Captains of the Sands

by Jorge Amado

  The canon entered. In his thoughts the priest hadn’t noticed that he’d been waiting a long time. Nor had he seen the canon enter with a soft step. He was tall and very thin, angular, with a clean cassock, what little hair he had left was carefully combed. His lips had a hard line. A rosary hung around his neck. Although his appearance gave an impression of purity, that impression didn’t make his features any softer. There was no human kindness in his face, in his hard features. As if purity were a suit of armor that kept him away from the world. They said he was quite intelligent, a great preacher, famous for the strictness of his habits. There he was, standing in front of Father José Pedro, looking with observant eyes at the priest’s short figure, his dirty cassock mended in two places, his frightened look, the lack of intelligence that, mixed with goodness, was reflected on the priest’s face. He studied the priest for a few minutes. Enough to penetrate José Pedro’s uncomplicated soul. He coughed. The priest saw him, got up, humbly kissed his hand:

  “Canon…”

  “Sit down, Father. We’ve got to have a talk.”

  He was looking at the priest’s expressionless eyes. He sat down, carefully crossing his hands, drew his gleaming cassock away from Father José Pedro’s dirty one. His voice contrasted with his person. It might be said that it was a soft voice, almost feminine, if there had not been a tone of decision that came out at every step along the way. Father José Pedro lowered his head and waited for the canon to speak. He began:

  “This Archdiocese has received some serious complaints about you, Father.”

  Father José Pedro tried to put on the face of someone who didn’t understand. But animosity was superior to his intelligence and at that moment he was thinking about the Captains of the Sands. The canon smiled slightly:

  “I think you know what it’s all about…”

  The priest looked at him with open eyes, but then he lowered his head:

  “Only if it’s the children…”

  “The sinner cannot hide his sin, it is visible in his conscience…” and the canon’s voice had lost that note of softness.

  Father José Pedro listened with terror. It was what he had feared. His superiors, those people who had the intelligence to understand God’s desires, were not in agreement with the methods he had used with the Captains of the Sands. A fear was growing inside himself, not really a fear of the canon, of the Archbishop, but a fear of having offended God. And even his hands were trembling slightly.

  The canon’s voice took on its softness again. It was like a woman’s voice, sweet and soft, but of one who denied a man her caresses:

  “We’ve received a fair number of complaints, Father José Pedro. The Archbishop has closed his eyes in the hope that you would recognize your error and correct it…”

  He looked at the priest with stern eyes. José Pedro lowered his head.

  “Not long ago the widow Santos complained that you were helping a bunch of urchins on a square make fun of her. Rather, you were encouraging the urchins to make fun of her…What have you got to say, Father?”

  “It’s not true, Canon…”

  “Are you telling me that the widow was lying?”

  He ran the priest through with his eyes. But this time José Pedro didn’t lower his head, he only repeated:

  “What she said wasn’t true…”

  “You know that the widow Santos is one of the best supporters of religion in Bahia, don’t you? You should see her gifts…”

  “I can tell you the facts…”

  “Don’t interrupt me…Didn’t they teach you to be humble and respectful to your superiors in the seminary? Maybe if you’d been one of the more brilliant students…”

  Father José Pedro knew all that. It wasn’t necessary to repeat to him that he was one of the worst students in the seminary in matters of study. For that very reason he’d been so afraid of having been in error, of having offended God. The canon was certainly right, he was more intelligent, he was much closer to God, who is the supreme intelligence.

  The canon made a gesture with his hand like someone putting the business of the widow aside and his voice became soft again:

  “Now, however, there is a much more serious matter. Because of you, Father, the authorities came to this Archdiocese. Do you know what you have done? Do you know?”

  The priest didn’t attempt to deny it:

  “Was it the case of the boy with milk pox?”

  “A boy with smallpox, yes, sir. And you concealed the case from the public health authorities…”

  Father José Pedro had great faith in God’s goodness. Many times he had thought that God approved what he was doing. He thought that now too. That thought had suddenly filled his heart. He raised his head, fixed his eyes on the canon:

  “Do you know what the leprosarium is like?”

  The canon didn’t answer.

  “It’s rare for anyone to come back from there. Much less a child…Sending a child there is like committing murder…”

  “That’s not our business,” the canon answered in an inexpressive voice but one full of decision. “That’s the business of public health. But it’s our role to respect the law.”

  “Even when it goes against the law of God’s goodness?”

  “What do you know of God’s goodness? What great intelligence do you have to know the designs of God? Has the demon of vanity got hold of you?”

  Father José Pedro tried to explain:

  “I know that I’m an ignorant priest unworthy to serve the Lord. But these children have never had anyone to look after them. My intentions were…”

  “Good intentions don’t excuse evil acts…” the canon cut him off with a very soft voice as he pronounced sentence.

  Father José Pedro felt doubt again. But the thought of God arose again, became part of his trust:

  “Could they have been evil? They were boys who had never heard anyone speak seriously of God. They mix God up with black idols, they’ve got no idea of religion. I wanted to see if I could save those souls…”

  “I already told you that your intentions were good, but that your actions didn’t match your intentions…”

  “You don’t know those boys…” (The canon gave him a hard look.) “They’re boys who are just like grown men. They live like men, they know all about life, everything…You have to deal with them carefully, make concessions.”

  “That’s why you do what they want you to do…”

  “Sometimes I have to do that in order to get good results…”

  “Compromising with robbery, with the crimes of those hoodlums…”

  “What fault is it of theirs?” The priest remembered João de Adão. “Who takes care of them? Who teaches them? Who helps them? What love do they get? He was excited and the canon drew back from him as he fastened his hard little eyes on him. “They steal in order to eat because all these rich people who’ve got enough to throw away, to give to churches, forget that hungry children exist…What fault…”

  “Be still.” The canon’s voice was full of authority. “Anyone who heard you would think it was a communist speaking. And it’s not so hard. In the midst of that rabble you must have picked up their ideas…You’re a communist, an enemy of the Church…”

  The priest looked at him in horror. The canon arose, held his hand out to the priest:

  “May God be sufficiently good to forgive your acts and your words. You have offended God and the Church. You’ve dishonored the priestly vestments you wear. You’ve broken the laws of the Church and of the State. You’ve acted like a communist. That’s why we see ourselves obliged not to be in any hurry to give you the parish you’ve asked for. Go” (now his voice had become soft again, but with a softness full of resolution, a softness that would not admit any reply) “and do penance for your sins, dedicate yourself to the faithful of the church where you work, and forget those communist ideas, if not we’ll have to take more serious measures. Do you think that God approves of what you’re doing? Remember that
your intelligence is not very great, you can’t penetrate the designs of God…”

  He turned his back on the priest and was leaving. Father José Pedro took two steps toward him, spoke in a strangled voice:

  “There’s even one who wants to be a priest…”

  The canon turned:

  “The interview is over, Father José Pedro. You may withdraw and may God help you to think better…”

  But the priest still stood there for a few minutes wanting to say something. But he didn’t say anything, it was as if he had been kicked, looking at the door through which the canon had left. At that moment he couldn’t think about anything. He was comical, his hand still held out, his body half-fallen to one side, his dirty, mended cassock, his eyes opened wide, terrified, his trembling as if wanting to say something. The heavy curtains kept the light from entering the room. The priest still lingered in the darkness.

  A communist…A street band strangely in tune was playing an old waltz:

  I was left joyless, O my God…

  Father José Pedro went along hugging the wall. The canon had said that he couldn’t understand the designs of God. He didn’t have the intelligence, he was talking just like a communist. That was the word that bothered the priest the most. From all pulpits all priests had spoken out against that word. And now he…The canon was very intelligent, he was close to God because of his intelligence, it was easy for him to hear God’s voice. He was in error, he’d wasted those two years of so much work. He’d thought of bringing so many children to God…Lost children…Could it be their fault? Suffer the little children to come unto me…Christ…He was a radiant and young figure. The priests had said he was a revolutionary too. He loved children…Woe to him who does harm to a child…The widow Santos was a pillar of the Church…Could it be that she could hear the voice of God too? Two years wasted…He made concessions, true, he had. Otherwise how could he have dealt with the Captains of the Sands? They weren’t like other children…They knew everything, even the secrets of sex. They were like grown men, even though they were children…It wasn’t possible to treat them like the children who attended the Jesuits’ school after first communion. Those had fathers and mothers, sisters, confessors, and clothes and food, they had everything…But he wasn’t the one to give lessons to the canon…The canon knew everything, he was very intelligent. He could hear God’s voice…He was close to God…He wasn’t one of the brightest students…He’d been one of the worst…God wasn’t going to talk to an ignorant priest…He’d listened to João de Adão. A communist like João de Adão…But the communists are bad, they want to do away with everything…João de Adão was a good man…A communist…What about Christ? No, he couldn’t for a moment think that Christ was a communist…The canon must have understood better than a poor priest in a dirty cassock…The canon was intelligent and God is the supreme intelligence…Lollipop wanted to be a priest. He wanted to be a priest, yes, his vocation was real. But he sinned every day, he stole, he assaulted. It wasn’t their fault…He’s talking like a communist…Why is that one driving in a car, smoking a cigar? Talking like a communist. The canon said that, will God forgive him?

  Father José Pedro goes along hugging the wall. The last notes of the distant band reach his ears. The priest’s eyes are bulging.

  Yes, Father José Pedro, God sometimes talks to the most ignorant. To the most ignorant…He was ignorant…But, God, listen…They’re just poor boys…What do they know of good and evil? Since no one has ever taught them anything? Never a mother’s hand on their heads. A good word from a father. Lord, they know not what they do…That’s why I was with them, did what they wanted so many times…

  The priest opened his arms, held them up to heaven.

  Can it be that’s how a communist acts? Giving a little comfort to those small souls. Saving them, bettering their lot…Otherwise they would only turn out to be thieves, pickpockets, burglars, the best were drifters…The worthiest profession…He wanted them to turn out to be working men, honest, worthy…There was so little for them to turn to…From the Reformatory they came out worse…It isn’t with brutal punishment, God, hear me…The punishment is brutal there…Only with patience, with goodness…Christ thought that way too…Why like a communist?…God can talk to an ignorant person…Abandon the children? The parish is lost…An old mother who will weep…What about the career of the sister in Normal School? She wants to teach children too…But they’d be other children, children with books, with a father and mother…They won’t be the same as these, abandoned in the street, sleeping in the moonlight, under docks, in warehouses…He can’t abandon them. Who can God be with? With the canon or with the poor priest? The widow…No, God is with the priest…He’s with the priest…I’m too ignorant to hear the voice of God…(He hides in the doorway of a church.) But sometimes God talks to the ignorant…(He leaves the church door, continues his walk close to the wall.) He will continue, yes. If he’s wrong God will forgive him…“Good intentions don’t forgive evil acts.” But God is the supreme goodness…He’ll keep on…Maybe the Captains of the Sands won’t turn out to be just thieves…And wouldn’t it be a great joy for Christ?…Yes, Christ smiles. He’s a radiant figure. He smiles on Father José Pedro. Thank you, my God, thank you.

  The priest kneels in the street, lifts up his hands to heaven. But he sees the people smiling at him. He stands up, frightened, leaps onto a streetcar, filled with shame.

  A man comments:

  “Look at the drunken priest. Disgraceful…”

  All the people at the car stop laughing?

  Good-Life dug in his black nail, scratched the pimple. Then he peeked at his arm: it was full. That was why he felt so warm, a lethargy in his body. It was the fever of the smallpox. The city of the poor was ravaged by smallpox. The doctors said that the epidemic was on the decline now, but even so there were a lot of cases, people were going to the pesthouse every day. People who didn’t come back, Good-Life thought. Even Almiro, the cause of such a ruckus in the warehouse, had gone to the pesthouse. And he hadn’t come back…He was a nice-looking boy, there were those who said that he and Outrigger…But he wasn’t a bad boy, he didn’t bother anybody. Legless had raised hell. Then when he found out he’d died he was even more withdrawn, seeming to take the blame for Almiro’s death. He didn’t talk to anyone. Only with the dog he’d picked up.

  “He’ll end up going nuts…” Good-Life thought.

  He lighted a cigarette. He walked about the warehouse. Only the Professor was there. It was rare for anyone to be in the warehouse at that time in the afternoon. Professor saw him when he came in:

  “Give me a cigarette, Good-Life.”

  Good-Life tossed him one. He went over to his corner, made a bundle of his clothes. Professor watched his movements:

  “Are you going away?”

  Good-Life went over to him with the bundle under his arm:

  “Don’t tell anybody…Just the Bullet…”

  “Where are you going?”

  The mulatto laughed:

  “To the pesthouse…”

  The Professor saw his arms full of pustules, his chest.

  “Don’t go, Good-Life…”

  “Why not, buddy?”

  “You know…It’s the cemetery for sure…”

  “Do you think I’m going to hang around here so the others will get it?”

  “We’ll take care of you…”

  “Everybody would die. Almiro had a home, you know, I haven’t got anyone.”

  The Professor didn’t say anything. He wanted to say a lot of things. The mulatto was in front of him, the bundle under the arm that was full of smallpox sores. Good-Life spoke:

  “You tell Pedro Bala. The others don’t have to know.”

  Professor could only say:

  “Are you really going?”

  Good-Life said yes, they went out of the warehouse. Good-Life looked at the city, gestured with his hand. It was like a farewell. Good-Life was a drifter and no one loved his city li
ke a drifter. He looked at the Professor: