The Violent Land (30 page)

In a way, he could not but feel that Juca was right. Had Margot been his own mistress, he would not have liked seeing her dance with a man who formerly had kept her. For much less than that he had kicked up a rumpus in a café in Bahia a few years before. He felt that he could even afford to overlook Juca's parting insult; after all, the colonel had simply been jealous and hot-headed. Virgilio was glad that Maneca Dantas had forced him to sit down when he himself was about to do something rash and get into a quarrel over Margot. He would not even snub Juca if the latter should speak to him in the street; he was not angry with him; he understood perfectly how it had happened. The thing was that he was not interested in quarrelling with anyone for Margot's sake.

But from mouth to mouth the tale grew with the telling. Some said that Juca had snatched Margot from Virgilio's arms and had struck the lawyer in the face, while others had a more dramatic version. According to the latter account, Juca had come upon Margot kissing Virgilio and had drawn his revolver. Virgilio, however, had not given him time to fire, but had grappled with him and they had struggled for possession of the girl. This version was the generally accepted one, but even those who had witnessed the incident became involved in glaring contradictions as they narrated it. According to some, Juca had left the café to keep Margot from dancing with Virgilio again and as he passed the table had begged the attorney's pardon. But the majority held to the contrary: that Juca had invited Virgilio to start something and the lawyer had shown himself to be a coward.

Despite the fact that he knew that the most unimportant happenings were magnified in Ilhéos, Virgilio was astonished at the seriousness with which Horacio viewed the thing. The colonel the following day sent him an invitation to come to dinner, and he was delighted to accept, since it meant an excuse for going to the house and thus being near Ester for a moment, feeling her presence, hearing her beloved voice. Arriving shortly before the dinner hour, he met Maneca Dantas at the door, for his companion of the evening had also been invited. Maneca embraced him, and Horacio did the same as the pair entered the house. It seemed to Virgilio that the other men were both very grave, and he imagined that something new must have happened in the neighbourhood of Sequeiro Grande. He was about to ask what the news was when the maid came in to announce that dinner was served, Virgilio at once forgot everything—he would be seeing Ester now. But she, to his surprise, greeted him coldly; and he noticed that her eyes showed the trace of recent tears. The first thing that occurred to him was that Horacio must know something about himself and Ester, and that the dinner was merely a subterfuge. Once more he looked at Ester, and then he realized that she was not merely sad, but offended; she was vexed with him. But Colonel Horacio was amiable enough, more so than usual. No, he was certain, it had nothing to do with Ester and himself. What the devil could it be, then?

Horacio and Maneca practically monopolized the conversation at the dinner table. Virgilio, meanwhile, could not help recalling another dinner, at the plantation, when he had met Ester for the first time. Only a few months had passed, and she was his; he knew all the secrets of that loved body; he had taken her for his own and had taught her all of love's sweetest mysteries. She was his woman. All he could think of was taking her far away from this land of bloody frays and sudden death, to Rio de Janeiro, where they would have a home of their own and live their own life. And it was not merely a dream. Virgilio was only waiting until he should have made enough money—waiting, too, for a reply from a friend in Rio who was endeavouring to procure him a place in some law office or a good job in the public service. He and Ester alone knew of this secret; they had talked it all over between kisses, in the huge bed that took up almost the entire room. They had dreamed of the day when they would belong to each other wholly, without their love, as at present, being tinged by the fear that the servants might suspect that he was in the house. They had dreamed of the time when they would go down the street together, her arm in his, or hand in hand, each belonging to the other forever. While Maneca Dantas and Horacio were talking about the crops, the price of cacao, the rainfall, the amount of soft cacao they had lost, Virgilio was recalling those moments in the bed, amid caresses, in which they had planned their flight to the last small detail, ending always with joyous, lingering kisses that kindled their flesh for love, until the dawn came to expel him and, with furtive steps, he would leave Horacio's house.

These reflections were broken off when, taking advantage of a momentary lull in the conversation between Horacio and Maneca Dantas, Ester spoke:

“They tell me that you were playing the knight errant last evening, Dr. Virgilio.” She smiled, but her face was sad.

“I?” said Virgilio, his fork in the air.

“Ester is referring to the row in the café last night,” Horacio explained. “I heard of it, too.”

“But,” replied Virgilio, “there was no row.” He then went on to explain what had happened. He had had a bad case of the blues the evening before; he was restless for some reason—here he glanced at Ester—and, happening to meet Colonel Maneca, had invited him to the café for a drink.

“You mean you dragged me, doctor. Tell the story straight.” And Maneca Dantas laughed.

Well, they had gone to the café and were having a whisky, that was all, when Manuel de Oliveira came over to speak to them. At the table with him was a woman whom Virgilio had known in Bahia, in his student days. They danced a waltz together, and just as he was applauding for an encore, Juca Badaró had appeared and carried the woman off. He was not in the least interested in her, and the whole affair would have been of no importance whatsoever if Juca in passing had not made an insulting remark to him. Colonel Maneca Dantas had prevented him from avenging the insult, and he was grateful to the colonel, since otherwise he would have made a fool of himself over a creature who meant absolutely nothing to him. That was all there was to it—he called upon Maneca Dantas to bear him witness. But Ester was indifferent to explanations.

“What difference does it make, anyhow?” she said. “The café is the place where one would expect to find a young bachelor with no family ties. You have a perfect right to amuse yourself, and no one should reproach you for it. But our friend, Maneca here—that is a different story,” and she pointed a threatening finger at the colonel. “He has a wife and children. I think I shall have to tell her about it, eh?” Her smile was a joyless one.

Laughing heartily, Maneca begged her not to say anything to Dona Auricidia. “She's terribly jealous.” Horacio then closed the discussion. “That will be enough, my dear. Everybody has a right to amuse himself one way or another, to forget his troubles.”

Virgilio was more at ease, for he now knew the cause of Ester's vexation, that forced air of indifference, that trace of tears. What gossip might she not have heard, coming from those incredible old maids of the city, those pious old ladies with nothing to do but pry into other people's lives? How he would love to take her in his arms and explain to her, amid a thousand caresses, that Margot meant nothing at all to him, that it was purely by accident that he had danced with her! A great feeling of tenderness came over him, and at the same time one that had in it a little of vanity, at knowing that she was sad because of jealousy. The maid was serving the coffee.

Horacio now invited Virgilio to step into his study, as there was something he wished to talk over with him. Maneca Dantas came also, and Ester remained behind with her crocheting. The study was a small room, the big iron safe being the most conspicuous piece of furniture. Virgilio sat down and Maneca took the armchair: “It's more my size.” Horacio remained standing, rolling a straw
cigarro
. Virgilio waited, thinking the matter must have to do with some legal point in connection with the suit on which Horacio wanted his opinion. The colonel went on making his cigarette, rolling the tobacco slowly in his calloused hand and scraping the millet straw with a penknife. At last he spoke.

“I like the way you explained that to Ester,” he said. “She would have been worried about it otherwise, for she thinks a lot of you, doctor. The poor girl has almost no one to talk to, for she is much better educated than the other women here. She likes to talk to you, doctor; you both speak the same language.”

Virgilio dropped his gaze, and Horacio went on, after lighting the cigarette, which he had finished making.

“But that business last night, doctor, was a nasty affair. Do you know, sir, what Juca Badaró is going around saying?”

“I don't know, and, to tell you the truth, colonel, I'm not interested. I realize that the Badarós have no reason for liking me. I am your attorney, sir, and, what is more, attorney for the party as well. It is natural that they should speak ill of me.”

Horacio put his foot on a chair; he was standing almost alongside Virgilio.

“It is your affair, of course, doctor. I don't like to meddle in the lives of others. Not even when the other person is a friend of mine, as you are.”

“But what is it all about, anyway?” Virgilio wanted to know.

“Don't you realize, doctor, that unless you do something about this, no one will ever again—you will pardon me for saying so—take you seriously in these parts?”

“But why?”

“Juca Badaró is going around telling God and everybody that he snatched a woman out of your arms, that he insulted you, and that you, sir, did nothing about it. He is saying—you will pardon me for repeating it—that you are a coward, sir.”

Virgilio turned pale, but controlled himself.

“Anyone who saw what happened,” he said, “knows that is not so. I had already had my dance and was waiting for an encore. Even so, when he took Margot by the arm, I was about to interfere, but she asked me not to do so. And afterwards, when he made that insulting remark, it was Colonel Maneca who held me back.”

Maneca Dantas now put in a word for the first time.

“It's plain enough, doctor. If I had let you raise your hand at that moment, we would all be attending your funeral; for Juca already had his hand on his revolver, and no one around here wants to see you killed, sir.”

“Doctor,” said Horacio. “I've been in this country ever since I was a lad—that was a good many years ago—and I don't know anyone who's better acquainted with Ilhéos than I am. Our friend here is right: no one wants to see you killed, sir, above all myself, for I have need of your services. But neither do I want you to be disgraced around here, with the reputation of a coward. That is why I am talking to you like this.”

He stopped as if he had just made a long speech. Lighting another match, he stood holding it in his hand as he looked straight at the attorney, as if waiting for him to speak.

“And what do you think I ought to do, sir?” Virgilio asked.

The match had burned his finger, and Horacio tossed it to the floor; his cigarette remained unlighted, a small object clinging to his big lip.

“I have a
cabra
here,” he said, “a fellow you can trust. On Thursday Juca Badaró will be going up to the plantation, so I'm informed. For fifty milreis, sir, you can have the matter taken care of.”

“How?” Virgilio did not quite understand.

“For fifty milreis,” Maneca Dantas explained, “the man will do the job. On Thursday he will wait for Juca along the highway, and there's not a saint in the calendar will be able to save him.”

“And,” said Horacio, encouragingly, “there is not the slightest risk, for the Badarós will say that it was I who sent the fellow. If there are any legal proceedings, it will be against me. But don't let that worry you.”

Virgilio rose from his chair.

“But, colonel, that's not courage, sending out a
jagunço
to kill a man in cold blood. That's not what I call courage. Now, if it were a matter of my meeting Juca in the street and punching him in the face, that would be something else. But sending out a
cabra
to shoot him—no, I certainly don't call that courage.”

“Well, that's the way it is, doctor. And if you expect to make a career down here, you'd better let me call the man. Otherwise there is nothing to be done. You may be the best lawyer in the world, but no one would employ you.”

“Not even the party,” said Maneca Dantas.

Virgilio dropped back into his seat. He was thinking. This was something he had not looked for. He knew that Horacio was right. In this country, sending out to kill was an act of courage; it made a man respectable. He knew very well there was no plot here. If there should be any trouble with the law, the blame would be on Horacio. But still he could see no good reason for his having Juca Badaró assassinated.

“Let me tell you one thing, doctor, for I'm a friend of yours.” It was Horacio speaking. “In any case, I am going to have Juca Badaró put out of the way. I had already made up my mind to this. He has killed four of my men”—he corrected himself—“that is to say, his men did it; but down here it's the same as if he had done it himself. He set fire to Firmo's plantation and attacked Braz's home. And that's not all he's done. It's better to put him out of the way once and for all. Next week I'm going to begin felling the forest, and Juca Badaró is not going to be there to watch me.”

He paused, once again struck a match, and puffed on his cigarette. He looked hard at Virgilio, and his voice was laden with meaning:

“I am merely trying to do you a favour, sir. All you have to do is to give the order to the man, and everybody will know, even though I take the blame, that it was you who sent him to dispose of Juca Badaró. After that no one will bother you, sir, nor any woman of yours. They will respect you.”

Maneca Dantas slapped Virgilio on the shoulder; to him it was the simplest thing in the world. “It doesn't cost you anything to say four or five words.” And Horacio concluded: “You know, doctor, I like an educated man, but in this country nobody can get along on education alone.”