Raised from the Ground (18 page)

There are two slogans, not to accept the daily rate of twenty-five escudos and not to work for less than thirty-three escudos a day, from morning to night, because that’s how it must be, fruits do not all ripen at the same time. If the wheatfields could speak, they would say in astonishment, What’s going on, aren’t they going to harvest us, someone isn’t doing his job. Pure imagination. The wheatfields are ripe and waiting, it’s getting late. Either the men come now or, when the season is over, the stems will break, the ears crumble, and all the grain will fall to the ground to feed the birds and a few insects, until, so that not everything is lost, they let the livestock into the fields, where they will live as if in the land of Cockaigne. That is pure imagination too. One side will have to give in, there is no record of the wheat ever being left to fall to the ground like that, or if it did, it was the exception that proved the rule. The latifundio orders foremen and overseers to stand firm, the language is warlike, No going back, the imperial guard will die rather than surrender, oh, if only they would die, but there are faint echoes here of bugle calls, or are they merely a nostalgia for battles lost. The guards are beginning to emerge from their cocoons, the corporals and sergeants appear at the windows of their barracks to sniff the air, some are oiling their rifles and giving their horses double rations from the emergency reserves. In the towns, men stand shoulder to shoulder, muttering. The overseers come to talk to them again, So, have you reached a decision, and they reply, We have, and we won’t work for less. In the distance, on this hot evening, a warm wind blows as if it came from the earth itself, and the hills continue to hold tight to the roots of those dry stalks. Hidden in the forest of the wheatfield, the partridges are listening hard. No sound of men passing, no roaring engine, no tremulous shaking of the ears of wheat as the sickle or the whirlwind of the harvester approach. What a strange world this is.

Saturday comes. The overseers have been to speak to the owners, They’re very determined, they said, and the owners of the latifundio, Norberto, Alberto, Dagoberto, replied in unison, each from his particular place in the landscape, Let them learn their lesson. In their houses, the men have just had supper, the little or nothing they dine on every day, the women are looking at them in silence, and some ask, What now, while some men shrug glumly and others say, They’re sure to come to their senses tomorrow, and there are those who have decided to accept what they are being offered, the same pay as last year. It’s true that from all sides comes news that many men are refusing to work for such a pittance, but what is a man to do if he has a wife and children, the little urchins who are all eyes and who stand, chin resting on the edge of the table, using one saliva-moistened fingertip to hunt breadcrumbs as if they were ants. Some of the luckier men, although they might not seem so to those who know little of such things, have found employment with a smallholder, a man who cannot risk losing his harvest and who has already agreed to pay them thirty-three escudos. The night will be a long one, as if it were winter already. Above the rooftops is the usual wasteful sprawl of stars, if only we could eat them, but they’re too far away, the ostentatious serenity of a heaven to which Father Agamedes keeps returning, he has no other topic, stating that, up above, all our hardships in this vale of tears will end and we will all stand equal before the Lord. Empty stomachs protest, grumbling away at nothing, proof of that inequality. Your wife beside you isn’t asleep, but you don’t feel like rolling over on top of her. Perhaps tomorrow the bosses will come to an agreement, perhaps we’ll find a pot full of gold coins buried at the back of the fireplace, perhaps the chicken will start laying golden eggs, or even silver would do, perhaps the poor will wake up rich and the rich poor. But we do not find such delights even in dreams.

Dearly beloved children, says Father Agamedes at mass, because it’s Sunday already, Dearly beloved children, and he pretends not to notice how sparse the congregation is and how ancient most of its members are, nothing but old ladies and altar boys, Dearly beloved children, and it’s only natural that the old ladies should be thinking vaguely that they long ago ceased to be children, but what can one do, the world belongs to men, Dearly beloved children, be very careful, the winds of revolution are blowing across our happy lands, and once more I say to you, pay them no heed, but why bother writing down the rest, we know Father Agamedes’s sermon by heart. The mass ends, the priest disrobes, it’s Sunday, that holiest of days, and lunch, blessings be upon it, will be served in the cool of Clariberto’s dining room, although Clariberto goes to mass only when he really wants to, which is rare, and the ladies are equally lazy, but Father Agamedes doesn’t take it to heart, if they should be overcome by devotion or overwhelmed by fears of the beyond, they have a chapel in the garden, with newly varnished saints, including a Saint Sebastian generously sprinkled with arrows, may God forgive me, but the saint does seem to be enjoying it rather more than virtue should allow, and Father Agamedes enters through the same door that the overseer Pompeu has just left, carrying in his ear the consoling message, Not a penny more, there’s nothing quite like a man with authority, be it on earth or in heaven.

A few men are hanging around outside, and although the labor market normally starts later on, some of them go to the overseer and ask, So what has the boss decided, and he replies, Not a penny more, well, why waste a nice turn of phrase or spoil it with redundant variations, and the men say, But some farmers are already paying thirty-three escudos, and Pompeu says, That’s their business, if they want to bankrupt themselves, good luck to them. This is when João Mau-Tempo opens his mouth, and the words come out as naturally as water flowing from a good spring, The wheat won’t get harvested then, because we’re not working for less. The overseer did not reply, because his lunch was waiting for him and he wasn’t in the mood for such unsettling conversations. And the sun beat down hard, glinting like a guard’s saber.

Those who could eat ate, and those who couldn’t starved. The labor market has begun now, all the rural workers from Monte Lavre are there, even those who have already been hired, but only the ones who are being paid thirty-three escudos, anyone who accepted the old rate is sitting at home, chewing on his own shame, getting annoyed with his children who can’t keep still and giving them a clip on the ear for no reason, and the wife, who is always the voice of justice in any punishment, protests, We’re the ones who bore them, besides, you shouldn’t hit an innocent child, but the men in the square are innocent too, they’re not asking for the moon, just thirty-three escudos for a day’s work, it’s hardly an outrageous amount, by which they mean that the boss isn’t going to lose out. This isn’t what Pompeu and the other overseers say, but perhaps he speaks more brusquely because of his Roman name, What you’re asking for is outrageous, you’ll be the ruin of agriculture. Various voices cry, Some farmers are already paying that, and the chorus of overseers replies, That’s their choice, but we’re not paying it. And so the haggling continues, retort and counter-retort, who will tire of it first, it’s hardly a dialogue worthy of setting down, but there is nothing else.

The sea beats on the shore, well, that’s one way of describing it, but not everyone would know what we meant, because there are many around here who have never been to the sea, the sea beats on the shore and if it meets a sandcastle in its path or a rickety fence, it will flatten both, if not at the first attempt, then at the second, and the sandcastle will have been razed to the ground and the fence reduced to a few planks being washed back and forth by the waves. It would be simpler to say that many men accepted the twenty-five escudos, and only a few dug in their heels and refused. And now that they are alone in the square, asking each other if it was worth it, and Sigismundo Canastro, who is one of those men, says, We mustn’t get discouraged, this isn’t happening only in Monte Lavre, if we win, then everyone will benefit. What makes him think this, when there are just twenty men unemployed. If only there were more of us, says João Mau-Tempo gloomily. And these twenty men seem about to go their separate ways, with nowhere to head but home, which is not a good place to be today. Sigismundo Canastro tells them his idea, Tomorrow, let’s go together to the fields and ask our comrades not to work, tell them that everywhere people are fighting for their thirty-three escudos, we in Monte Lavre can’t be seen to weaken, we’re as brave as they are, and if the whole district refused to work, the bosses would have to give in. Someone in the group asks, What’s happening in those other places then, and someone answers, either Sigismundo Canastro or Manuel Espada or someone else, it doesn’t matter, It’s the same in Beja, in Santarém, in Portalegre, in Setúbal, this isn’t just one man’s idea, either we all work together or we’re lost. João Mau-Tempo, who is one of the older men present and therefore has a greater responsibility, stares into the distance as if he were gazing inside himself, judging his own strength, and then he says, We should do as Sigismundo says. From where they are standing, they can see the guards’ barracks. Corporal Tacabo appeared at the door to enjoy the cool of the evening, and it was doubtless purely by chance that the first bat also appeared at the same moment, cutting smoothly through the air. It’s a strange animal, almost blind, like a rat with wings, and it flies as fast as lightning and never bumps into anything or anyone.

A scorching June morning. Twenty-two men left Monte Lavre, separately, so as not to attract the guards’ attention, and met up on the riverbank, just beyond Ponte Cava, among the reeds. They discussed whether they should set off together and decided that, since there were so few of them, it would be best not to break up the group. They would have to walk farther and more quickly, but if things went well, they would soon find others to join them. They drew up an itinerary, first Pedra Grande, then Pendão das Mulheres, followed by Casalinho, Carriça, Monte da Fogueira and Cabeço do Desgarro. They would see how they felt after that, assuming there was sufficient time and enough people to send to other places. They crossed at the ford, where the water formed a sort of natural harbor, and they were like a band of boys, wearing very serious smiles, or playful recruits with few weapons, taking off their shoes and putting them on again, with someone saying, as a joke of course, that he’d rather spend the day swimming. It’s three kilometers to Pedra Grande, along a bad road, then another four to Pendão das Mulheres, three to Casalinho, and beyond that, it’s best not to count, otherwise people might give up before they take the first step. Off they go then, the apostles, they could certainly do with a miracle of the fishes, preferably grilled over hot coals, with a drizzle of olive oil and a pinch of salt, right here underneath this holm oak, if duty were not calling to us so softly that it’s hard to know whether it’s coming from inside us or from outside, if it’s pushing us from behind or is there up ahead, opening its arms to us like Christ, how amazing, it’s the first comrade to leave the fields of his own free will, without waiting for someone to give him a reason, and now they are twenty-three, a veritable multitude. Pedra Grande comes into sight, and the fields lie before us, they’ve nearly cleared them already, as if they were working out their rage, who is this talking to them, it’s Sigismundo Canastro, who knows more than the others, Comrades, don’t be deceived, we workers must remain united, we don’t want to be exploited, what we are asking for wouldn’t even pay for a filling in one of the boss’s teeth. Manuel Espada steps forward, We cannot be shown to be weaker than our comrades in other towns, who are also demanding a fairer wage. Then a Carlos, a Manuel, an Afonso, a Damião, a Custódio, a Diogo and a Filipe speak, all saying the same thing, repeating the words they have just heard, repeating them because they have not yet had time to invent their own, and now it’s João Mau-Tempo’s turn, My only regret is that my son António isn’t here, but I hope that wherever he is, he will be saying the same things his father is saying, let us join together to demand a decent wage, because it’s high time we spoke out about the value of the work we do, it can’t always be the bosses who decide what they should pay us. Appetite comes with eating, and the ability to talk comes with talking. The foremen arrive, gesticulating, they look like scarecrows frightening off sparrows, Get out of here, if these people want to work, let them, you’re nothing but troublemakers, you lot, you deserve a good thrashing. But the workers have stopped, they have set down the sheaves, men and women are coming toward them, dark with dust, too baked dry with heat even to sweat. Work has stopped, the two groups join together, Tell the boss that if he wants us here tomorrow, all he has to do is pay us thirty-three escudos a day. Christ’s age when he died, says one joker who knows about religious matters. There may have been no multiplying of the fishes, but there was a multiplying of men. They split into two groups and divided up the itinerary, with some going to Pendão das Mulheres and others to Casalinho, and they will meet back here on this hill to divide up again.

In heaven, the angels are leaning on the windowsills or over that long balcony with the silver balustrade that runs right around the horizon, you can see it perfectly on a clear day, and they are pointing and calling mischievously to each other, well, it’s their age, and one angel higher up the scale runs off to summon a few saints formerly linked with agriculture and livestock, so that they can see what’s going on in the latifundio, such upheavals, dark knots of people walking along the roads, where there are roads, or along the almost invisible tracks across the fields, taking shortcuts, in single file, around the edges of the wheatfields, like a string of black ants. The angels haven’t enjoyed themselves so much in ages, the saints are giving gentle lectures about plants and animals, although their memory isn’t what it used to be, but still they expound on how to grow wheat and bake bread, and how you can eat every bit of a pig, and how if you want to know about your own body, just cut open a pig, because they’re just the same as us. This statement is both daring and heretical, it brings into question the whole of the Creator’s thinking, had he run out of ideas when it came to creating man and so simply copied the pig, well, if enough people say so, it must be true.