Raised from the Ground (46 page)

It is true, however, that the government has been overthrown. When the workers gather together in their barracks, their civil rather than military barracks, everyone knows much more than they had imagined, at least they now have a small radio, one that runs on batteries, screeching and whistling so loudly that, from a meter or so away, you can’t understand a word, but it doesn’t matter, you get the gist, and then the fever spreads, they’re all very excited, talking wildly, So what do we do now, these are the hesitations and anxieties of those waiting in the wings to go on stage, and although there are some who feel happy, others feel not sad exactly, rather, they don’t know quite what to think, and if that strikes you as odd, imagine yourself in the latifundio with no voices and no certainties, and then think again. A few more hours of the night passed, and things became clearer, well, that’s just a manner of speaking, because, put simply, they knew what had ended, but not what had begun. Then the neighbors who were keeping an eye on Maria Adelaide, the Geraldo family, husband, wife and daughter, an older girl, decided to go back to Monte Lavre the next day, you might say this was a whim of theirs were it not for the very sensible reason they give, namely, that they wanted to be at home, they might lose two or three days’ work but at least they’d have a better idea of what was going on, rather than being stuck here in the back of beyond, they asked Maria Adelaide if she wanted to go with them, she had, after all, been entrusted to their care, Your father will be glad to have you back, but this was said simply to say something, because all they knew of Manuel Espada was that he was a good man and a good worker, and as for any suspicions they might have about him, these were only of the kind that arise in all small villages, where people are always guessing at what they don’t know. Others had also decided to return to their villages, they would go and come straight back, so many of them, in fact, that the foreman had no choice but to let them, what else could he do. Unfortunately, in the midst of what seemed to be the best possible news, the radio suddenly lost its voice and became a catarrhal growl so low that you couldn’t make out a single word, why did the stupid thing have to pick today of all days to go wrong. For the rest of the night, the workers’ barracks was an island lost in the latifundio sea, surrounded by a country that did not want to go to bed, exchanging news and rumors, rumors and news, as tends to happen in these situations, until finally, having nothing more to hope for from the defunct machine, they went to their respective mats and tried their best to sleep.

Early the next morning, they set off for the nearest road, a good league from where they were working, praying to the celestial powers who rule over such things that the bus would come along with a few empty seats, and when it appeared, they saw that it had, with practice you can tell these things at once, from a quick head-count and from the driver’s oddly obliging air. This is the bus that goes to Vendas Novas, and only the Geraldo family and Maria Adelaide get on, the others from Monte Lavre have decided not to go, preferring to err on the side of caution or unwilling to commit themselves, or perhaps it’s that they need the money even more than their colleagues do. Those heading for other destinations remain by the side of the road, what happened to them, what fate, good or bad, awaited them, we will never know. There is little traffic, and so the journey passes quickly, and their more urgent anxieties are dissipated right there and then, for driver, conductor and passengers are all of one mind, the government has been overthrown, no more Tomás and no more Marcelo, but who’s in charge now, on that point the general harmony founders, nobody quite knows, someone mentions a junta but others weren’t so sure, what’s a junta, what kind of a name is junta for a government, there must be some mistake. The bus drives into Vendas Novas, and given the number of people in the street, you’d think it was a public holiday, the horn has to really open its lungs to make its way down the narrow street, and when we finally reach the main square, seeing the troops there with their martial air is enough to give a person goosepimples all over, and Maria Adelaide, who is young and has the dreams appropriate to someone of her age and condition, feels as if her legs had been cut from under her as she gazes out the window at the soldiers outside the barracks, at the cannons decorated with sprigs of eucalyptus, and the Geraldo family are saying to her, Aren’t you coming, it’s as if she had lived her entire life with her eyes closed and has only now opened them, first she has to understand the nature of light, and these are things that take much longer to explain than to feel, the proof being that when she reaches Monte Lavre and embraces her father, she will discover that she knows everything about his life, even though those things had only ever been spoken of obliquely, Where’s Pa gone, Oh, he had some business to deal with some way away, he won’t be back tonight, and when he did come home, there was no point asking him what that business was, first because daughters don’t interrogate their fathers, and second because when mysteries belong in the outside world, it’s best to leave them there. The narrator would like to recount events as they happened, but he can’t, for example, just a moment ago, Maria Adelaide was sitting glued to her seat on the bus, apparently feeling quite faint, and suddenly here she is standing in the square, having been the first to get off the bus, well, that’s youth for you. And although she is with the Geraldo family, she doesn’t live under their wing, she is free to cross the road and take a closer look at the soldiers and wave to them, and the soldiers see her, struggle briefly with the awkwardness of being men trained to respond with weapons and possibly answer for that response, then, having won that battle and thrown discipline to the winds, wave back, well, it isn’t every day you see such a pair of blue eyes.

Meanwhile, Geraldo Senior had found some transport to take them to Monte Lavre, a normally difficult enterprise, but today, ah, if only it was always like this, everyone is our friend, it’s only a small truck and a bit of a squeeze, but we can cope with a little discomfort, these people are accustomed to sleeping on a board, with a plow handle for a pillow, the driver will charge them only the price of the gas, if that, At least let us buy you a drink, All right, but only because I don’t want to be rude, and no one is surprised when Maria Adelaide bursts into tears, she will weep tonight as well when she hears a voice say over the radio, Viva Portugal, either then, or perhaps it was yesterday, when they first heard the news, or when she crossed the street to take a closer look at the soldiers, or when they waved to her, or when she embraced her father, she doesn’t know herself, but at that point she realizes that life has changed and says, I just wish Grandpa, but she can’t finish her sentence, gripped by the despair of knowing that she cannot bring him back.

We mustn’t think, though, that the whole of the latifundio is singing the praises of the revolution. Let us remember what the narrator said about this Mediterranean sea with its barracudas and other perils, as well as the occasional unctuous monkfish. The whole Lamberto Horques dynasty is gathered together, sitting at their respective round tables, with glum, scowling faces, the less furious members speak hesitantly, cautiously, if, nevertheless, yet, however, perhaps, this is what passes for the great unanimity of the latifundio, What do you think, Father Agamedes, this is a question that would normally never lack for an appropriate answer, but the prudence of the church is infinite, and Father Agamedes, though he is God’s humble servant sent to evangelize souls, knows a lot about the church and about prudence, Our kingdom is not of this world, render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s and unto God the things that are God’s, a sower went out to sow his seed, pay no attention, when confronted by such tricky questions, Father Agamedes does tend to go off on a tangent and speak in parables, to gain time until he receives his instructions from the bishop, still, you can always count on him to say something. One cannot, alas, count on Leandro Leandres, who died last year in his bed, having received the sacraments as he deserved, meanwhile, all over the country, his many successors, associates, brothers or superiors have, we learn, been arrested, those, that is, who did not flee, and in Lisbon, we hear, shots were exchanged before they surrendered, people died,
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what, I wonder, will happen to them now. There is little news of the national guard, except that it is keeping a low profile and awaiting orders, Corporal Tacabo went, shamefaced, to Norberto’s house to say just this, cringing as he did so, as if he were naked, and he left as he had arrived, with eyes downcast, struggling to find an appropriate face to wear as he walked through Monte Lavre, past these men who look at him and watch him from afar, not that he’s afraid, a corporal in the national guard is never afraid, but the air of the latifundio seems suddenly to have become unbreathable, as if a storm were brewing.

And then the talk turns to the first of May, a conversation that is repeated every year, but now it’s a vociferous public debate, with people recalling how only last year the celebrations had to be organized in secret, with the organizers constantly having to regroup, getting in touch with those in the know, encouraging the undecided, reassuring the fearful, and there are those who still can’t believe that the first of May will be celebrated as freely as the newspapers claim, the poor distrust charity. It’s not charity, declare Sigismundo Canastro and Manuel Espada, opening a newspaper from Lisbon, It says here that the first of May is to be openly celebrated as a national holiday, And what about the guards, insist those with good memories, They’ll have to watch us go strolling past them, who would think such a thing would ever happen, the guards standing silently by while we shout hooray for the first of May.

And since we always have to overlay what we are allowed with what we imagine, if not, we do not deserve the bread that we eat, people started saying that we should hang bedspreads out the windows and deck everything with flowers, as we do for religious processions, any moment now they’ll be sweeping the streets and whitewashing the houses, that’s how easy it is to climb the steps of contentment. This, however, is also how human dramas are created, well, it’s an exaggeration to call them dramas, but they are genuine quandaries, what if I have no bedspreads in my house and no garden full of carnations and roses, whose idea was that. Maria Adelaide partly shares this anxiety, but being young and optimistic, she tells her mother that they must do something, if they don’t have a bedspread, then a large white tablecloth will do, draped over the door, a flag of peace in the latifundio, any civilian passing by should, out of respect, doff his hat, and any guard or soldier stand at attention and salute in homage outside the door of Manuel Espada, a good worker and a good man. And don’t worry about flowers, Mother, I’ll go to the spring at Amieiro and pick some of the wild flowers that cover the valleys and hills in May, and I’ll bring back some orange blossoms too, that way our front door will be as finely decked out as any castle balcony, we won’t be seen to be inferior to anyone, because we are the equal of everyone.

Then Maria Adelaide went down to the spring, although why she chose that particular place she herself doesn’t know, after all, as she said, the hills and valleys are covered in flowers, she takes the path that leads between two hedges, and even there she had only to reach out her hand, but she doesn’t, these are ancient decisions that run in the blood, she wants flowers picked in this cool place, with its abundant bracken, and farther on, in an especially sunny spot, there are daisies, the very daisies whose name changed when António Mau-Tempo picked one for his niece, Maria Adelaide, on the day she was born. She has her arms full of greenery now, a constellation of suns with yellow hearts, now she will go back up the path, she will cut some orange blossoms from the branches overhanging the wall, but she feels a sudden strange pang, I don’t know quite what I feel, I’m not ill, I’ve never felt so well, so happy, perhaps it’s the smell of the ferns clasped to my chest, I do sweet violence to them and they to me. Maria Adelaide sat down on the low wall by the spring, as if she were waiting for someone. Her lap was full of flowers, but no one came.

They’re interesting, these stories of enchanted springs, with Moorish girls dancing in the moonlight and Christian girls left raped and weeping on the bracken, and all I can say is that anyone who doesn’t think so has clearly lost the key to his own heart. However, only a short time after April and May, the same harsh measures returned to the latifundio, not as applied by the guards or the PIDE, for the latter has been abolished and the former live shut up in their barracks, peering at the street through closed windows, or, if they must go out, they keep close to the houses, hoping not to be seen. The harsh measures are the usual ones, it makes one feel like turning back the pages and repeating the words we said previously, The wheat was ripe but no one was harvesting it, they weren’t allowed to, the fields have been abandoned, and when the men go to ask for work, they are told, There is no work, what kind of liberation is this, people are saying that the war in Africa is nearly over, and yet the war on the latifundio rages on. All that talk of change and hope, the soldiers leaving their barracks, the cannons decked with eucalyptus and scarlet carnations, call them red, madam, say red, because we can now, on the radio and the television they preach democracy and equality, and yet when I want work, there is none, tell me, what kind of revolution is this. The guards are lolling in the sun now, the way cats do when they’re sharpening their claws, the same people continue to dictate the laws of the latifundio so that the same people obey them, I, Manuel Espada, I, António Mau-Tempo, I, Sigismundo Canastro, I, José Medronho of the scarred face, I, Gracinda Espada and my daughter Maria Adelaide, who wept when she heard them say Viva Portugal, I, the man and the woman of this latifundio, heir to only the tools of my trade, if they’re not as spent and broken as I am, desolation has returned to the fields of the Alentejo, there will be more blood spilled.