These June nights are beautiful. If there’s a moon, you can see the whole world from high up in Monte Lavre, well, let’s pretend you can, we’re not that ignorant, we know the world is much bigger, I’ve been to France, António Mau-Tempo would say, and that’s a long way away, but in this silence, anyone, even I, would believe it if someone said, There is no other world apart from Montemor, where we’re going on Monday to ask for work. And if there is no moon,* then the world is simply this place where I put my feet and all the rest is stars, perhaps there’s a latifundio up there too, which is why our new president is a rear admiral who’s never been to sea and who won the election game with four aces and a few more besides, because nothing trumps being an apparent pillar of society and a cheat. Had Sigismundo Canastro thought such wicked, witty thoughts, we would have stood back at the edge of the road, hat in hand, astonished at the worldly wisdom of the latifundio, but what he is really thinking is that he has spoken to everyone he needed to speak to and that he was right to speak to them today rather than leave it until tomorrow, which is why we don’t know what to do with our hat, or even if we should be holding it in our hand, Sigismundo Canastro has done his duty, and that’s that. However, despite the gravity of the steps to be taken, he also has a spritely, mischievous side, as we have seen before, and so, noticing that the door to the guards’ barracks was locked and in darkness, he went over to the wall and peed long and pleasurably as if he were peeing on the whole lot of them. The childish tricks of an old man whose cock no longer serves him for very much except to make this lovely little stream that finds its way among the cobbles, I wish I had liters of urine in me so that I could stay here peeing all night, like the dam at Ponte Cava, perhaps we should all pee at the same time and flood the latifundio, I wonder who would be saved. It’s a fine, starry night. Sigismundo Canastro buttons up his fly, the comedy is over, and sets off home, sometimes the blood still stirs, you never know.
In the days when people made pilgrimages, we used to say that all roads lead to Rome, you just had to walk and ask the way as you went, that’s how sayings come into being and are then unthinkingly repeated, and it’s not true, for here all the many roads and paths lead to Montemor, and although no one is speaking, only a deaf man could fail to hear the lofty speech echoing around the latifundio. Some, if they can find no better mode of transport and regardless of whether they come from near or far, are on foot, others are pedaling along on ancient bicycles that wobble and creak like mule carts, while those who can, have come by bus, and all are converging on Montemor, arriving from all the points of the compass rose, and carried there by a strong wind. The sentinels on the castle ramparts watch the Moorish host approach, the flag of the prophet folded in their bosom, O Holy Mother of God, the infidels are coming, lock up your wives and daughters, gentlemen, close the doors and raise the drawbridge, for in truth I say unto thee, today is the day of judgment. The narrator is, of course, exaggerating, doubtless the result of too much time spent immersed in medieval studies, fancy imagining armies and pennants when there is only this disparate band of rustics, probably not even a thousand of them, and yet the final gathering will be far larger. But one thing at a time, there’s another two hours yet, for the moment Montemor is just a town with more people in the streets than usual, they wander about in the main square talking to each other in low voices, and those with a little money to spend buy themselves a drink. Has the party from Escoural arrived, I don’t know, we’re from Monte Lavre, there aren’t many of them, it’s true, but at least they’re here, and they’ve brought a woman with them, because Gracinda Mau-Tempo wanted to come too, there’s no stopping women nowadays, that’s what the older, more old-fashioned men think, although they say nothing, imagine what they would have said if they had overheard the following conversation, Manuel, I’m going with you, and Manuel Espada, despite himself, thought she must be joking and responded, or, rather, all the Manuels in the world answered for him, This isn’t women’s business. What did you say, a man should be careful when he speaks, it’s not just a matter of saying the words, you can end up looking ridiculous and losing all authority, fortunately Gracinda and Manuel really love each other, nevertheless, the discussion continues for the rest of the evening and even when they’re lying in bed, The child can stay with my mother and then you and I can go together, we don’t just share a bed, you know, and finally Manuel Espada gave in and, glad to give in, put his arm around his wife and drew her to him, the man invites and the woman consents, the little girl is sleeping and hears nothing, Sigismundo Canastro, too, is asleep in his bed, having tried and succeeded, perhaps the next time will be even better, a man can’t just give up, damn it.
What went on between man and wife last night or the night before, and what they will do later, are not matters to be discussed in Montemor, or, indeed, when this day is over, for who knows how it will end. The cavalry, as usual, rides forth from the guards’ barracks, while inside, Lieutenant Contente and Leandro Leandres are deep in conversation, the order to mobilize has been issued, now they must await events, although others have decided to wait elsewhere, they are the owners of the latifundio who live in Montemor, and there are quite a few of them, so we were not far off when we spoke of sentinels, for there is a stockade along the walls of the castle, with the braver of the infantes perched on the reconstructed ramparts, and a rosary of fathers and mothers, the former dressed as knights and the latter clad in suitably light colors. The more malicious commentators will say that they have taken shelter there because they are afraid of this invasion of farm laborers, a hypothesis that has a certain ring of truth about it, but let us not forget how few distractions there are here, apart from bullfights and the cinema, this time it’s rather like a picnic in the country, there’s plenty of shade and, if necessary, there is the safe haven of the convent of Our Lady of the Annunciation, pray for us. It is, however, true and verifiable that they left their houses out of a hitherto unknown fear, the servants remained behind on guard, because if you take on servants when they’re young, they tend to be loyal, as is doubtless the case with Amélia Mau-Tempo, who also works as a maid in Montemor, these facts are at once contradictory and inevitable, but given the times we live in, one cannot really trust anyone, not because the workers of the latifundio have joined together to make their demands, it’s not the first time they’ve asked for work, but because one can all too easily imagine those hands closing into fists, there’s a lot of anger out there, a lot of conspiracies, dear aunt, a lot of conspiracies. From up here, you can see them walking down the narrow lanes and converging on the square outside the town hall. They look like ants, says an imaginative child heir, and his father corrects him, They may look like ants, but they’re dogs, now there’s the whole situation summed up in one brief, clear phrase, and then silence falls, we don’t want to miss anything, look, there’s already a squadron of guards in front of the town hall, and there’s the sergeant, what’s that he is holding, a machine gun, that’s what Gracinda Mau-Tempo thought too, and glancing up at the castle, she saw that it was full of people, who can they be.
The square fills up. The people from Monte Lavre are standing in a group. Gracinda, the only woman, her husband Manuel Espada, her brother and father, António and João Mau-Tempo, and Sigismundo Canastro, who says, Stick together, and there are two other men called José, one is the great-grandson of the Picanços, who kept the mill at Ponte Cava, and the other is José Medronho, whom we haven’t had occasion to mention until now. They are in a sea of people, the sun beats down on this sea and burns like a nettle poultice, while up in the castle, the ladies open their sunshades, anyone would think it was a party. Those rifles are loaded, you can tell by the look on the guards’ faces, a man carrying a loaded weapon immediately takes on a different air, he grows hard and cold, his lips tighten, and he looks at us with real rancor. People who like horses sometimes give them the name of a person, like that colt called Bom-Tempo, but I don’t know if the horses at the end of the street have names,
perhaps they simply give them numbers, they do everything by numbers in the guards, call out number twenty-seven, and the horse and the man riding it both step forward, how confusing.
The shouting has begun, We want work, we want work, we want work, that’s about all they say, apart from the occasional insult, you thieves, but spoken so quietly that it’s as if the person hurling the insult were ashamed, then someone else shouts, Free elections, what’s the point of saying that now, but the great clamor of voices rises up and drowns out everything else, We want work, we want work, what kind of world is it that divides into those who make a profession of idleness and those who want work but can’t get it. Someone gave the signal, or perhaps it was agreed that the meeting could go on for a certain number of minutes, or perhaps Leandro Leandres or Lieutenant Contente made a telephone call, or maybe the mayor peered out of the window, There they are, the dogs, but whatever the sequence of events, the mounted guards unsheathed their sabers, oh good heavens, such courage, such heroism, it sends a shiver down the spine, I had quite forgotten about the sun until it glinted on those polished blades, a positively divine light, enough to make a man tremble with patriotic fervor, well, doesn’t it you.
The horses break into a trot, there’s not enough space for anything bolder, and those who try to escape from beneath the hooves and the saber thrusts immediately fall to the ground. A man could perhaps stand such humiliation, but sometimes he chooses not to, or is suddenly blinded with rage, and then the sea rises, arms are raised, hands grab reins or throw stones picked up from the ground or brought with them in their bags, it’s the right of those who have no other weapons, and the stones come flying from the back of the crowd, probably without hurting anyone, horse or rider, because a stone hurled at random like that, if it was, simply drops to the ground. It was a battle scene worthy of a painting on the wall of the commander’s office or in the officers’ mess, the horses rearing up, the imperial guard, sabers unsheathed, striking with either the flat of the sword or the edge, the rebellious workers retreating then advancing like the tide, the wretches. This was the charge of June twenty-third, fix that date in your memory, children, although other dates also adorn the history of the latifundio and are deemed glorious for the same or similar reasons. The infantry also excelled itself, especially Sergeant Armamento, a man with a blind faith and a wrong-headed view of the law, there’s the first burst of machine-gun fire, and another, both of them fired into the air as a warning, and when the people in the castle hear these shots, they cheer and clap, the sweet girls of the latifundio, faces scarlet with heat and bloodthirsty thoughts, and their mothers and fathers, and the boyfriends trembling with the desire to get out there themselves, lance in hand, and finish the job just started, Kill them all. The third burst of fire is aimed low, all that target shooting is proving its worth, let the smoke clear, not bad, although it could have been better, there are three men lying on the ground, one of whom is getting up, clutching his arm, he was lucky, another is dragging himself painfully along, one leg incapacitated, and that one over there isn’t moving at all, It’s José Adelino dos Santos, it’s José Adelino, says someone from Montemor, who knows him. José Adelino dos Santos is dead, he got a bullet in the brain and couldn’t believe it at first, but shook his head as if he had been bitten by an insect, then he understood, Those bastards have killed me, and he fell helplessly backward, with no wife there to help him, his own blood formed a cushion under his head, a red cushion, if you please. The people in the castle applaud again, they sense that this time it’s serious, and the cavalry charges, scattering the crowd, someone should pick up the body, but no one approaches.
The people from Monte Lavre heard the whistle of the bullets, and José Medronho is bleeding from his face, he was lucky, it was just a graze, but he’ll be scarred for the rest of his life. Gracinda Mau-Tempo is weeping, clinging to her husband, she heads off with other people down the narrow streets, how terrible, they can hear the triumphant cry of the guards as they make their arrests, and suddenly Leandro Leandres appears along with other dragons from the PIDE, a half dozen of them, João Mau-Tempo saw them and turned pale, and then he did something quite mad, he stood in the path of the enemy, trembling, but not with fear, ladies and gentlemen, let us be quite clear about that, but the other man either did not see him or did not recognize him, though those eyes are not easy to forget, and when the dragons had passed him by, João Mau-Tempo could no longer hold back his tears, tears of rage and deep sadness too, when will our suffering end. José Medronho’s wound is no longer bleeding, no one would think that he had been within a millimeter of having the bones in his face shattered, what would he look like now if that had happened. Sigismundo Canastro is breathing hard, but the others are fine, and Gracinda Mau-Tempo is a girl again, sobbing, I saw him, he fell to the ground, dead, that’s what she’s saying, but some disagree, no, they say, he was taken to the hospital, although how we don’t know, whether on a stretcher or in someone’s arms, they wouldn’t dare just drag him there even if they wanted to, Kill them all, comes the cry from the castle, however, one must respect the formalities, a man is not dead until a doctor says he is, and even then. Dr. Cordo is here, dressed in his white coat, let us hope his soul is of the same color, and as he is about to approach the body, Leandro Leandres blocks his path and says in a voice of urgent authority, Doctor, this man is wounded, he must be taken to Lisbon at once, and you must go with him for his greater safety. Those of us who have been listening to these stories from the latifundio are amazed to see the dragon Leandro Leandres taking pity on a victim and expressing a wish to save him, Take him, Doctor, an ambulance is already on its way, a car, quickly, there’s no time to lose, the sooner he leaves here the better, hearing him talk like this, so urgently, so briskly, it’s hard to believe what happened to João Mau-Tempo, or what he claims happened, when he was taken prisoner eight years earlier, that’s how long ago it was, they obviously couldn’t have treated him so very badly, apart from that statue business, the proof being that he came from Monte Lavre to take part in this demonstration, he clearly hasn’t learned his lesson, he was lucky a bullet didn’t find him.
Dr. Cordo goes over to José Adelino dos Santos and says, This man is dead, there is no denying such words, after all, a doctor studies for many years, and in that time he must have learned how to tell a dead man from a live one, however, Leandro Leandres was taught from a different primer and is, in his own way, a connoisseur of the living and the dead, and based on that knowledge and on his own self-interest, he insists, This man is wounded, Doctor, and must be taken to Lisbon, even a child would understand that these words are intended as a threat, but the doctor’s soul clearly is as white as the coat he’s wearing, and if it’s stained with blood, that’s because the soul has blood in it too, and he responds, I take the wounded to Lisbon, but I do not accompany the dead, and Leandro Leandres loses his temper and propels the doctor into an empty room, I’m warning you, if you don’t take him, you’ll pay for it, and the doctor answers, Do what you like, but I’m not taking a dead man to Lisbon, and having said that, he left the room to deal with the genuinely wounded, of which there were many, and some of whom went straight from there to prison, in fact, more than a hundred men, whether wounded or unscathed, were arrested, and if José Adelino dos Santos did end up being transported to Lisbon, it was simply a drama put on by the PIDE, a way of pretending that they had done everything they could to save him, a form of mockery really, and along with José Adelino dos Santos, they took other men arrested on that same day, and each one suffered as João Mau-Tempo suffered and as we have described.
Raised from the Ground Page 31