The Violent Land (5 page)

Captain João Magalhães had them bring down Portuguese wine. The travelling salesman accepted some, but the colonel declined; the swaying of the boat upset his stomach.

“That's a devil of a wind. If I took any wine, I'd throw my guts up over the side of the ship.”

“Beer, then? A cognac?”

The colonel did not care for anything. João Magalhães was telling tall stories of his life in Rio, as an army captain and a rich business man as well.

“I own many houses—stocks and bonds, too.”

He rapidly made up a yarn of an inheritance that he had received from a millionaire aunt who had no children of her own. He spoke of the prominent politicians of the day, his friends—so he said—whom he called by their first names, and with whom he drank and gambled. He had retired from the army and was now travelling around, seeing the country. He had come from Rio Grande do Sul and expected to go as far as Amazonas. He believed in seeing Brazil first before visiting other lands; he was not one of those who, when they had made a little money, went to spend it with the French in Paris. The colonel approved of this; he thought it very patriotic; and then he wanted to know if it was true about the “French houses” in Rio, if they really did “everything,” or if that was just a lot of dirty talk. For he had heard there were women there who did things like that. João Magalhães confirmed the fact, and went on to elaborate, giving all the lurid details, being supported by the travelling salesman, who also wished to show that he knew all about such things (he had been in Rio once, and this trip was the most important event in his life). The colonel was delighted.

“But what's this you're telling me, captain? Why, that's downright filthy.”

With this, the captain proceeded to lay it on. He did not spend much time on these descriptions, however, but returned to the subject of the fortune that he possessed and the good connections that he had. Was there nothing he could do for the colonel in Rio? Was there, perhaps, some important politician with whom he could put in a word? If so, the colonel had but to let him know. That was what he was there for, to be of service to his friends. He only wished they had known each other before; they would have got along splendidly together, and he would have been only too happy to do anything he could. The colonel, as it happened, stood in need of nothing in Rio, but he was much obliged all the same.

At this moment Maneca Dantas passed. He was a heavy-set man, inclined to corpulence; his shirt was covered with perspiration and his hands were clammy. The colonel called him over and made the introductions.

“This is Colonel Maneca Dantas, a big landowner from down our way. He's got more money than he knows what to do with.”

João Magalhães rose; his manner was extremely courteous.

“Captain João Magalhães, military engineer, at your service.” Taking out one of his visiting-cards, he presented it to Colonel Maneca. Then he offered him a chair, pretending not to have heard the salesman's remark to Colonel Ferreirinha:

“A distinguished chap.”

“Well educated, you can see that.”

Colonel Maneca accepted some wine. He was not subject to seasickness.

“I'm as comfortable here as I would be in my bed at Auricidia. Auricidia is the name of my little plantation, captain. If you would care to spend a few days down there—that is, if you can put up with dried beef—”

Ferreirinha laughed derisively.

“Dried beef! Why, captain, at Auricidia every luncheon is a banquet and every dinner a baptismal feast. Dona Auricidia has some Negro women in her kitchen who can cook angelically,” and Colonel Ferreirinha ran his tongue over his lips like a gourmet, as if he could see before him the dishes he was describing. “They make a blood pudding that will give a Christian visions of paradise.”

Maneca Dantas smiled, vastly pleased with these eulogies of his cuisine.

“That's about all you get out of life, captain,” he explained. “You live down there in the wilderness, felling the timber so that you can plant cacao, slaving like any back-country clodhopper, dodging snake-bites and bullets fired from behind a tree—and if you don't eat well, what are you going to do? We don't have any big-town luxuries—no theatres, women, cafés, nothing of that sort. It's work day and night, cutting timber and planting cacao.”

Ferreirinha bore him out: “It's hard work, all right.”

“But there's a lot of money to be made,” put in the travelling salesman, wiping the wine from his lips.

Once again Maneca Dantas smiled.

“That's the truth,” he said, “there
is
money to be made. It's good land, captain, worth the labour that it takes. The yield is good, you raise a lot of cacao, and you get a good price for it. There's no complaint on that score. You always have enough to be able to offer a bite to your friends.”

“I'm going to be in that neighbourhood on the 16th,” the salesman said, “on my way to Sequeiro Grande; I'm spending the night there.”

“At your service,” said Maneca. “And you, captain—will you come along?”

João Magalhães said it was quite possible that he would. He was thinking of staying in the region for some little time. As a matter of fact, he wanted to see if it was worth his while to invest a little money in cacao land. He had heard of this country down in Rio and of the money that was to be made there, and he was tempted to invest a portion of his capital in cacao plantations. True, he likewise had no reason to complain; the greater part of his wealth was in Rio de Janeiro real estate and it gave him a good return; but he had a little left over in the bank, some dozens of contos, and he also had large holdings in government bonds. If it was worth while—

“Indeed it is worth your while, captain.” Maneca Dantas's tone was serious. “It is certainly worth while. Cacao is a new crop, but the land there is the best in the world for that purpose. Many experts have been down to look it over, and they are all agreed on that. There is no better land for cacao-raising. And the yield is all that anybody could ask; I wouldn't trade it for coffee, nor even for sugar-cane. The only thing is, the folks down our way are a rough and ready lot, but a gentleman of your courage shouldn't mind that. I am telling you, captain, in twenty years' time Ilhéos will be a great city, a capital; and all the little towns of today—they will be big cities, too. Cacao is gold, captain.”

Thus they went on talking, of the voyage and one thing and another. João Magalhães spoke of other places he had visited, of his journeys by rail and on great ocean liners. His prestige was growing moment by moment, and the circle of admirers was also increasing as story after story was told and the wine flowed freely. All the while, the captain was subtly endeavouring to steer the conversation to the subject of cards, and they ended by getting up a poker game. Colonel Totonho, proprietor of Riacho Seco, sat in, but the travelling salesman did not—the ante was too high for him, the game too fast. And so João and the three colonels made up the table, the others looking on.

“I don't know much about this game,” Maneca Dantas remarked as he took off his overcoat. Ferreirinha burst into another guffaw.

“Don't you believe that, captain. Maneca is a master hand at poker. I've never seen his match.”

Maneca now stuck his revolver in the pocket of his overcoat, so that it would not be in plain sight there in his belt; and João Magalhães pondered the question as to whether it might not be a good thing for him to lose at first and not display his abilities all at once. The bar-boy brought a deck.

“Joker wild?” Maneca inquired.

“As you like,” replied João Magalhães.

“Joker wild is not poker,” said Totonho, speaking for the first time. “Don't keep the joker, please.”

“Very well, my friend,” and Maneca tossed it in the discard.

Ferreirinha was banker, and each one bought five hundred milreis' worth of chips. João was studying Totonho attentively. The latter had a vacant eye and wore three rings on one of his hands. He was silent and sombre-looking. It would be well to give him the cards. The captain had made up his mind not to cheat, but to play fairly, even foolishly if possible, to lose a little something. That way he would have these fellows for another game which would pay a good deal better.

He held a pair of kings, and made his bet; Maneca Dantas raised him sixteen; Ferreirinha passed, Totonho stayed, and João “saw” the raise. Ferreirinha dealt the cards; Maneca drew two, Totonho one.

“It's up to you gentlemen,” said João.

Totonho threw down his cards; Maneca bet, but no one “saw” him, and he took the pot. He was bluffing and could not refrain from showing his hand.

“A three-wheeler,” he said. He held a king, a queen, and a jack and had drawn for a straight. João Magalhães laughed and slapped him on the back.

“Very good, colonel; that was very good.”

Totonho was eyeing him grimly, but said nothing. The captain proceeded to lose all he had to the other players. There was no doubt of it, he would make a fortune in the land of cacao.

Tired of watching the game, the travelling salesman went up on, deck, where Margot stood leaning over the rail, drenched in moonlight and lost in thought. The sea was dark green, and the last of the city's lights had long since disappeared. The boat was tossing, and nearly all the passengers had retired to their cabins or were lying stretched out on deck-chairs, wrapped in heavy blankets. In third-class the harmonica again was playing a languid air. The moon was in the centre of the heavens now, and a cold gust of wind blew in from the south, lifting Margot's blond locks. She grasped the rail as her hair floated on the breeze. When he saw that she was alone, the salesman whistled softly to himself and approached her gradually. He had no definite plan of action, no more than a vague hope in his heart.

“Good evening.”

Margot turned, putting up a hand to her hair.

“Good evening.”

“Turning cool, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.”

Once more she gazed at the sea, where the stars were reflected. Drawing a kerchief over her head to restrain her hair, she moved over to make room for the salesman at the rail. There was a prolonged silence. Margot appeared not to be aware of his presence, being lost in contemplation of the mystery of sea and sky. It was he who finally spoke.

“You are going to Ilhéos?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Going to stay down there?”

“I don't know. If I make out all right—”

“You were in Lisia's place, weren't you?”

“Uh-huh,” and she nodded her head.

“I saw you there, last Saturday. You were with Lawyer—”

“I know.” She turned back to gaze at the sea, as if she did not care to continue the conversation.

“Ilhéos is the land of money, big money. A kid as pretty as you ought to get herself a grove. There can't fail to be a colonel among the customers.”

She took her eyes away from the sea and looked hard at her companion. It was as if she were doubtful whether she ought to speak or not. Then she gazed back into the water without saying a word.

“Juca Badaró,” the salesman continued, “was talking to you a little while ago. Better be careful.”

“Who is he?”

“He's one of the rich men of the country—a brave one, too. The workers on his plantation are a hell-raising lot, they say. They are bullies and braggarts; they run over other people's land and kill folks right and left. He's the master of Sequeiro Grande.”

Margot was interested, and he went on.

“They say the whole family is brave, men and women alike, that even the women are killers. Want some advice? Don't get mixed up with him.”

Margot stuck out her lip disdainfully.

“And who told you that I was interested in him? He's just an old rooster who runs after every young pullet that he sees. I want nothing to do with him. I'm not out for money.”

The travelling salesman gave an incredulous smile and shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that her opinion mattered little to him.

“There was one young girl,” he said, “who was friendly with him, and Juca's wife had her done in.”

“But whatever put it in your head that it's any concern of mine? He can have as many women as he pleases; he's not going to have this one.” And she struck her hand to her bosom. Once again she seemed on the verge of speaking, and then apparently made up her mind.

“You saw me dancing with Virgilio, didn't you? Well, he's in Ilhéos, and I'm going to him.”

“That's right—I'd forgotten. He
is
down there, sure enough. Practising law—lad with a future, eh? They tell me Colonel Horacio sent for him to come down and take over the leadership of the party.” The salesman nodded his head as if convinced. “If that's how it is, I've nothing more to say. My only advice is: watch out for Juca Badaró.”

He walked away. It was not worth while talking to her, for a girl in love is worse than a virgin. But what would Juca Badaró have to say to it?

Margot undid the kerchief and let the wind lift her hair.

A shadowy figure glided up the stairs and, before setting foot in first-class, glanced around furtively to see if anyone was about. The man smoothed down his hair, adjusted the scarf that was tied about his throat. His hands were still swollen from the treatment he had received at the police station. The big ring with the false stone was no longer on his finger. The sergeant had said there was nothing to do but to crack the fellow's hands, so that they would not go into another person's pockets. Fernando climbed the last step and made for the side of the boat opposite where Margot was standing. Catching sight of a member of the crew, he went up to the rail, as if he were a first-class passenger taking the night air; after which he stole slowly over to the deck-chair where a man was snoring. His deft hands slipped under the blanket, under the overcoat, touched the cold steel of a revolver, and drew out from his victim's pocket a fat bill-fold. The man did not stir.

The thief returned to third-class. Tossing the bill-fold into the sea, he stuck the money into his own pocket. Then he tiptoed along among the sleeping passengers looking for someone. In one corner, stretched out as if he were lying on the ground, the old man who was going back to avenge his son's death was snoring away sonorously. Taking out a few of the banknotes, Fernando, with all the dexterity of which his hands were capable, crammed them into the old man's pocket. Holding his breath as he did so, he hid the remaining ones in the lining of his overcoat and then went over to the far-distant corner where Antonio Victor lay dreaming of Estancia and of Ivone's warm body beside him.