“I must warn you that I have not been authorized by my political friends to negotiate anything tonight,” Epaminondas interrupted him.
“You don’t need their authorization,” the baron replied with an ironic smile. “My dear Epaminondas, let’s not put on a Chinese shadow play. There isn’t time. The situation is extremely serious and you know it. In Rio, in São Paulo, monarchist papers are being attacked and their owners being lynched. The ladies of Brazil are raffling off their jewels and locks of their hair to raise money for the army that’s coming to Bahia. Let us put our cards on the table. There’s nothing else for us to do—except commit suicide.” He took another sip of cognac.
“Since you’re asking me to speak frankly, I’ll confess to you that were it not for what happened to Moreira César in Canudos, I wouldn’t be here, nor would there be any conversations between our two parties,” Epaminondas conceded.
“We’re agreed on that point, then,” the baron said. “I presume that we also agree on what this military mobilization on a grand scale that is being carried out by the federal government throughout the country means for Bahia politically.”
“I don’t know if we see eye to eye on that subject.” Epaminondas picked up his glass, took a sip, savored the aftertaste, and added coldly: “For you and your friends, it’s the end, naturally.”
“It’s the end for you and yours above all, Epaminondas,” the baron replied amiably. “Haven’t you realized? With Moreira César’s death, the Jacobins have suffered a mortal blow. They’ve lost the only prestigious figure they could count on. Yes, my friend, the jagunços have done President Prudente de Moraes and the parliament—that government of ‘pedants’ and ‘cosmopolites’ that you people wanted to overthrow in order to set up your Dictatorial Republic—a favor. Moraes and the politicians in São Paulo are going to take advantage of this crisis to clear all the Jacobins out of the army and the administration. There were always very few of them and now they’re without a head. You, too, will be swept out in this purge. That’s why I sent for you. What with the huge army that’s coming to Bahia, we’re going to find ourselves in trouble. The federal government will name a military and political leader to take over this state, someone whom Prudente de Moraes trusts, and the Assembly will lose all its power, or even be closed down, since it will no longer serve any purpose. Every form of local power will disappear from Bahia and we’ll be a mere appendix of Rio. However strong a supporter of centralism you may be, I imagine that you’re not a strong enough one to be willing to see yourself eliminated from political life.”
“That’s one way of looking at things,” Epaminondas murmured imperturbably. “Can you tell me how this common front that you’re proposing would avert this danger?”
“The union of our two parties will force Moraes to negotiate and come to terms with us and will save Bahia from being tied hand and foot beneath the control of a military viceroy,” the baron answered. “And, moreover, it will give you the possibility of reaching power.”
“Along with…” Epaminondas Gonçalves said.
“Alone,” the baron corrected him. “The governorship of the state is yours. Luiz Viana will not run again and you will be our candidate. We will present joint lists of candidates for the Assembly and the Municipal Councils. Isn’t that what you’ve been fighting for all this time?”
Epaminondas Gonçalves’s face flushed. Was this sudden glow produced by the cognac, the heat, what he had just heard, or what he was thinking? He remained silent for a few seconds, lost in thought. “Are your supporters in agreement with all this?” he finally asked in a low voice.
“They will be when they realize what it is they’re obliged to do,” the baron answered. “I’ll persuade them—I give you my word. Are you satisfied?”
“I need to know what you’re going to ask of me in return,” Epaminondas Gonçalves replied.
“That landed property and urban businesses not be touched,” the Baron de Canabrava replied immediately. “Our people and your people will fight any attempt to confiscate, expropriate, interfere with, or impose immoderate taxes on landed property or businesses. That is the only condition.”
Epaminondas Gonçalves took a deep breath, as though he needed air. He drank the rest of his cognac in one swallow. “And you, Baron?”
“Me?” the baron murmured, as though he were speaking of a ghost. “I am about to retire from political life. I shall not trouble you in any way. Moreover, as you know, I am leaving for Europe next week. I shall remain there for an indefinite time. Does that ease your mind?”
Instead of answering, Epaminondas Gonçalves rose to his feet and paced about the room with his hands clasped behind his back. The baron affected indifference. The owner-publisher of the Jornal de Notícias did not try to conceal the indefinable feeling that had taken possession of him. He was both gravely thoughtful and excited, and in his eyes, along with his usual restless energy, there was also uneasiness, curiosity. “Though I may not have your experience, at this point I’m not a greenhorn either,” he said defiantly, looking the baron square in the eye. “I know you’re putting one over on me, that there’s a trap somewhere in what you’re proposing.”
His host nodded, without showing the least sign of irritation. He rose from his chair to pour another finger of cognac in their empty glasses. “I understand your misgivings,” he said, glass in hand, starting on a tour around the room that ended at the window overlooking the garden. He opened it: a breath of pleasantly warm air entered the study along with the loud chirping of crickets and the sound of a distant guitar. “That’s only natural. But there isn’t any sort of trap, I assure you. The truth is that, given the way things are going, I’ve become convinced that the person best suited to be the political leader of Bahia is you.”
“Ought I to take that as a compliment?” Epaminondas Gonçalves asked in a sarcastic tone of voice.
“I believe that we’ve seen the end of a style, of a certain way of conducting politics,” the baron went on, as though he had not heard him. “I admit that I’ve become obsolete. I functioned better in the old system, when it was a question of getting people to follow established customs and practices, of negotiating, persuading, using diplomacy and politesse. That’s all over and done with today, of course. The hour has come for action, daring, violence, even crimes. What is needed now is a total dissociation of politics from morality. Since this is how things stand at present, the person best suited to maintain order in this state is you.”
“I suspected that you weren’t paying me a compliment,” Epaminondas Gonçalves said, going back to his chair.
The baron sat down next to him. Along with the chirping of the crickets, sounds of coaches, the legato call of a night watchman, a foghorn, barking dogs came in through the window.
“In a certain way, I admire you.” The baron looked at him with a fleeting gleam in his eye. “I’ve been able to appreciate your fearlessness, the complexity and cold-bloodedness of your political maneuvers. Yes, nobody in Bahia has your qualifications for confronting the situation we shall find ourselves in all too soon.”
“Will you tell me once and for all what it is you want of me?” the leader of the Republican Party said. There was a dramatic note in his voice.
“To replace me,” the baron stated emphatically. “Will it put an end to your distrust of me if I tell you that I feel defeated by you? Not factually speaking, since the Autonomists have more possibilities than the Bahia Jacobins of coming to an understanding with Moraes and the Paulistas in the federal government. But psychologically speaking, yes, Epaminondas.”
He took a sip of cognac and his eyes stared into space. “Things have happened that I never would have dreamed of,” he said. “The best regiment in Brazil routed by a bunch of fanatical beggars. How to explain it? A great military strategist wiped out in the first encounter…”
“It’s beyond explaining, I agree,” Epaminondas Gonçalves said. “I was with Major Cunha Matos this afternoon. It’s
much worse than what’s been revealed officially. Are you aware of the figures? They’re unbelievable: between three hundred and four hundred casualties, three-quarters of the troops. Dozens of officers massacred. All the arms lost, from cannons to knives. The survivors are arriving in Monte Santo naked, in their underwear, delirious. The Seventh Regiment! You were close at hand, there in Calumbi. You saw them. Whatever is happening in Canudos, Baron?”
“I don’t know and I don’t understand,” the baron said gloomily. “It’s beyond anything I could imagine. And yet I thought I knew those parts, those people. The fanaticism of a few starving wretches is not a sufficient explanation for the rout. There has to be something else behind it.” He looked at him again, in utter bewilderment. “I’ve come to think that that fantastic lie you people spread about there being English officers and monarchist arms might have had an element of truth in it. No, we won’t even discuss the subject. It’s water under the bridge. I merely mention it to you so that you’ll see how stunned I am by what happened to Moreira César.”
“I’m not so much stunned as frightened,” Epaminondas said. “If those men can pulverize the best regiment in Brazil, they’re also capable of spreading anarchy throughout this entire state and the neighboring ones, of coming as far as Salvador…” He shrugged and made a vague, catastrophic gesture.
“The only explanation is that thousands of peasants, including ones from other regions, have joined that band of Sebastianists,” the baron said. “Impelled by ignorance, superstition, hunger. Because there are no restraints these days to keep such madness in check, as there once were. This means war, the Brazilian Army installing itself here, the ruin of Bahia.” He grabbed Epaminondas Gonçalves by the arm. “That is why you must replace me. Given the present situation, someone with your talents is needed to bring the right people together and defend the interests of Bahia amid the cataclysm. There’s resentment in the rest of Brazil against Bahia, because of what happened to Moreira César. They say that the mobs that attacked the monarchist dailies in Rio were shouting ‘Down with Bahia.’”
He paused for a long moment, nervously swirling the cognac in his glass. “There are many who have already been ruined there in the interior,” he said. “I’ve lost two haciendas. A great many more people are going to be wiped out and killed in this civil war. If your people and mine go on destroying each other, what will the result be? We’ll lose everything. The exodus toward the South and Maranhão will become vaster still. What will become of the state of Bahia then? We must make our peace, Epaminondas. Forget your shrill Jacobin rhetoric, stop attacking the poor Portuguese, stop demanding the nationalization of businesses, and be practical. Jacobinism died with Moreira César. Assume the governorship and let us defend civil order together amid this hecatomb. Let us keep our Republic from turning into what so many other Latin American republics have: a grotesque witches’ sabbath where all is chaos, military uprisings, corruption, demagogy…”
They sat in silence for some time, glasses in hand, thinking or listening. From time to time, footsteps, voices could be heard somewhere inside the house. A clock struck nine.
“I thank you for inviting me here,” Epaminondas said, rising to his feet. “I’ll keep everything you’ve told me well in mind and think it over. I can’t give you an answer now.”
“Of course not,” the baron said, getting to his feet, too. “Give it thought and we’ll talk again. I would like to see you before I leave, naturally.”
“You will have my answer day after tomorrow,” Epaminondas said as he started for the door. As they were going through the reception rooms, the black servant with the oil lamp appeared. The baron accompanied Epaminondas as far as the street.
At the front gate he asked him: “Have you had any news of your journalist, the one who was with Moreira César?”
“The freak?” Epaminondas said. “He hasn’t turned up again. I suppose he must have been killed. As you know, he wasn’t a man of action.”
They took their leave of each other with a bow.
IV
[I]
When a servant informed him who was asking for him, the Baron de Canabrava, rather than sending him back, as was his habit, to tell the person who had appeared on the doorstep that he neither made nor received unannounced visits, rushed downstairs, walked through the spacious rooms that the morning sun was flooding with light, and went to the front door to see if he had heard correctly: it was indeed he, no mistake about it. He shook hands with him without a word and showed him in. There leapt to his mind instantly what he had been trying his best to forget for months: the fire at Calumbi, Canudos, Estela’s crisis, his withdrawal from public life.
Overcoming his surprise at this visit and the shock of this resurrection of the past, he silently guided the caller to the room in which all important conversations took place in the town house: the study. Though it was still early in the day, it was hot. In the distance, above the crotons, the branches of the mango, ficus, guava, and pitangueira trees in the garden, the sun was turning the sea as blinding white as a sheet of steel. The baron drew the curtain shut and the room fell into shadow.
“I knew that my visit would come as a surprise to you,” the caller said, and the baron recognized the little piping voice that always sounded like a comic actor speaking in falsetto. “I learned that you had returned from Europe, and had…this impulse. I’ll tell you straight out: I’ve come to ask you for work.”
“Have a seat,” the baron said.
He had heard the voice as in a dream, paying no attention to the words, entirely absorbed in studying the man’s physical appearance and comparing it with his mental image of what he had looked like the last time he had set eyes on him: the scarecrow he had watched leaving Calumbi that morning with Colonel Moreira César and his little escort. “It’s the same person and it isn’t,” he thought. Because the journalist who had worked for the Diário da Bahia and later for the Jornal de Notícias had been a youngster and this man with the thick glasses, who on sitting down appeared to collapse into four or six sections, was an old man. His face was lined with myriad wrinkles, his hair was streaked with gray, his body looked brittle. He was wearing an unbuttoned shirt, a sleeveless jacket with worn spots or grease stains, a pair of trousers with frayed cuffs, and big clumsy cowherd’s boots.
“I remember now,” the baron said. “Someone wrote me that you were still alive. I was in Europe when I received the letter. ‘A ghost has turned up.’ That’s what it said. Nonetheless, I continued to think of you as having disappeared, as having died.”
“I didn’t die, nor did I disappear,” the thin, nasal voice said, without a trace of humor. “After hearing ten times a day the same thing that you’ve just said, I realized people were disappointed that I was still in this world.”
“If I may say so frankly, I don’t give a damn whether you’re alive or dead,” the baron heard himself say, surprised at his own rudeness. “I might even prefer you to be dead. I detest everything that reminds me of Canudos.”
“I heard about your wife,” the nearsighted journalist said, and the baron sensed that an impertinent remark would inevitably follow. “That she lost her mind, that it’s a great tragedy in your life.”
The baron looked at him in such a way that he was cowed and shut his mouth. He cleared his throat, blinked, and took off his glasses to wipe them on the tail of his shirt.
The baron was glad that he had resisted the impulse to throw him out. “It’s all coming back to me now,” he said amiably. “The letter was from Epaminondas Gonçalves, two months or so ago. It was from him that I learned you’d returned to Salvador.”
“Do you correspond with that miserable wretch?” the thin nasal voice piped. “Ah, yes, it’s true that the two of you are allies now.”
“Is that any way to speak of the Governor of Bahia?” The baron smiled. “Did he refuse to take you back at the Jornal de Notícias?”
“On the contrary: he even offered to raise my salary,” th
e nearsighted journalist retorted. “On condition, however, that I forget all about the story of Canudos.”
He gave a little laugh, like that of an exotic bird, and the baron saw it turn into a gale of sneezes that made him bounce up and down in his chair.
“In other words, Canudos made a real journalist out of you,” the baron said mockingly. “Or else you’ve changed. Because my ally Epaminondas is the same as he’s always been. He hasn’t changed one iota.”
He waited for the journalist to blow his nose on a blue rag that he quickly pulled out of his pocket.
“In that letter, Epaminondas said that you turned up with a strange person. A dwarf or something of the sort, is that right?”
The nearsighted journalist nodded. “He’s my friend. I’m indebted to him. He saved my life. Shall I tell you how? By telling me about Charlemagne, the Twelve Peers of France, Queen Maguelone. By reciting the Terrible and Exemplary Story of Robert the Devil.”
He spoke rapidly, rubbing his hands together, twisting and turning in his chair. The baron was reminded of Professor Tales de Azevedo, a scholar friend of his who had visited him in Calumbi many years before: he would spend hour after hour listening, in rapt fascination, to the minstrels at fairs, have them dictate to him the words that he heard them sing and recite, and assured him that they were medieval romances, brought to the New World by the first Portuguese and preserved in the oral tradition of the backlands. He noticed the look of anguish on his visitor’s face.
“His life can still be saved,” he heard him say, a pleading look in his ambiguous eyes. “He has tuberculosis, but it’s operable. Dr. Magalhães, at the Portuguese Hospital, has saved many people. I want to do that for him. It’s another reason why I need work. But above all…in order to eat.”
The War of the End of the World Page 51