Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  “Elindo doesn’t want to destroy, in his daughter’s eyes, the image of the normal person he once was. If you break the secret, he may not be able to tolerate the shock. I talked about it with Dilermando and he thinks I’m right. He’s not going to leak anything. You have to agree or forget this night ever existed.”

  I tried to draw up to Elindo, who was continuing his work of rubbing down the machinery, bent over piles of lead ingots. I couldn’t make out his face, but one of his hands stayed in a dirty yellow glove, and the other was a claw formed by his thumb and index fingers. The others were missing. When he caught me watching him he drew back, climbed the narrow staircase behind the rotary press and disappeared.

  Chapter 23

  I woke up somewhat late, for I had slept with the heavy curtains drawn. I had had dreams and nightmares, and was somewhat apprehensive about getting up, putting on my clothes and going out; my fatigue was keeping me under the covers. The memory of Janete and the newspaper continued to fill my thoughts: was it a dream or reality? Including that man hidden behind the machinery who she said was Elindo, Alice’s father? Impossible. For a moment longer I lingered in bed, a certain discouragement dominating me, doubts surfacing. After breakfast I’d go to Campina Grande and buy newspapers. And if the stories were presented as the others had been, how would I confront Janete, and what would I say to Alice? I pulled the covers up again and shrank into them. If I could I’d stay there all morning long, the whole day, a week. In truth, rest was what I most needed. Did I need to let myself get involved, to bewilder myself with subjects that had nothing to do with me? Why did I have to get mixed up in complications between peasants and landowners? Why not go back to Rio, find a spot on the economics page, continue to think The Nation the best, most read and most respected newspaper? I covered my head with the quilt and made an effort to forget. How about switching to television? Various colleagues had done it and made out well. Some who were no more than novice sports reporters had become well-situated figures; they traveled abroad, bought condominiums and made a show of paying the restaurant bill every time we got together. Was that the solution? Clearly I’d have to adapt. It shouldn’t be difficult. The stories would be recorded—no paper. But what about my typewriter; how could I abandon it under its oilcloth cover for years and years without touching it? The idea of trading written material for a recorded cassette was completely crazy. What types of bandits would take a chance in front of a camera? In striking up a conversation, they’d end up revealing themselves. The more details they gave and the more they exposed themselves, the bigger the story that would appear.

  I wouldn’t be a television reporter like Humberto Bravo, or even like Teodoro de Souza. I’d stick to my own bailiwick. Nothing was more satisfying than returning from a long investigation in the middle of nowhere, taking a bath, then closing the bedroom windows, turning on the shaded lamp and starting to write, feeling the keys, seeing the words form, weaving a story that will circulate in print with accompanying photographs. The next day, I’d already be on a new case. Yesterday’s reporting is always old news, but the memory of obstacles overcome remains. Take the drug-trafficker demanding I meet him at midnight in a filthy shack in the Maré slum, next to a stagnant canal. I was there, scared but curious, facing that bigwig in his black printed shirt, chains and bracelets, the table covered with contraband objects brought from a Danish ship. “How’d you find this guy, brother?” the editors would want to know. I’d be coy about it. Why give anything away? Mystery would surround me. What would the same meeting be like if I showed up there with cameras, audio and sound technicians and a whole supporting cast? Lunacy.

  No, I would never leave The Nation, nor would I let myself get sucked into Janete’s machinations or Alice’s subtleties. What did they really want? Why so much insistence on my remaining in Sapé? I tried to stop the flow of absurd thoughts: I would not torment myself with the newspaper Janete planned to publish, I wouldn’t look for her again; I’d go to Campina Grande and send a cynical telegram: TO JUDGE FERNANDES: ARRIVING AT CAMPINA GRANDE RECEIVED AN URGENT CALL TO RETURN TO RIO STOP MAY YOU BE VICTORIOUS IN YOUR STRUGGLE STOP BEST WISHES. After sending the telegram I’d hole up in some small hotel with air-conditioning, drink a lot of beer, and sleep for two days before taking the bus to João Pessoa. Who could accuse me of anything? I’m a reporter, I live my life moving from one place to another. What’s the problem? If someone wants a fuller explanation, you can say I was transferred to Vale do Ribeira, in São Paulo. The newspaper decided I should report from there. I’d write stories on children who live abandoned in the midst of a horde of starving men and women.

  A ray of sunlight crossed the bed. I couldn’t figure out how it had gotten through the curtains. I envisioned the luminous day outside and a feeling of guilt began to wash over me, to transfix me, to demand my participation. I hated sentiments. Why, I wondered, do we let them carry us away?

  I thought of Alice, of her eyes, her laugh, her hands that she wrang so insecurely. Would I have the courage to leave without so much as a goodbye? That was the challenge. I retreated as much as I could from the ray of sunlight that was growing on the bed. I’d leave without seeing Alice. I wouldn’t leave. I would. I turned off the internal dialogue, concentrating instead on a horizon of ocean and seagulls. I’d count seagulls until I fell asleep. One of them flew alone so sadly, but then another showed up to accompany it. The sad seagull was named Alice. I couldn’t think anymore about seagulls. I reorganized my horizon. Sea and sky melded into a blue line. I sank in clear, tepid water. Why hadn’t I fixated myself earlier on such thoughts? The morning’s silence accompanied my foundering. Neither memories nor regrets. I descended. On the murky, algae-laden seabed, a turtle lay trapped on a coral formation. Would I continue to sleep or interrupt it to free the turtle? The poor thing waved its webbed feet very slowly. For how long had it been trapped? If I helped it, it would immediately return to life; if I remained indifferent, it might die. Is that what indifference is? And what if it was? Why had I suddenly become concerned about a turtle? To continue sleeping in peace, I drifted slowly over the algae carpet and gave the turtle’s shell a light touch. The turtle rolled over as if falling from a great height, but did not move. I didn’t understand. It looked at me with dead, sightless eyes. I went back to the algae mat, and loud knocks brought me back to the surface. Chastened, I got up.

  “They’re going!”

  I looked out the window and saw Heleninha, carrying her candy tray.

  “My aunt asked you to hurry over to the courthouse.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Some kind of trouble!”

  “Tell her I’m on my way.”

  I was about to close the door but called Heleninha back and bought some candy.

  “Thanks—I’ll be done selling sooner.”

  Heleninha left, and I looked at my watch, which showed five minutes to ten. I threw a towel over my shoulder and got into the bathroom. What type of ruckus could it be? Why send the little girl to fetch me? Was Alice preoccupied with the goon squads, or had the police reinforcements disbanded? I brushed my teeth and bathed, hearing the noises that Jandira’s kitchen duties were making. The noises were different than those I heard in my own bedroom facing Gomes Freire Avenue in Rio. The creaking of the rather old elevator; the parrot my neighbor from the northeast had brought back from her last visit; the blackbird that leaped around its cage, chirping stridently; the honking of cars at the crosswalk. Jandira was dropping in pieces of kindling, chopping cocoa, sprinkling rice out of a sieve, and singing under her breath.

  I got into my clothes and put an eclectic assortment of things in my pockets: the camera, cigarettes, money, a pen, dental floss, keys, and the personal documents Janete had returned to me. I felt like yelling to Jandira that she should tune into events but decided against it. Heleninha had urged me to hurry. As I had never been one to have anxiety attacks, I tried to forget the turmoil the girl had described as I walked down the street. If that
day was destined to be chaotic, why worry about it? I continued to walk, encountering few people. The only thing that seemed unusual was that some shops were shuttered—by contrast, the empty streets were the norm. People’s houses themselves had the windows open all day, but still one couldn’t see their occupants. Trees overflowed fences and walls in green tufts; the heavy, low clouds seemed menacing. What was up? Why were they so still, in a region where rain was rare?

  I walked down Gentil Lins Street and only from that point did I try to link up mentally with the previous evening’s events: the stance that Judge Fernandes had taken, the observations of Dr. Jansen and Father Juliano, Alves’s and Almeida’s promises. But if the goon squads showed up all of a sudden, there would be no escape, that was the bitter truth. If they set fire to the courtroom and shot those who ran out, it would be a massacre that would generate a lot of copy for the newspapers. I would try to photograph what I could, though, contrary to what I had been told, my camera was not very technically advanced.

  Defying my expectations, nothing had changed from the day before. People lounged under the trees around the courthouse and by the ice-cream and soft-drink carts; the police were there, and heavily armed. The sun was hot, but the morning air light.

  The loudspeakers turned toward the street were relaying Colares’s comments. I squeezed through the crowd and found the courtroom full, its lights ablaze. Colares was reading the investigator’s report on Teixeira, part of Paula’s official inquiry. The former police chief’s conclusions filled more than 400 pages, which lay on the table.

  I looked for Alice but couldn’t find her. I went to the judge’s chambers, to the file room, but still not a trace of her. No doubt she’d gotten tired of all the blather and had taken off. Why should she hang around? For the remote chance that some witness might think to mention her father’s name? It made no sense.

  I stayed on my feet, near a row of chairs that held Alves, Father Juliano and Almeida. People listened to Colares’s speech in silence. Soares and Magalhães also paid close attention to the prosecutor’s assistant. The defendants sat in front of the judge: Batista, Colonel Barros, and Cordeiro. The police chief seemed the most tired of the lot, and his clothes were noticeably wrinkled. The other two remained impassive. The colonel’s hair was well-combed and slicked down, as if he had just gotten out of a bath.

  Colares had been spending the entire time talking about the killing of Teixeira. The defense team was keeping entirely to itself; never had I seen the lawyers so quiet. Colares was repeating details, inveighing against scabrous situations as he wandered over superfluous bits of evidence, turning pages slowly. There was nothing to write down: I knew those facts and more besides. I couldn’t understand the point of that interminable lecture. Was it some maneuver of Judge Fernandes to gain time? I spotted Dr. Jansen.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Odilon ordered a detachment of military police to grab Luiz de Paula and Wenceslau and Martinho. They’re on their way, whether they like it or not.”

  “What’s the justification?”

  “Complicity in the deaths of Teixeira, Fazendeiro and Fuba.”

  “What if, thinking it’s an unlawful order, they don’t come?”

  “That’s the risk we have to run. If it works, it’ll be difficult for the Lowland Group to open fire on the courthouse.”

  “Did you find out if that was the plan?”

  “To a ‘T.’ Soares and his buddy Magalhães are supposed to storm out seconds before, claiming outrageous prosecutorial misconduct. That’s the signal.”

  Dr. Jansen opened his medical bag and went over toward the judge. I took his seat, thinking about the strategy. Judge Fernandes didn’t lack for savvy. For the weakest, the best defense is a good offense. The danger was that Soares or Magalhães might be suspicious. Was that why they were so quiet? Too bad Alice had disappeared. What had she done with herself? Dr. Jansen came back as the prosecutor was winding up his statement about the circumstances under which Teixeira had been found on the Café do Vento road. Soares got up. He paced back and forth while, as was his custom, Magalhães cleaned his fingernails with a bookmark. The defendants sat impassively.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” began Soares. “Is that all there is to this trial—a trial that will live on in the annals of jurisprudence as the longest ever tried anywhere in the world? And for what? For naught. I say and say again: Sister Genoveva took the stand the first time and declared she had a revelation to make. She guaranteed us material proof that would eliminate all doubt; that she would establish the guilt of my clients. Thereafter, she disappeared. Today, we see that she has returned. And what does Sister Genoveva have to say to us this time? Could it be that she spent her time while missing to look for a way to justify her accusations?

  “My learned colleague Mr. Colares took out of his pocket an envelope containing certain papers, which he handed up to the court, declaring, as if by so doing he could threaten us, that at an opportune time the contents of those papers would be made known to you the jurors and all of us. That hasn’t yet happened either. It has been said here, emphatically, that Batista and Colonel Barros belong to the Lowland Group, which sponsors and controls the so-called ‘Syndicate of Death,’ but there too, nobody has presented any material proof of that allegation. It’s been said that Chief Cordeiro agreed to such illegal activities, yet there is no proof before the judge. For these reasons, ladies and gentlemen, I am forced to tell you that I fear we are wasting both my precious time and yours as well.”

  “My esteemed colleague Mr. Soares,” roared Romão, “has no right, nor any basis, to question this trial that way!”

  “Distinguished counsel,” said the judge, who had just swallowed a pill Dr. Jansen had given him, “confine yourself to the role of the defense. The jurisdiction of this court is not in question. If it were, you, sir, would not be able to participate in the proceedings, because the litigation would be taking place in a higher forum. Please proceed.”

  Soares paced back and forth, rubbing his hands and visibly irritated.

  “I insist, your Honor, that the witnesses yet to be called must hew to the highest standards of objectivity. If we decide to hear out persons who, for diverse reasons, do not like those who are here in the ridiculous position of defendants, let those also be called who hold Noé Batista, Colonel Barros, and Chief Cordeiro in the highest regard. Let us summon his Grace Archbishop Dom Humberto Martinho; the physician Dr. Francisco José dos Santos; Lieutenant Colonel Hilário Santíni; Amadeu Silva, the pharmacist; Arlindo Sampaio, the trader. They are among the most respected and distinguished men in our community. Why not call them, instead of leaving ourselves in the thrall solely of those whose declarations are motivated by hatred, disdain and envy? Who does not know that Colonel Barros arrived in Sapé a poor man? Who is unaware that he bettered himself through his own efforts? And Batista? What do we have against this farmer, a small landowner who built his homestead fifty years ago in the middle of the jungle? It was thanks to him that others joined him out there, so that the area became a settlement and now his production and his neighbors’ grows ever greater. I would suggest as well, your Honor, that if at the end of this trial nothing has been proved against the accused, the court remain in session so that the false witnesses may be questioned and punished according to law.”

  As Soares’s assistant began to speak, trying to imitate him, I left so I could find Alice. The judge’s chambers remained tranquil; they seemed hardly to belong to the rest of the courthouse. Dona Inês typed orders, her desk covered with papers. Inside a small ceramic vase was a violet with delicate purple flowers.

  “Have you seen Alice, ma’am?”

  Before answering she laughed.

  “Afraid she might have taken off?”

  “I was counting on her being able to help me with some of my notes.”

  “No. She hasn’t been here yet, at least not right here.”

  “What do you think of all these goings-
on?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Elias. I fear for the judge—he really hasn’t recovered from his wounds, and he could get awfully sick.”

  “What about the gangsters?”

  “From what I hear tell, they’re on their way. Just today three of the Sapé police haven’t been able to show up. The wife of one of them brought in a doctor’s excuse.”

  “That’s the danger. They manipulate the police, arm the goon squads, and have fleets of cars and influential friends. On our side, there’s just the law!”

  I smiled, and Dona Inês did likewise.

  “Decent people are with us—that you can count on.”

  “It’s not much, Dona Inês. We’ve got to be supported by people of good will—with lots of machine guns. The members of the Lowland Group don’t mess around when it comes to business.”

  “What about the people in that so-called Syndicate of Death? One of them called here one day, threatening the judge. He said he was going to kill him if he kept on with the trial.”

  “Win or lose this battle, Judge Fernandes is going to have to take a long vacation from Sapé afterward.”

  “I doubt he will. Only one thing matters to him, even if he has to die: that the law be respected in this township.”

  I drank a bit of water from a vacuum jug on top of a metal file cabinet. As I was crumpling the plastic cup, Alice walked in, beautiful in her nervousness and giving me a start. She smiled and greeted Dona Inês.

  “What’s been happening?”

  “I woke up quite early and decided to surprise you,” she said, pulling out copies of The Nation from her purse. “I went to Campina Grande to take care of some things and bought these.”

  I flipped through the pages with a certain anxiety while Dona Inês typed.

  “Not a thing. They didn’t publish even one line of what I sent!”