The senator opened a satchel tied to his wheelchair and pulled out a ledger of polished leather, which Asbal handed up to the judge.
“In there, Your Honor, you will find my last will and testament and the deeds to my lands, which run across the townships of Santa Rita and Sapé and through Alagoa Grande all the way to the Rio Grande do Norte state line. If you will have the patience to calculate such a ridiculous amount, you will find that I have in my name more than 490,000 acres. Contrast that gain to those of Margarida Maria Alves or Sólon de Almeida, who strive to find work for their union brothers and sisters, and of Father Juliano, who persists in his struggle for understanding between those who have everything and those who have nothing. I would be as a wild beast, Your Honor, if I did not act as I am now doing. I am even being arrogant, mind you. I was going to do all this without any speech or demonstration. My ties to Asbal would have been sufficient; so would have been his words that awoke me, for goodness lies not only among priests or prophets—God has placed it inside each one of us. But so great are various perversions that we become callous and cruel, deaf to those who cry from hunger, indifferent to those who sicken and die for want of treatment. I wish to take this opportunity to make a double confession: I have nothing against my brothers, and I raise my hand to emphasize that I am guilty, Your Honor!”
“We too are guilty!” declared Wenceslau and Júlio Martinho.
“I would have the justice of humankind be done,” said João Alberto Martinho, “because it is light and brief; I do not wish to perish for all eternity like the wolf who hoodwinked the sheep. I hope to depart with the beauty of simplicity in my eyes, knowing that Asbal will tend my grave along the most distant road, a road that no one will travel, for it is there that we should rest, we who stoned and spat on the face of the humble.”
Colonel Barros’s head was bent and his forehead rested on his hand. Batista’s eyes were fixed on a point on the floor. He did not dare to look at the ex-senator. I was startled. Never had I seen a trial where such astonishing things had happened.
“There is nothing to hide, Your Honor,” the ex-senator declared. “We participated in the killings of Fazendeiro and Fuba, my ex-employee, a happy and optimistic man who wanted so little for his struggle, a struggle that should have been ours as well. We killed him. Júlio took charge of hiring the gunmen. Wenceslau lent his pickup truck, for the ‘service,’ as we called it, had to be performed well. We considered it necessary if we were to maintain our station, over time, as lords of our domains, paying the minimum to farmworkers while spending the maximum on gangsters and a whole complicated security system. Between 1966 and 1969 we authorized the extermination of thirty-eight to forty peasants. Some died for the sole reason of having taken leadership roles even though the unions were then controlled by the military. I conclude by telling you, Your Honor, that the land barons’ plans will always be thus; they will not change. Possession of land is a contaminant, a fever that generates a special type of envy, disastrous and uncontained. In this courtroom there are no fewer than three people in the macabre plans of the Lowland Group: Ms. Alves, Father Juliano, and Mr. Almeida. They too have been condemned to death, to be precise. Their continued presence in our midst is but a question of time. To carry out the new ‘services’ experienced killers have arrived, taken from the ranks of former Rio and São Paulo police officers who could not keep their jobs with those agencies, so many crimes have they committed. They are coming to take the place of our own loudmouthed and drunk country bumpkins, who are known to half the town. The men who are coming, by contrast, know how to operate in total and absolute secrecy. They will not go anywhere near the plantations; they will not have any contact with any of us. The Lowland Group and the Syndicate of Death have entered the era of sophistication, with electronic devices and whatever else may be necessary.
“To my brothers, I do not hesitate to say that our sickness began with our perversions. Covered with sores as I am, I consider myself privileged. When all hope seemed lost, a condition exacerbated by my bitterness, nevertheless a ray of sunlight managed to pierce the cloudy world I had constructed; I could then hear the clamors that possess me. I am guilty, gentlemen! I demand the maximum sentence, at hard labor. I wish to turn over the earth and dislodge rocks with the finger stubs that I still have. Let the germs that have devoured me in life intertwine with the worms that inhabit the muck; let my blood mix with water from torrents and bogs; let razor-sharp sedge open new wounds on my body, and let the raw flesh of my feet walk the last mile on a bed of burning bushes. That’s what I had left to say, Your Honor. All that remains is to thank you for hearing me out, for being tolerant with me and with the other defendants that surround you.”
Asbal placed his hands on the wheelchair and began to push. Soares rose, while the audience remained transfixed.
“Your Honor!” he said. “I have nothing to add. After hearing out Senator Martinho’s recitation, the defense declares itself defeated. I laud his confession. The illustrious senator did not mince words, nor he did hesitate; rather, he stole the march on the jury.”
“I for my part think that he is in no condition for a pronouncement of such gravity. I would rather believe that Senator Martinho must be motivated by strange influences that I am still at a loss to evaluate,” stated Magalhães.
“I must take issue with my distinguished colleague,” said Soares. “The senator is not bewitched, nor is he under the influence of drugs. He seems to me to be as normal as a person in his condition can be.”
“I am not crazy, nor am I under Asbal’s influence,” responded the ex-senator, wiping once again the corner of his shriveled eye. “I simply awoke from an absurd dream of the type common to lords of the land. At that moment I felt myself be reborn, and I invite my colleagues to follow me so that they too can gain the same recompense, the same happiness. I have mastered the difficult art of sharing; I know its secrets, and I am exultant, proud to make myself equal, a mere cog in this world that I once imagined to be my property and through which I now pass, doors wide open, feeling free as the wind and marveling not at the immense boulders that form the cordillera but rather at the permanency of a grain of sand.”
João Alberto Martinho put on his hat. As if emerging from a hypnotic state, people began to stir and to talk out loud. The judge demanded silence as Asbal pushed the wheelchair over the red carpet. Alice blocked his passage and extended her hand. A new brilliance came over the ex-senator’s corroded countenance. Asbal contemplated the fearless woman with equanimity. The ex-senator timidly raised his enshrouded hand, but Alice sought out the other one that he did not exhibit, kissed it, and held it against her face. Next to Alice and the ex-senator, tears in their eyes, people exuded both silence and fear. Asbal began to push the chair again and Alice, smiled happy as a child. The judge ordered a recess and the jury retired. Dr. Jansen ran down to the bench, his great haste alarming me. What could be the problem? I soon saw that Judge Fernandes was not feeling well; he was clutching his torso.
“The emotions were too great,” he gasped as he struggled to breathe.
A police officer came over to help. We helped the judge to his chambers.
Chapter 27
We spent considerable time in the flower-bedecked square. Alice remained enthralled, but I had nothing to say; I felt empty, not exactly lost, but shaken from within—that was the word for it. I was used to experiencing strong emotions, but those of the last few hours struck me as excessive, even incomprehensible. Like Russian dolls the trial was drawing itself out, one surprise after another, until it culminated in Asbal’s speech and the former senator’s monologue.
“When the trial ends, maybe today or tomorrow, I’m going to ask you a favor.”
“What is it?” asked Alice, her nose and eyes red.
“I want to marry you. Everything straightforward, by the book. Let’s have Father Juliano officiate. We’ll decorate the Santa Terezinha church and invite the community.”
“You’re not
sick of me?”
“Are you crazy?”
“A woman at the courthouse door fled as I was walking up to her.”
“Nonsense. Your attitude was the nicest thing I’ve seen; to my mind, you acted like a golden keystone for a conclave of saints and demons.”
“What the heck do you think the jurors are going to decide?”
“Hard to know. What I can say is that there’s never been such an important trial in the entire country. By wanting to punish a group of moneybags, Judge Fernandes gave us a great lesson in democracy. That’s what should be on TV, on prime time. Can you imagine: millions and millions of Brazilians hearing the exorcised former senator tell how he got his land, how he participated in countless crimes?”
“I’d add to that his regretfulness; his desire to end his days humbly, a man like any other. When I would catch his eye I could feel deep within me that he was purifying himself; his lesions didn’t bother him; he could become good and achieve solidarity with the weak and the downtrodden.”
“I have a hunch, Alice.”
“What is it?”
“Probably the brothers are going to hasten the senator’s death. As soon as the spell that came over everybody wears off, that’s what they’ll do. It’ll take more than Senator Martinho’s crisis of humility to make the growers and ranchers give up their land and their wealth. Right now—pardon my pessimism—the Lowland Group is preparing to have a meeting to evaluate the dissenting former senator’s position.”
“I agree to marry you if you promise we’ll go out to Graúna Mansion.”
“Blackmail?”
“Sacrifice. I want to see the senator one more time. I’d like you to take some pictures of him.”
“That’s funny. It never occurred to me to take his picture! Maybe I’ve gone crazy too.” We laughed.
“What now?”
“We should go back to the courthouse in a few minutes. We’ll stay there a while; afterwards, depending on the situation, we’ll go back to the house to celebrate at Judge Fernandes’s side. I’d like you to get to know him better.”
Alice plucked a purple flower and handed it to me. I ran my hand lightly across her hair, and she tucked herself up next to me.
“Do you think we’ll always be like this, every day?”
I shook my head affirmatively. Alice laughed like a distrustful child.
“I suffer from anxieties. Would you know what anxieties are?”
“Kittens that meow and bare their teeth if we don’t give them milk.”
She laughed again.
“Anxieties are feelings that begin with injustices, stretch themselves over to frustrated desires, and blend themselves with nostalgia. A maelstrom that passes through us yet for want of kindness does not carry us off. That’s what I sensed in the senator’s eyes.”
“I’ve also got my anxieties. Some I keep in a secret drawer; others I toy with in the light of day. At the moment my big hang-up is The Nation. It begins with my anger at having been professionally betrayed, and runs over to the domain of certain expectancies. ‘What now, Jorge Elias? What road should I take? What should I do to make a living?’ And you can add to that a second anxiety: I want to marry you, but I didn’t feel my request had much of an impact….”
Alice hugged and kissed me, and said it was the most wonderful proposal she’d ever received.
“Every woman wants a husband. I’m no different. But I fear the possibility of a marriage that just exists on paper. Still, I’ve spent my best moments by your side. Without your company I wouldn’t have gone to the courthouse and if not, I wouldn’t be feeling so well, so sure that happiness exists in proportion to the success of others. Is my neighbor happy?” she yelled. “Then soon I am too. The plaza belongs to flowers and lovers, and I’m happy with the plaza.”
“And your uncle? Are you comfortable with the confessions he’s made?”
“I’m afraid he may be attacked some place where he won’t be able to defend himself. He is strong and determined; he has a good heart. It was on my insistence that he began to look for his brother. He would never have come to Sapé if not for my father’s trail. When the senator was talking I wanted to ask him something, the same question I want to ask him when we go out to the Graúna Mansion.”
“What is it?”
“If he knows about so many persecuted and sacrificed peasants, why wouldn’t he know about my father? If he’ll tell where he is, even if he’s dead and buried, I’ll be the most grateful creature in the world. The quest I’ve undertaken can’t just be abandoned. It’s my greatest worry.”
“Relax. I’ll tell Judge Fernandes after the verdict is rendered that we’ve gotten engaged and are going to be married. I’m going to insist that our engagement take place in the midst of the evening we celebrate this sensational trial. I’ll look for Asbal and we’ll go out to Graúna Mansion. On the way we can stop by the house of Luís Queirós, the peasant who helped me when I was kidnapped. We can become the godparents of Jeruza, Janaína’s daughter—she’s Luís’s widow. You’ll like Janaína. She’s hardworking and firm, full of determination against the landowners, particularly Colonel Barros, who threatened to take away their property some years ago: just a few acres, no more than that.”
“I’m so happy we met. The first time was happenstance, then coincidence and love. That day, in the hotel in João Pessoa, I left worried I’d never see you again. You sounded quite silly, saying you were a goat salesman.”
“I tried to find you. I even ran out into the street and circled the hotel, but you’d disappeared. I thought to myself, ‘you’re going to miss somebody you only met for a fleeting moment.’ When we ran into each other again it felt like a celebration.”
“We’ll be comfortable together: you working on your book if you don’t soon find a newspaper that’ll hire you, and me helping Father Juliano at the church.”
“What if I should suddenly take on pretentious overtones and want to run for Congress or something like that? It seems to be the style around here.”
“I won’t believe it. It’s not like you. Your mission is to be a reporter, digging up facts and knowing how to write them up.”
“My stories for The Nation seem to have vanished into a bureaucratic fog; they’re not publishing anything. The editorial management must think I’ve gone crazy. Lots of things I’ve written about this trial are difficult to understand. For its part The Nation prefers the cash cow of advertising. Just look at how history is made. One stupid ad, and thousands of people are deprived of their opportunity to know what Senator João Alberto said, who the prophet Asbal is, how Judge Fernandes conducted himself, and what really happened in the case of the three farmworkers, and so many others as well.”
“Don’t wallow in self-pity. I’m going to work to help pay the bills in our house.”
“My profession is like a greenhouse flower, Alice. In certain places, it shrivels up or never even gets to bloom. I’m an urban animal. Staying in Sapé I’d have to change jobs.”
“Maybe you could be a teacher. You could teach in the school for poor children in the Santa Terezinha neighborhood.”
“That’s a thought. When we don’t have anything to eat we can ask Father Juliano to share his food with us.”
“We’ll be so wrapped up in our work we won’t have time to complain.”
I laughed, but Alice stayed serious. Was she crazy?
“I’m certain that in one year we could get a small but decent school off the ground. You and Father Juliano will write readers for the children, and I’ll ask for help from the Rural Workers’ Union and other institutions here and in João Pessoa. We’ll make do.”
“I’m glad you’re so fearless. I don’t motivate myself easily; I have a predilection for sadness and gloom. I don’t turn tail easily, but taking chances makes me tired. I’m not afraid of things, but adventure brings on a certain fatigue. I could very well take a bus to Recife and try to sell the story about Senator Martinho. Maybe it wouldn’t
be published, but certainly they’d buy it at least. After all, he’s one of the great land barons and he decided to throw it all away. And besides, they’ll be surprised to learn he’s alive, lost out on the land of black clay so as to not make things awkward for his family and be a party-pooper. But what will happen to me later? I don’t have the guts for these things.”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s enjoy this beautiful evening. I’ve been proposed to; I was near a prophet; I touched a man who purified himself through the truth. As for money, you can reckon it’ll show up.”
“I’ve often entertained thoughts like that and they’ve usually come true. Well, let’s get going. Otherwise we won’t get seats.”
“If I could, I’d stay here. Until tomorrow, when the sun rises again.”
“Know what we could do after we get married? Spend our honeymoon on some very remote beach. Just the sea, solitude, and us.”
“Why not? I’ve always wanted a vacation.”
We walked down the streets with the nonchalance of lovers. The outcome of the trial suddenly seemed of secondary importance, even though it would be the lead of the stories I was going to write.
The courthouse was surrounded by farmworkers and by food stands with gas lamps lit. Most of the conversation revolved around the ex-senator’s appearance. Some believed it, but others were amused at the thought that such a very rich man would have made an elegant speech and promised to distribute his land. We went inside, staying close to each other. A happy black woman kissed Alice.
Land of Black Clay Page 35
