Sinhô had no objections. “He can marry her,” he said, “and have the land besides. The next time I go into Ilhéos, I will have Genaro enter title for him at the registry office. He’s a good mulatto. And Raimunda, she’s all right, too. I promised her father that I would take care of her when the time came for her to marry. I give my consent.”
He was about to raise his voice and summon Raimunda and Don’ Ana to tell them the news, when at a motion from Juca, he paused.
“I have another marriage offer to lay before you.”
“Another one? Are you becoming the St. Anthony of the plantation hands?”
“This is not one of the hands.”
“Who is it, then?”
Juca was trying to find a way of broaching the subject. “You know,” he said, “Raimunda and Don’ Ana are both the same age; they were both suckled at black Risoleta’s breast; they grew up together; it would be nice if they could be married together.”
“Don’ Ana?” Sinhô Badaró narrowed his eyes and ran a hand down his beard.
“It’s Captain João Magalhães. He spoke to me about it in Ilhéos. He seems to be a right kind of fellow.”
Sinhô shut his eyes, then opened them.
“I saw how things were in that quarter,” he said. “I could see how flustered Don’ Ana was in the captain’s presence—both here and at the procession.”
“Well, what do you think about it?”
“No one really knows him,” said Sinhô reflectively. “He says he’s this, that, and the other thing. Lord knows what, down in Rio. But no one really knows anything about him. What do you know yourself?”
“I don’t know anything more about him than you do, but I don’t think it makes any difference. This is a new country, Sinhô; everything is new down here; you know that very well. Everybody starts from nothing, and it is by what he makes of himself afterwards that you judge a man. Who knows what he was before he came here? It’s what lies ahead of him that counts. And the captain impresses me as being a man who’s capable of taking care of himself; he has nerve.”
“It may be.”
“He went ahead and surveyed that land without any legal right to do so. I know he did that for the money and not out of friendship; but it’s not for her money that he wants Don’ Ana; he’s in love with her. I know people as well as I know land. He’d marry her if she didn’t have a penny and he had to start clean as a whistle. He has nerve, that’s the main thing; it’s better than loafing around and complaining all the time.”
Sinhô was thinking it over, his eyes half-shut, his hands stroking his black beard.
“There’s one thing I want to say to you,” Juca went on. “You have only one child, a daughter, and I have none, nor am I likely to have, for the doctor has told me that it is out of the question so far as Olga is concerned. One of these days they are going to bring me down with a bullet, you know that as well as I do. Some enemy of mine will get me—I’ll never live to see the end of this business. And then, when you get to be an old man, who is the Badaró who is going to gather cacao and pick the mayor of Ilhéos? Who, I ask you?”
Sinhô did not reply.
“He’s a man of our own sort,” continued Juca. “What if he is nothing but a professional gambler, as they tell me? Isn’t all this a gamble in the end? We need a man like that in the family, one who can take my place when they put me out of the way.”
Striding across the room, he took up his riding-whip from a bench and began tapping his boots.
“You could marry her to a professional man, a doctor or a lawyer, but what would that get you? The fellow would merely live off the profits of cacao without ever planting a grove or felling a forest; he would simply run around spending it. But the captain’s been around; what he wants now is to become a cacao-planter. That is why I think it is a good thing.”
Raimunda came into the room to sweep it, but Sinhô made a gesture for her to leave.
“What I said to him was this: ‘There’s only one thing, captain. Whoever marries Don’ Ana has to take her name. I know it’s contrary to custom; it’s the woman who takes the man’s name. But in Don’ Ana’s case her husband has to become a Badaró.’”
“And what did he say to that?”
“He didn’t like it at first. The Magalhães family, he said, was all this and all that; but when he saw there was no getting around it, he agreed.”
Sinhô Badaró now called to the other room: “Don’ Ana! Raimunda! Come here!”
The two of them came in. Don’ Ana appeared to suspect what her father and her uncle had been talking about. Raimunda had a broom in her hand, for she thought that they were calling her to do the sweeping. It was to the mulatto girl that Sinhô spoke first:
“Antonio Victor wants to marry you. I’ve given my consent. I’m also giving you the land in back of the Border Line Grove as a dowry. Does that suit you?”
Raimunda did not know in which direction to look: “If godfather thinks it is all right—”
“Very well, then, get ready for the wedding. We don’t want to lose any time. You may go.”
Raimunda left, and Sinhô then called Don’ Ana over to where he sat.
“I have a request for your hand, also, my daughter. Juca thinks it is all right, but I don’t know what to say. It is that captain who was down here. How do you feel about it?”
Don’ Ana was like Raimunda in Antonio Victor’s presence, her eyes on the floor, her hands toying with her skirt; she was at a loss for words.
“It was Captain João Magalhães?”
“That’s who it was. Do you like him?”
“Yes, Father, I do.”
Sinhô Badaró slowly stroked his beard. “Get the Bible. We will see what it says.”
Then it was that Don’ Ana took her eyes from the floor, her hands from her skirt; her voice was strong and resolute:
“Whatever it says, Father, there’s only one man in the world that I would marry, and that’s the captain. Even without your blessing.”
Saying this, she dropped at her father’s feet and clasped his legs.
8
Dr. Jessé had to go away in the middle of the performance, leaving the amateurs of the Tabocas Group without a stage director or a prompter. This somewhat spoiled the show, as a number of the actors were not letter-perfect in their parts and had to rely on the prompter. It did not make a great deal of difference, however, for the townspeople had little time to spend in commenting on Social Vampires. The man who had come in search of Dr. Jessé had brought with him a piece of news that created a commotion: Horacio was ill, laid low with fever. And so it was that the doctor had to leave in the middle of things. Stowing the various remedies in his bag, he mounted his horse at once and was off, accompanied by the messenger. The news none the less flew from mouth to mouth down the aisles; and when at eleven o’clock the next morning Ester got off the train and, without stopping for lunch, mounted the horse waiting at the station and rode away surrounded by cabras, the whole of Tabocas by that time knew that Horacio had caught the fever while helping to care for Silvio, who had died three days before.
Silvio’s widow had already begun a novena for Horacio, “such a good man,” as she said. Indifferent to gossip, Virgilio had accompanied Ester as far as Tabocas, but he did not go to the plantation that day. He would come out if the colonel took a turn for the worse. He, too, now carried a revolver, ever since he had learned of Juca Badaró’s escape from ambush. The town, meanwhile, lived in expectation of the next messenger who should come for medicine. Dr. Jessé’s office was closed, and his wife was informing patients that the doctor would not be back until Colonel Horacio had “passed the crisis,” a statement that was interpreted by the local residents to mean that Dr. Jessé would come back accompanied by Horacio’s corpse, for none ever recovered from that fever. Innumerable cases of plantation hands, colonels, profess
ional men, merchants, were cited to bear this out. And once again among the pious old ladies the story began circulating about the Devil in a bottle, who one day would come out to carry off Horacio’s soul. It was said that Friar Bento was already on his way from Tabocas to the plantation to give the colonel extreme unction and to confess him and absolve him of his sins.
But Horacio did not die. A week later his fever began going down, until it had left him completely. It was in all likelihood his rugged frame rather than Dr. Jessé’s medicines that had saved him, for he was a man without vices or physical weaknesses and with perfect organs. And no sooner had his fever begun subsiding than he ordered his men to start the felling of the forest of Sequeiro Grande. Virgilio was summoned out to the plantation, for the colonel wished to consult him regarding certain legal fine points. He had been out once before, but Horacio at that time was delirious and was raving of cacao, of forests being felled, groves planted, and crops harvested, as he shouted orders to his men. Ester, a thin little wraith of a figure, would not leave the sick man’s bed, but exhibited a boundless devotion. When Virgilio had come the first time, she had merely asked him for news of her child in Ilhéos, and he had scarcely had an opportunity to see her alone. When he did see her and kiss her, it was but for a moment, as she was returning from the kitchen to the bedroom with a basin of hot water. They had exchanged but a few words, and Virgilio felt hurt, as if he had been betrayed. There was, further, a look of veiled uneasiness in his eyes, as if he felt that he was to blame for Horacio’s illness and for his death, which he regarded as inevitable—as if the colonel had fallen ill in fulfilment of the young attorney’s hidden wishes. He realized that Ester shared this feeling; but all the same, her attitude hurt him, as if she had been unfaithful to him.
When Horacio, out of danger now, summoned him for the consultation, Virgilio endeavoured to put on an aggrieved look with Ester, whose own face wore a tired and downcast expression. Clad in his nightgown, the colonel was lying between the white sheets, and his wife was seated on the bed, one of her husband’s hands in hers. Never had Horacio felt so happy, now that Ester’s devotion had been put to the test. His high spirits made him want to be active, and he began giving orders not only to the workmen, but also to Maneca Dantas and Braz, who had come to visit him that day. Virgilio, as he came into the room, bent down and embraced the colonel, gave Ester a cold hand-clasp, embraced Maneca Dantas also, and proffered his congratulations to Dr. Jessé “on the miracle he had performed.” Horacio laughed at this.
“Next to God,” he said, “the one that saved me, doctor, was this girl here,” and he pointed to Ester. Then he apologized to Dr. Jessé: “Of course, my friend, you did all you could—medicines, treatment, what the devil. But if it hadn’t been for her, who didn’t sleep a wink all this time, I don’t even know—”
Ester rose and left the room, and Virgilio, without noticing, took the place on the bed that she had left vacant. Beneath him he could feel the body-warmth of his beloved, and a sudden anger at Horacio came over him. Horacio had not died. For an instant Virgilio permitted his most deeply hidden thoughts to come into his heart. He had not died. Ah, if he could only send out and have him killed!
For some time he paid no attention to the conversation, being wholly absorbed in his thoughts. It was a question put to him by Maneca Dantas: “And what do you think about it, doctor?” that brought him back to his surroundings.
Afterwards he met Ester down near the troughs. She clung to him, sobbing. “You don’t think I ought to have done that, do you? I couldn’t do anything else.”
He was deeply moved by this, and caressed her loved body underneath her clothing. He kissed her eyes, her face—then broke off suddenly. “Why, you’ve got fever!”
She assured him that it was not that; she was just tired. Kissing him again and again, she begged him to stay at the plantation that night; she would be able to visit his room as she came and went about the house, caring for the sick man. He promised, touched by her entreaties and being anxious for her caresses. It was only when they saw a group of labourers coming down the road that he let her go.
At dinner, however, Ester was unable to eat or to remain seated at the table. Complaining of cold chills and seized by a fit of vomiting, she left the room. Virgilio turned very pale. “She’s caught the fever!” he said to Dr. Jessé. The doctor rose and went in search of Ester, who was locked in the toilet. Virgilio also rose, paying little regard to the presence of Maneca Dantas and Braz. He stood at the doctor’s side in the hallway until Ester opened the door, her eyes glowing strangely.
“Do you feel bad?” he asked, taking her by the arm. She gave him an affectionate smile and pressed his hand lightly.
“No, it’s nothing. It’s just that I can’t stand on my feet. I’m going to lie down for a while. I’ll be back.”
Then, giving directions to Felicia, she went into the room where Virgilio had slept that night long ago, on his first visit to the plantation. He stood in the hall and watched her as she lay stretched out on the bed. Dr. Jessé came in after her and, begging Virgilio’s pardon, closed the door behind him. From the front room Horacio called, to know what was going on. Virgilio now went into the colonel’s bedroom.
“She’s caught the fever,” he announced in a shaken voice. He wanted to say something more and could not, but stood there staring at Horacio. The colonel’s eyes opened wide, his mouth gaped; he, too, wanted to speak, but could not get the words out. He was like a man hurtling through the air with nothing to which to cling. Virgilio felt like embracing him, like mourning and weeping with him, the two of them together, two poor wretches.
9
It was the unanimous opinion in Ilhéos that the Badarós obviously had the advantage in the struggle for the possession of Sequeiro Grande. It was not merely what the pious old ladies said in the church sacristies; the knowing ones were saying it in the wine-shops as well, and even the lawyers at court; all were agreed that the Badaró brothers had practically won the victory, thanks in no small part to Horacio’s illness. The court proceedings were at a standstill, having been brought to a stop by the opposing petitions of Lawyer Genaro, which the judge had granted. And Juca Badaró had already gone into the forest, was clearing that portion of it which bordered on the Sant’ Ana Plantation, and had begun burning over the land.
It was true the shooting affrays still kept up, with Maneca Dantas, Jarde, Braz, Firmo, Zé da Ribeira, and the other small planters of the vicinity doing all in their power to impede the efforts of the Badarós’ men. Maneca Dantas had laid an ambush for the workmen as they were going out to cut down the trees in one part of the forest, and this had led to a big gun-battle. And Braz with a few men had invaded the workers’ camp on a night when Juca was not there. But in spite of all this the work went forward and the Badarós had won a foothold in the tract.
The attacks by Horacio’s followers then flared with greater violence than ever. And so, while Juca was accompanying and guarding the workers, Teodoro das Baraúnas took the offensive. Appearing one night at José da Ribeira’s plantation, he set fire to the latter’s store of dried cacao, causing the loss of two hundred and fifty hundredweight which had already been sold. He also fired the manihot plantations, and Zé da Ribeira had great difficulty in putting out the blaze.
In Ilhéos people were saying that, after having set fire to Venancio’s registry office, Teodoro das Baraúnas had become a pyromaniac. In A Folha de Ilhéos he was never otherwise referred to than as “the incendiary.” Lawyer Ruy even wrote a famous article in which he compared Teodoro to Nero, fiddling while Rome burned, José da Ribeira and his workmen being compared to the “early Christians, victims of the criminal and bloodthirsty madness of this modern Nero, more monstrous even than the degenerate Roman Emperor.” Of all the articles published during the Sequeiro Grand fracases, this was the one that achieved the widest renown, being reprinted by the opposition daily in Bahia under the heading
: “Crimes of the Government Party in Ilhéos.” Criminal proceedings were started against Teodoro.
But what definitely turned the tide of opinion in favour of the Badarós was the fact that Horacio, even after he had recovered, had not been able to begin felling the forest on the side that bordered his own plantation. This lack of energy on his part was attributed to Ester’s illness; but be that as it might, the fact was that the workers and jagunços sent out by the colonel had returned once or twice without having been able to start the clearing and burning. This time it was Sinhô Badaró himself who for two nights in succession led the attacking party against Jarde’s camp; and Horacio’s men had ended by abandoning the undertaking. Braz alone, with a few of his followers, had been able to burn over a small plot, but it was as nothing compared to the Badaró clearings.
Even so, there were those who were betting on Horacio. They based their opinion chiefly on the colonel’s larger fortune; for he was a man with much money in the bank and was capable of carrying on the struggle for a long time. Not only did the felling and planting eat up money, but above all there was the tremendous cost of maintaining an army of ruffians. In addition to all this, Sinhô Badaró was getting ready to marry off his daughter, and he wanted to do it in grand style. He had sent to Rio de Janeiro for a multitude of things and was completely remodeling his house in Ilhéos, adding to it a whole new wing in which the young married couple were to live. He was even giving the Big House at the plantation a coat of paint; and meanwhile, dressmakers and lace-makers were busily at work on the bride’s wardrobe; for the marriage of a colonel’s daughter was an event. The bride-to-be had to have enough linen to last her for many years, and it would afterwards serve for her children and grandchildren: counterpanes, sheets, coverlets, pillowcases, table napkins, all of them richly embroidered. Messengers were sent out into the backlands to buy up the finest of lace. All in all, what with paying the jagunços who were hired to kill, and paying the dressmakers, shoemakers, and others who clothed and shod the bride, money was freely spent. In Ilhéos there was almost as much talk of this marriage as there was of the Sequeiro Grande frays. João Magalhães had left the city and gone out to the plantation to aid Juca with the clearing; but from time to time he would come back to Ilhéos for his game at the café, to pick up a little money at poker. At the Big House he had no expenses and was able to economize.