Raised from the Ground (25 page)

The parents cannot do everything. They bring their children into the world, do for them the little they know how to do and hope for the best, believing that if they’re very careful, or even when they’re not, for fathers often deceive themselves and think they have been attentive when they haven’t, no son of theirs will become a vagabond, no daughter of theirs will be dishonored, no drop of their blood poisoned. When António Mau-Tempo spends time in Monte Lavre, João Mau-Tempo forgets that he is his father and older than him and starts dogging his footsteps, as if he wanted to find out the truth behind those absences, as far away as Coruche, Sado, Samora Correia, Infantado and even the far side of the Tejo river, and the true stories he hears from his son’s mouth both confirm and confuse the legend of José Gato, well, legend is perhaps an exaggeration, because José Gato is nothing but an inglorious braggart, he allowed us to be driven from Monte Lavre to prison, the stories are important more because they involve António Mau-Tempo, who either was there himself or heard about it later, than because they are picturesque facts that contribute to the history of minor rural crimes. And João Mau-Tempo sometimes has a thought that he cannot really put into words, but which, from the glimpse we’ve had of it, seems to say that if we’re talking about good examples, perhaps that of José Gato is not so very bad, even if he is a thief and doesn’t turn up when he’s needed. One day, António Mau-Tempo will say, In my life I’ve had a teacher and an explainer, but now I’ve gone back to the beginning to learn everything over again. If you need an explanation, let’s say that his father was the teacher, José Gato the explainer and that what António Mau-Tempo is learning now he will not be learning alone.

This Mau-Tempo family learn their lessons well. By the time Gracinda Mau-Tempo marries, she will know how to read. This formed part of her engagement, a reading primer by João de Deus,
^*
with the words in black and gray so that you could distinguish the syllables, but it’s not natural that such refinements should take root in memories born to remember other things, she just has to continue hesitantly reading and pausing between the words, waiting for her brain to light up her understanding, It’s not
acega,
Gracinda, it’s
acelga.
^†
Manuel Espada is now allowed into the house, if it wasn’t for the primer he would still be lingering on the threshold, but it seemed wrong that they should sit outside learning to read where other people could see them, and besides, their relationship is clearly a serious one, Manuel Espada’s a good lad, Faustina would say, and João Mau-Tempo watched his future son-in-law and saw him walking from Montemor to Monte Lavre, scorning cars and carts so as to stay true to his beliefs and not be in debt to the very people who had refused him his daily bread. That, too, was a lesson, and João Mau-Tempo took it as such, although Sigismundo Canastro had said, What Manuel Espada did was good, but that doesn’t mean we acted wrongly either, he gained nothing by walking, and we lost nothing by traveling back in the cart, one has to act according to one’s conscience. And Sigismundo Canastro, who had a mischievous, albeit rather toothless smile, added, And of course he’s still a young man, whereas our legs are getting old and heavy. That may well be, but even if there were thirty-three other reasons why Gracinda’s parents should welcome Manuel Espada’s courtship of their daughter, the very first, if João Mau-Tempo were ever to confess as much to himself, would be those twenty kilometers, Manuel Espada’s out-and-out rejection of help, his affirmation of himself as a man during the almost four hours it took him to walk, with the sun beating down and his boots pounding the tarmacadam road, it was as if he were carrying a large flag that would not submit to being carried in the cars and carts owned by the latifundio. In this way, and as has always happened since the world began, the old learn from the young.

M
AY IS THE MONTH
of flowers. Let the poet go on his way in search of the daisies he has heard of, and if he doesn’t come up with an ode or a sonnet, he’ll produce a quatrain, which is much more to the common taste. The sun hasn’t reached the crazy temperatures it does in July and August, there is even a cool breeze, and wherever you look, from this high vantage point, which would once have served as a lookout post, everything is green fields, no spectacle can more easily soften souls, only someone very hard of heart would not feel a tremor of joy. Over there, the thick growth of bushes resembles a garden lacking both irrigation and a gardener, these are plants that have had to learn by themselves how best to adapt to nature, to the brute stone that resists their roots, and perhaps for that very reason, because of the stubborn energy expended in these places that men avoid, here where the struggle is between vegetable and mineral, the scents are so penetrating, and when the sun blazes down upon the hillside, all the perfumes open and might lull us to sleep forever, we might perhaps die with our face to the earth, while the ants, raising their heads like dogs, advance, protected by gas masks, for this is their home as well.

These are easy poems to write. The odd thing is that there are no men to be seen. The fields grow green and lush, the undergrowth is steeped in peace and perfume, but a second look tells us that the wheat has lost its first tender freshness, there are tiny dabs of yellow in that vast space, barely noticeable, and the men, where are the men in this happy landscape, perhaps they are not, in fact, the serfs of this glebe, tethered to a stake like goats so that they can eat only what is within reach. There are long periods of idleness while the wheat grows, man has sown the seed in the earth, and if the year is favorable, then lie down and sleep, and call me when it’s harvest time. It’s hard to understand that this May of flowers is actually a sullen month, we don’t mean the weather, which is lovely and seems set fair, but these faces and eyes, this mouth, this frown, There’s no work, they say, and if nature sings, good luck to her, we’re not in the mood for singing.

Let’s go for a walk in the country, up into the hills, on the way the sun glints on this one stone, and we, who are suckers for happiness, say, It’s gold, as if all that glittered were gold. We see no men working and immediately declare, What an easy life, the wheat is growing and the workers are resting. However, the truth is rather different. The winter passes, as we have described, in grand banquets and feasts of thistles, dockweed and watercress, with a little fried onion, a few grains of rice and a crust of bread, taking the food from our own mouths so that our children don’t go hungry, we shouldn’t really need to repeat this, you’ll think we’re boasting about the sacrifices we make, the very idea, it was the same for our parents and for their parents, and for the parents of those parents, in the days of Senhor Lamberto and before, as far back as anyone can remember, the winter passed, and while some died of starvation, there are plenty of other ways of describing the cause of death, names that are far less offensive to modesty and decency. It’s mid-January, men are needed to prune the trees, whether for Dagoberto or Norberto, it doesn’t matter, we start to earn a little money, but there’s not enough work for everyone, Make a choice, don’t get into arguments, and then, once the trees have been pruned, there’s the wood on the ground, and the charcoal burners arrive to buy from here and there, and then it’s time for them to perform their fiery art, and while we savor the vocabulary of charcoal-burning, staking, earthing up, plugging and firing, the words are doing what they say, it’s nothing to do with us, we just know the words, but we didn’t know them before, we had to learn them fast, out of necessity, and if everything’s ready, let’s bag the charcoal up and carry it away, and that’s that until next year, my name’s Peres, I own twenty-five charcoal kilns in the Lisbon area, as well as several others in the environs, and you can tell your mistress that my charcoal is good stuff, oak, so it burns nice and slow, which is why, of course, it’s more expensive. We’re burning up in this dryness, this dust, this smoke, there’s water to drink over there, I put the jug to my lips, lean back my head, the water gurgles down, a shame it’s not cooler, it dribbles from the corners of my mouth and traces rivers of pale skin among the banks of coal dust. We must all have experienced such things and others, because life, despite being short, has room for these and many more, but there are some who lived but briefly, and their whole lives were consumed in this one task.

The charcoal burners and sellers have gone, and now it’s May, the month of flowers, may those who write verses try eating them. There are sheep to be sheared, who knows how to do that, I do, I do, cry a few, and the others return to the good life, so called, to weeks of the bad life, going in and out of their houses, until the wheatfields are ready to be harvested, earlier here, later there, yes, we need you now or we might need you later, the goat is tethered to the stake and has no more to eat. It hasn’t for some time. So what’s the daily rate, ask the workers in the labor market, and the overseers stroll along the unarmed battalions, the sickle has been left at home and we don’t use hammers in our trade, and as they stroll along or pause, drumming with their fingers on their waistcoat pockets, they say, We pay whatever the others pay. This is a very old conversation, that’s what they said in the days of the monarchy, and the republic changed nothing, these are not things that can be changed by replacing a king with a president, the trouble lies elsewhere, in other monarchies, Lamberto gave birth to Dagoberto, Dagoberto gave birth to Alberto, Alberto gave birth to Floriberto, and then came Norberto, Berto, and Sigisberto, and Adalberto and Angilberto, Gilberto, Ansberto, Contraberto, it’s no surprise that they all have such similar names, they simply mean the latifundio and its owners, names don’t count for much, which is why the overseer mentions no names but simply says “the others,” and no one will ask who those others are, only city folk would make that mistake.

And so when someone asks, How much are we going to be paid, the overseer will say only Whatever the others pay, thus closing the circular conversation of I asked and you didn’t answer with a nonresponse, You’ll find out when you go to work. The man says more or less the same thing to his wife, I’ll go to work and see what happens, and she thinks, or says out loud, and perhaps she shouldn’t say anything, because such things hurt, Well, at least you’ve got work, and on Monday, the workers are out in the fields doing their duty, and they say to each other, How much do you reckon it will be, and they don’t know, What about them over there, I’ve asked, but they don’t know either, and so we arrive at Saturday, and the foreman comes and says, The wages are this much, and they have worked the whole week not knowing how much their work was worth, and at night their wives will ask, Do you know yet, and the husbands will reply irritably, impatiently, No, I don’t, stop asking me, and she will say, I’m not asking for myself, the baker wanted to know when we could pay off our debt, such wretched conversations, which continue, That’s not much, Well, when the others pay more, so will I. Pure lies, we all know that, but they are lies agreed upon between Ansberto and Angilberto, between Floriberto and Norberto, between Berto and Latifundio, which is another way of saying everything and everybody.

E
VERY YEAR, ON CERTAIN
dates, the nation summons its sons. That’s a somewhat exaggerated way of putting it, a skillful imitation of some of the proclamations used in time of national need, or by the person speaking, when necessary, on the nation’s behalf, for overt and covert reasons, to show that we are all one big happy family of brothers, with no distinction made between Abel and Cain. The nation summons its sons, can you hear the voice of the nation calling, calling, and you, who up until now were worth nothing, not even the bread you need to satisfy your hunger, nor the medicine for any illness you might have, nor the knowledge to end your ignorance, you, the son of this great mother who has been waiting for you ever since you were born, you see your name on a piece of paper at the door of the town hall, not that you can read it, but someone who can indicates the line where a black worm coils and uncoils, that’s you, you discover that the worm is you and your name, written by the clerk at the local recruitment office, and an officer who doesn’t know you and is interested in you for only this one purpose writes his name under yours, an even more tangled and confusing worm, you can’t make out what the officer’s name is, and from now on, there’s no running away, the nation is staring at you hard, hypnotizing you, to flee would be to offend against the memory of our grandfathers and the Discoveries. Your name is António Mau-Tempo, and since you came into this world, I have been waiting for you, my son, for I am, you see, a devoted mother, and you must forgive me if, during all these years, I haven’t paid you much attention, but there are so many of you, and I can’t possibly keep my eye on everyone, I’ve been preparing my officers who will be in charge of you, one can’t live without officers, how else would you learn to march, one two left right, right turn, halt, or to use a gun, careful when you load the breech, country boy, make sure you don’t get your finger caught, and yet they tell me you can’t read, I’m astonished, didn’t I set up primary schools in all the strategic places, not secondary schools, of course, because you wouldn’t need them for the kind of life you lead, and yet you come and tell me that you can’t read or write or do arithmetic, well, you’re putting me to a lot of trouble, António Mau-Tempo, you’re going to have to learn while you’re in the army, I don’t want illiterate sons bearing my standard, and if, later on, you forget what I’m ordering you to learn, never mind, that won’t be my fault, you’re the one who’s stupid, a bumpkin and a yokel, truth be told, my army is full of bumpkins, but it’s not for long, and once your military service is over, you can go back to your usual job, although if you want another, equally difficult job, that can be arranged too.