Raised from the Ground

by José Saramago

  João Mau-Tempo’s brother Anselmo and his sister Maria da Conceição were with him and had witnessed some of what had happened. He went over to them and said in a firm voice, Go to the village and tell our mother that I’m bringing my girl home with me, that I count on having her permission to do so, and that I’ll explain everything later. Anselmo said, Think carefully before you act, don’t get into something you can’t get out of. And Maria da Conceição said, I hate to think what our mother and our uncle will say. And João Mau-Tempo said, I’m a grown man now, I’ve been turned down for the army, and if my future is to take a new direction, then why wait, better sooner than later. And Anselmo said, One day, Uncle Joaquim Carranca could get an idea in his head and simply go off, you know what he’s like, and you’re needed at home. And Maria da Conceição said, You might be doing the wrong thing. But João Mau-Tempo said, Be patient, these things happen. When they left him, Maria da Conceição had a tear in her eye.

  During this time of weekly comings and goings between Pendão das Mulheres and Monte de Berra Portas, the Mau-Tempo children had lodgings in the house of Aunt Cipriana, who was the woman we saw weeping by the river after the waters of Pego da Carriça had swept her husband away. She is dressed in mourning and will remain so until she dies, many years later, lost from our sight. Her nephew’s bold move, however, gave her a taste for acting as go-between, an honest one, of course, not a procuress, and as a protector of star-crossed lovers, and she never regretted this or suffered public censure for her actions. But that is another story. When João Mau-Tempo arrived, he said to his aunt, Aunt, will you please let Faustina come and meet me here until we can leave for my mother’s house in Monte de Berra Portas. And Cipriana answered, Think about what you’re doing, João, I don’t want any problems, and I don’t want to besmirch your late uncle’s memory either. And João replied, Don’t worry, we’ll only be here until it gets dark.

  This was what João agreed with Faustina afterward, when he went to meet her, and she had deliberately dawdled, well, that’s only normal when you’re in love, but he can’t dissuade her from seeing her mother before they run away together, even if she doesn’t tell her where she’s going. João Mau-Tempo, not wanting to start his new life with a fortnight’s growth of beard, decided to visit the barber’s, where he got himself done up like a bridegroom, that is, with a clean-shaven face. Whenever such usually thickly bearded faces are shaven, they look somehow innocent, defenseless, their very fragility touches the heart. When he returned to Aunt Cipriana’s house, Faustina was there waiting for him, still tearful from her sister’s angry words, her father’s terrible rage and her mother’s grief. She had crept away unnoticed, but since her family would doubtless be scouring Monte Lavre to find out where the couple had gone, João and Faustina decided they had better make their escape as soon as possible. Cipriana said, It’s going to be a very tiring journey, and we’re in for a wet, dark night, take this umbrella and some bread and sausage to eat on the way, now that you’ve played this very unfunny joke on everyone, be sure to behave yourselves in future, that was what Cipriana said, but in her heart she was blessing them, vicariously enjoying this youthful transgression, ah, to be young again.

  It was two and a half leagues from there to Monte de Berra Portas, the night had closed in completely, and rain was threatening. Walking two and a half leagues along paths that are all shadows and alarming shapes and noises, your thoughts inevitably turn to stories about werewolves, what’s more, because there is no other way, they have to cross the plank bridge at Pego da Carriça. Let’s say a prayer for my uncle, he was a good man and did not deserve such a sad death. The ash tree rustled gently, the water flowed like dark, whispering silk, and to think that in this very place, who would believe it. João Mau-Tempo was holding Faustina’s hand, his calloused fingers trembled, he guided her beneath the trees and through the dense undergrowth and the wet grass, and suddenly, quite how they didn’t know, perhaps it was due to exhaustion after so many weeks of work, perhaps to an unbearable shaking, they found themselves lying down. Faustina soon lost her maidenhood, and when they had finished, João remembered the bread and sausage, and it was as man and wife that they shared the food.

  AS WE HAVE SEEN, Lamberto, regardless of whether he’s German or Portuguese, is not a man to work his vast estate with his own hands. When he inherited it or bought it from the friars or, since justice is blind, stole it, he found, clinging to the estate like a tree trunk to its roots, a few creatures with arms and legs who were created for precisely such a fate, by producing children and bringing them up to be useful. Even so, whether out of pragmatism, custom, etiquette or pure self-interested prudence, Adalberto has no direct contact with those who will work his land. And that is a good thing. Just as the king in his day, or the president of the republic in his, did not and does not go about bandying words and gestures with the common people in an overly familiar manner, it would seem quite wrong on a large estate, where the owner has more power than either president or king, were Floriberto to be too forward. However, this intentional reserve did allow for certain deliberate exceptions, intended as a more refined way of bending wills and attracting perfect vassals, namely, the subservient creatures who, receiving as they do both caresses and beatings, enjoy the former and respect the latter. This matter of relations between employer and employee is a very subtle thing which cannot be determined or explained in a few words, you have to be there and eavesdrop like a fly on the wall. Add to this, brute force, ignorance, presumption and hypocrisy, a taste for suffering, a large dollop of envy, guile and a taste for intrigue, and you have a perfect training in diplomacy, for anyone who cares to learn. However, a few empirical rules, tried and tested over the centuries, will help us understand such cases better.

  As well as land, the first thing Lamberto needs is a foreman, the foreman being the whip that keeps order in the pack of dogs. He is a dog chosen from among the others to bite his fellow dogs. He needs to be a dog because he knows all a dog’s wiles and defenses. You wouldn’t go looking for a foreman among the children of Norberto, Alberto or Humberto. A foreman is, first and foremost, a servant, who receives privileges and payments in proportion to the amount of work he can get out of the pack. He is, nonetheless, a servant. He is placed among the first and the last, a kind of human mule, an aberration, a Judas, who betrays his fellows in exchange for more power and a slightly larger chunk of bread.

  The biggest and most decisive weapon is ignorance. At his birthday supper, Sigisberto said, It’s just as well that they know nothing, that they can’t read or write or count or think, that they assume and accept that, as Father Agamedes will explain, the world cannot be changed, that this is the only possible world, exactly as it is, that they will find paradise only after death, and that work alone brings dignity and money, but they mustn’t go thinking that I earn more than they do, the land, after all, is mine and when the time comes to pay taxes and contributions, I don’t go to them asking for a loan, it’s always been like that and always will be, if I didn’t give them work, who would, it’s them and me, I’m the land and they are the work, what’s good for me is good for them, that is how God wanted it, as Father Agamedes will explain in simple terms, we don’t want to make them even more confused than they are already, and if Father Agamedes doesn’t do the trick, then we’ll ask the guards to ride around the villages on their horses, just as a reminder that they exist, a message they’re sure to understand. But tell me, Mama, do the guards beat the estate owners as well, You’re clearly not quite right in the head, my boy, the national guard was created and is maintained in order to beat the people, But how is that possible, Mama, do you mean that the guard was made simply in order to beat the people, but what do the people do, They don’t have anyone who can, in turn, beat the estate owner when he sends out the guards to beat them, Well, I think the people should ask the guards to beat the estate owner, If you want my advice, Maria, the child is slightly mad, don’t let him go around saying such things, we
have our work cut out as it is, keeping the guards in check.

  The people were made to be hungry and dirty. People who wash regularly are people who don’t work, well, maybe it’s different in the cities, I don’t deny that, but here on the estate they’re hired to work away from home for three or four weeks, sometimes months, if that’s what Alberto wants, and during that time it’s a point of honor and of manhood with them to wash neither face nor hands and to remain unshaven. If they did wash and shave, if such a hypothesis were not so laughably improbable, they would be the butt of jokes from bosses and fellow workers alike. That’s the great thing about this day and age, the sufferers glory in their suffering, the slaves in their servitude. This beast of the earth must remain a beast who never rubs the sleep from his eyes from morning to night, indeed the dirt on his hands, face, armpits, groin, feet, arsehole must be for him the glorious aura surrounding work on the latifundio, man must be lower than the beasts of the field, for they, at least, lick themselves clean, man, however, must degrade himself so that he respects neither himself nor his fellows.

  More than that. The workers boast of the beatings they get when working the land. Each beating is a medal to be bragged about at the inn, between drinks, I got beaten x number of times when I was working for Berto and Humberto. That’s a good worker for you, one who, when he gets whipped, will show off his raw welts, and if they’re bleeding, all the better, these are the same sort of boasts that the urban rabble make, taking as proof of their virility the number of cankers and sores acquired from their labors in a hired bed. Ah, you people preserved in the grease or honey of ignorance, you have never lacked for exploiters. So, work, work yourself to death, yes, die if necessary, that way you’ll be remembered by the foreman and the boss, but woe betide you if you get a reputation for being an idler, no one will ever love you then. You can go and stand at the doors of inns with your companions in misfortune, and they, too, will despise you, and the foreman, or the boss, if he deigns to notice, will eye you with disgust and you’ll be given no work, just to teach you a lesson. The others have already learned their lesson, they go off every day to slave away on the latifundio, and when you get home, if the hovel you live in can be called a home, how are you going to explain that you have no work, that the other men have but you haven’t. Mend your ways while there’s still time, and swear that you’ve taken twenty beatings, crucify yourself, hold out your arm to be bled, open your veins and say, This is my blood, drink it, this is my body, eat it, this is my life, take it, along with the church’s blessing, the salute to the flag, the march past, the handing over of credentials, the awarding of a university diploma, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

  Ah, but life is a game too, a playful exercise, playing is a very serious, grave, even philosophical act, for children it’s part of growing up, for adults it’s a link with their childhood, advantageous for some. Whole libraries of books have been written on the subject, all of them solid, weighty tomes, only a fool could fail to be convinced. The mistake lies in thinking that such profundity can be found only in books, when in fact a quick glance, a moment’s attention, is all it takes to see how the cat plays with the mouse, and how the latter is eaten by the former. The question, the only one that matters, is knowing who exploits the initial innocence of the game, this game that was never innocent, for example, when the foreman says to the workers, Let’s run, and see who gets there last, And the innocents, blind to the obvious deceit, run, trot, gallop, stagger from Monte Lavre to Vale de Cães, merely for the glory of arriving first or for the smug satisfaction of not being last. Because the last man, well, someone always has to be last, will have to put up with the jeers and mockery of the winners, who are already panting and breathless, they haven’t even started work yet but the poor fools waste their breath on this explosion of scorn. Poor João Mau-Tempo won the booby prize, not that anyone knows what that is, a prize that marks you out as idle or not being fast enough on your feet, that says you’re not a man but a mere nothing. Portugal is a country of men, there’s certainly no lack of them, only the one who comes last in the race is not a man, get away, you lazy brute, you don’t even deserve the bread you eat.

  But the games have not ended. The last to arrive, if he has any self-respect, will offer to carry the first load, well, it’s some compensation. The pile of wood that will eventually become charcoal is being prepared, and having placed a sack on your back to dull the pain to come, you say, Give me that big trunk, I’ll carry that. The foreman is watching, you have to prove to your colleagues that you’re as good a man as they, and besides, you can’t afford to be without work next week, you have children to think of, and then, groaning with effort, two men lift the trunk, they’re not your children but it’s as if they were, and they place the trunk on your shoulders, you kneel down like a camel, if you’ve ever seen one, and when you feel the weight, your knees sag, but you grit your teeth, brace your back and gradually draw yourself up, it’s a huge trunk, like the leg of a giant, it feels like a hundred-year-old cork oak on your shoulders, you take the first step, and how far away that pile of wood is, your colleagues are watching, and the foreman says, Let’s see if you can do it, if you can you’re a brave man. That’s what it’s about, being brave, bearing the weight of that trunk and the pain in your creaking spine and in your heart, just so as to look good in the foreman’s eyes, who will say to Adalberto, He’s a brave fellow that Mau-Tempo, although it could be any other name, you should have seen the piece of wood they gave him to carry, sir, it really was a sight to see, oh yes, he’s a real man all right. Possibly, but so far you’ve taken only three steps. What you really want to do now is put the load down on the ground, at least that’s what your tormented body is asking. Your soul, your spirit, if you have the right to one, tells you that you can’t, that you would rather die than be humiliated in your own village and dubbed a weakling, anything but that. People have been going on for two thousand years or more about how Christ carried the cross to Golgotha with help from the Cyrenian, but no one has a word to say about this crucified man who dined last night on very little and has had almost nothing to eat today, and he’s still only halfway there, his vision grows blurred, it’s a real torment, ladies and gentlemen, with everyone watching and shouting, He can’t do it, he can’t do it, and although you have ceased to be yourself, at least you haven’t yet been reduced to being an animal, a great advantage, because an animal would have fallen to its knees, crushed by the load, but you haven’t, you’re a man, the dupe at the universal gaming table, why not place a bet, your wage may not pay you enough to feed you, but life is this merry game, He’s nearly there, you hear someone say, and you feel as if you were not of this world, carrying a load like that, have pity on me, help me, comrades, if we all carried it together it would be so much easier, but that’s not possible, it’s a matter of honor, you would never again speak to the man who helped you, that is how deceived you are. You deposit the trunk in precisely the right place, a huge achievement, and your comrades all cheer, you’re no longer the last in the race, and the foreman says gravely, Well done, man. Your legs are shaking, you’re as exhausted as an overladen mule, you have difficulty breathing, you have a stitch, dear God, it’s not a stitch, you fool, what you have is a strain, a pulled muscle, you don’t even know the words, you poor creature.

  Work and more work. Now they travel far from Monte Lavre, some take their families with them, to work as charcoal burners in the area around Infantado, those men without wives bed down in this big hut, and those who brought their wives set up house in another, using mats or cotton curtains or improvised panels to separate the couples, with the children, if they have them, sleeping with their parents. The midges bite furiously, but it’s worse during the day, when the mosquitoes come in clouds, so many you can barely see, and they fall upon us, whining, like a rain of ground glass, our grandmothers, who knew so much about life, were quite right when they said, I’ll never see my grandchildren again, they’ll die far from home
. They know, these are not things one forgets, that the children’s little bodies will become a running sore, a torment to them, little lepers who will lie down among rags at night, their stomachs crying out for food, it’s never enough, they’re growing up without any consolation from their parents, who very slowly touch each other, move and sigh, as if this were something they had to do in order to keep their senses more or less placated, while beside them another couple echoes that touching, moving and sighing, either because they want to or by suggestion, and all the children in the great hut lie listening, eyes open, experiencing their own gestures and disappointments.

  From the tops of these hills, on a clear day, you can see Lisbon, who would have thought it was so close, we imagined that we lived at the end of the world, the mistaken ideas of those who know nothing and have had no one to teach them. The serpent of temptation slithered up the branch from which João Mau-Tempo can see Lisbon and promised him all the marvels and riches of the capital in exchange for the very modest price of a ferry ticket, well, not that modest for someone with nothing, but, in for a penny, in for a pound, he’d be a fool to refuse. We will disembark in Cais do Sodré and declare, wide-eyed, So this is Lisbon, the big city, and the sea, look at the sea, all that water, and then we walk through an archway into Rua Augusta, so many people, so much traffic, and we’re not used to walking on pavements, we keep slipping and sliding in our hobnail boots, and we cling to each other in our fear of the trams, and you two fall over, which makes the Lisbonites laugh, What bumpkins, they cry, And look, there’s Avenida da Liberdade, and what’s that thing sticking up in the middle, that’s Restauradores, oh, really, and I think to myself, Well, frankly, I’m none the wiser, but ignorance is always the hardest and most embarrassing thing to own up to, anyway, let’s walk up Avenida da Liberdade and find our sister, who’s working as a maid, this is the street, she’s at number ninety-six, isn’t that what you said, after all, you’re the one who can read, No, there must be some mistake, it goes from ninety-five to ninety-seven, there is no ninety-six, but he who seeks always finds, here it is, they laughed at us because we didn’t know that ninety-six was on the other side, the people in Lisbon laugh a lot. Here’s the building where our sister works, it’s really tall, the owner and resident of the first-floor apartment is Senhor Alberto, our sometime boss, everything belongs to the same family, Well, look who’s here, Maria da Conceição will say, what a surprise, and how plump she’s got, there’s nothing like being a maid. We’ll all go out together afterward, because the lady of the house is very generous and gives her time off, although it will be discounted from her next bit of leave, because normally she gets an afternoon off once a fortnight, between lunch and supper. We’ll visit some cousins who live in the area, in streets and back streets, and there’ll be the same joyful greeting, Well, look who’s here, and we’ll arrange to go to the show tonight, but first, you mustn’t miss the zoo, the monkeys are so funny, and that’s a lion over there, and look at the elephant, if you came across a monster like that in the countryside, you’d die of fright, and the show is called The Clam, starring Beatriz Costa and Vasco Santana, the man almost had me crying with laughter. We’ll sleep here in the kitchen and in the corridor, don’t worry, we’re used to all sorts, the nights are different in Lisbon, it’s the silence, the silence isn’t the same, So, did you sleep well, and no one dares to say No, we spent all night tossing and turning, but now let’s have a cup of coffee and then go for a stroll around the city, but this isn’t a city, it’s the size of a county, and in Alcântara we’ll meet a group of men working on the railway line, and they say, Morning, bumpkins, and that’s it, our brother-in-law takes umbrage and goes over to them, What did you say, a few blows are exchanged, then we flee in shame, and the men shout, Look at the one in the jacket, Look at that bumpkin run, but we’re not bumpkins, and even if we were, that would still be no reason to scorn us. We will cross the river again, Look at the sea, and a gentleman traveling with us in the boat says very politely, Actually, this is the river, the sea starts over there, and he points, and then we realize that you can’t see land in that direction, how is that possible. When we disembark in Montijo, we’ll still have a few kilometers to walk, eight to be precise, until we reach our work camp, we spent an awful lot of money but it was worth it, and when we get back to Monte Lavre, we’ll have a lot to tell, because life has its good points too.