Raised from the Ground (36 page)

These sheep have strayed. They are on land belonging to Berto and are heading for more land belonging to Berto, well, that’s a generalization and not entirely true, because while the lands do belong to Adalberto, en route the sheep will pass through Norberto’s lands, and as they pass, they graze, because sheep aren’t like a pack of dogs you can muzzle, and even if this were practicable and the sheep allowed it, the shepherd would never do it, it wouldn’t be worth the fuss, but one should perhaps add another hypothesis, in situations where the shepherd has no real excuse for traveling from one man’s property to another, he could claim to have become disoriented and to have crossed the boundary accidentally, for the real skill lies in taking advantage of those vague boundaries, making any such incursion seem purely accidental and putting on an air of wounded innocence if suspicions are aroused, Oh, I am sorry, I didn’t notice, I was just walking along with my flock and kept going straight, thinking I was still on my master’s land, that’s all, no offense intended. Those who are quicker on the uptake will be thinking, He’s lying, and they’re not far wrong, but something more subtle is at work here, and the first thing to ascertain would be this, in carrying out this highly irregular act, was the shepherd thinking more about his sheep’s bellies than about the interests of his master Berto. And this being noted, so that all eventualities will be covered, let us return to the story, to the six hundred sheep trotting briskly along, under the protection of the shepherd, his two assistants and his dogs, and let us city dwellers withdraw into the shade, it’s wonderful to see the sheep pouring down the hillside or across the plain, so peaceful, far from the insalubrious urban hubbub, from the disorderly tumult of the metropolis, Begin, O muses, begin your bucolic song, and we’re in luck, because the flock is coming over here, so we’ll be able to savor the episode right from the start, let’s just hope the dogs don’t bite us.

On that day, as chance would have it, Adalberto had set out in his car to go for a spin in the countryside to view his estate, sometimes a love of nature requires such outings, and although the car cannot plunge in among the foliage, down tracks and over fallow fields, it nonetheless gives him freedom enough to roam along these cart tracks, as long as his car has a good suspension and he keeps a light touch on the steering wheel and doesn’t attempt to drive too fast. Adalberto is alone, the better to enjoy the rural solitude and the birdsong, although the car engine does somewhat disturb both the peace and the music, but it’s all a matter of knowing how to combine ancient and modern, rather than clinging to past pleasures, the easy gait of the horse pulling the tilbury, and the straw hat in profile beneath the limber length of the whip, which now and then caresses the horse’s rump, which is all it takes for the horse to understand what you want. These are delights rarely encountered now, a horse costs a fortune and eats even when it isn’t working, the horse, needless to say, is a distinguished beast, with its somewhat feudal echoes, but times inevitably change, and not only is the car much cleaner, it impresses the populace and saves one from unnecessary familiarities, we haven’t got time for that.

Today, however, Adalberto is at peace, following the gentle curves of the road, his elbow nonchalantly leaning on the open window, since Lamberto died, all this land is mine, although, in fact, not all of Lamberto’s land went to him, because that would make another good story, the divisions and redivisions, the amalgamations and accretions, but we don’t have time right now, we should have started earlier, now Adalberto’s car appears among the trees, the sun glinting on its polished body and on the chrome, and suddenly he stops. He’s probably seen us, we’d better go a little farther down the hill, just to avoid any awkward questions, because I’m a peace-loving man and a respecter of other people’s property, and when we look back to see if a furious Adalberto is following hard on our heels, we see, with horror, that he is getting out of his car and staring, enraged, at the languid flock, which takes no notice of him, just as they took no notice of us, not even the dogs see him, intent as they are on sniffing out rabbits, and then, shaking his fist, he gets back in the car, turns around, jolting over the rough ground, and, as they say in novels, disappears in a cloud of dust. We, needless to say, have legged it already, something is about to happen, why did he storm off like that, after all, this is a flock of sheep, not a pride of lions, but only Adalberto knows why as he hurtles back to Monte Lavre in search of reinforcements, namely the guards, who, at this very moment, are dying of boredom at the barracks, but that’s what the latifundio is like, it’s either man the barricades or complete idleness, such is the fate of those who choose the military life, and the reason why their superiors put on maneuvers and exercises, otherwise, Corporal, it’s all or nothing.

Adalberto arrives at the entrance to the barracks in the aforesaid cloud of dust, and although his body is heavy with age and other excesses, he steps lightly in, it’s not a large space but it coped easily enough, as I’m sure you’ll recall, with all those orchestrated entrances and exits during that business over the thirty-three escudos, and when he leaves, he is not alone, he’s joined by Corporal Tacabo and by a private, and all three climb into Adalberto’s car, Holy Mother, where are those guards off to in such a hurry, the old ladies standing at their doors do not know, but we do, they are coming here where the flock is grazing, while the shepherd rests beneath a holm oak, and his assistants, with the help of the dogs, watch the sheep, it’s not a major operation but it’s not without its problems either, keeping such a large flock together, without too many gaps, after all, a sheep, too, needs a little breathing space, And what next, while we wait for Adalberto, there’s something I don’t quite understand, why this close relationship between the latifundio and the guards, You’re either very naïve or you haven’t been paying attention, how can you still be asking such questions at this stage in the story, or are you just play-acting, pretending that you don’t know, perhaps it’s a mere rhetorical device, the effective use of repetition, be that as it may, even a child knows that the guards are here to guard the latifundio, To guard it from what, it’s not going anywhere, From the risk of theft, looting and other such wickedness, because the ordinary people we’ve been talking about until now have bad blood, by which I mean that the wretches and their parents and grandparents and the parents of their grandparents have known nothing but hunger all their lives, how could they not covet another’s wealth, And is that wrong, It’s the worst sin there is, You’re kidding, Of course I am, but there are plenty of people who genuinely believe that this band of rustics want to steal their land, these sacred lands that go way back, and so the guards were posted here to maintain order, to suppress the slightest murmur of discontent, And do the guards like that, Oh, they do, the guards have their reward, a uniform, boots, a rifle, the authority to use and abuse, and the gratitude of the latifundio, let me give you one example, in payment for this extraordinary military operation, Corporal Tacabo will receive a few dozen liters of olive oil and a few cartloads of firewood, and while he may receive seventy of something, the mere guard will receive less because he’s lower down the ranks, but he’ll nonetheless receive some thirty or forty of whatever is on offer, because the latifundio is very reliable on that score, it always repays a favor, and the national guard is pretty easy to please, just imagine what must go on in Lisbon behind closed doors, How sad, Don’t start crying now, imagine coming back from a day spent clearing land and walking miles with a sack of kindling on your back, panting like a beast of burden, and the guards ambush you, rifles cocked, hands up, what have you got in that sack, and you say, I’ve been working in such-and-such a place, and they’ll check to see if you’re telling the truth, and if not, you’re in trouble, Personally, I’d rather be ambushed by José Gato, for at least he, Yes, José Gato would be preferable, but even worse would be to find, farther on, a whole cartload of six or seven hundred or a thousand kilos of firewood set aside for the guards, a gift from the latifundio in payment for their good and loyal service, They sell people very cheap, Whether they sell them cheap or dear doesn’t matter, the problem isn’t how much or how little.

This conversation went no further, what would be the point, although the narrator is free to say what he likes, that’s his privilege, but now Adalberto has arrived along with his army, he stops the car, the doors open, it’s an invasion, a landing, and from high up they wave to the shepherd, but he’s a lazybones, a native of these parts, seated he is and seated he remains, then, finally, he gets to his feet, making it quite clear what an effort this entails, and yells, What’s the problem, and Corporal Tacabo gives the order to charge, to attack, to release the bombs, take no notice of these warlike exaggerations, what do you expect, they have so few opportunities, by now, the shepherd has understood the situation, the same thing once happened to his father, laughter bubbles up inside him, the lines around his eyes betray him, it’s enough to make you split your sides, Do you have permission to be on this land, the question comes from Corporal Tacabo, who, as master of the law and the carbine, thunders, That’s a fine of five escudos per sheep, let’s see, six hundred sheep at five escudos each, six times five is thirty, add the zeros, why that’s three thousand escudos, that’s very expensive grazing, and the shepherd says, There must be some mistake, the sheep belong to the boss here and I’m on his land, What did you say, asks Corporal Tacabo foolishly, and the private with them gazes up at the skies, and Adalberto, backtracking, says, You mean this is mine, Yes, sir, I’m in charge of these sheep, and these sheep are yours, Go, beloved muses, my song is ended.

The troops returned to the barracks, the three men on the expedition said not a word, and when Adalberto arrived home, he issued orders about the olive oil, while Corporal Tacabo and the private put away their weapons, totting up how much they would earn and praying to Saint Michael the archangel for more such dangerous but profitable adventures. This is the kind of minor incident that occurs on the latifundio, but many pebbles go to make a wall and many grains make a harvest, What’s that noise, It’s an owl, any moment now the other owl will respond, Domingos, he’s the one nearest the nest.

J
UST BECAUSE
Sigismundo Canastro told that story about the dog Constante and the partridge doesn’t mean he has a monopoly on strange hunting tales. António Mau-Tempo has his own tales to tell, as well as those he has picked up from others, indeed, so many and so various are they that he could easily have told the aforementioned story, with Sigismundo Canastro chipping in to confirm its truth with the irrefutable proof that he had dreamed about it. To those surprised at the freedom with which people add to, subtract from and generally alter stories, we need only remind them of the vastness of the latifundio, of the way in which words are lost and found, whether mere days or centuries later, when you sit beneath a cork oak, for example, and listen in on the conversation between that tree and its neighbor, ancient, albeit somewhat confused stories, because cork oaks do get muddled as they grow older, but whose fault is that, ours perhaps, because we’ve never bothered to learn their language. Anyone who has ever got lost on the latifundio always ends up being able to distinguish between the landscape and the words it conceals, which is why we sometimes come across a man standing in the middle of the countryside, as if, as he was walking along, someone had suddenly grabbed his hand and said, now listen to this, he is sure to be hearing words, stories and ripostes, simply because he happened to be in the right place at the right time, when the air unleashed its story, whether it was the magnificent tale of Constante the dog or one about the proven curiosity of hares, as explained by António Mau-Tempo and backed up by all of Sigismundo Canastro’s dreams, unless there’s someone else here eager to tell us about his dreams.

First, find a good, flat stone, about a span high, and wide enough to cover half a sheet of newspaper. You can’t do it on a windy day, mind, because the wind will blow away the little pile of pepper that, among the tangle of headlines and the tiny italic and roman type, will form the trigger of this particular rifle. Now the hare, as everyone knows, is a curious creature, What, you mean even more than the cat, Oh, there’s no comparison, the cat isn’t interested in what’s going on in the world, he simply doesn’t care, whereas if a hare sees a newspaper lying on a path, he’ll immediately go over to find out the latest news, so much so that some hunters have come up with a game plan, they stand behind a hedge and, when the hare approaches to read the news, bang, they shoot him, the trouble is that the newspaper gets completely shredded by the lead shot and you have to buy yourself another one, some hunters have been seen with their cartridge belts stuffed with newspapers, it’s not right, But why the pepper, Ah, yes, the pepper, that’s the secret ingredient, but it’s essential to choose a windless day, because if you were to leave a newspaper on the path, the wind would catch it and send it flying, and the hare wouldn’t be interested, because he likes to read the news in peace, You don’t say, Oh, I could say much more on the subject if you have the time, anyway, once you’ve laid the trap, stone, newspaper and pepper, all you have to do is wait, and if you have to wait a long time, that’s because it’s not a good place for hares, it can happen, but don’t go complaining that you didn’t kill any hares, that’s entirely your fault, because when you know the area, it never fails, anyway, in a little while, up will hop the first hare, a nibble here, another nibble there, and suddenly its ears go up because it’s seen the newspaper, And what does he do then, Poor creature, he never learns, he’s so keen to get the latest news that he runs over to the newspaper and starts reading, he’s a really happy, contented hare, he doesn’t miss a line, but then he sniffs the pepper and sneezes, And what happens next, Exactly what would happen to you if you were him, he sneezes, hits his head on the stone and dies, And then, You just have to go and find him, or, if you like, go a few hours later and you’ll find a whole line of hares, one after the other, they’re so curious that they can’t see a newspaper without wanting to read it, Is that true, Ask anyone, even a babe in arms knows about these things.