The Violent Land (34 page)

Ester died on a bright sunny morning, just as the bells in the city were pealing, summoning the inhabitants to a feast-day Mass. The ravages of the disease had destroyed practically all her beauty; her hair had fallen out, and at the end she was but a ghost of the woman she had once been, her eyes protruding from her emaciated face—for she was certain that she was going to die and she wanted so badly to live. At first she had been horribly delirious and, lying in pools of perspiration, had muttered disconnected words. Once she had clung to Horacio, screaming that a snake was encircling her neck and was about to strangle her. Maneca Dantas, who was spending a few days at the plantation, and who had grave suspicions regarding the relations between Ester and Virgilio, fairly trembled with fear that she would mention the lawyer's name in one of her delirious spells; but she appeared to see nothing but snakes in the forest pools, silent and treacherous, ready to leap on an innocent frog. And thus she would scream and suffer, tearing at the hearts of all those who stood by, as the mulatto girl Felicia silently wept.

When Dr. Jessé saw that the fever was not going down, he advised that Ester be taken into Ilhéos. It was a mournful scene as the hammock, borne by workmen, left the plantation.

“It's like going to her funeral already, poor girl,” Dr. Jessé remarked to Virgilio.

Horacio accompanied his wife, and the three of them went along in silence. Virgilio for his part had had nothing to say ever since she had been taken ill. All he had done had been to wander through the Big House, finding each day some fresh excuse for not returning to Tabocas. No one paid any attention to him, however, for all was confusion in the house, with
cabras
riding off for medicine, Negro women heating basins of water, and Horacio now giving orders to his men about entering the forest and now rushing back to the bed where Ester lay delirious.

As they went to lift her into the hammock, she had a moment of lucidity and took Horacio's hand, as if he had been the master of the world's destinies. “Don't let me die.”

Despairingly Virgilio went out on the lawn. That look in her eyes was for him, a suppliant look, a mad desire to live. It lasted but a second, but in it he beheld their dream of another life in another land, the two of them free to love. He now felt no hatred for anyone—only for this land which had killed her, which had taken her away forever. But it was more than hatred; he was afraid. No one ever got free of this land; it took all those who sought to flee. It had bound Ester with the chains of death; it was binding him, too, would never let him go. He strolled out into the groves and walked up and down until they called to him that they were ready to leave. The hammock, covered by a sheet, went first and the men followed. It was a terribly long journey. When they came to a halt in Ferradas, they found that Ester's fever had increased. She was screaming now, screaming that she did not want to die.

They reached Tabocas early in the evening and Dr. Jessé's house was soon filled with visitors. Virgilio did not sleep the entire night, but lay tossing in the solitary bed that he had not occupied for so long a time. He remembered the nights with Ester, the endless caresses, their bodies quivering with love, nights of passion in the house in Ilhéos. The next day he saw her leave in a special coach, on an improvised bed, Horacio seated on one side of her and Dr. Jessé, half asleep, on the other side. The physician's face was tired and careworn and his eyes were deep-sunken in his fleshy face. Ester looked at Virgilio and he felt that it was a good-bye. The curious ones thronged the station. When the train had left, they fell back to let him pass, but their remarks followed him out into the street.

The following day he could stand it no longer and went into Ilhéos. When he came back from Horacio's house, a visit that he prolonged as much as possible, there was nothing for him to do but drink in the wine-shops, for he was in no condition to go to court that day. Drowsy and irritable, he had the feeling of being alone, without a friend. He missed Maneca Dantas's company, for the colonel had conceived an attachment for the young lawyer. The latter would have liked to talk to someone, to unburden his soul, to tell everything—all that had happened and all that he had dreamed: the beautiful part, the life together in another land, the two of them with their love; and the wretched part as well, the longing for Horacio to die from a bullet fired by an enemy. He still thought at times of going away, but he knew it would never be, knew that he was bound to this land once and for all.

The only thing that could wrest him from his somnolent state was conversations having to do with the Sequeiro Grande affrays. They seemed somehow to bind him more to Ester, for it was owing to the forest of Sequeiro Grande that they had come to know and love each other. As for Horacio, however much his wife's illness may have grieved him, he never for a moment neglected his business, but had the other planters and the foremen come down to Ilhéos to talk things over with him. Maneca Dantas on one of these trips brought Dona Auricidia to help about the house and with the care of the child. Virgilio, meanwhile, would engage in long discussions with the colonels on the subject of politics, the method of conducting the court proceedings, and the articles in
A Folha de Ilhéos
. Horacio spoke of the attorney's candidacy for the post of deputy as now being an assured thing. In the course of Ester's illness Virgilio had come to conceive an esteem for her husband; he was conscious of a tie with the colonel and was grateful to discover that, however incapable of feeling and of suffering he might appear to be, Horacio
was
suffering none the less, and was doing all in his power to save Ester, by calling in physicians for consultations and through religious vows and Masses said in church.

Only once was Virgilio able to speak to Ester alone. She seemed to have been waiting only for this. It was the night before her death. Horacio had gone out and Dona Auricidia was dozing in the parlour when he slipped into the room to relieve Dr. Jessé, who was so tired he could hardly stand. Ester was sleeping, her face bathed with perspiration. Virgilio laid a hand on her head, then took out his handkerchief and wiped away the sweat. She stirred in bed, moaned, and finally awoke. When she recognized him and saw that they were alone, she raised a fleshless hand from beneath the sheet and, taking his own hand, laid it on her bosom. Then, with a great effort, she smiled and spoke to him:

“What a pity that I have to die—”

“You're not going to.”

“—die, no.” She smiled again, as sad a smile as ever was. “Let me see you.”

Virgilio knelt beside the bed, his head upon hers as he kissed her face, her eyes, her fever-parched lips. He let the tears come, let them bathe her hands, the cold tears streaming down his cheeks. They did not say anything for a number of minutes—her feverish hand in his hair, his anguished mouth kissing that fever-disfigured face.

The sound of Dona Auricidia bestirring herself caused him to rise, but before he did so, she gave him a farewell kiss. He then went out where he could be alone and weep unseen. When Dona Auricidia came into the room, Ester appeared to be much better.

“It was the last rally before the end,” Dona Auricidia remarked the next day, when Ester died. Only Virgilio knew that it was love's farewell.

Many people came to the funeral. There was a special train from Tabocas, bringing many from Ferradas also, including Maneca Dantas and the other planters whose groves bordered on Sequeiro Grande. There were friends from Banco da Victoria, and all Ilhéos turned out. In the black coffin the dead woman's face recovered some of its beauty, and Virgilio beheld her as she had been the evening before her death, smiling, happy at loving and being loved.

Ester's father wept, and Horacio, clad in black, received the condolences, while Dona Auricidia kept watch beside the body. The burial took place late in the afternoon, and twilight had already fallen before the service in the cemetery was over. Dr. Jessé said a few words at the grave and Canon Freitas blessed the remains, as the bystanders sought to discover traces of grief in Virgilio's pale face.

When the attorney invited Maneca Dantas to have dinner with him, the colonel declined; he had to keep Horacio company on this first night of mourning. Virgilio accordingly roamed the streets. Dropping in at a wine-shop, he was conscious of the curious stares of the others in the place, and so he went on down to the wharves, where he stood watching a boat unload its cargo. He also chatted for a while with a man in a sky-blue vest who had been drinking heavily. What he wanted was someone with whom he could have a long talk, someone on whose bosom he might weep out all the tears that were in his heart. He finally ended by going to Margot's house. She was sleeping and received him with much surprise. But when she saw how sad and wretched he was, her heart opened to him and she took him to her breast with the maternal love with which she had taken him in that other night in Bahia, the night he had received the news of his father's death in the backlands.

The winter rains passed and the hot days of summer came. The trunks and boughs of the cacao trees were putting forth buds, the first signs of the new crop. Huge gangs of labourers, who had no groves to tend or cacao to dry, were now employed in felling the forest of Sequeiro Grande for the Badarós and for Horacio. For after Ester's death the latter had thrown himself into the struggle for the possession of the wood. He, too, had gone into the jungle, repelling the attacks of the Badarós' ruffians, opening clearings, and burning over enormous tracts. Progress was being made on each side of the forest, and it was indeed a race as to who would get there first. The gun-frays had subsided somewhat, but those who were in the know asserted that they would begin again the moment Horacio and the Badarós met on the banks of the river that cut the woods in two.

In Virgilio all this while Horacio had his most efficient collaborator. Not only were the court proceedings making headway, owing to the petitions with which the attorney daily bombarded the judge, but the brief he, as Zé da Ribeira's lawyer, had drawn up against Teodoro das Baraúnas was by way of being a legal masterpiece. Moreover, Virgilio had carefully studied the title to the forest that had been entered by Sinhô Badaró and had discovered in it great legal flaws. The survey, for example, was incomplete; it did not specify the true boundaries of the tract in question, but was very vague, wholly lacking in precision. Virgilio made a long exposition on the subject to the court, and this was added to the other documents in Horacio's suit.

Then the warm days ended and the long winter rains came back again, hardening the fruit of the cacao trees and illuminating with gold the shady groves. Once the slack months were over, the highways of Tabocas, Ferradas, Palestina, and Mutuns were filled with travelling salesmen, and the boats from Bahia as well, all bound for Ilhéos. Immigrants came also, whole swarms of them, travelling third-class in the overladen holds. Syrians came and at once made for the forest, their worldly possessions on their backs. Many of the burnt tree-trunks were now putting forth fresh green shoots, and the clearings were bright with colour. New roads were already in existence, and with the winter rains flowers sprang up around the crosses that had been planted in the ground the winter before. This year alone the forest of Sequeiro Grande was diminished by almost half. It was now surrounded by clearings and burnt tracts and was, in brief, living its last winter. On rainy mornings workers would go by, scythes on their shoulders, singing their sad songs, which died away in the mysterious depths of the giant wood:

Cacao is a good crop,

And there's a new crop coming. . . .

Don' Ana Badaró and João Magalhães were married at the beginning of winter. Juca and Olga stood up with the bridegroom, Lawyer Genaro and Dr. Pedro Matta's wife with the bride. Canon Freitas, who blessed the nuptials, at the same time joined in wedlock, “until death shall part,” Antonio Victor and Raimunda. Antonio wore a pair of black boots that caused him a great deal of discomfort, and Raimunda's face held its usual cross-grained expression. Don' Ana had told the other couple that they need not do any work that day, but Raimunda had insisted on helping in the kitchen, and Antonio Victor had served the drinks to the guests, limping a little on account of his boots.

It was an epoch-making occasion in Ilhéos. Don' Ana was very pretty in her white gown, with her bridal veil and orange blossoms and her big gold wedding ring, while João Magalhães, clad in a very fashionable frock-coat, drew admiring exclamations from the marriageable young ladies. Sinhô Badaró, looking a little sad, presided over the festivities, his gaze following his daughter as she went about seeing that the guests were served.

Those present then filed into the bridal chamber and past the big bed laden to overflowing with wedding gifts. There were tea-sets, silverware, articles of wearing-apparel, knick-knacks and ornaments, and last but not least a long-barreled Colt .38 revolver of plated steel and ivory, a masterpiece of the weapon-maker's art, the gift of Teodoro das Baraúnas to Captain João Magalhães. Teodoro drank champagne and cracked jokes with the captain about the stains on the bed-sheets, as the ecstatic guests went out into the ballroom, where a band in full uniform was playing waltzes, polkas, and an occasional maxixe.

When the time came for the newly wedded pair to retire, at early dawn, Juca Badaró took them to one side.

“How about starting a little one, eh?” he said with a laugh. “A legal Badaró.”

The honeymoon, spent at the plantation, was rudely interrupted by the news of Juca's assassination in Ilhéos. After the wedding he, too, had come out to the plantation and then had gone into the forest with a gang of men. He had come back to the city for the week-end, being anxious to see Margot.

On Sunday he was having lunch with a physician who had just come to Ilhéos with a letter of introduction to Juca from a friend in Bahia. The physician was staying in a boarding-house kept by a Syrian in the centre of town. What once had been a parlour had been transformed into a restaurant, and Juca and the doctor were seated at the first table just inside the door, the former's back being turned to the street. The
cabra
stuck his revolver through the door and fired once, and Juca slumped down slowly over the table as the physician put out his arms to support him. Then suddenly he got to his feet, one hand grasping the side of the door while with the other he raised his revolver. The assassin had taken to his heels down the passageway, but the bullets from Juca's weapon reached him, three shots in all, and he dropped with a thud. Juca then sank down by the door and the revolver slipped from his hand and clattered over the stone pavement. It had all happened in a minute's time. The other guests now came running up to Juca, while passers-by in the street surrounded the fallen
cabra
.

Juca Badaró died three days later in the bosom of his family, having first stoically endured an operation as the physician endeavoured to extract the bullet. Resources for such an operation were wholly lacking in Ilhéos; there was not even any chloroform; yet Juca had smiled through it all as the doctor did his best for him.

“Save my brother's life,” Sinhô Badaró said to the latter, “and you may ask of me what you will.”

It was in vain, however; nor were any of the other medical men in Ilhéos, or Dr. Pedro, who came up from Tabocas, of any avail. Before dying, Juca called Sinhô over to him and asked him to give Margot a sum of money. Then he spoke with the captain and Don' Ana, although the room was by now full of people.

“Let's have a little one, eh? Don't forget! A Badaró.” Then he took Don' Ana's hand and stroked it.

“Give him my name,” he said.

Olga carried on scandalously, but Juca paid no attention to her and died peacefully enough. His only regret, expressed in his last words, was that he would not live to see the forest of Sequeiro Grande planted in cacao.

That night, in the house of mourning, Sinhô strode up and down the room. He was thinking of vengeance. He knew that it would mean nothing to shoot down Horacio's hired assassins; the other planters who were associated with him would feel as he did that the only thing to do was to have the colonel himself put out of the way. Only one life could pay for Juca's, and that was the life of Horacio da Silveira. He accordingly made up his mind that he would go through with it, come what might. He had a conversation on the subject with Teodoro and with the captain, at which Don' Ana was present. Lawyer Genaro and the deputy had felt that Horacio ought to be prosecuted; for Juca's assassin was one of his
jagunços,
who, as everybody knew, was employed on his plantation. But Sinhô violently waved this aside. This was no matter for a lawsuit. It would not be so easy to prove Horacio's guilt, now that the
cabra
who had committed the murder was dead; and besides, Sinhô Badaró would not feel avenged by seeing his enemy brought to trial as a criminal. Don' Ana was of the same opinion, and the captain agreed, although he was rather frightened by it all, not knowing how it was going to end. Teodoro das Baraúnas came over the next day to discuss their plans.

But killing Horacio was not so easy. He was well aware that both the country highways and the city streets were dangerous places for him, and he seldom left his own plantation. When he did come into Ferradas or Tabocas, he was surrounded by a huge bodyguard, composed of men who were crack shots, and Braz almost always rode by his side. He did not return to Ilhéos for months, but instead Virgilio would come out to keep him in touch with things. For after a time Lawyer Genaro had succeeded in convincing Sinhô that he ought to institute legal proceedings against Horacio. Sinhô had agreed to this for reasons of his own. The police deputy at Ilhéos had thereupon begun an inquiry and had come to Tabocas to take the testimony of a number of witnesses, all of whom asserted that Juca's assassin was a worker on Horacio's plantation. And some fellow from the wharves with an imitation ring on his finger was quite emphatic in telling of a conversation he had had with the murderer on the eve of the crime, in a wine-shop kept by a certain Spaniard. The
cabra
had been very drunk, and the man with the imitation ring had led him on to talk. He had displayed a hundred-milreis note and had confided that he was “doing an important job for Colonel Horacio.” The prosecutor accepted this evidence, Sinhô brought pressure to bear upon the judge, and the best that Virgilio had been able to do had been to prevent Horacio's being taken into custody. The judge on this point had excused himself to Sinhô by inquiring: “Who would dare go out to arrest Horacio on his own plantation? With all respect to the majesty of the law, it would be better if Horacio were arrested on the day of the trial.” And Virgilio had promised that his client would put in an appearance.

Lawyer Genaro had great hopes of being able to get a jury that would bring in a verdict of guilty against the colonel. After all, the Badarós were political bigwigs, and it was by no means impossible that the jurors would decree the maximum penalty. Sinhô, on the other hand, had hopes of his own—of being able to do away with his enemy before the case came to trial; or as a last resort (as he told João Magalhães) he would take care of Horacio when the latter came to court. For this reason he let them go ahead.

Horacio himself, however, did not devote a moment's thought to the criminal proceedings. What he wanted, first of all, was news of how his own suit against Sinhô and Teodoro over the Sequeiro Grande property was coming along. As a result of all these legal bickerings the lawyers of the town grew rich, with their briefs, writs, petitions, and counter-petitions, as they diligently prepared their speeches to the jury.

Despite the difficulties in the way of Horacio's assassination, his life was twice seriously endangered. The first time was when one of Teodoro's men succeeded in getting as far as the guava tree beside the Big House. He waited there a number of hours until the colonel appeared on the veranda and, sitting down on a bench, began cutting up cane-stalks for a burro he had that was very tame. The bullet hit the animal, and Horacio dashed after the
cabra
who had fired the shot, but did not overtake him. The other time was when an old man attempted to kill him. This old fellow had previously appeared at the Badaró plantation, where he had made an offer to Sinhô to put Horacio out of the way. He wanted no pay for it; all he wanted was a weapon. He had an account to settle with the colonel, so he said. Sinhô had told them to give him a rifle, and the old man had tried to sneak up to the Big House one moonlit night. Someone afterwards recalled that he was the father of Joaquim, who once had owned a grove that now was in the possession of Horacio.

As a result of these attempts Horacio strengthened his bodyguard and rarely went out of the house; but, for all that, his men went on clearing the forest of Sequeiro Grande. It would not be long before his workmen and those of the Badarós met up. The jungle was thinning out all the time, and the storehouses on either plantation were filled with cacao shrubs to be planted where the giant trees had stood. When Horacio's
cabras
and those of the Badarós did meet, there would certainly be a pitched battle and blood would flow in the highways.