Militão mounted his horse once more. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said, as he patted the animal’s neck. She remained on the veranda gazing after him as he rode off. She surely was taking responsibilities upon herself. What would Sinhô say when he knew? Once more she read over Azevedo’s letter and then decided that she had done the right thing in sending for Teodoro.”
“Bandits!” she muttered. “And that little wretch of a lawyer—he deserves a bullet.”
The cat came up and rubbed against her legs, and Don’ Ana put her hand down and stroked it gently. Her face, with its deep, dark eyes and sensual lips, was no longer hard; there was a tinge of melancholy to it, that was all. Glimpsed thus on the veranda, Don’ Ana Badaró might have been a timid little country girl.
10
At the school things were going very well. Dr. Jessé had succeeded in persuading a number of merchants to close their shops and stores in honour of Arbour Day. Outside of teachers and pupils, the audience at the school building, where Professor Estanislau read his speech and some of the children gave recitations, was a small one; but Church Square was filled. The doctor presided at the indoor session and was presented with a flowering tree bough. Then they all marched to the square, where the pupils from the town’s two private schools were lined up and waiting for them. These other institutions were conducted, respectively, by Estanislau and by Dona Guilhermina, a teacher noted for the stern discipline that she enforced. Dr. Jessé walked at the head of the children from the public school, holding the bough in his hand.
The square, as had been said, was full of people. Women in holiday garb, young girls glancing about for their sweethearts, and merchants and clerks from those business houses which had closed for the day—all were there to avail themselves of this unlooked-for diversion, this variation in the dull rhythm of small-town life. The public school children drew up in front of those from the private institutions; and Professor Estanislau, who had a long-standing difference with Dona Guilhermina, now came forward to impose silence on his young wards—he wanted them to behave at least as well as those of his rival, standing there quiet and sober-faced beneath the school-mistress’s shrewish eye. Beside a hole that had recently been dug in the middle of the square they had placed a young cacao tree, a little more than a year old. This was the tree that was to be planted as the climax of today’s ceremony. The Badarós had been called away to Ilhéos, and the police deputy with them, and for that reason the police force—consisting of eight troopers—did not put in an appearance; but the Euterpe Third of May Band, which was outfitted with Horacio’s money, was there with its musical instruments. It was the band that inaugurated the ceremonies, by playing the national anthem, and the men removed their hats and silence fell as the children sang the verses. The sun was burning hot and a number of parasols had been opened as a protection against its rays.
As the band ceased playing, Dr. Jessé stepped well into the centre of the square and began his speech. On all sides there were calls for silence as the teachers went among the pupils in an effort to quiet them. With no great results, however; the only ones who were quiet were those from Dona Guilhermina’s school, as that lady herself, in a white stiffly starched dress, stood there grimly with her hands folded over her bosom. Almost no one was able to hear what the speaker was saying, and very few had even a glimpse of him, since there was no raised platform and he had to speak from the ground level. Nevertheless, when he had finished there was much applause, and a number of men who had ridden up on horseback came over to compliment him. He modestly grasped their out-stretched hands with a show of deep emotion. And then, in turn, he was the first to call for silence so that they might be able to hear Professora Irene’s poem. In a thin, piping voice, the teacher began reading:
“Blessed be the seed that renders fertile the earth—”
The children were calling, all but shouting, to the sweetmeat-vendors, as they laughed, chatted, quarrelled, and exchanged kicks, the teachers meanwhile threatening dire punishments for the next day. Professora Irene raised an arm, lowered it, raised the other arm:
“O blessed tree that gives us shade and fruit—”
The number of horsemen in the vicinity had been increasing, and they now came bursting into Church Square. It was Colonel Teodoro das Baraúnas at the head of a band of armed men. They came in firing shots in the air as their horses trampled down the grass. Riding into the midst of the scampering children and the fleeing men and women, Teodoro reined up in front of the group that was clustered about the tree. With arm still upraised, Professora Irene gulped back the verse that she was about to recite next.
“What nonsense is this?” said Teodoro, revolver in hand. “Are you planting a tree here in the square?”
Jessé, his voice trembling, explained the nature of the ceremony. Teodoro laughed; he appeared to fall in with it.
“Go ahead and plant it,” he said. “I want to watch you.” Saying this, he aimed his revolver and the lads who were with him levelled their rifles. Assisted by a couple of men, Dr. Jessé did as he was told. The ceremony, surely, was turning out quite differently from the way he had planned it. There was no dignity to it at all; they merely stuck the cacao tree in the ground as quickly as they could and covered the roots over with the earth heaped at the side of the hole. There were very few people left in the square; most of them had run away.
“Are you through now?” asked Teodoro.
“Yes, we have now—”
“All right,” laughed Teodoro, “I’ll give it a little dew.” And, seated in the saddle, he opened the flap of his trousers and proceeded to urinate on the tree. His aim was not very good, however, and he bespattered everybody. Professora Irene covered her eyes with her hand. Before Teodoro had finished, he turned around and splashed Dr. Jessé. Then, calling to his men, he set off at a swift gallop down the main street. Those who had not been able to flee stood motionless, gazing at one another. One of the teachers wiped a drop or two from her face. “Did you ever see anything like it?” said another in amazement.
Still firing in the air, Teodoro rode down the street. Finally he and his men drew up at the corner of an alleyway, in front of Venancio’s registry office, where they all dismounted. Venancio and his clerks barely had time to scamper out through the rear. Calling to one of his followers, Teodoro had him bring a bottle, and he then began sprinkling kerosene on the floor and on the files crammed with papers, after which he tossed the bottle away.
“Set fire to it,” he ordered.
The man struck a match, and flame ran over the floor and up one of the filing-cases, until it encountered a sheaf of papers, whereupon it began to fatten on the documents and archives that the place contained. Teodoro and the man then ran out to where the others were standing guard on the corner, waiting for the fire to take hold. The colonel wore a white coat over khaki trousers, and on his little finger he sported a diamond solitaire. Red tongues of flame were now running over the building, as the street rapidly filled with people. Teodoro ordered his men to mount, and with their horses’ hoofs the plantation lads now dispersed those who in their curiosity had drawn too near.
At this moment a band of Horacio’s armed men made their appearance, and Teodoro, rounding the corner with his capangas, made for the Mutuns road. The crowd began surging into the street and Venancio appeared, tearing his hair, as Horacio’s retainers came riding up. From the corner the latter opened fire on the fleeing band and Teodoro’s men fired back, galloping headlong all the while through the throng that had come running down the alley to see the blaze. Before the master of Baraúnas was lost from sight at the end of the street, one of his jagunços had fallen, his riderless horse still galloping along with the others. Horacio’s bucks then went up to the fellow and finished him off with a knife.
IV
BESIDE THE SEA
1
The man in the sky-blue vest did not answer. He was a little runt of a man, an
d that enormous vest of his hung down over his brown canvas trousers, browner still from stains.
The night outside was a lyric one, and the poetry of the night penetrated even to the tallow-smelling bar of the wine-shop, by way of a bit of moonlight on the cobblestones of the street, a glimpse of stars through the half-opened doors, and a woman’s languorous, mournful voice singing a song of lost love and the days of long ago. More disturbing than the moonlight and the stars, the sinful scent of jasmine from next door, or the glow of lights from the ship—most disturbing of all, perhaps, to the tired hearts of the men drowsing on packing cases or sprawled over the bar, was that melancholy song in the night.
The man with the big imitation ring repeated the question when the one in the sky-blue vest failed to reply.
“And you, you old snail, you, didn’t you ever have a woman?”
It was the blond-haired one, however, who replied: “Now, if it’s a woman you’re talking of—there are dozens of them in every port. A woman is something that a sailor never has to go without. For my part, I’ve had them by the dozen,” and he made a gesture with his hands, opening and closing his fingers.
The prostitute spit between her rotting teeth and eyed the blond sailor with interest.
“A sailor’s heart,” she said, “is like the waves of the sea that come and go. There was José de Santa—I knew him well. One day he went off without saying a word, on a boat that wasn’t even his.”
“Well,” continued the sailor, “a seagoing man can’t cast anchor anywhere, not even in a woman’s flesh. One day he’s off, the dock’s empty, and then another comes along and throws out a grappling-line. A woman, my dear, is more treacherous than a gale at sea.”
A ray of moonlight had now forced its way through the door and fell on the flooring of rough wooden planks. The man with the imitation ring prodded the sky-blue vest with a carving-knife.
“Speak up, you snail—ain’t that right, that you’re a snail? Did you fellows ever see anyone who looked more like it? I’m asking you, did you ever have a woman?”
The prostitute burst out laughing and put her arm around the blond sailor’s neck; they both laughed together. The man in the sky-blue vest drank what was left of his rum and wiped his mouth with his coat-sleeve.
“You wouldn’t know where it was,” he began. “It was a long way from here, in another port, in a country that was a lot bigger than this. It was in a wine-shop—I remember the name: New World.”
The man with the imitation ring pounded on the table for more rum.
“I was acquainted with the girl who was with her—there were two of them and some fellow. I was having a drink with a buddy of mine, and we were sitting there talking about our troubles. They say there’s no such thing as love at first sight, that it’s all a lie.”
The prostitute leaned her head on the blond sailor and tightened her grip on his brawny arm. Suddenly the squalor of the wine-shop was drenched with song—a woman’s voice, singing:
“He went away, never more to return. . . . ”
They sat listening. The man with the imitation ring was sipping his rum as if it were a rare liqueur, as he waited with an anxious look on his face for the man in the sky-blue vest to continue.
“But what difference does it make?” said the latter, and again he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Just look at the moon, how big and pretty it is,” whispered the prostitute, drawing nearer to her blond. “It’s been a long time since I saw it like that.”
“Go ahead! Tell us the rest of it!” said the man with the imitation ring.
“Well, then, as I was saying, there I was sitting with a friend, having a little drop. He was complaining about what a hard life it was. He was in the dumps, and I was, myself, when she came in. She came in with another girl—did I tell you that?”
“Yes, you told us that,” said the blond sailor, who was becoming interested in the story. Even the Spaniard who kept the shop leaned on the bar to listen to the tale. The woman’s voice, singing, came faintly out of the mysterious depths of the night. The man in the sky-blue vest made an appreciative gesture toward the sailor, and went on:
“Well, then, that’s how it was. She came in with the other girl and some fellow. I knew the other girl; I’d been out with her—but, mates, I’m telling you, I didn’t even see her, you might say—all I could see was the other one.”
“Was she brown-skinned?” asked the man with the imitation ring, who had a fondness for that kind.
“Brown-skinned? No, she wasn’t brown-skinned, nor blond either, but she was pretty—she was like a foreigner, someone from another country.”
“I know how it is,” said the blond sailor, who came from a seagoing vessel. The man with the sky-blue vest made another gesture of appreciation.
The prostitute was snuggling up against her new-found friend.
“You know everything,” she whispered to him, with a smile. “Just look at the moon—big, big—and so yellow.”
“As this lad says,” and the man in the sky-blue vest pursed his lip at the sailor, “you would have thought she had just got off a boat that came from some place far away. I don’t even know how I happened to sit down with her—it must have been my buddy who struck up a conversation with the other one, and she told her friend who we were and we got to talking. What we talked about I couldn’t tell you—all I could do was look at her, and she had nothing to say. All she did was laugh, with her white teeth, whiter even than sand on the beach. It was my friend all the while who was doing the talking, telling them all about his troubles. The girl I knew, she talked, too—I think she was trying to cheer him up, but to tell you the truth, I couldn’t say. The strange girl and the fellow who was with them didn’t say a word—she just laughed.” He smiled at the memory, and then went on: “—such a short, sharp little laugh—I never heard anyone laugh the way she did. And her eyes—” He paused at the recollection. “I can’t say what her eyes were like.” He spread out his hands. “She seemed to me like a woman in a story which black Asterio used to tell on board that Swedish ship, the one that went down on the Coqueiros Reef.”
The man with the imitation ring put his foot out into the moonlight, and spit.
“And the guy she had with her,” he asked, “was he the skipper of that likely little craft?”
“I can’t say. He didn’t appear to be. He seemed more like a friend, but I couldn’t be sure. All I know is that she laughed and laughed, with those white teeth and her white face, and her eyes.”
He now put his fingers into the pockets of his sky-blue vest, being without anything else for his hands to do, seeing that he had drained his glass.
“And what happened?” said the man with the ring.
“They paid and the three of them left. I did the same, but I went back to that wine-shop so many times! Once I saw her again. She came from some place far away. I’m certain of that. From very far away—she wasn’t from this country.”
“The moonlight’s so pretty,” said the prostitute, and the sailor noticed that her eyes were sad. There was something that she wanted to say, but she could not find the words.
“—from far away—who knows? From beyond the sea, maybe? All I know is that she came and went. That’s all I know. She took no notice of me; but to this day I remember that way she had of laughing, and her teeth, and how white she was. And the dress she wore!” He almost shouted with joy at recalling this fresh detail—“that dress with the open sleeves.”
He drained his cup and stuck out his lip; he was cheerful no longer. The woman’s voice singing in the lyric night came to them languorously:
“He went away, never more to return. . . .”
“And then?” said the man with the imitation ring once more. The man in the sky-blue vest made no reply; the prostitute could not tell whether he was gazing at the moon or at something which she could not
see, beyond the moon and the stars, beyond the sky, even, beyond the night that was so calm and still. She did not know, either, why it was she felt like weeping. But before the tears would come, she had left with the blond sailor to make the most of the moonlit night.
The Spaniard was leaning on the bar to hear the adventures that the man with the imitation ring might have to relate, but the one in the sky-blue vest was once more indifferent as he gazed up at the yellow disk above. In the midst of a story about a wench he had known, which he was telling with sweeping gestures, the man with the ring stopped. Turning to the proprietor and pointing to the blue vest, he said:
“I’m asking you, now: doesn’t he look just like a snail?”
2
While men sat talking on the wharves that night, the city of Ilhéos was tossing in a restless sleep, its slumbers being interrupted by rumours that kept arriving from Ferradas, from Tabocas, and from Sequeiro Grande. The struggle between Horacio and the Badarós had begun. The two weekly papers that were published in the town were exchanging violent insults, each one praising its own party leaders and dragging those of the opposition through the mire. The best journalist was the one who could think up the most outrageous invectives. Nothing was sacred, including the private and family lives of the individuals involved.
Manuel de Oliveira, editor of O Comercio, the Badarós’ paper, was watching the poker game from a seat behind Juca. The other players were Colonel Ferreirinha, Teodoro das Baraúnas, and João Magalhães. Ferreirinha, who had met the captain on the boat coming down from Bahia, had introduced him to Juca Badaró.
“An educated chap,” he had said, “very rich, travels for the pleasure of it, a retired captain, an engineer.”
Juca had come into the city on a matter having to do with the forest of Sequeiro Grande. But as it happened, Dr. Roberto, the surveyor, was not in Ilhéos; he had left on a trip to Bahia; and Juca was in a hurry to have the surveying done so that he could register the property. Accordingly, when he had heard that there was an engineer in town, he had felt that his problem was solved.