Raised from the Ground (21 page)

Speak, man, there’s no one else here, just me, Father Agamedes, the lieutenant, the policeman and you, there are no other witnesses, why can’t you tell us what you know, which probably isn’t much, but each man does what he can, you can’t do more than that, Look, Father Agamedes, I don’t know anything, I can’t repent of something I didn’t do, I would give anything to be back with my wife and my daughters, but I can’t give you what you’re asking me, I can’t say anything because I don’t know anything, and even if I did, I’m not sure I would tell you, Now you’ve shown your true colors, you bastard, shouts the policeman, Stop, says Father Agamedes, as I never tire of saying, they’re nothing but poor brutes, I said as much the other day when I was at Dona Clemência’s house, he probably really doesn’t know anything and was just led astray by the others, He’s down as one of the strike leaders, says Lieutenant Contente, Right, says the policeman, send him back inside.

João Mau-Tempo leaves, and as he walks down the corridor for what seems like the nth time, he sees, coming out of another door, flanked by a large escort of guards, So-and-so and Whatsisname, their eyes meet in recognition, they’ve been badly beaten, poor things, and João Mau-Tempo, as he walks across the courtyard, feels his eyes fill with tears, not because he’s dazzled by the sun, he’s used to that now, but out of an absurd feeling of contentment and relief to know that the two men have already been arrested, and that he wasn’t the one who betrayed them, no, it wasn’t me, what a relief that they’ve been arrested, but what am I saying, and he weeps twice over, once out of contentment and once out of sorrow, and both times he weeps to have seen them here, they’ve obviously been beating them up, as sure as my name is João Mau-Tempo, that policeman was spot-on when he said I have the right name for the times we’re living through.

He went back into the dungeon and told the others what had happened. They saw that he had tears in his eyes and asked if he had been beaten. He said no, he hadn’t, but continued to weep, his heart filled with sorrow, any contentment he had felt quite gone, replaced by a feeling of mortal sadness. The men from Monte Lavre gathered around him, those of the same age, that is, because the younger ones moved away, embarrassed to be near a man whose hair was already white but who was crying like a child, is that what awaits us as well, they thought. These are scruples it would be best to accept without further analysis or discussion.

It was after midday when the situation took a turn for the better. They were led out into the courtyard, where they were reunited with their families, who had come from far and wide, those who could, and who were only now allowed into that anteroom of authority, having been kept waiting outside the barracks, penned in by the guards, where they redoubled their sighing and sobbing, but when Corporal Tacabo turned up to give the order to let them in, they were filled with hope, and there were Faustina and her two daughters, Gracinda and Amélia, who had walked the four leagues from Monte Lavre, what a wearisome life they lead, along with others, mostly women, There they are, and the guards finally relaxed their security measures, ah, what hungry kisses might then have been heard throughout the glade,
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what do you mean glade, the poor creatures embraced and wept, it was like the resurrection of the dead, and as to kisses, that is not something in which they have much practice, but Manuel Espada, who had no family there, stood looking at Gracinda, who had her arms about her father, but she was already taller than him and so could look at Manuel over her father’s shoulder, of course, they had met before, and this was hardly love at first sight, but afterward she said, Hello, Manuel, and he replied, Hello, Gracinda, and that was that, and anyone who thinks more is required is quite wrong.

The families were still engaged in this festival of embraces when Lieutenant Contente and the PIDE agent came out into the courtyard, and the speech they gave emerged from their two mouths simultaneously, it was impossible to know which of them was imitating the other, or if there was some mechanism at work, connected to Lisbon perhaps by electric cables, that made them speak like that, like two phonographs, Lads, be careful from now on, this time we’re letting you walk free, but be warned, if you get involved in any such terrorist activities again, you will pay twice over, so don’t be so foolish as to be taken in by false doctrines, doctrines spread by the enemies of our nation, if you come across pamphlets on the roads or in the streets of a village, don’t read them, or if you do read them, burn them immediately afterward, don’t give them to anyone else or repeat what you read, because that is a crime, and then both you and your innocent families will suffer, if you have a problem to resolve, don’t go on strike, go to the authorities, who are there to inform and help, that way you will be given whatever is fair and lawful, with no need for fuss or upsets, that’s why we’re here, and now go and work in peace, and may God go with you, but before you leave, you have to pay the cost of gas for the truck that brought you from Monte Lavre to Montemor, you’re the ones who did wrong and you’re the ones who have to pay, the State can’t be expected to do that.

They scraped together the necessary money, having rummaged around in bags and pockets and handkerchiefs, there’s the money, Lieutenant Contente, at least we won’t be in debt to the State, because we know how hard up it is, it’s just a shame the trip wasn’t longer, because we already know the Monte Lavre road. These words were not, in fact, spoken, the narrator took the liberty of adding them, but the following words were spoken, by the PIDE agent, alone this time, Now that you’ve settled your bill, go back to your homes and may God go with you, and be sure to thank the priest here, who has shown what a friend he is to you all. At these words, Father Agamedes raises his arms, as if he were standing before the altar, and people don’t know quite what to do, some go over and thank him, others pretend to have neither heard nor seen him and gaze off into space or talk to their wives and families, and Manuel Espada, who, by some strange coincidence, is standing right next to Gracinda Mau-Tempo, mutters, as if the words were biting into his heart, I feel quite ashamed, and just when he thought things could get no worse, Father Agamedes, smiling broadly, says, And now for some good news, there is transport for everyone outside in the street, provided by your employers, with no charge either, you’re to be driven home in your employers’ cars and carts, and to think that some people still speak ill of them. And off Father Agamedes goes, his black, wax-spattered cassock fluttering in the breeze, carrying along in his blessed wake his wretched flock frantically chewing on the tiny quantity of food brought from home, and Manuel Espada, who, by some strange coincidence, is still standing right next to Gracinda Mau-Tempo, said, And they expect us to be grateful to them, it’s just despicable. Gracinda Mau-Tempo did not reply, and Manuel Espada returned to his theme, Well, they’re not taking me, I’m walking. Then the anxious girl did move and said, part shyly, part boldly, It’s an awfully long way, but immediately corrected herself, unsure who to praise and who to censure, whether those who accepted the offer of a lift or this rebel, It’s up to you, of course, Manuel Espada replied that he knew it was a long way, took three steps, then turned back, Would you be my girl, and she responded with a look, which was all that was needed, and when Manuel Espada had already turned the first corner, that was when Gracinda Mau-Tempo said Yes in her heart.

During the days that followed, Father Agamedes stocked up his already well-stocked larder with the gratitude of his parishioners, It’s not very much, I’m afraid, but it comes from the heart, this is for all you did for us, a pint of beans, a little bag of maize, a laying hen, a bottle of olive oil, three drops of blood.

O
LÉ. ON THE ORDERS
of the president of the bullring, the constable enters the arena, inspects the locks on the corrals, counts the number of halters, decides that there are enough, takes a turn about the arena to get a good view of the whole thing, the tiered benches, the boxes, the bandstand, the seats in the shade and in the sun, sniffs the odor of fresh dung on the air and says, They can come in now. The doors are opened and the bulls enter, these are the bulls that will be fought today according to the rules and precepts of the art, taunted with a cape, stuck with darts, beaten with sticks and finally crowned with the hilt of the sword, whose point and blade pierce my heart, olé. They are brought in by the guards, they come from near and far, from places we have already mentioned, but not, as chance would have it, from Monte Lavre, and gradually the ring fills up, not the benches, the very idea, no, the audience is composed entirely of guards, who stand around, in the shade where possible, their rifles at the ready, well, they don’t feel like men without them. The ring starts filling up with dark cattle, captured from leagues around in heroic combat, with the guards on the attack, at the charge, there they are bearing down on those beastly strikers, those lions of the sickle, those men of sorrows, These are the captives from the battle, and at your feet, lord, we lay the flags and cannon seized from the enemy, see how red they are, but not as red as they were at the beginning of the war because, meanwhile, we have heaped dust and spit upon them, you can hang them in the museum or in the regimental chapel where the recruits kneel, waiting to have revealed to them the mystical fate of being a guard, but perhaps it would be preferable, lord, to burn them, because the sight of them offends the feelings you taught us to have, and we want no other feelings. The constable, with the benign authorization of the president of the bullring, had ordered the arena to be scattered with straw, so that the men, because they are men not lions and have neglected to bring their sickles with them, can sit or lie down, grouped more or less according to their village of origin, such gregarious instincts are hard to give up, but there are a few others, too, who go from group to group, offering a word here, a hand on the shoulder there, a glance or a discreet gesture, so that everything, as far as possible, is safe and clear, and now it’s just a matter of waiting.

The guards are keeping watch from their viewing platform, and one of them says to the other, with a hearty, military laugh, It’s like the monkey house at the zoo, all we need are some nuts to throw to them, that would be funny, watching the monkeys scrabbling for food. This implies that some of the guards have traveled, that they have visited a zoo, practiced the rules of summary observation and of expeditious classification, and if they say that the men of sorrow herded into the bullring in Montemor are monkeys, who are we to contradict them, especially when they are pointing their riffles in our direction, we say riffle to provide a sort of half rhyme with pistol, although piffle would be funnier, and there’s plenty of that about. The men talk to pass the time or to prevent it from passing, it’s a way of putting your hand on your heart and saying, Don’t go forward, don’t move, if you take another step, you’ll crush me, what did I ever do to you. It’s also like bending down, placing one hand on the earth and saying, Stop turning, I want to see the sun for a while longer. While all this is going on, this heaping of words one upon another, just to see if they come out differently, no one has noticed that the constable has entered the ring in search of a man, just one, who is not even a lion with a sickle and who has not even come very far, and that man, if he were given an exercise book in which to write down all he knows, as the four from Monte Lavre, Escoural, Safira and Torre da Gadanha will do the following day, that man would write on the first line or on every line, so that there could be no doubt and so that there could be no change of heart from one page to the next, as I say, if he were to write his name, he would write Germano Santos Vidigal.

They have found him. Two guards lead him away, and whichever way we turn, that is all we see, they lead him out of the ring, to the exit door from sector six, where two more guards join them, and now it seems deliberate, it’s uphill all the way, as if we were watching a film about the life of Christ, up there is Calvary, and these are the centurions in their stiff boots and warriorlike sweat, their spears cocked, it’s suffocatingly hot. Halt. A few men are coming down the road, and Corporal Tacabo, fearing that they might be José Gato and his gang, says, Keep walking, this man is under arrest. The passersby stay as far away as they can, pressed against the wall, they’re in no danger, it’s almost as if they were grateful for that order and for the information, and the cortege has only a hundred meters or so to go now. Up above, we can see her over the wall, a woman is hanging a sheet out on the line, it would be funny if that woman was called Verónica, but she isn’t, her name is Cesaltina and she’s not much of a one for churches. She sees the man pass by under guard, follows him with her eyes, she doesn’t recognize him, but she has a presentiment and presses her face to the damp sheet as if it were a shroud, and says to her son, who insists on playing outside in the sun, Let’s go indoors.