Raised from the Ground (39 page)

The second of the magi arrived when night had already fallen. He came straight from work to find no light on in the house, the fire out, and so no hope of a full stewpot, then his heart turned over and did so again when he met the same neighbor who told him, Your sister has had a little girl, your father and mother are there, because by now the whole of Monte Lavre knows that it’s a baby girl and is vastly amused to know she has blue eyes, but the neighbor says nothing about this last point, she’s a kind woman who believes that surprises have their time and place, why tell António Mau-Tempo, Your niece has blue eyes, she would then be denying him the pleasure of seeing this with his own brown eyes. The guards have returned to the barracks, no one is there to present arms to António Mau-Tempo, well, if you thought there would be, more fool you, but he is, nevertheless, a flesh-and-blood king walking down the street, as dirty as befits someone who has come straight from work, he hasn’t had time to wash, but he doesn’t forget his brotherly obligations and picks a daisy from a whitewashed can-cum-flowerpot beside a door, and so that it doesn’t wilt in his fingers, he puts it between his lips to water it with his saliva, and when he finally goes into the hut, he says, For you, sister, and gives her the marguerite, what could be more natural than for a flower to change its name, it happened earlier with the geranium and the pelargonium, and will happen again one day with the carnation.
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It’s just as well that António Mau-Tempo wasn’t expecting to see those blue eyes. The child is sleeping peacefully, her eyes are closed, her decision, and she will open them again only for the third wise man, but he will arrive much later, in the dead of night, because he is coming from far away and on foot, he’s made this same journey for the past three days or three nights, because for those who like to know the facts, Manuel Espada is now on his third night with little sleep, and he’s used to that, as all these people are, but perhaps we should explain. Because Manuel Espada works far from home, he usually sleeps there, in a shepherd’s hut or a cabin, it doesn’t really matter, but as the time of the birth drew nearer, what did Manuel Espada do, he stopped work at sunset, reached home after midnight, where his child was still nothing but a swollen belly, lay down for an hour or so beside Gracinda Mau-Tempo, then got up halfway between night and morning and went back to work, and this is the third such night, but third time lucky, for when he arrives, he will see his wife and his newborn child, isn’t that good.

Faustina, João and António Mau-Tempo killed a chicken to celebrate, and Gracinda Espada drank some of the broth, which is good for mothers who have just given birth, and meanwhile, more uncles and aunts and other relatives came and went, Gracinda needs to rest, at least today, bye, see you tomorrow, what a lovely little girl, the image of her grandfather. The church clock chimed midnight, and if no misfortune has befallen the traveler, if he has not slipped down a hill or into a ditch, if no impatient ne’er-do-well has broken the rule about not attacking someone as poor as himself, then it should not be long before this third wise man arrives, what gifts will he bring with him, we wonder, what cortege, perhaps he’ll be mounted on an Arab steed with hooves of gold and a bridle of silver and coral, perhaps, instead of some bearded scoundrel stepping out onto the road, he will meet his fairy godmother, who will say, Your daughter has been born, and because she has blue eyes, I give you this horse so that you can see her all the sooner, before life drains the color from those eyes, but even were that fairy godmother to intervene, which is, after all, pure fantasy, these paths are difficult, and even more so at night, the horse might tire or break a leg, and then Manuel Espada would have to make the journey on foot anyway, through the great, vast, starry night full of terrors and indecipherable murmurings, but the three kings still have the magical powers they learned in Ur and Babylon, how else explain the two fireflies that go ahead of Manuel Espada, he can’t get lost, he simply has to follow them as if they were the two sides of the path, how are such things possible, how can such creatures guide a man, they go up hill and down dale, they skirt ricefields and fly across plains, we can see the first houses in Monte Lavre now, and there the fireflies have alighted on top of the door frame, at head height, to light his way, glory be to man on earth, and Manuel Espada passes between them, a suitable guard of honor for someone who has just come from hours of hard labor to which he will have to return before sunrise.

Manuel Espada brings no gifts from near or far. He reaches out his hands, and each hand is a large flower, then he says, Gracinda, and can say no more, but kisses her on the cheek, just once, but what is it about that one kiss that brings a lump to our throat, and we’re not even family, if we did have something to say at this juncture, we wouldn’t be able to, and just when those gestures are being made and that word is being spoken, Maria Adelaide opens her eyes, as if she had been waiting for that moment, her first childish trick, and she sees a large shape and large open hands, it’s her father, she doesn’t yet understand what this means, as Manuel Espada well knows, so much so that he feels as if his heart were going to leap out of his chest, his hands are shaking, how can he pick up this child, his daughter, men are so useless, and then Gracinda Espada says, She looks like you, well, it’s possible, although at that age, only a few hours old, you can never tell, but João Mau-Tempo is quite right when he proclaims, But she has my eyes, and António Mau-Tempo says nothing, because he is merely the uncle, and poor deaf Faustina can only guess at what is being said, and says in turn, My love, quite why she doesn’t know, because, for reasons of modesty and reserve, these are not words normally used on the latifundio and in these situations.

Two hours later, and however much time he had spent there it would have seemed too short, Manuel Espada left the house, he is going to have to walk very fast to get to work before sunrise. The two waiting fireflies set off again, flying close to the ground now and shining so brightly that the ants’ sentinels shouted to their fellow ants inside the nest that the sun was coming up.

T
HE HISTORY OF THE
wheatfields is one that repeats itself with remarkable regularity, but it has its variants too. It’s not that sometimes the wheat is ready to be harvested later or earlier, that depends on whether there has been too much or too little rain, or on the sun, which can transgress by sending too much heat or not enough, nor is it that the seeds were sown on a steep slope or on low ground, in clayey or in sandy soil. The men of the latifundio have long been accustomed to the perversities of nature and to their own mistakes, and are unlikely to be thrown by such slight and inevitable occurrences. And although it is true that the aforementioned variants, individually and as a whole, deserve to be dealt with at greater length, unhurriedly, with time to go back and discuss perhaps a forgotten lump of soil, without having to worry about our listeners’ growing impatience, it is also true, alas, that such considerations are out of place when telling a story, even when it’s a story about the latifundio. Let us accept, then, that we must keep quiet about all these subtle differences and let us add to less serious defects the far graver one of pretending that everything remains the same in the wheatfields from one year to the next, and let us merely ask why this delay, why have the harvesters, human and mechanical, not yet entered the fields, when even we ignorant city dwellers can clearly see that the moment is here and is passing us by, that the dry whisper of the wheat in the wind is like the whisper of dragonfly wings, in short, let us ask what damage is being done here and to whom.

The history of the wheatfields repeats itself, with variants. In the present case, it isn’t because the men are kicking up their usual ruckus, demanding more money. Well, it’s the same cry every year at every season and about every job, It’s as if they don’t know how to say anything else, Father Agamedes, instead of worrying about the salvation of their immortal soul, if they have one, they care only about bodily comforts, they have learned nothing from the ascetics, no, all they think about is money, they never ask if there is any or if I can afford to pay. The church is a great source of consolation in these situations, it takes a tiny sip of wine from the chalice, just another drop, please, do not remove this cup from me, and raises remorseful eyes to the heavens from which it hopes one day to receive rewards for the latifundio, when the time comes, of course, but the later the better, Tell me, Father Agamedes, what do you make of these idlers going around cheering this general,
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it seems that these days one can trust nobody, I mean, a military man of all people, and he seemed so trustworthy, so well loved by the regime that made him, yet here he is, traveling around stirring up the populace, how did the government allow things to get this far. Father Agamedes has no answer to this question, his kingdom is not always of this world, and yet he has been a witness to and a personal victim of this great national terror, this hothead shouting wildly, I’ll sack him, I’ll sack him, and who was he referring to, why, Professor Salazar, of course, hardly the behavior of a candidate, a candidate should be polite at all times, but his behavior backfired on him in the end, and they say he’s on the run, and to think what a quiet life we had until now, before all this fuss, But between you and me, Father Agamedes, because no one’s listening, things could have been worse, it took a lot of skill not to let the situation get out of control, nonetheless, we must remain vigilant, and the first thing we should do is teach these idlers a lesson, which is why not a sheaf of wheat will be harvested this year, That’ll teach them, Senhor Norberto, Yes, that’ll teach them, Father Agamedes.

It’s not known where this spirit of didacticism came from, whether from Lisbon, Évora, Beja or Portalegre, or if it was used in a jocular mode at the club in Montemor or after too much cognac, or if Leandro Leandres brought it home with him from the house of dragons, but whatever its origin, it quickly spread throughout the latifundio, passing from Norberto to Gilberto, from Berto to Lamberto, from Alberto to Angilberto, and, once it had found general acceptance, the overseers were summoned and given their orders, Any harvesting already begun must stop, and don’t start work on any new fields. Some calamity must have occurred, perhaps the wheatfields have become leprous, and the latifundio has taken pity on its harvester-children and doesn’t want to see them disfigured, their fingers mere stubs, their legs stumps, their noses absences, their lives are unfortunate enough as it is. This bread is poisoned, at the end of each field place scarecrows with horrible gaping skulls for heads, that should put the fear of death into even the most resolute souls, and if that doesn’t scare them off, then call the guards, they’ll sort them out. And the overseer says, That won’t be necessary, no one is likely to go to the fields unless he’s sure to get paid, and certainly not if he’s going to get a bullet between the shoulder blades, but think of the loss of income. And Alberto says, Better cut the shoe than pinch the foot, it won’t ruin us to leave the wheat unharvested for a year. And the overseer says, They want more money, they say the price of food is going up and up and that they’re starving. And Sigisberto says, That’s nothing to do with me, we pay them what we want to pay them, food is expensive for us as well. And the overseer says, According to them, they’re going to get together to talk to the boss. And Norberto says, I don’t want any dogs following behind me, barking.

All over the latifundio one hears only the barking of dogs. They barked when, from the Minho to the Algarve, from the coast to the eastern border, the people rose up in the general’s name, and they were barking a new bark, which, in the language of ordinary folk, translated as, If you want better pay, vote Delgado on the day, this taste for rhymes goes back a long way, well, we are, after all, a nation of poets, and they barked so much that soon they were barking at people’s doors, it won’t be long, Father Agamedes, before they start profaning churches, that’s always the first thing they do, spitting in the face of the holy mother church, Please, Dona Clemência, don’t even talk about it, not that I’m afraid of martyrdom, but Our Lord will not allow a repetition of the kind of outrage that took place in Santiago do Escoural, where, can you imagine, they turned the church into a school, I didn’t see it with my own eyes, of course, it was before my time, but that’s what I’ve been told, It’s true, Father Agamedes, as true as we’re sitting here now, ah, the follies of the republic, which, God willing, will not be repeated, be careful when you leave, mind the dogs don’t bite you. When Father Agamedes peers around the door on the way out, he asks in a shrill, tremulous voice, Are the dogs under control, and someone replies dully, These ones are, but put like that, how do we know which dogs are loose and which not, but Father Agamedes feels certain that this information will ensure the safety of his delicate calves and steps out into the courtyard, where he finds, to his relief, that the dogs are indeed safely tethered, but when he goes out through the street door, he finds a crowd of people, not barking, all we need is for men to start barking, but if this murmuring doesn’t sound like a dog growling, I’ll eat my hat, and Father Agamedes doesn’t see the line of ants marching along the wall of the building, raising their heads like dogs, they’re quiet now, but whatever will become of us if the whole pack of them were to join forces.