Barren Lives

by Graciliano Ramos

  “I’d like to see a real man!” he bawled.

  In the hubbub of the square no one heard the challenge, and Fabiano withdrew behind the stands, to the other side of the vendors of sweetmeats. He was in a mean mood but not entirely without a sense of prudence. There back of the stands he could give vent to wrath and spout threats and insults at invisible enemies. Driven by opposing forces, he took certain precautions in exposing himself. He knew that an outburst was dangerous; he was afraid the policeman in khaki might appear suddenly and tramp on his foot with his boot. The policeman was a paltry fellow, but he acted brave in the company of his companions. It was a good idea to avoid him. The thought of him at times was unbearable though, and Fabiano was getting even. Stimulated by the rum he had drunk, he grew bold.

  “Where is that bully? I’d like to see a fellow with nerve enough to say I’m ugly! Aren’t there any real men around here?”

  He stammered out his challenge with a vague fear of being heard. No one appeared. Fabiano blustered and shouted they were all lily-livered cowards. Yes they were! After a lot of yelling, supposing there were men there, hiding from fear of him, he insulted them,

  “Pack of—”

  He stopped in an agony of cold sweat, his mouth full of saliva, unable to find the right word. A pack of what? He had the word on the tip of his tongue, but that tongue was swollen and stiff. Fabiano spat and fixed glassy eyes on his wife and boys. He drew back a few steps, with a feeling of nausea. Then he again approached the area of bright lights, limping, and went and sat down on the sidewalk in front of a store. He felt limp and dispirited; his enthusiasm had chilled. A pack of what? He repeated his question, without knowing what he was seeking. He looked closely at his wife’s face but couldn’t make out her features. Could Vitória be aware of his fluster? There were other back-country men there talking, and Fabiano found them disgusting. If he didn’t feel so qualmish, belching and sweating, he would get into a fight with them. His mind, already befuddled by the question that was troubling him, was further bothered by the thought that those people had no right to sit on the sidewalk. He wanted them to leave him alone with his wife, his boys, and the dog. A pack of what? He gave a harsh cry and slapped his hands together.

  “A pack of dogs!”

  Having discovered the expression that had so stubbornly eluded him, he was elated. A pack of dogs. Obviously, backcountry people like him were no better than dogs. He reached with his hands for his wife and boys and found they were seated beside him. A violent cramp in his neck made his face twist in pain and his mouth again filled with saliva. He started to spit. Calmer, he breathed deeply and wiped a thread of saliva from his chin with his fingers. He was dizzy, and had an annoying buzzing in his ears. He was going to swear that he had been in danger and had shown courage, but at the same time he felt he had done wrong.

  Now he was sluggish and drowsy. While he had been showing off, with a head full of rum, he had paid no attention to the blisters on his feet. Now that he had calmed down, the gaiters hurt entirely too much. He pulled them off, took off his socks, got rid of his collar, tie, and coat, which he rolled up into a pillow, and, stretching out on the sidewalk, he pulled his baize hat over his eyes and went to sleep with a queasy stomach.

  Vitória was in difficulties; there was a certain necessary matter she needed urgently to attend to and she didn’t know how to go about it. She might seek concealment at the other side of the square, behind the stands and the stools on which the vendors of sweetmeats sat. She arose, her mind half made up, then squatted down again. Could she leave the boys with her husband in that state? She restrained herself, looking desperately in every direction, for her need was great. She slipped away unobtrusively and came to the corner of the store, where a crowd of women were squatting. And, staring at the house fronts and the paper lanterns, she wet the ground and the feet of the other country women. She made her way slowly back to her family, took from her pocket her clay pipe, packed and lit it, and gave long puffs of satisfaction. Having relieved herself, she looked with interest at the people swarming in the square, the auction table, and the bright trails of the rockets. Really, life wasn’t too bad. She gave a shiver as she thought of the drought, of the terrible trek they had made under the burning sun, seeing nothing but bones and twisted branches. She wiped the recollection from her mind, turning to the beautiful things there at hand. The noise of the crowd was pleasant to hear; the drone of the hurdy-gurdy at the merry-go-round never ceased. All Vitória needed for life to be good was a bed like Tomás the miller’s. She sighed, thinking of the bed of tree branches on which they slept, and squatted there smoking, her eyes and ears wide open so as to lose nothing of the festivities.

  The boys exchanged impressions in a whisper, worried at the disappearance of the dog. They tugged at their mother’s sleeve. What could have happened to the dog? Vitória raised her arm in a vague gesture and pointed in a couple of directions with the stem of her pipe. The boys persisted in their questioning. Where could the dog be? Indifferent to the church, the paper lanterns, the stands with things for sale, the gaming tables, and the rockets, they concentrated solely on the legs of the passers-by. Poor thing, she must be lost among them, getting kicked by all those feet.

  Suddenly the dog appeared. She jumped up on the sidewalk, dived through the women’s skirts, climbed over Fabiano, and came up to her friends, her tongue and tail manifesting a lively contentment. The older boy grabbed her. She was safe! They tried to make her understand that they had been greatly worried about her, but she paid no attention to their explanation. She just thought they were wasting time in a funny place full of strange odors. She felt like barking in opposition to all this, but realizing that she wouldn’t win anyone to her way of thinking she dropped her tail and curled up, resigned to the caprices of her masters.

  The boys were of an opinion similar to hers. Looking at the stores, the stands, and the auction table, they conferred together in amazement. They had accepted the fact that there were a lot of people in the world, and now they busied themselves with the discovery of a huge number of things. They discussed in a whisper the surprises with which they were filled. It was impossible to imagine so many marvelous things all at one time. The younger boy timidly expressed a doubt to his brother: Could all that have been made by people? The older boy hesitated. He looked at the stores, at the stands with their lights, and at the girls in their pretty dresses. He shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps it had all been made by people. Then a new problem presented itself to his mind and he whispered it in his brother’s ear: In all probability those things had names. The younger boy looked at him questioningly. Yes, surely all the precious things exhibited on the altars and on the shelves in the stores had names.

  They began to discuss the perplexing question. How could men keep so many words in their heads? It was impossible; no one could have so vast a store of knowledge. Free of names, things seemed distant and mysterious. They had not been made by people and it was imprudent for people to meddle with them. Seen from afar they were pretty. Filled with admiration and awe the boys talked in low voices so as not to unleash the strange forces the things might contain.

  The dog was drowsing. From time to time she shook her head and wrinkled her muzzle. The city was full of smells of sweat which she found disconcertingly unfamiliar.

  Vitória seemed to see amid the stands the bed of Tomás the miller—a real, honest-to-goodness bed.

  Fabiano, lying on his back, snored, the brim of his hat covering his eyes, his head resting on his thin-leather gaiters. He was having a nightmare, and the dog noted that he gave off a smell which rendered him unrecognizable. Fabiano tossed and made noises. Many policemen in khaki had appeared and were trampling on his feet with enormous military boots, threatening him with terrible knives.

  The Dog

  The dog was dying. She had grown thin and her hair had fallen out in several spots. Her ribs showed through the pink skin and flies covered dark blotches that suppurated and bled. Sor
es on her mouth and swollen lips made it hard for her to eat and drink.

  Fabiano, thinking she was coming down with rabies, tied a rosary of burnt corncob about her neck. The dog, however, only went from bad to worse. She rubbed against the posts of the corral or plunged impatiently into the brush, trying to shake off the gnats by flapping her dangling ears and swishing her short, hairy tail, thick at the base and coiled like a rattlesnake’s.

  So Fabiano decided to put an end to her. He went to look for his flintlock, polished it, cleaned it out with a bit of wadding, and went about loading it with care so the dog wouldn’t suffer unduly.

  Vitória shut herself up in the bedroom, dragging the children with her. They were frightened and, sensing misfortune, kept asking,

  “Is the dog going to be hurt?”

  They had seen the lead shot and the powder horn, and Fabiano’s gestures worried them, causing them to suspect that the dog was in danger.

  She was like a member of the family. There was hardly any difference to speak of between her and the boys. The three of them played together, rolling in the sand of the riverbed or in the loose manure, which, as it piled up, threatened to cover the goat pen.

  The boys tried to push the latch and open the door, but Vitória dragged them over to the bed of tree branches, where she did her best to stop their ears, holding the head of the older between her thighs and putting her hands over the ears of the younger. Angry at the resistance they offered, she tried to hold them down by force, grumbling fiercely the while.

  She too had a heavy heart, but she was resigned. Obviously Fabiano’s decision was necessary and just. The poor dog!

  Listening, she heard the noise of the shot being poured down the barrel of the gun, and the dull taps of the ramrod on the wadding. She sighed. The poor dog!

  The boys began to yell and kick. Vitória had relaxed her muscles, and the bigger one was able to escape. She swore.

  “Limb of Satan!”

  In the struggle to get hold of the rebel again she really lost her temper. The little devil! She gave him a crack on the head, which he had plunged under the bedcovers and her flowered skirt.

  Gradually her wrath diminished and, rocking the children, she began grumbling about the sick dog, muttering harsh names and expressions of contempt. The sight of the slobbering animal was enough to turn your stomach. It wasn’t right for a mad dog to go running loose in the house. But then she realized she was being too severe. She thought it unlikely that the dog had gone mad and wished her husband had waited one more day to see whether it was really necessary to put the animal out of the way.

  At that moment Fabiano was walking in the shed, snapping his fingers. Vitória drew in her neck and tried to cover her ears with her shoulders. As this was impossible, she raised her arms and, without letting go of her son, managed to cover a part of her head.

  Fabiano walked through the lean-to, staring off toward the brauna trees and the gates, setting an invisible dog on invisible cattle.

  “Sic ’em, sic ’em!”

  Crossing the sitting room and the corridor, he came to the low kitchen window, from which, on examining the yard, he saw the dog scratching herself, rubbing the bare spots of her hide against the Jerusalem thorn. Fabiano raised the musket to his cheek. The dog eyed her master distrustfully and slipped sulkily around to the other side of the tree trunk, where she crouched with only her black eyes showing. Bothered by this maneuver on her part, Fabiano leaped out the window and stole along the corral fence to the corner post, where he again raised the arm to his cheek. As the animal was turned toward him and did not offer a very good target, he took a few more steps. On reaching the catingueira trees, he adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger. The load hit the dog in the hindquarters, putting one leg out of action. The dog began to yelp desperately.

  Hearing the shot and the yelps, Vitória called upon the Virgin Mary, while the boys rolled on the bed, weeping aloud. Fabiano withdrew.

  The dog fled in haste. She rounded the clay pit, went through the little garden to the left, passed close by the pinks and the pots of wormwood, slipped through a hole in the fence, and reached the yard, running on three legs. She had taken the direction of the shed but, fearing to meet Fabiano, she withdrew toward the goat pen. There she stopped for a moment, not knowing where to go, and then set off again, hopping along aimlessly.

  In front of the oxcart her other back leg failed her, but, though bleeding profusely, she continued on her two front legs, dragging her hindquarters along as best she could. She wanted to retreat under the cart, but she was afraid of the wheel. She directed her course toward the jujube trees. There under one of the roots was a deep hole full of soft dirt in which she liked to wallow, covering herself with dust against the flies and gnats. When she would arise, with dry leaves and twigs sticking to her sores, she was a very different-looking animal.

  She fell before reaching this distant refuge. She tried to get up, raising her head and stretching out her forelegs, but her body remained on its flank. In this twisted position she could scarcely move, though she scraped with her paws, digging her nails into the ground, pulling at the small pebbles. Finally she drooped and lay quiet beside the heap of stones where the boys threw dead snakes.

  A horrible thirst burned her throat. She tried to look at her legs but couldn’t make them out, for a mist veiled her sight. A desire came over her to bite Fabiano. She set up a yelp, but it was not really a yelp, just a faint howl that grew weaker and weaker until it was almost imperceptible.

  Finding the sun dazzling, she managed to inch into a sliver of shade at the side of the stones.

  She looked at herself again, worried. What was happening to her? The mist seemed ever thicker and closer.

  A good smell of cavies drifted down to her from the hill, but it was faint and mingled with that of other creatures. The hill seemed to have grown far, far away. She wrinkled her muzzle, breathing the air slowly, desirous of climbing the slope and giving chase to the cavies, as they jumped and ran about in freedom.

  She began to pant with difficulty, feigning a bark. She ran her tongue over her parched lips, but felt no relief. The smell was ever fainter: the cavies must certainly have fled.

  She forgot them and once more had the desire to bite Fabiano, who appeared before her half-glazed eyes with a strange object in his hand. She didn’t recognize it, but she began to tremble, sure that it held a disagreeable surprise for her. She made an effort to avoid it, pulling in her tail. Deciding it was out of harm’s way, she closed her leaden eyes. She couldn’t bite Fabiano; she had been born near him, in a bedroom, under a bed of tree branches, and her whole life had been spent in submission to him, barking to round up the cattle when the herdsman clapped his hands.

  The unknown object continued to threaten her. She held her breath, covered her teeth, and peered out at her enemy from under her drooping eyelids. Thus she remained for some time, and then grew quiet. Fabiano and the dangerous thing had gone away.

  With difficulty she opened her eyes. Now there was a great darkness. The sun must certainly have disappeared.

  The bells of the goats tinkled down by the riverside; the strong smell of the goat pen spread over the surroundings.

  The dog gave a start. What were those animals doing out at night? It was her duty to get up and lead them to the water hole. She dilated her nostrils, trying to make out the smell of the children. She was surprised by their absence.

  She had forgotten Fabiano. A tragedy had occurred, but the dog did not see in it the cause of her present helplessness nor did she perceive that she was free of responsibilities. Anguish gripped at her small heart. She must mount guard over the goats. At that hour there should be a smell of jaguars along the riverbanks and in the distant tree clumps. Fortunately the boys were sleeping on the straw mat under the corner shelf, where Vitória kept her pipe.

  A cold, misty, winter night enveloped the little creature. There was no sound or sign of life in the surroundings. The old rooster did n
ot crow on his perch, nor did Fabiano snore in the bed of tree branches. These sounds were not in themselves of interest to the dog, but when the rooster flapped his wings and Fabiano turned over, familiar emanations let her know of their presence. Now it seemed as if the ranch had been abandoned.

  The dog took quick breaths, her mouth open, her jaw sagging, her tongue dangling, void of feeling. She didn’t know what had happened. The explosion, the pain in her haunch, her difficult trip from the clay pit to the back of the yard faded out of her mind.

  She was probably in the kitchen, in among the stones on which the cooking was done. Before going to bed, Vitória raked out the coals and ashes, swept the burnt area of the earthen floor with a broom, and left a fine place for a dog to take its rest. The heat kept fleas away and made the ground soft. And when she finally dozed off, a throng of cavies invaded the kitchen, running and leaping.

  A shiver ran up the dog’s body, from her belly to her chest. From her chest down, all was insensibility and forgetfulness, but the rest of her body quivered, and cactus spines penetrated the flesh that had been half eaten away by sickness.

  The dog leaned her weary head on a stone. The stone was cold; Vitória must have let the fire go out very early.

  The dog wanted to sleep. She would wake up happy, in a world full of cavies, and would lick the hands of Fabiano—a Fabiano grown to enormous proportions. The boys would roll on the ground with her in an enormous yard, would wallow with her in an enormous goat pen. The world would be full of cavies, fat and huge.

  Accounts

  In the division of stock at the year’s end, Fabiano received a fourth of the calves and a third of the kids, but as he grew no feed, but merely sowed a few handfuls of beans and corn on the river flat, living on what he bought at the market, he disposed of the animals, never seeing his brand on a calf or his mark on the ear of a kid.