Raised from the Ground

by José Saramago

  From hillside to woodland, these and other words did the rounds of the latifundio, although no one ever mentioned that father-son fight, because no one would believe it, and yet it was true, and meetings were arranged in Monte Lavre too, some people were afraid, but others were not, and so when the first of May arrived, everyone was ready, and those who felt afraid stuck fast to those who showed no fear, that’s how it is even in time of war, said someone who had been in the war, although whether as one of the brave or of the timorous we don’t know. A lot of gasoline and diesel was consumed that day, the spring air was full of fumes from the endless stream of jeeps and trucks laden with rifles and masked guards, they wear masks so as not to feel ashamed, and when they reached some town or village where there was a barracks, they would stop for a conference with the general staff, exchange orders and discuss the situation, how are things over in Setúbal, and in Baixo Alentejo and in Alto Alentejo, and in Ribatejo, which, don’t forget, is also the latifundio. Armed patrols roamed the main streets and side streets, hoping to sniff out subversion, and from high vantage points they surveyed the inland sea like fish eagles, to see if they could spot the black or red flag of a pirate ship, as if anyone were going to run up such a flag, but the guards are obsessed, they can think of nothing else, and what they saw was perfectly innocuous, men strolling up and down in the squares, talking, all dressed in their skillfully darned and patched Sunday best, because the women of the latifundio are experts at patching the seats and knees of trousers, you should see them rooting around in the rag basket in search of just the right scrap of fabric, then placing it on the offending trouser leg before carefully cutting the fabric to size and sewing it on, it’s a job requiring great precision, I’m sitting on the step outside my front door patching my husband’s trousers, well, he can’t go to work naked, it’s enough that he’s naked between the sheets.

  Some will think this has nothing to do with the first of May and the eight-hour day and the forty escudos, but they are people who pay little attention to what goes on in the world, they think the world is this sphere rolling through space, pure astronomy, they might as well be blind, for there is nothing more closely connected to the first of May than this needle and this thread in the hand of this woman called Gracinda Mau-Tempo, who is patching these trousers so that her husband Manuel Espada can celebrate the first of May, the day of the worker. The guards pass right by the front door in a military-looking jeep, and Gracinda Mau-Tempo draws her only daughter, Maria Adelaide, closer to her, and the girl, who is seven and has the bluest eyes in the world, watches the jeep pass, these children seem singularly unimpressed by the sight of a uniform, there she is with her stern gaze, she has seen enough of life already to know who these guards are and what that uniform means.

  After dark, the men return home. They will spend a restless night, like soldiers on the eve of battle, who knows who will return alive, strikes and demonstrations are one thing, they’re used to that and know how bosses and guards usually respond, whereas this is more of a challenge, denying the latifundio a power that has been passed down to them from their great-great-great-grandparents, You will work for me from dawn to dusk all the days of your life, in accordance with my wishes and my needs, on the other days you can do as you please. From now on, Sigismundo Canastro won’t need to get up so early, nor will João Mau-Tempo or António Mau-Tempo or Manuel Espada, nor any of the other men and women, who are still awake, thinking about what will happen tomorrow, it’s a revolution, an eight-hour day on the latifundio, It’s a gamble, win or lose, in Montargil they won, and we can’t be seen to be less than them, in the middle of the night, they hear the guards’ jeep prowling the streets of Monte Lavre, they want to frighten us, but they’ll see.

  These words are spoken by other mouths as well, those of Gilberto and Alberto, They’ll see, and it was a great moment in the history of the latifundio, for even the owners of the land got up early to be present at the dawning of the day, if you don’t look after what’s yours, the devil will take it, the sun is up and not a single devil has turned up for work, overseer, foreman and manager are nervous, but the countryside is a balm to the eyes, May, glorious May, and Norberto consults his watch, half past seven, still no one, This has all the look of a strike, says a lackey, but Adalberto responds angrily, Shut up, he is furious, he knows what he intends to do, they all know, it’s just a matter of waiting. And then the men begin to arrive, all together at the agreed hour, they politely say Good morning, why be bitter, and when it’s eight o’clock, they start work, this is what they had decided to do, but Dagoberto bawls, Stop, and they all stop and look at him with innocent eyes, What is it, sir, such sang-froid is enough to drive a man mad. Who told you to come to work at this hour, Norberto asks, and it is Manuel Espada who speaks for the other workers, We did, on some estates they’re already working an eight-hour day, and we are no less than our comrades on those other estates, and Berto strides over to him as if he were about to hit him, but he doesn’t, he wouldn’t go that far, On my land, the timetable is the same as it has always been, from dawn to dusk, it’s up to you, you either stay and tomorrow make up for the time lost this morning, or you leave, because I don’t want you here, That’s telling them, Dona Clemência will say later, when her husband boasts of his deeds, and then what happened, Then, Manuel Espada, who is married to Mau-Tempo’s daughter, he was the group’s spokesman, said, Fine, we’ll leave, and they all left, and when they were walking back up to Monte Lavre, António Mau-Tempo asked, What next, what do we do now, not because he was worried or afraid, his question was intended to help his brother-in-law, Now we do as we agreed, we gather together in the square, and if the guards turn up looking for trouble, we go home, and tomorrow we go back to work, we start scything at eight o’clock, like today, that, more or less, was what João Mau-Tempo said to another group of laborers, and Sigismundo Canastro to his group, and so they all gathered in the square, and the guards turned up, and Corporal Tacabo came over to them, So you don’t want to work, then, We do, but only for eight hours, and the boss doesn’t want to give us those eight hours of work, Sigismundo Canastro is speaking the honest truth, but the corporal wants to know more, So this isn’t a strike, No, we want to work, but the boss sent us away, he says we can’t work for just eight hours, and that clear response will cause Corporal Tacabo to say later on, I don’t know what to do with them, Senhor Dagoberto, the men say they want to work, and that it’s you who, but before he can finish his sentence, Dagoberto roars, They’re idlers, that’s what they are, either they work from dawn to dusk or they can die of hunger, there’s no work for them here, as far as I know the government has issued no edict regarding an eight-hour day, and even if they have, I’m in charge here, I own the land, and that was the end of his conversation with Corporal Tacabo, and so the day concluded, with each man going home to his house, and the women wanting to know what had happened, as we saw with Dona Clemência, and as is the right of the other women too.

  The men do their calculations, they have earned no money today, and how many more days like this will there be, it depends on the place, elsewhere, the latifundio gave in after two days, in others three, in others four, and in some places they spent weeks embroiled in this tug of war, to see whose strength or patience would win out, in the end, the men didn’t bother turning up for work to find out if their conditions would be accepted, they stayed in the towns and villages, on strike, and this was all that was needed for the guards to return to their old ways, beating the workers and patrolling the latifundio on a war footing, but why repeat what everyone knows. Dagoberto and Alberto, Humberto and another Berto held out in their castles, however, the sacred alliance was beginning to unravel, and from other places came news of surrender, What should we do, Oh, leave them to it, they’ll pay for it in the end, Yes, I know, Father Agamedes, such vengeful thoughts are most unchristian, and I’ll do penance for it later, Well, it’s not quite that clear-cut, Senhor Alberto, in Deuteronomy the Lord says, Vengeance is mine
, and I will repay, Father Agamedes is a real fount of knowledge, how is it that from a book as big as the bible he managed to glean that one vital passage, what further justification do we need.

  Here in Monte Lavre, though, they were fortunate in that the shopkeepers were willing to extend their credit, and in other places too, but this story is of particular interest to us, because João Mau-Tempo has had to walk these streets filled with the shame of owing money he could not pay back, with his wife Faustina weeping in misery and grief, and now he is going from shop to shop to pass on the message, and when he is received rudely, he pretends to feel nothing, suffering has given him a thick skin, he is not dealing here only with his own needs, Senhora Graniza, we are engaged in a struggle to gain the right to work an eight-hour day and the bosses refuse to agree to this, which is why we’re on strike, I’ve come to ask if you could wait another three or four weeks, and as soon as we return to work, we’ll start repaying what we owe, no one will be left owing you anything, it’s a very big favor we’re asking you, and the owner of that shop, a tall woman with pale eyes and a dark gaze, places her hands on the counter and says, respectfully, as a younger person to an older one, Senhor João Mau-Tempo, as surely as I hope that you will one day remember me, my house stands open, and these sibylline words are characteristic of the woman, who holds long mystical and political conversations with her customers and recounts tales and instances of miraculous cures and intercessions, well, all kinds of things happen on the latifundio, not just in the cities. João Mau-Tempo left with this good news, and Maria Graniza prepared a new slate, let’s hope they all repay their debts, for they owe her twice over.

  The birds of dawn wake up and see no one working. The lark says, How the world has changed. But the red kite, soaring high above, cries out that the world has changed far more than the lark suspects, and not just because the men are working only eight hours now, as the ants know, for they have seen many things and have good memories, which is hardly surprising, since they’re always together. What do you say to this, Father Agamedes, I really don’t know what to say, Senhora Dona Clemência, apart from farewell to a world that’s going from bad to worse.

  JOÃO MAU-TEMPO IS in bed. Today will be the day of his death. The illnesses that poor people die from are almost always indefinable, so much so that doctors find it extremely hard to fill in the death certificate unless they drastically simplify things, generally people die of some obscure pain or in childbirth, but how to translate this into clear nosological terms, all those years of studying count for nothing. João Mau-Tempo was in the Montemor hospital for two months, although this did him little good, not that this was the fault of the care he received, some cases are beyond salvation, and in the end, he was brought back home to die, and while his death here will be much the same, it will, at least, be quieter, there’ll be the smell of his own bed, the voices of people passing by in the street, the sounds made by the poultry at dusk, when the chickens go to their roosting places and the cockerel vigorously shakes its wings, who knows, he might miss these things in the next world. During the time that João Mau-Tempo languished in the hospital, he lay awake all night listening to the sighs and moans and sufferings of the ward, and fell asleep only toward dawn. He doesn’t sleep much better at home, but at least he has just his own pain to worry about now, and that is something to be resolved as a matter of confidence between his body and the spirit that still sustains it, with only his family as witness, and although one day their time will come, for they will not be left unharvested, even they will not be able to understand what it means to be a man alone with his own death, knowing, without anyone having to tell him, that today is the day. These are certainties that come into the mind when one wakes very early in the morning to hear the rain falling and dripping from the eaves like the threads of water from a spring, as children we used to perch on the lintel and, leaning against the door frame, hold out our hand to catch the drips, that’s what João used to do and others who are not João. Faustina sleeps on top of the chest, at her insistence, so that her husband can have the double bed to himself, and there is no danger that she will forget her duties, you can see her eyes shining in the night, catching either the gleam of the dying fire or the glow from the oil lamp, perhaps her eyes shine so brightly as a compensation for being deaf. But if she falls asleep and João Mau-Tempo’s pain becomes such that he cannot bear it alone, there is a piece of string linking his right wrist to his wife’s left wrist, having reached a certain age, they are not going to be separated now, he only has to give the string a tug and Faustina will wake from her lightest of sleeps, get up fully dressed, go over to the bed and in the great silence of her deafness take her husband’s hand in hers and, unable to do anything more, say a few comforting words to him, not everyone can boast of being able to do so much.

  It isn’t Sunday today, but in this rain, with the fields waterlogged, no one can go to work. João Mau-Tempo will have all of his small family around him, apart from those who live far away and cannot come, his sister Maria da Conceição, who still works as a maid in Lisbon, still with the same employers, for such examples of loyalty do exist, give them some gold dust and, when you come back, you’ll find it all still there and possibly more besides, and his brother Anselmo, who went to live up north and was never heard of again, perhaps he’s dead, perhaps he’s gone on ahead, like Domingos in whatever year it was he died, who remembers now and who cares. Some lives are erased more completely than others, but that’s because we have so many things to think about, we end up not noticing those lives until there comes a day when we regret our neglect, I was wrong, we say, I should have paid more attention, exactly, if only we’d had those feelings earlier, but these are merely twinges of remorse that arise and, fortunately, are almost immediately forgotten. His daughter Amélia will not be there either, as we know, she has worked as a maid in a house in Montemor ever since she was a girl, she was lucky, though, to have been able to visit him in the hospital and keep him company, and she has been able to save enough money to buy false teeth, her one little luxury, alas, her smile came too late to save her. Some friends will be missing too, Tomás Espada, who long withstood the absence of his wife Flor Martinha, no one ever saw their wrists bound together by a piece of string, but then some things that are invisible nevertheless exist, perhaps the people themselves would be unable to explain how, but Sigismundo Canastro, the oldest friend of all, will come, and Joana Canastra will help as much as she can, if only to console Faustina, for they have known each other so long they do not even need to speak, but will simply exchange a look, with no tears shed, because Faustina won’t be able to cry and Joana never has, these are mysteries of nature, who can say why it is that this woman can’t weep and the other doesn’t know how.

  António Mau-Tempo, my son, will be here too, he has just got up and is still barefoot, How are you feeling, Father, and I, who know that today is the day of my death, answer, Fine, perhaps he’ll believe me, he’s leaning on the frame at the foot of the bed, looking at me, he obviously doesn’t believe me, you can’t convince someone of something if you don’t believe it yourself, he’s still a long way from fifty, but France really finished him off, as everything does in the end, this pain, this pang, or perhaps it isn’t the pang of pain itself but some underlying ache, even I don’t know. And my son-in-law Manuel Espada will come, and my daughter Gracinda, they will both be here at my bedside, beside this bed from which I will be carried out, probably by Manuel and António, because they have more strength, but the women will wash me, that’s usually women’s work, to wash the corpse, ah, the things women have to do, at least I won’t hear them crying. And there’ll be my granddaughter Maria Adelaide, who has the same blue eyes as me, well, not quite, why am I boasting, my eyes are like dull ashes compared to hers, perhaps when I was younger, when I used to go to dances and was courting Faustina, when I stole her from her parents’ house, then my eyes must have been as blue as those that have just walked into the room, Your blessing,
Grandfather, how are you feeling, better, I hope, and I make a gesture with my hand, that’s all that remains of blessings, none of us believes in them, but it’s the custom, and I answer that I’m feeling fine and turn my head toward her so as to see her better, Ah, Maria Adelaide, my granddaughter, although I don’t say those words, I think them, it does me good to see her, she’s wearing a scarf on her head and a little knitted jacket, her skirt is wet, the umbrella didn’t protect her entirely from the rain, and suddenly I feel a terrible urge to weep, because Maria Adelaide took my hand in hers, it was as if we had exchanged eyes, what a daft idea, but a man who is about to die can have whatever ideas he likes, that’s his prerogative, he’s not going to have many more opportunities to have new ideas or repeat old ones, I wonder what time I will die. And now Faustina is coming over with my bowl of milk, she’s going to spoon-feed it to me, I might as well stay hungry today, I would leave the world more lightly, and someone else could drink the milk, what I would really like is for my granddaughter to feed me, but I can’t ask that, I can’t upset Faustina on my last day, who would console her afterward, when she said, Ah, my dear husband, I didn’t give him his milk to drink on the day he died, the grandmother might resent the granddaughter for the rest of her days, perhaps in a little while Maria Adelaide can give me my medicine, according to the doctor’s instructions, half an hour after eating, but these are impossible desires. Maria Adelaide is leaving, she just looked in to see how I am, and I’m fine, her father and mother will be here soon, but she’s gone already, she’s still too young to be a witness to such spectacles, she’s only seventeen and has the same blue eyes as me, or have I said that already.