Raised from the Ground (32 page)

João Mau-Tempo will be here for twenty-four hours. He won’t have much opportunity to talk, although the following day, a prisoner will come up to him and say, Listen, friend, we don’t know why you’re here, but for your own sake, take my advice.

T
HIRTY DAYS IN SOLITARY
confinement is a month that doesn’t fit in any normal calendar. However carefully you make your calculations, there are always too many days, it’s an arithmetic invented by mad people, you start counting, one, two, three, twenty-seven, ninety-four, then find you’ve made a mistake, only six days have passed. No one interrogates him, they brought him from Caxias, this time during the day, so he at least knew where he was, although trying to see the world through those cracks was like trying to see it through the eye of a needle, and then he was ordered to undress, the nation does things like that, it happened to me once before, the doctors did it when I was called up, to decide whether or not I was good enough, well, I’m obviously good enough for these people, they’re not going to send me away, they empty my pockets, they rummage and search and ransack, they even remove the insoles in my shoes, these clever folk know where we stash our secrets, but they find nothing, of the two handkerchiefs I brought with me, they take one, of the two packs of cigarettes, they take one, farewell, knife, these police aren’t always so thorough, only now do they take my knife off me, what if I’d tried to kill myself. They read me the rubric, While in solitary confinement, you will not be allowed any visitors nor can you write to your family, and so on and so forth, otherwise, you will be punished. But one day, much later, he was given permission to write a letter, and back came some clean clothes, washed and ironed by Faustina herself and sprinkled with a few tears, for they’re a sentimental people whose fountains of tears have not as yet dried up.

On the twenty-fifth day, at three o’clock in the morning, João Mau-Tempo was, as usual, sleeping badly, and so he woke at once when the cell door opened and the guard said, Get dressed, Mau-Tempo, you’re leaving. What, you’re going to let me go, the imaginations of the wretched know no bounds, they always think the best or the worst, depending on their mood, that’s the attraction of extremes, let’s hope he’s not disappointed. He’s taken down to the ground floor, where there are people waiting, plus a fierce-looking hound, Here’s that good-for-nothing you’re taking for a walk, jokes the guard, they’re clearly obsessed with this idea of walks and trips and rides, we know exactly what they mean, they’re not fooling anyone, but they keep saying it, with a few minor variations, as if they didn’t know what else to say. The hound goes on ahead, To show you the way to brigade headquarters, that’s what the dog barks at João Mau-Tempo, and the guard from Aljube prison is such a card, just fancy, at this time of the morning and in these painful circumstances he can still manage to say, Have a good journey. Words were not presented to mankind as a gift, far from it, each word was hard won and occasionally abused, and there are some words that should only be sold at a high price, bearing in mind who is saying them and to what end, as in this case, Have a good journey, he says, when he knows full well that the journey will be far from good, animals are kinder to each other, for at least they don’t speak. But here is this hound leading me through the deserted streets, at least it’s a lovely night, although all I can see of it is this corridor of sky between the buildings, and to the left the cathedral and to the right another, smaller church, Santo António, and farther on the Madalena, neither small nor large, it’s a street of churches, I am under the protection of the heavenly host, and perhaps that’s why the hound speaks rather gently, Don’t tell anyone I told you, but things aren’t looking good, apparently a comrade of yours gave them your name, you’d best tell them everything you know, that’s the only way to get back to your family, you won’t gain anything by being stubborn. This street is called São Nicolau and the one over there São Francisco, and if I left some saint or other behind me along the way, you can have him, Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about, officer, I haven’t done anything wrong, I’ve been working ever since I was born, I don’t know anything about these things, I was arrested once but that was years ago, and I’ve had nothing to do with politics since, these are João Mau-Tempo’s words, some true, some false, and he won’t say anything else, that’s the good thing about words, they’re like a river flowing over rocks, it always does so in the same way, be careful not to stumble, the water flows so quickly it can dazzle you, watch out. The hound barks, João Mau-Tempo recognizes the place, this slope with the tram lines shining, Ah, so that’s it, well, just you wait, and the soft dawn is bruised by the bad words hurled at him, you this and you that, words barely known in the latifundio. And now João Mau-Tempo feels his strength leaving him, he’s been stuck in a cell for twenty-five days, scarcely moving, or only from cell to latrine and from latrine to cell, with his poor mind working overtime, tying up loose ends that immediately come undone again with more anxious thinking, not to mention the sleepless nights, and now there’s this walk, which seems so long and yet it’s nothing compared to the distances his legs used to cover on the latifundio, and suddenly he’s afraid he won’t make it, afraid he’ll tell all he knows as well as what he could never possibly know, but then he hears again the prisoner in Caxias, Listen, friend, we don’t know why you’re here, but for your own sake, take my advice, and he remembered this just in time, he covered the final meters as if in a dream, he’s through the door, going up the steps, up to the first floor again, there’s no one to be seen, a terrifying silence reigns, second floor, third floor, we’re here, João Mau-Tempo’s fate has been waiting for him, legs crossed, that’s the trouble with fates, they do nothing but wait, and we are the ones who have to do everything, for example, learn when to speak and when to keep silent.

The hound shoved João Mau-Tempo into a room and remained on guard outside. After a few minutes, the door burst open and in came a very spruce-looking gentleman, freshly shaved and smelling of cologne and brilliantine, he gestured to the other man to leave and immediately started shouting, Because of this bastard, this bloody communist, I can’t go to mass today, that really is what he said, although I doubt anyone will believe me, but it’s true, probably the influence of the ecclesiastical neighbors mentioned earlier while we were walking over from the Aljube prison, not to mention the Church of the Martyrs and the Square of the Two Churches, the Church of the Incarnation and that other one, now what the devil is it called, Father Agamedes would love it here, he’d be able to hear the confession of this Inspector Paveia, who is so upset about having missed mass you would think he’d have his own chaplain really, and now, to complete this edifying picture, imagine if João Mau-Tempo were to say, Oh, sir, please don’t miss mass on my account, if you like, I’ll go with you. We can’t believe our ears, and not even João Mau-Tempo knows why he said it, but we don’t have time now to examine these bold or spontaneous words, because Inspector Paveia doesn’t give us time to think, Bastard, faggot, swine, I’m sorry, Father Agamedes, but that’s exactly what he said, it’s not my fault, and, Shut up or it’s the trapeze for you, what circus arts these are João Mau-Tempo has no idea, but he sees Inspector Paveia go over to a desk, he’s rather ill named really, when you think that
paveia
means a sheaf of wheat of the kind I used to clutch to my chest, and he takes a pistol out of the drawer, along with a stick and a heavy ruler, He’s going to kill me, thought João Mau-Tempo, and the inspector said, See this, it’s for you if you don’t tell me the whole story, and be warned, you won’t leave here until you’ve told me everything you know, stay standing, don’t move, not so much as a finger, if you move, you’re in for it.

Every three hours, one man leaves and another enters. The victim doesn’t change his story, So what were you up to in your village, Working to earn enough money to feed my family, the first question and the first answer, the question is as predictable as the answer is true, and this man should be allowed to go free because he has told the truth, Do you mean working or do you mean distributing communist newspapers, you can’t fool us, you know, But I wasn’t involved in that kind of thing, sir, All right, so you weren’t distributing newspapers, you were taking it up the bum, you and your friends were taking it up the bum from the man in charge so that he would teach you the Moscow doctrine, isn’t that right, look, if you want to go back to Monte Lavre and see your children again, tell us the full story, don’t cover up for the buddies you held meetings with, think of your family, think of your own freedom. And João Mau-Tempo is thinking about his family and his freedom, but he remembers the story about the dog and the partridge told by Sigismundo Canastro, and says nothing, Go on, tell us the story, what is it you lot say, you bastards: Those thieves in government won’t give us what we want, so we’re going to get rid of them, we’re going to rebel against them and against Salazar’s laws, isn’t that what you say to each other, isn’t that what you intend doing, tell me the truth, commie, don’t cover up, if you tell us the whole story, you can leave for Monte Lavre tomorrow and see your children again, and João Mau-Tempo, thinking of the skeleton of the dog face to face with the partridge, says again, Sir, I’ve told you my story, I was arrested in nineteen forty-five, but since then I’ve never been involved in anything political, and if someone has told you otherwise, he’s lying. They hurled him against the wall, beat him, called him every name under the sun, and this they did over and over, without letup, but the victim still did not change his story.

João Mau-Tempo will stand there like a statue for seventy-two hours. His legs will swell up, he’ll feel dizzy, and every time his legs give way, he’ll be beaten with the ruler and the stick, not that hard, but enough to hurt. He didn’t cry, but he had tears in his eyes, his eyes swam with tears, even a stone would have taken pity on him. After a few hours, the swelling went down, but beneath his skin, his veins became as thick as fingers. His heart shifts position, it’s a thudding, deafening hammer echoing inside his head, and then finally his strength deserts him, he can no longer remain on his feet, his body droops without his realizing it, and he’s crouching now, he’s a poor farm laborer from the latifundio, squeezing out a final turd, the turd of cowardice, Get up, you swine, but João Mau-Tempo couldn’t get up, he wasn’t pretending, this was another of his truths. On the last night, he heard screams and moans coming from the room next door, then Inspector Paveia came in, accompanied by a large number of policemen, and when the screams started again, growing ever shriller, Paveia walked over to him with calculated slowness and said in a voice intended to terrify, So, Mau-Tempo, now that you’ve been to Monte Lavre and back, you can tell us your story. From the depths of his misery, his hunched body almost pressed against the floorboards, his eyes clouded, João Mau-Tempo answered, I have no story to tell, I’ve said all I have to say. It’s a modest sentence, it’s the skeleton of the dog after two years, a sentence barely worth recording compared to what others have said, From the top of those pyramids, forty centuries look down on you, I’d rather be queen for a day than duchess for a lifetime, Love one another, but Inspector Paveia’s blood is boiling, And what about the twenty-five newspapers you distributed in your village, if you deny it, I’ll kill you right now. And João Mau-Tempo thought, Life or death, and said nothing. Maybe Inspector Paveia was once again late for mass, or perhaps leaving his prisoner seventy-two hours on his feet was enough for the first round, but what he said was, Take the bastard back to Aljube and let him rest there, then bring him back here again to tell his story, otherwise he goes straight to the cemetery.

Two dragons approach, grab João Mau-Tempo by the arms and drag him down the stairs, from the third floor to the ground floor, and while they’re hauling him along, they say, Tell him your story, Mau-Tempo, it will be better for you and for your family, besides, if you don’t, the inspector will pack you off to Tarrafal,
^*
he knows everything, a friend of yours from Vendas Novas told him, all you have to do is confirm what he said. And João Mau-Tempo, who can barely stand, who feels his feet flopping from step to step as if they belonged to someone else, answers, If they want to kill me, let them, but I have nothing to tell. They bundled him into the police van, it was a short journey, there had been no earthquake, all the churches were still triumphantly standing, and when they reached Aljube and opened the door, Out you jump, he missed the step and fell, and again was dragged inside, his legs were slightly steadier now, but not much, and then they shoved him into a cell, which, either by chance or on purpose, was the one he had been in before. Almost fainting, he collapsed face-forward onto the rolled mattress, but although he felt as if he were in a dream, he had just enough strength to unroll and fall on top of it, and there he lay for forty-eight hours, as if dead. He is clothed and shod, a broken statue held together only by his internal wiring, a puppet from the latifundio who peers over the top of the curtain and makes faces while he dreams, his beard continues to grow, and from one corner of his mouth a trickle of saliva forges a slow path through the stubble and the sweat. During those two days, the guard will look in now and then to see if the cell’s occupant is alive or dead, the second time he looks in, he feels relieved, because the sleeper has, at least, changed position, but the guard knows the routine, whenever these men come back from playing statues, they always sleep like this, they don’t even need to eat, but now the prisoner has slept enough, he’s sleeping less profoundly, Wake up, your lunch is here on the shelf, and João Mau-Tempo sat up on the mattress, uncertain as to whether he had dreamed those words or not, because although no one else is in the cell, he can smell food, he feels a great and urgent hunger, but when he makes a first attempt to stand, his legs buckle and his eyes grow dim from the sheer effort, he tries again, it’s only two steps from there to the shelf, the worst thing is that he won’t be able to sit down to eat, because in prison you eat standing up so as to get the food down more quickly, and João Mau-Tempo, who had been small for his age as a child and never grew much taller, has to stand on tiptoe, a torment for someone in his weakened state, and if he drops any food on the floor, he knows he’ll be punished, he who gives the food gives the orders.