle, an oven to melt lead, a pile of metal jigs, and rolls of paper for proofs. The magic environment enchanted me as though I were in a dream.
“It was all put together by Elindo, Alice’s father. The master typographer in the ranks of the best that Recife has ever had. This is our secret. He doesn’t want his daughter to know that he’s been turned into a cabrocó. For this reason, he wanted you to see it. Now, tell me that you forgive me!”
My eyes clouded over. Elindo, using rags, wiped down the machines’ nickel plating. It was his fate, like Janete’s, to surprise. I, who had nothing to do with all this, felt both lost and touched. What could possibly be more dangerous in such a place: end up at the mercy of the gangsters or keel over of a heart attack, if my relationship with Janete evolved? I bent over her, ran my hand through her hair. She squeezed my hand; I touched it lightly to my lips.
“I don’t know what to say, honey. I’d like to feel happy, but in truth I’m scared. I’m more insecure than I pretend to be, Janete. How can one consider starting a newspaper in a place where everything is difficult, where we won’t get advertising and the police will be arresting the staff and raiding the offices every time we publish news that’s not in the landowners’ interests? Nevertheless, I admire your attitude. And all along I thought our encoun
ter at the Covil bar was merely sexual. We have difficulty understanding each other. And as if that weren’t enough, there’s the secret of Elindo, whose daughter continues to look for him. Should I keep quiet and become an accomplice, or help Alice to transform her dream into a reality?”
Land of Black Clay Page 27
