The Violent Land

by Jorge Amado

  The men, seated around the cadaver, were drinking rum and telling stories. Stories of snakes, the story of José da Tararanga, who was forever drunk and who one night came home staggering, a lantern in his right hand and a flask of rum in his left hand. At the curve of the road the bushmaster made a leap for the lantern and bowled José over. As soon as he felt the snake’s first bite, José opened the flask and drank everything that was in it. The next day, as the men went along to work in the groves, they found him asleep, and the bushmaster was sleeping, too, curled up on José’s chest. After killing the snake, they found that José had seventeen bites in all, but he was none the worse for it on account of the rum. The alcohol had diluted the poison. The only thing was, he swelled up as big as a horse for a couple of weeks, but after that he was as right as ever.

  They also told stories of “snake-charmers,” those who were immune to the serpent’s bite, who would even pick them up along the highway and remain unharmed. There was Agostinho, on the next plantation; he was a “charmer”; a snake would never do him any harm. Why, merely for the fun of it, he would put out his arm for them to bite.

  Joanna, the pack-driver’s wife, who drank as much as any of the men, then began telling of something that had happened on the backlands ranch where she had lived before moving to these parts, here in the south. The family had come down to the Big House to spend their vacation; and one day a snake made its way into the house. They always came down at the end of the year; and this year they were very happy because a child had just been born to them, their first one, for they had been married only a little over a year and a half. But the snake came in and curled up in the baby’s cradle. The baby was crying for its mother’s breast, and so, in its innocence, it took the snake’s tail in its mouth. They found the infant the next day, the tail of the sleeping serpent still in its mouth; but it was no longer sucking on it, for the poison had taken effect. The lady of the house then ran out through the fields, her golden hair flying in the wind, her feet bare and white—Joanna had never seen any feet as white as they were—as she ran along over the thorns and briers. They said that she was never quite right in the head after that, but became an idiot and grew ugly, lost all her beauty of face and figure. Before that, she had been like one of those foreign dolls, but afterwards she was nothing but an old hag. The Big House was always closed after that; the family never came back. The ivy grew all over the verandas, and weeds crept into the kitchen; and those who go by there today can hear the hisses of the snakes that make their nests inside the house.

  Joanna ended her story, took another drink of rum, and spat, then turned around to look at Ester; but Ester was no longer there; she was running toward the house, to her own baby’s cradle, as if she, too, had gone mad.

  On the veranda now, with the bright sun playing about her, Ester remembered this and other nights of terror. From Paris Lucia had written her, letters that arrived three months later and brought news of another mode of life, other people, of civilization and festivities. Here was the forest night, the nights of storm and snakes. Nights for weeping over her own unfortunate lot. Twilights that clutched the heart, taking away all hope. Hope of what? Everything was so very, very definite in her life.

  There were other nights also when she wept. When she saw Horacio leave at the head of a group of men on some expedition or other. She knew that on that night, somewhere, shots would ring out, that men would die for a plot of earth in order that Horacio’s plantation, which was hers as well, might be augmented by another bit of forest. From Paris Lucia wrote, telling of balls at the Embassy, operas, concerts. And here in the plantation Big House the grand piano waited for a tuner who never came.

  Ah, those nights when Horacio left with his men on armed expeditions! Once, after he had gone, Ester tried to picture to herself what his death would mean. If he were to die—then the plantation would be hers alone, she would turn it over to her father to manage, and she would go away. She would go to join Lucia. . . . But it was a short-lived dream. For Ester, Horacio was immortal; he was the master, the boss, the “colonel.” She was certain that she would die before he did. He disposed of land, of money, and of men. He was made of iron, was never ill; it seemed as though bullets knew and feared him. For this reason she did not lull herself with the dream that was at once so wicked and so marvellous. There was no hope for her; she could not even lift a hand. Her life was what it was; this was her destiny. And to think that in Ilhéos many a young girl doubtless envied her! She was Dona Ester, wife of the richest man in the Tabocas region, the political leader, master of so many cacao plantations and so much virgin forest land.

  She barely had time to dry her tears as Horacio came up to the hammock. In his hand was a small cacao pod, the first from the new grove.

  “The grove is bearing already,” he said, half smiling.

  He stood there, unable to understand why she had been weeping.

  “What the devil are you crying for?” he said angrily. “Is that all you do? What’s the matter, don’t you have everything you want? Is there anything you lack?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Ester, stifling a sob. “I’m silly.”

  She took the cacao fruit because she knew this would please her husband. Horacio was smiling jovially now; he was happy in the possession of his wife as his eyes ran down her body. They were the only things in the world that he loved: Ester and cacao.

  “Why are you crying, foolish girl?” he asked, seating himself beside her in the hammock.

  “I’m not crying now.”

  Horacio was thoughtful for a moment; then he spoke, his eyes wandering in the direction of the groves as he held the cacao pod in his calloused hand.

  “When the little fellow grows up”—he always referred to the child as “the little fellow”—“he’s going to find all this full of groves, all under cultivation.” He was silent for some time; then he added: “My son’s not going to have to live stuck off here in the backwoods like us. I’m going to put him into politics; he’s going to be deputy and Governor. That’s why I make money.”

  He smiled at Ester and let his hand run over her body.

  “Dry those eyes, and go tell them to see that they have a first-rate dinner, for Lawyer Virgilio, the new attorney in Tabocas, is coming here today. And see that you put on your best clothes, too. We want to show that young fellow that we’re not backwoodsmen.”

  He laughed that short laugh of his, and leaving Ester with the cacao pod, he went out to give orders to the workmen. She sat there thinking of the dinner they would have that night, with this what’s-his-name of an attorney. Naturally, he would be like Lawyer Ruy, who got drunk and then stayed on after dessert to spit all over the floor and tell dirty stories. And from Paris Lucia had written letters telling of parties and theatres, gowns, and banquets.

  5

  The two men stood in the doorway; it was the black man who spoke.

  “You sent for us, colonel?”

  Juca Badaró was about to tell them to come in, but his brother made a gesture with his hand to indicate that they should wait outside. The men obeyed and sat down on one of the wooden benches that stood on the broad veranda. Juca was pacing up and down the room, from one end to the other, puffing on his cigarette. He was waiting for his brother to speak. Sinhô Badaró, the head of the family, was taking his ease in a high-backed chair of Austrian make, which contrasted strangely not only with the rest of the furniture, the wooden benches, the cane chairs, the hammocks in the corner, but also with the rustic simplicity of the whitewashed walls. Sinhô Badaró was thinking, his eyes half-shut, his black beard resting on his bosom. Raising his eyes, he glanced at Juca, pacing nervously with his riding-whip in one hand and the puffing cigarette in his mouth. Then he took his eyes away and let them rest on the single picture that hung on the wall, a chromolithograph depicting a European rural scene.

  Sheep were feeding against a soothing dark blue backgroun
d. There were shepherds playing a kind of flute, and a pretty, fair-haired country girl dancing among the ewes. An indescribable peace emanated from that chromo. Sinhô Badaró remembered how he had come to buy it. He had casually entered a shop kept by Syrians in Bahia to get a price on a gold watch. He had caught sight of the picture, and had recalled Don’ Ana’s saying to him not long before that the drawing-room walls needed something to brighten them up a bit. For this reason he had bought it, but only now for the first time did he study it attentively. A peaceful country scene, with those sheep and their flute-playing shepherds and the dancing maiden with the golden hair. Blue, dark blue, almost sky-blue. Quite different from the fields around here, in this land of cacao. Why could not they be like this European one? But Juca Badaró was still striding up and down impatiently, waiting for his elder brother’s decision. Sinhô Badaró hated to see blood flow. None the less, he had many times had to make a decision such as that which Juca expected of him this afternoon. It was not the first time that he had sent one or two of his men to take up their places in “ambush” and wait for someone to come along the road.

  He gazed at the picture. A pretty young woman—rosy cheeks, heavenly eyes. Prettier even than Don’ Ana. And the shepherds, they were quite different from the donkey-drivers here on the plantation, no doubt of that. Sinhô Badaró liked the land, liked planting the land. He liked breeding animals—big, gentle oxen, high-strung horses, and mild-bleating sheep. The thing he loathed was sending men to their death. For this reason he withheld his decision as long as possible and only gave it when there was no other way out. He was the head of the family, it was he who was engaged in building the Badaró fortune, he had to get over what Juca called his “weakness.” He had never before studied that picture closely. That was a very pretty blue—even prettier than some of the calendars they sent out at the end of the year, and there were some very nice calendars.

  Juca Badaró paused in front of his brother.

  “I am telling you, Sinhô,” he said, “there’s nothing else to do. The fellow is stubborn as a mule. He won’t sell the grove; it’s not a matter of money, says he doesn’t need money. And you know, Firmo always did have the reputation of being bullheaded. There’s nothing else to be done.”

  Sadly Sinhô Badaró took his eyes off the chromo.

  “It’s too bad that he’s a man who never did anyone any harm. If it weren’t that this is the only way of extending the plantation on the Sequeiro Grande side—otherwise, it will fall into Horacio’s hands.” His voice altered slightly as he uttered the hateful name. Juca nodded approvingly.

  “If we don’t do something about it, Horacio certainly will. And whoever gets Firmo’s grove holds the key to the forest of Sequeiro Grande.”

  Sinhô Badaró was once more lost in contemplation of the picture.

  “I don’t need to remind you, Sinhô,” Juca continued, “that no one knows cacao land better than I do. You came from outside, but I was born here, and ever since I was a child I’ve learned to know land that is good for planting. Why, I tell you, all I need to do is walk over it and I’ll know what it’s worth. It’s something I have in the soles of my feet. And I can further tell you that there’s no better land for cacao-raising than that of Sequeiro Grande. You know how many nights I’ve spent inside that jungle, looking it over. And if we don’t get there pretty quick, Horacio will be there before us. He has a good scent, too.”

  Sinhô Badaró ran his hand over his black beard.

  “It’s a nasty business, Juca. You are my brother; your mother was the same aged Filomena who bore me, God rest her soul. Your father was the late Marcelino, who was my father as well. Yet the two of us are as different, one from the other, as any two persons in this world could be. You like to solve everything with bullets and with slayings; but there is one thing I wish you would tell me: Do you enjoy killing people? Don’t you feel anything at all? Nothing on the inside? Nothing here?” And Sinhô put a hand to his heart.

  Juca puffed on his cigar, struck his mud-spattered boot with his riding-whip, and resumed his pacing. Then he spoke.

  “If I didn’t know you as I do, Sinhô,” he said, “and if I didn’t respect you as my older brother, I’d be capable of thinking that you are a coward.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Do I like to see people die? I don’t know, myself. When I’m angry with someone, I could cut him up piecemeal. As you know—”

  “And when you’re not angry?”

  “Whenever anyone gets in my way, he’s got to get out, so that I can pass. You are my older brother, and you are the one who settles family matters. Father left you in charge of everything—the groves, the children, me myself. It is you who are making the Badaró fortune. But I am telling you, Sinhô, that if I were in your place, we would have twice as much land as we do have.”

  Sinhô Badaró rose. He was almost six feet tall, and his black beard fell over his chest. His eyes gleamed, his voice filled the room.

  “And when, Juca, did you ever know me to fail to do anything that was necessary? You know very well that I don’t have the taste for blood that you do. But when did I ever fail to have someone put out of the way when it had to be?”

  Juca made no reply. He respected his brother, who was perhaps the only person in the world whom he feared. Sinhô Badaró lowered his voice.

  “It is only that I am not, like you, an assassin. I am a man who does things out of necessity. I have had people done away with, but, as God is my witness, I have only done it when there was no other way out. I know, that is not going to help me any when the day comes to settle accounts up there,” and he pointed to the ceiling, “but it means something to me at least.”

  Juca waited for his brother to grow a little more calm.

  “And all this on account of Firmo,” he said, “a pig-headed idiot. You may call me what you like, it makes no difference to me; but I want to tell you one thing right now: there’s no better land for cacao than that of Sequeiro Grande, and if you want those lands for the Badarós, there is nothing else to be done. Firmo won’t sell his grove.”

  Sinhô Badaró made a gesture. Juca understood and called in the two men from the veranda. But before doing so, he said: “If you like, I’ll explain everything to them.”

  Half closing his eyes, Sinhô sat down in the high-backed chair.

  “When I make a decision,” he said, “I assume the responsibility. I will speak to them myself.”

  He glanced up at the picture, that soothing blue. If the land in that chromo were only good for raising cacao, he, Sinhô Badaró, would not have to be sending out ruffians to lie in wait behind a tree and do away with those flute-playing shepherds, that rosy-cheeked girl dancing so merrily . . . The men were waiting, and, with an effort, he forgot all about the scene in the picture (the young woman ceasing her dance with the bullet that he was sending) and began giving orders in his usual firm, calm, measured tone of voice.

  6

  Down the highway where the afternoon breeze was carrying a cloud of red dust the two men came, each with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Viriato, a back-country mulatto, was suggesting a wager.

  “I’ll bet you five milreis our man comes from my side.”

  As it happened, the highway forked near Firmo’s little plantation. That was why Sinhô Badaró had sent two men—one for each road. The Negro Damião, who was his trusted man, a crack shot, and as devoted as a hound to his master, was to station himself along the path by which it was most likely that Firmo would come, since it was the shorter route and he would save time that way. Viriato was to wait on the highway, behind a guava tree, at a spot where others had fallen. And now Viriato was proposing a bet, and in spite of the fact that it was almost certain that Firmo would come along the side-road. Damião would not take him. Viriato marvelled at this.

  “What’s the matter with you, brother? Are you short of d
ough?”

  But it was not because he lacked the five milreis, representing two days’ pay, that Damião would not accept the wager. Many times he had bet more than that, on other similar expeditions, on other afternoons like this. Today, however, there was something that kept him from betting.