The Violent Land

  Antonio Victor would then come down to the forest, his memories accompanying him. Once again, for the hundredth time, he would possess Ivone on the Estancia bridge. Yet when it was over, there would remain the same soft and viscous cacao caught on the soles of his feet and growing greater in bulk all the time, like some weird kind of shoe.

  After that, Juca Badaró had taken a liking to him. First of all because, when they were engaged in felling the wood where the Border Line Grove now stood, he had not been afraid as the others were when they arrived there at night in the midst of a storm. It was, in fact, he, Antonio Victor, who had chopped down the first tree. Now that place was the Border Line Grove, where the cacao saplings were beginning to turn into trunks and were already near to their first flowering. And then later, in that row at Tabocas, Antonio Victor had brought down a man—his first one—in order to save Juca’s life. It was true he had wept much and despairingly upon his return to the plantation; it was true that for night after night he had seen that man as he fell, a hand to his bosom, his tongue lolling out. But that had passed also, and Juca had taken him out of the groves for the much pleasanter job of “capanga”—bodyguard and killer. He now accompanied Juca Badaró when the latter went out to pay off his men, and on the trips he was constantly making to the nearby towns and to the city; he had exchanged the scythe for the rifle. He knew the prostitutes in Tabocas, Ferradas, Palestina, and Ilhéos; he had had an ugly disease and a bullet in his shoulder. Ivone was now a vague and distant shadow, Estancia a memory that was all but lost. But he kept up his custom of coming down at night to the edge of the forest, to dangle his feet in the river.

  And to wait there for Raimunda. She would come for pails of water, for Don’ Ana Badaró’s bedtime bath. She would come down singing; but no sooner did she catch sight of Antonio Victor than her song stopped, her face growing hard as a look of abhorrence came over it. She would give a surly reply to his greeting, and the one time he had tried to take her and press her to him, she had pushed him into the river; for she was as strong and resolute as a man. But, for all that, he did not stop coming down there every night; only he never again tried to take advantage of her. He would say good evening and receive her grumbling response as she went on humming the air she had been singing on the way down. She would fill her kerosene can with water at the river’s brink, and he would help her put it on her head. And Raimunda then would be lost among the cacao trees, with her great black feet, much blacker than her mulatto face, sinking into the mud of the trail. He would thereupon leap into the water, and then finally he would go back through the cacao grove to receive Juca Badaró’s orders for the following day. Sometimes Don’ Ana would send him out a glass of wine. Antonio Victor could hear Raimunda’s steps in the kitchen, could hear her voice answering Don’ Ana’s call:

  “I’m coming, godmother.”

  For Raimunda was Don’ Ana’s godchild, although the two were of the same age. She had been born on the same day as Don’ Ana, being the daughter of black Risoleta, the cook in the Big House, a pretty Negro girl with round hips and firm, hard flesh. Nobody knew who Raimunda’s father was, seeing that she had been born a light-skinned mulatto with hair that was almost straight; but there were many who whispered that it was none other than old Marcelino Badaró, the father of Sinhô and Juca. These whisperings, however, were no reason why Dona Filomena should send her cook packing. On the contrary, it was Risoleta who suckled at her big black breasts the “little darling” who had just been born, the aged Badarós’ first grandchild. Don’ Ana and Raimunda had grown up together in their early years, one on each of Risoleta’s arms, one at each of her breasts. On the day that Don’ Ana was baptized, the little mulatto girl, Raimunda, was baptized also. It was black Risoleta herself who picked the godparents: Sinhô, who was then a lad of a little more than twenty; and Don’ Ana, who was only a few months old. The priest had made no protest; for even then the Badarós were a power before which the law and religion alike bent the knee.

  Raimunda had grown up in the Big House, for she was Don’ Ana’s “milk sister.” And since Don’ Ana had come unexpectedly to enliven the household as the grandparents were nearing old age, and thirty years after the last little Badaró girl had beguiled them with her childish ways, the entire family put themselves out to satisfy her every whim. And Raimunda got what was left over of this affection. Dona Filomena, who was a good, pious woman, was accustomed to say that, since Don’ Ana had taken Raimunda’s mother, the Badarós had to do something for the little mulatto girl. It was the truth: black Risoleta had eyes for only one thing in the world, and that was “her white daughter,” her “little darling,” her own Don’ Ana. For this reason, when Don’ Ana was small, Risoleta had even raised her voice against Marcelino when the elder Badaró was about to punish his lively and disobedient young granddaughter. She became a wild woman when she heard Don’ Ana sobbing, and had come in from the kitchen with blazing eyes and wrathful face. Juca was then a small boy, and it was one of his favourite diversions to make his little niece cry so that he might witness Risoleta’s outburst of fury. Risoleta had no respect for him; she called him the “demon,” and even went so far as to tell him that he was “worse than a Negro.”

  “That youngster is a little pest,” she would say to the other women in the kitchen as she dried her tears.

  For Don’ Ana the kitchen was always a place of refuge. Whenever she had been naughtier than usual, she would flee there, to the skirts of her “black mammy,” and neither Dona Filomena nor the aged Marcelino nor even Sinhô would come to look for her; for on such occasions Risoleta would prepare herself as if for battle.

  As for Raimunda, she performed little household tasks and learned to cook; but at the Big House they also taught her to sew and to embroider, taught her the ABC’s and how to sign her name, and how to do simple sums in addition and subtraction. By this the Badarós believed that they were paying their debt.

  Risoleta had died with Don’ Ana’s name on her lips, gazing at her foster-child, who gave her so much pleasure by being with her in her final hour. Old Marcelino Badaró was already dead and buried for two years; and the following year his daughter, who was married to a merchant in Bahia, had died there, not having been able to get used to the city and to living so far from the plantation. She had gone into a decline and had caught consumption. Dona Filomena had finally taken Raimunda out of the kitchen and had definitely assigned her to work in the Big House; and she always acted as the mulatto girl’s protector as long as she lived. Later Sinhô’s wife had also died of consumption, and there were left but her godparents, Sinhô and Don’ Ana; but in any event Raimunda led a life that was much the same as that of the other “fillies” in the house: washing, mending clothes, going to the river for water, and making sweetmeats. The only difference was that at holiday time Don’ Ana would make her a present of a new dress and Sinhô would give her a pair of shoes and a little money. She never asked for the latter; for of what use was money to her, seeing that she had everything, here in the Badarós’ house? When Sinhô, at the feast of St. John and at Christmas time, gave her ten milreis, he would always say: “Put that away for your hope-chest.”

  It never occurred to him that Raimunda might want for anything. But meanwhile, from her infancy, Raimunda’s heart had been filled with unsatisfied desires. At first it was the dolls and toys that came from Bahia for Don’ Ana and that she was forbidden to touch. How many drubbings had she had from black Risoleta for wanting to lay hands on the playthings that belonged to her “sister of the cradle”! Later it had been the desire to mount a well-harnessed horse like Don’ Ana’s and gallop away over the fields. And finally she desired to have, like Don’ Ana, some of those things that were so pretty: a necklace, a pair of earrings, a Spanish comb for her hair. She had fallen heir to one of the last mentioned articles when she had found a comb in the dust-bin where Don’ Ana had tossed it as useless, since all of its teeth save two or three were missin
g. In her little room at night, by the light of a lamp, she would stick the comb in her hair and smile at herself. This might be the first time that day that she had smiled; for Raimunda had a serious, cross-looking face, a surly face for everybody. Juca, who never let a woman go by him, whether it was a prostitute or a married woman in the city, the mulatto girls in the grove, or even the Negro women, none the less steered clear of Raimunda. Possibly it was because he found her ugly, with her pug nose that contrasted so sharply with the light skin of her face.

  Yes, she was ill-tempered; Don’ Ana herself had noticed it, and it was generally said about the plantation that she was “mean,” that she was not good-hearted. She appeared to care for no one, but lived her life in silence, doing as much work as four women and taking what was offered her with murmured thanks. Thus she had grown up into young womanhood. More than one had wanted to marry her, being certain that Sinhô Badaró would not fail to help out anyone who took his godchild, Don’ Ana’s “milk sister,” for a wife. The employee at the plantation store, a young simpleton who had come down from Bahia and who knew how to do sums and read books—he, too, had wanted her; but he was thin and weak and wore glasses, and Raimunda would not have him. She had wept when Sinhô had brought up the subject, saying that no, no, she could not. Sinhô had shrugged his shoulders to indicate that his interest in the matter was at an end.

  “If you don’t want to, that settles it. Nobody’s forcing you.”

  Juca then had put in his word.

  “But that’s a match for you—a white lad, with schooling. You’ll never get another one like him. I don’t know what he sees in this girl.”

  Raimunda, however, had appealed to Sinhô, and he let it be understood that the subject was closed. It was he who informed the young fellow of Raimunda’s refusal, and Juca at the same time had asked what it was about that mulatto’s cross-looking face that had attracted the clerk; surely she was not pretty.

  Then there had been Agostinho, the Badarós’ foreman; he, too, had wanted Raimunda, but she had met his advances in the same unfriendly fashion. Don’ Ana had an explanation for it all.

  “Raimunda,” she said, “simply does not want to leave us. I know she has that cross-looking face, but she likes us just the same.”

  And Don’ Ana would suddenly become tender as she thought of Risoleta. At such times she would give the girl an old dress or a bit of cheap jewelry. But these conversations on the subject of Raimunda were rare occurrences; the Badarós did not always have time to think of the “sister of the cradle.”

  Antonio Victor did his best to catch Raimunda’s eye. Here on the plantation a woman was an object of luxury, and his young body craved one. Making love with the whores, on his trips to town, was not enough. He wanted a body that would warm his own on those long nights during the winter months, from May to September, that constituted the rainy season.

  And so he waited for her at the edge of the forest. And it would not be long before he would hear Raimunda’s voice preceding her down the path. Her face might not be a beautiful one, but what Antonio Victor was thinking of was her big buttocks, her firm breasts, her shapely legs. From the twilight skies night was about to fall. The river was flowing calmly. Perhaps it would rain tonight. Already the crickets were beginning their song in the forest. Leaves were drifting down to settle on the water. People talked about the big money that was to be made in the south. Antonio had promised to come back one day, rich, with fine clothes and polished boots; but now those thoughts no longer existed in his mind. Now he was Juca Badaró’s capanga, known for the rapidity of his rifle-fire. The memories of Estancia, of Ivone giving herself on the bridge, were blurred for him. Dreams no longer filled his head as they had that night aboard ship. He knew but one desire now: to marry the mulatto girl, Raimunda, and to have a clay hut for the two of them. To marry Raimunda and have a body on which to repose after a hard day’s work, after a long trip over bad roads, after the death of someone whom he had brought down. To rest upon her body—a body on which to repose his dreamless head.

  Raimunda’s voice on the path. Antonio Victor half rises, ready to aid her in filling the water-pail. Night wraps the forest. The river flows tranquilly.

  9

  The men came to a stop in front of the Big House of the plantation known as the Monkeys.

  The official name was much prettier than that: Auricidia Plantation, a tribute from Maneca Dantas to his wife, a fat, sluggish matron whose sole interests in life were her children and the sweets she knew how to make as no one else did. To the colonel’s great sorrow, however, the name had not stuck, and everyone insisted on calling the place the Monkeys, which had been the name of the original grove, carved out of the forests of Sequeiro Grande between the great Badaró estate and that of Horacio, where bands of monkeys were to be seen scampering through the woods. It was only in the official deed to the land that the name “Auricidia” appeared; and it was only Maneca Dantas who was wont to say: “Down there, at Auricidia—” Everyone else referred to it by its popular appellation.

  The men came to a stop and set down the hammock they carried slung to a pole. In it a corpse was making its last earthly journey. From within the dimly lighted parlour Dona Auricidia called out, as she lazily set her mountainous flesh in motion:

  “Who is it?”

  “We come in peace, lady,” one of the men replied.

  A child had run out to the veranda and now came back with the news: “Mamma, there is two men with a dead man—a skinny dead man.”

  Before permitting herself to become alarmed, Dona Auricidia, who had been a schoolteacher, gently corrected her young son.

  “Don’t say: ‘There is two,’ Ruy. ‘There are two,’ is what you should say.”

  She then moved toward the door, the child clinging to her skirts. The smaller children were already asleep. On the veranda the men had sat down on a bench, while the hammock with the corpse sprawled open on the floor.

  “May Jesus Christ give you good evening,” said one of them, an old man with a white woolly head.

  The other took off his hat with a polite greeting. Dona Auricidia replied, then waited expectantly.

  “We’re bringing him from the Baraúnas Plantation,” the young man explained. “He worked there. We’re taking him to the cemetery at Ferradas.”

  “Why don’t you bury him in the forest?”

  “Well, he has three daughters in Ferradas, you see. We’re taking him to them. If you don’t mind, we’d like to rest a little while. It’s a long way, and Uncle here is about all in,” pointing to the old man.

  “What did he die of?” asked the lady of the house.

  “Fever.” It was the old man who spoke. “That pesky fever that you get in the forest. He was cutting timber when it laid hold of him. That was only three days ago. There was nothing to be done for him.”

  Dona Auricidia drew back her child and fell back a few steps herself. She was thinking, as that emaciated cadaver—he was an old man, too—lay there in the hammock on her veranda.

  “Take him to one of the workmen’s huts,” she said; “you can rest there. But not here. Just go a little farther on and you’ll come to the huts. Tell them I sent you. But you mustn’t stay here, on account of the children.”

  She was afraid of contagion, afraid of that fever for which no remedy was known. Only years afterwards were men to learn that it was the typhus, then endemic throughout the cacao region. Dona Auricidia watched the men as they lifted the hammock, placed the pole on their shoulders, and departed.

  “Good night, lady.”

  “Good night.”

  She stood staring at the spot where the corpse had lain. And then, of a sudden, that mountain of flesh was in motion again. Shouting to the Negro women within, she directed them to get soap and water at once and, in spite of the fact that it was night-time, to scrub the veranda thoroughly. Taking her child with her, she procee
ded to wash his hands until he almost cried. And that night she did not sleep, but rose from hour to hour to see if Ruy was not feverish. As luck would have it, Maneca was not at home; he was dining at Horacio’s.

  The men with the hammock paused in front of one of the workers’ huts. The old man was tired.

  “He’s heavy, eh, Uncle?” the young fellow said.

  This idea of taking the body to Ferradas had been the old man’s. He and the dead man had been friends. They must turn the remains over to the daughters for “Christian burial,” he had insisted. It was a journey of ten or twelve miles, and they had been trudging along the moonlit highway for hours. Once more they put the hammock down, the young man wiping the sweat from his forehead as the old one knocked with his staff on the rude planks of the half-closed door. Inside the hut a lamp was lighted.

  “Who is it?”

  “We come in peace,” was the old man’s answer, as before.

  But even so the Negro who opened the door held a revolver in his hand, for in this country you could not be too careful. The old man told his story and ended by saying that it was Dona Auricidia who had sent them.

  “So, she don’t want him up there,” said a lean-looking individual who had appeared from behind the Negro’s back. “He might give her kids the fever. But it makes no difference to us, ain’t that so?” and he gave a laugh.