Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  I noted a certain awkwardness in Santíni. He cleared his throat and rubbed his hands.

  “That book contains the names of the detachment of soldiers and officers who worked with me during the time I led the military police, between 1960 and 1966, as I have already testified and as I see no need to repeat.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Santíni, please be assured I am not wasting your time. I merely wish to ensure that you recall the facts with precision. On your words depends the progress of our work. In truth, I am offering you the opportunity to rethink what you have stated and placed on the record.”

  “What I have said, Your Honor, is the truth. I am not the sort to lie or to tell half-truths. The book in your hands was what I used to register soldiers and officers under my command. Among them there was no Antônio Alexandre, much less any Francisco Pedro da Silva. Those citizens have never belonged to the glorious military police. Misinformed newspapers identified them as military police at the time of the murders, but the true facts are different.”

  As Lieutenant Colonel Santíni made his statement, the judge was giving instructions to the prosecutor. Romão looked in my direction with an animated expression.

  “I yield to the prosecutor,” said Judge Fernandes, “who has means to prove that the illustrious Lieutenant Colonel Santíni, ex-commandant of the military police of João Pessoa, has just committed a grave error. Mr. prosecutor!”

  Romão roused himself and turned to glance at the defendants. Soares and Magalhães displayed curiosity; Lieutenant Colonel Santíni’s nervousness betrayed him. He lit a cigarette.

  “My friends, this forum does not seek out intrigue. Supported by the community, we are trying to discover the road to the truth of the real causes of the death of Teixeira and the means used to kill him. We cannot turn to later cases and leave this one by the wayside. Hours and hours of intense and dedicated work have gone into it. We all know that his honor the judge still suffers in this very courtroom from the wounds he received during the last attack on him. It is not difficult to imagine how painful it is for him, this endless undertaking. But he is here and we, by his side, are trying to help him as is our duty. The truth shall illuminate him who walks its path or tries to find it. We are aware of the extent to which the defense has tried to discredit a witness who appeared here humbly and for the sole purpose of serving the cause of justice. I am referring to Sister Genoveva.”

  People turned to look at her. At that moment Sister Genoveva was walking on the red carpet. The prosecutor resumed.

  “My eminent colleague Soares used and abused the right to impeach her testimony. We have accepted that from the word go. Nevertheless, we are dealing with one of the most beloved people in this city and this township; she is the sister of all of us. She did not appear with a desire to scheme or confuse. She came forth animated by the reunion of sinners with God. And when the sister can guide someone in the direction of faith, she does so with sufficient force to overcome any obstacle. I am certain even now that thanks to Sister Genoveva’s prayers, the proof we required emerged in the reporter’s hands. I ask that reporter, Jorge Elias, to take the stand.”

  Alice touched me. She was pretty. I do not get embarrassed easily, but I felt awkward.

  “Mr. Jorge Elias, twice Lieutenant Colonel Santíni has declared to this court that the witnesses who described themselves as former military policemen and responsible for the death of Teixeira never belonged to the military police. What evidence can you present to contradict this statement?”

  “I have this photograph, apparently taken in 1961, with Francisco Pedro da Silva’s own autograph. As you can see, he’s wearing the uniform of the military police.”

  The prosecutor took the photograph and displayed it. He read the autograph that Francisco had written for his sister and the date. Just then a loud and startling outburst of yelling could be heard from the street, followed by pistol shots. Some of the police ran out of the courtroom on the fly while others cocked their rifles. Lieutenant Sampaio came into the courtroom and approached the bench to tell the judge that a half-dozen gangsters had fired on two soldiers and had been wounded. The others had been seized, except for three who had fled toward the police station.

  “I direct the assistant chief of police to take all necessary measures, Lieutenant. Thank you for your efficiency. This court will remain in session. We will only interrupt the trial if the courthouse should once again be attacked.”

  “That won’t happen, Your Honor. We have enough men to confront any troublemakers,” said Lieutenant Sampaio.

  More shots rang out, followed by the sound of people running. The nervousness among the audience was palpable. Colonel Barros and Carvalho smiled contentedly. The prosecutor again displayed the photograph up close to the jury.

  “Given the subject matter of this photograph, Your Honor, I believe it necessary to recall Antônio Alexandre and Francisco Pedro da Silva.”

  The two returned, accompanied by three heavily armed police officers.

  “Do you recognize this photograph and this writing as your own?” the prosecutor asked Silva.

  “Yes I do! Me and my sister was celebrating my first paycheck from the military police.”

  The judge rapped his gavel loudly and turned to some nearby police officers.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Santíni is remanded into custody for false testimony. Take him to the police station. Have Assistant Chief Ariosto Macieira detain him there pending further orders.”

  One soldier took Lieutenant Colonel Santíni by the arm. He struggled but two other police officers grappled him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” said Romão, adjusting the sleeve of his robe. “The moment draws near to determine the guilt or innocence of the accused. By everything that has been said, by every point that has been raised, the prosecution has tried to prove, and I believe we have proved, that the defendants are criminally responsible for the death of Teixeira. It is clear that they were involved in many other offenses, like the killings of Fazendeiro and Fuba, but the complaint is limited to the crime of the murder of the peasant leader on the Café do Vento road. Guilty or innocent? That is the doubt that I know….”

  The courtroom doors swung open and the police pushed people aside to reveal Asbal pushing a wheelchair containing a man wearing a felt hat, elegantly dressed but bearing facial lesions. Half of the audience stood up. What was it? wondered the more curious as Asbal continued to push the wheelchair over the red carpet. The murmurs and the squeaking of the wheelchair grew louder. The judge himself rose from the bench, not quite comprehending events. From close up the man’s face was horrifying, so great were the lesions that corrupted him. The defendants, too, were on their feet. Wenceslau and Júlio Martinho reacted sharply, and the police drew near them.

  “Take that poor devil out of here! Get him out, for the love of God!” yelled Wenceslau Martinho.

  “What is it, brother? Why all this effort, when we agreed that you would remain at your retreat?” demanded Júlio Martinho, who was behaving much more calmly than his brother.

  João Alberto Martinho did not answer. He looked around, his right eye masked by disease. Asbal took off the ex-senator’s hat and positioned it in his hands to shield his wounds. The court was riveted with suspense. Soares and Magalhães were still on their feet. The police stared at the ex-senator but quickly turned away. Alice began to cry.

  “A leper, my God!” exclaimed the woman sitting next to us.

  Sister Genoveva pulled out her beads and began to pray. In an instant the scene had changed. Asbal stayed next to the senator, who sported not only his elegant wheelchair and expensive suit but also a gold watch and a jewel-encrusted ring on a finger that was still intact. A leaden silence fell over the crowd. Dona Zoé blotted her forehead with her hands and appeared ready to faint; two companions tried to support her. The judge ordered the audience to be seated. Asbal spoke.

  “Your Honor, I apologize if our presence is something that at the same tim
e brings forth compassion and dismay. Ten years ago, wise and victorious, Senator João Alberto Martinho would have been received with floral accolades had he come here. But life contains pitfalls that only God can foresee. Our Lord wanted him to reside in the house of pain, so that the long road through the deserts of eternity might be alleviated. He has renounced the insensitivity that made him a peer of the accused we see here, each one wishing to preserve his wealth and therefore telling stories that blur into one giant swindle. Who is capable of separating lies from the truth when all lie at the same time? They are devotees of hate, Your Honor; their sickness is contagious; it has become epidemic in Sapé. And strange as it may seem, only one difference separates us from Senator Martinho: his wounds we can see, we can touch; our own, equally purulent, we hide so that our neighbor will not see them, will not know of our bitterness, so great is our egotism. But now is the time that we can perform the miracle of a general cure of all the lepers in this city—a city that could be beautiful and inviting, but that has become the hell of the poor and the purgatory of the rich. Covered with sores as we are, we are poor, Colonel Barros; unhappy, Mr. Carvalho; bad, Mr. Aquino and Chief Cordeiro; we are unscrupulous, Noé Batista; we will always be useless and terribly ridiculous, Wenceslau and Júlio Martinho and Representative Luiz de Paula. Our poverty consists of the lie into which we have transformed ourselves, in which the sunny mornings that visit us almost every day of the year hang heavy; our unwillingness to focus our greedy eyes has turned us stupid. There will be no wealth until there is solidarity; we shall not be cured if our neighbors die of hunger. We must understand that people need a minimum of dignity to be able to get along and rediscover their horizons, lest they be transformed into nocturnal insects buzzing around a lantern. To those who can still hear I propose a reencounter, with the motive of one who offers a toast. For these reasons, I asked the senator to come here; I am sure I did not err. Only he, heir to his own ruins, has the voice to clarify doubts. I know that he will do so with gratitude.”

  Applause broke out on all sides. Judge Fernandes rapped his gavel twice as people again stood up one by one; the defendants themselves rose, and with them the defense team, the prosecution, and the judge. Various police officers, though keeping a watchful eye, also applauded. Asbal remained standing next to the wheelchair, in his long earth-colored tunic, his pigskin sandals and long nails. His hair was straight and his beard long, and in his left hand he held his dark, twisted walking staff. His eyes were wistful. Alice rested her head on my shoulder and once again began to cry. I myself took a tissue out of my pocket twice and discreetly dabbed at my eyes. What power did that odd man possess to make people so feel the weight of his words?

  The judge wanted to get back down to business but seemed to be having difficulty. Dr. Jansen ran up to him and offered him a tranquilizer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. The words of our friend Asbal reflect the goal of this trial. We are here stripped of false conceits, hands empty and hearts hopeful, desiring justice to be done without prejudice either to the defense or the prosecution. There is nothing more difficult to face than injustice. And it is injustice with which we are wrestling, to bring about a healthier city. The time for jury deliberations is almost upon us. With Senator Martinho’s presence, we are certain that many issues will be clarified, so that this trial will have reached its destination rigorously, prudently, and impartially. I ask the clerk to place the name of Senator Martinho on the witness list. I thank the prophet Asbal for his help; the tender of crosses by the roadside, he has shown himself to be a lucid traveler in quest of peace and solidarity. Senator Martinho.”

  “Residents of Sapé, distinguished public figures, Judge Fernandes, whom I fought so bitterly back in 1960. My friend Asbal I have met only recently, although I have known of his existence for many years. But I was a senator, an important lord of my estates, rich, envied, and very healthy. Why should I trouble myself with Asbal? Indeed, there was no time for that. The friends who sought me out insistently were always well dressed; they came and went on frequent trips to Europe, bringing back novelties. They had as much money as I had and, what’s worst, still have.”

  With his hand wrapped in a handkerchief, the senator paused to lightly touch his withered eye, which was red and almost unmoving.

  “Health and power are both a good and an affliction. I was to discover this the other day during a conversation with Asbal after our fortunate meeting. We began some profitable exchanges and, even as you see me now, in pieces, a new wound opening up every day, I nevertheless tried to elevate vanity above reason. I mocked Asbal’s words and he decided to continue on his way. I have an adviser named Alfredo Agostíni. He has accompanied me since the time I was first elected to office. He lives at my expense. He flatters me with the goal of becoming rich. But he has never been my friend. His loyalty to money motivates him to remain at his post; he now hopes I’ll bequeath some of my estate to him.

  “I live, if you can call it that, in the Graúna Mansion. I was thoughtfully sent there by my brothers here, Wenceslau and Júlio, dear brothers both. The first day I spoke with Asbal, I was suffering from wounds on the left arm, although the pains were psychosomatic. A leper rarely feels the parts of his body that fall away. He attends the demolition of the structure of his body like one who sees the leaves fall from a tree in autumn.

  “Asbal gave me that vision. Accompanied by Alfredo, I have lived for but one thing: to feed my hatred of my brothers, whom I envy, for they have everything while I flirt with death and oblivion. Asbal argued with me for a while. He showed me that the world was otherwise; I could be useful to common people, for it is when we are dying that we have the opportunity to give of ourselves to others, mainly to those who became miserable because we the rich worked to keep from them the most minimal chance for survival. Our initial conversation was not pleasant, mind you. I bore with me the marks of my future, and nothing else mattered. I considered myself embittered, the remnants of a human; beyond hovered cruel fate and an end to everything. I was playing a zero-sum game, more or less the same as my father did during the period in which we made our fortune. Do you know how it happened? By the standard method of obtaining land title under false pretenses. The losers were expelled from their land, and those who persisted got a visit from our henchmen for a final decision. And don’t deceive yourselves: many of those crosses Asbal visits and keeps clean were put up by us, the Martinhos.”

  As Senator Martinho spoke, his brother Wenceslau looked anguished. At one point I noticed that he was covering his ears. The ex-senator, however, did not appear ready to quit. The most trivial things seemed to be of importance to him. Alice took hold of my hand and we stayed near each other. Dona Zoé returned, as did Azulão, accompanied by two police officers. The former military policemen who had testified earlier, Alexandre and Silva, once again reappeared. The ex-senator rubbed his left eye anew with his shrouded hand.

  “We created the Lowland Group, Your Honor, with the aim of keeping the Syndicate of Death active. We wished to live only for ourselves; the others, the poorest, those who dared to rebel, could die. Colonel Barros, Noé Batista, Luiz de Paula, my friend Guilherme, Wenceslau, our police chief Juarez Cordeiro—all belonged to the Lowland Group. I think the time has come for them to acknowledge it, for we can’t continue under the dominion of lies and damnation.”

  “The senator is mentally disturbed; his words are worthless!” exclaimed Soares.

  “Silence, Mr. defense counsel,” said the judge as a murmur went around the room.

  “Dear friend Soares. Please keep in mind, sir, that you are still on retainer to me and I won’t tolerate any interruptions from you while I am making the most thoughtful reflections of my life. I wasn’t dragged here by good Asbal. I asked him to bring me. And I am not finished. We lepers live a long life. It’s a punishment that does not fade away between sundown and sunrise. Hence I consider what I say to be necessary, principally for my brothers’ understanding, for they have let themselves
be taken over by the same virus that drove me to insanity, Mr. Soares. Yes, as I was amassing my ill-gotten gains, I was indeed seriously ill and I continued to hallucinate for many, many years, until this holy man came to show me that all was not lost, that there is always a possibility of redemption. I urge my brothers to confess so that today, here, we can open the fields to the farmers. Let the land belong to them also; let their wives and children live happily in the certitude that they will never die of hunger; let the elderly experience tranquility. Then we can partake of this universe of people who will lend their hands instead of acting hostilely.

  “I am not exactly a witness, Your Honor. I am also a defendant. Our family participated in the plot to kill Teixeira, just as other growers participated. Batista took the lead but, in truth, we prompted him to do it. We wanted João Pedro Teixeira dead, as we did Pedro Fazendeiro, Nêgo Fuba, Francisco Julião, Gregório Bezerra, Miguel Arraes and all the union leaders in the northeast who had conceived the peasant leagues in partnership with the leftist political parties, especially the Communist Party of Brazil. For us landowners they were the contras; they didn’t believe in Christianity and linked themselves to exotic ideologies. But we too failed to go to church and our ideology may have been even worse than was theirs. For in the end, when we pay half the minimum wage to a worker, we are hoping that he will die. If that wage-earner has a family, it’s clear we want all of them to die without further ado.

  “I am certain, Your Honor, that my brothers will not raise their voices against me. At least for now I hope that our pain makes us equals. Let this court give all of us severe punishment so that through suffering we may redeem ourselves. I do not know what life plans my brothers may have. Mine is simple: my heirs will be the farmworkers, their sons and daughters, their families. The thousands and thousands of acres of land I have will be conveyed to them. I do not wish to be paid homage or even to be remembered. I wish only not to be remembered poorly. I do not wish any child to grow up knowing that Senator João Alberto Martinho did such-and-such. In truth, I seek to correct my errors of omission or of lack of accomplishment through destruction and death.”