Raised from the Ground

by José Saramago

  When João Mau-Tempo wakes from the torpor into which he slipped after taking his medicine, which was a real boon, affording him a prolonged respite from the pain and allowing him to sink into what seemed like a natural sleep, but now the pain has returned, and he wakes up moaning, it’s like a stake piercing his side, when he recovers full consciousness, he finds himself surrounded by people, there isn’t room for anyone else, Faustina and Gracinda are bending over him, Amélia too, so she did come after all, it was the moan that summoned them, and Joana Canastra is standing farther back because she’s not a family member, and the men keep their distance too, this is not their moment, they are by the door that opens onto the yard and are blocking the light, Sigismundo Canastro, Manuel Espada and António Mau-Tempo.

  If João Mau-Tempo had any doubts, they end here, they all know that today is the day of his death, some of them must have guessed and then passed on the word, but in that case they’re not going to hear me groaning, so thought João Mau-Tempo and gritted his teeth, well, that again is a manner of speaking, he can’t grit the few teeth he has left, above and below, he has to grit his gums, ah, old age, old age, and yet this man is only sixty-seven, all right, he’s no stripling, the years haven’t passed in vain, but other men who are older than him are in far better health, yes, but they live far from the latifundio. Anyway, it isn’t a matter of having or not having teeth, that isn’t the point, the point is stopping the moan or groan when it’s still in its infancy and allowing the pain to grow, because that is something one cannot avoid, the point is to take away its voice, to silence it, just as he did more than twenty years ago when he was a prisoner and forced to play statues and withstand the pain in his lower back when they hit him without caring where they struck, his face is drenched in sweat, his limbs tensed, well, his arms at any rate, because he can’t feel his legs at all, indeed, at first he thinks perhaps he isn’t properly awake, but when he realizes that he is, in fact, fully conscious, he tries to move his feet, just his feet, but they don’t move either, he tries to bend his knees, but it’s useless, no one has any idea what’s going on beneath this sheet, this blanket, it’s death, death has lain down with me and no one else has noticed, somehow you imagine that death will walk in through the door or the window, but instead it’s actually here in bed with me, and how long has it been here, What time is it. This is a question that everyone asks and which always has an answer, asking what time it is distracts people from thinking about the time left or the time that has already passed, and once the question has been answered, no one thinks any more of it, it was simply the need to interrupt something or to set something else in motion again, there isn’t time now to find out, the thing we have been waiting for is here. João Mau-Tempo looks vaguely around him, there are his closest relatives and friends, three men and four women, Faustina, with the string wound around her wrist, Gracinda, who saw men killed in Montemor, Amélia, submissive, but for how much longer, Joana, ever the tough nut, Sigismundo, his comrade, Manuel, grave-faced, António, my son, ah, my son, and these are the people I am about to leave, Where’s my granddaughter, and Gracinda answers, her voice tearful, João Mau-Tempo really is about to die, She’s gone home to fetch some clothes, someone thought it best she shouldn’t be here, she’s still so young, and João Mau-Tempo feels a great relief, there’s no danger then, if they were all here that would be a bad sign, but now that his granddaughter is missing, he can’t die, he will die only when they are all here, if they knew that, they would make sure one of them was always out of the room, what could be simpler.

  João Mau-Tempo uses his elbows to drag his body into an upright position, the others rush to help him, but he alone knows that this is the one way he will be able to move his legs, he is sure he will feel better sitting up, it will relieve the tightness he suddenly feels in his chest, not that he’s frightened, he knows that nothing will happen until his granddaughter returns, and then perhaps one of the others will leave the room to go and see if the rain is clearing up, it’s so hot in here, Open that door, it’s the door that opens onto the yard, it’s still raining, only in novels do the heavens open like this on these occasions, a white light enters, and suddenly João Mau-Tempo can no longer see it, and even he doesn’t know how or why.

  MARIA ADELAIDE IS WORKING away from home, over toward Pegões. It’s too far for her to travel back and forth, a glance at the map will tell you that it’s at least thirty kilometers from Monte Lavre, and the work is killing, as anyone who has ever set foot in a vineyard with a hoe in his hand will tell you, Now get hoeing. And this isn’t the kind of work you can finish in a week or so, Maria Adelaide has been here for three months now, and however blue her eyes may be, that counts for nothing. She goes home only every two or three weeks, on a Sunday, and while she’s there, she rests in the way women on the latifundio have always rested, by doing some other kind of work, then it’s back to the vineyard and the hoe, under the watchful eye of some neighbors who are working there too, much to the relief of her parents, well, Manuel Espada was bound to be concerned about what his only daughter might get up to, especially coming as she does from Monte Lavre, a place rife with distrust when it comes to romantic relationships, a boy can’t be seen so much as talking to a girl, and if Maria, say, and Aurora turn out to be flighty creatures who chat away quite happily with boys and laugh at their jokes, you can be sure that they’re nothing but flibbertigibbets and hussies. And all because a boy and a girl have been seen talking for a couple of minutes in broad daylight and in the middle of the street. Who knows what they might be hatching, mutter the old and the not so old ladies, and when the gossip reaches the maternal and paternal ears, the usual admonitory questions are asked, who was that boy, what did you say, you be careful, young lady, even if the parents have their own charming love story to tell, as is the case with Manuel Espada and Gracinda Mau-Tempo, although we did not perhaps give the story the detailed description it deserved, but that’s what parents are like, they forget so quickly and customs change so slowly. Maria Adelaide is only nineteen and, up until now, has given them no cause for concern, her sole concern being the hard work she has to cope with, but what alternative is there, women weren’t born to be princesses, as this story has more than demonstrated.

  All days are the same and yet none resemble each other. About halfway through the afternoon, troubling news arrived at the vineyard, no one knew quite what had happened, Something about the army in Lisbon, I heard it on the radio, but if that was the case, you would expect them to know all about it, but it’s a mistake to think that it would be easy to find out the facts in a forest of vines only a few short meters from hell, people don’t have a radio dangling around their neck as if it were a cowbell, or stuck in their pocket like some singing, talking creature, such frivolities are not allowed, the news came from someone who chanced to be passing and mentioned to the foreman what he had heard on the radio, hence the confusion. The rhythm of work immediately slows, the rise and fall of the hoe seems but an embarrassing distraction, and Maria Adelaide is just as curious as the others, she has her nose up, like a hare that has sensed the presence of a newspaper, as her uncle António Mau-Tempo would say, what’s happened, what’s happened, but the foreman is no town crier, his job is to watch over and guide the workforce. Come on now, back to work, and since there is no more news, the hoes return to their labors, and those who care about such matters recall that, a month before, the troops in Caldas da Rainha came out onto the streets, although with little result. The afternoon continues and ends, and if they did hear further news, they didn’t believe it any more than they had the first lot. In the latifundio, so far from the barracks in the Largo do Carmo in Lisbon,* not a shot has been heard and no one is wandering the fields shouting slogans, it’s hard to understand what revolution means and what it involves, and if we were to try and explain, someone would probably comment, with the air of someone who doesn’t believe a word we’re saying, Ah, so that’s what a revolution is.

  It is true,
however, that the government has been overthrown. When the workers gather together in their barracks, their civil rather than military barracks, everyone knows much more than they had imagined, at least they now have a small radio, one that runs on batteries, screeching and whistling so loudly that, from a meter or so away, you can’t understand a word, but it doesn’t matter, you get the gist, and then the fever spreads, they’re all very excited, talking wildly, So what do we do now, these are the hesitations and anxieties of those waiting in the wings to go on stage, and although there are some who feel happy, others feel not sad exactly, rather, they don’t know quite what to think, and if that strikes you as odd, imagine yourself in the latifundio with no voices and no certainties, and then think again. A few more hours of the night passed, and things became clearer, well, that’s just a manner of speaking, because, put simply, they knew what had ended, but not what had begun. Then the neighbors who were keeping an eye on Maria Adelaide, the Geraldo family, husband, wife and daughter, an older girl, decided to go back to Monte Lavre the next day, you might say this was a whim of theirs were it not for the very sensible reason they give, namely, that they wanted to be at home, they might lose two or three days’ work but at least they’d have a better idea of what was going on, rather than being stuck here in the back of beyond, they asked Maria Adelaide if she wanted to go with them, she had, after all, been entrusted to their care, Your father will be glad to have you back, but this was said simply to say something, because all they knew of Manuel Espada was that he was a good man and a good worker, and as for any suspicions they might have about him, these were only of the kind that arise in all small villages, where people are always guessing at what they don’t know. Others had also decided to return to their villages, they would go and come straight back, so many of them, in fact, that the foreman had no choice but to let them, what else could he do. Unfortunately, in the midst of what seemed to be the best possible news, the radio suddenly lost its voice and became a catarrhal growl so low that you couldn’t make out a single word, why did the stupid thing have to pick today of all days to go wrong. For the rest of the night, the workers’ barracks was an island lost in the latifundio sea, surrounded by a country that did not want to go to bed, exchanging news and rumors, rumors and news, as tends to happen in these situations, until finally, having nothing more to hope for from the defunct machine, they went to their respective mats and tried their best to sleep.

  Early the next morning, they set off for the nearest road, a good league from where they were working, praying to the celestial powers who rule over such things that the bus would come along with a few empty seats, and when it appeared, they saw that it had, with practice you can tell these things at once, from a quick head-count and from the driver’s oddly obliging air. This is the bus that goes to Vendas Novas, and only the Geraldo family and Maria Adelaide get on, the others from Monte Lavre have decided not to go, preferring to err on the side of caution or unwilling to commit themselves, or perhaps it’s that they need the money even more than their colleagues do. Those heading for other destinations remain by the side of the road, what happened to them, what fate, good or bad, awaited them, we will never know. There is little traffic, and so the journey passes quickly, and their more urgent anxieties are dissipated right there and then, for driver, conductor and passengers are all of one mind, the government has been overthrown, no more Tomás and no more Marcelo, but who’s in charge now, on that point the general harmony founders, nobody quite knows, someone mentions a junta but others weren’t so sure, what’s a junta, what kind of a name is junta for a government, there must be some mistake. The bus drives into Vendas Novas, and given the number of people in the street, you’d think it was a public holiday, the horn has to really open its lungs to make its way down the narrow street, and when we finally reach the main square, seeing the troops there with their martial air is enough to give a person goosepimples all over, and Maria Adelaide, who is young and has the dreams appropriate to someone of her age and condition, feels as if her legs had been cut from under her as she gazes out the window at the soldiers outside the barracks, at the cannons decorated with sprigs of eucalyptus, and the Geraldo family are saying to her, Aren’t you coming, it’s as if she had lived her entire life with her eyes closed and has only now opened them, first she has to understand the nature of light, and these are things that take much longer to explain than to feel, the proof being that when she reaches Monte Lavre and embraces her father, she will discover that she knows everything about his life, even though those things had only ever been spoken of obliquely, Where’s Pa gone, Oh, he had some business to deal with some way away, he won’t be back tonight, and when he did come home, there was no point asking him what that business was, first because daughters don’t interrogate their fathers, and second because when mysteries belong in the outside world, it’s best to leave them there. The narrator would like to recount events as they happened, but he can’t, for example, just a moment ago, Maria Adelaide was sitting glued to her seat on the bus, apparently feeling quite faint, and suddenly here she is standing in the square, having been the first to get off the bus, well, that’s youth for you. And although she is with the Geraldo family, she doesn’t live under their wing, she is free to cross the road and take a closer look at the soldiers and wave to them, and the soldiers see her, struggle briefly with the awkwardness of being men trained to respond with weapons and possibly answer for that response, then, having won that battle and thrown discipline to the winds, wave back, well, it isn’t every day you see such a pair of blue eyes.

  Meanwhile, Geraldo Senior had found some transport to take them to Monte Lavre, a normally difficult enterprise, but today, ah, if only it was always like this, everyone is our friend, it’s only a small truck and a bit of a squeeze, but we can cope with a little discomfort, these people are accustomed to sleeping on a board, with a plow handle for a pillow, the driver will charge them only the price of the gas, if that, At least let us buy you a drink, All right, but only because I don’t want to be rude, and no one is surprised when Maria Adelaide bursts into tears, she will weep tonight as well when she hears a voice say over the radio, Viva Portugal, either then, or perhaps it was yesterday, when they first heard the news, or when she crossed the street to take a closer look at the soldiers, or when they waved to her, or when she embraced her father, she doesn’t know herself, but at that point she realizes that life has changed and says, I just wish Grandpa, but she can’t finish her sentence, gripped by the despair of knowing that she cannot bring him back.

  We mustn’t think, though, that the whole of the latifundio is singing the praises of the revolution. Let us remember what the narrator said about this Mediterranean sea with its barracudas and other perils, as well as the occasional unctuous monkfish. The whole Lamberto Horques dynasty is gathered together, sitting at their respective round tables, with glum, scowling faces, the less furious members speak hesitantly, cautiously, if, nevertheless, yet, however, perhaps, this is what passes for the great unanimity of the latifundio, What do you think, Father Agamedes, this is a question that would normally never lack for an appropriate answer, but the prudence of the church is infinite, and Father Agamedes, though he is God’s humble servant sent to evangelize souls, knows a lot about the church and about prudence, Our kingdom is not of this world, render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s and unto God the things that are God’s, a sower went out to sow his seed, pay no attention, when confronted by such tricky questions, Father Agamedes does tend to go off on a tangent and speak in parables, to gain time until he receives his instructions from the bishop, still, you can always count on him to say something. One cannot, alas, count on Leandro Leandres, who died last year in his bed, having received the sacraments as he deserved, meanwhile, all over the country, his many successors, associates, brothers or superiors have, we learn, been arrested, those, that is, who did not flee, and in Lisbon, we hear, shots were exchanged before they surrendered, people died,* what, I wo
nder, will happen to them now. There is little news of the national guard, except that it is keeping a low profile and awaiting orders, Corporal Tacabo went, shamefaced, to Norberto’s house to say just this, cringing as he did so, as if he were naked, and he left as he had arrived, with eyes downcast, struggling to find an appropriate face to wear as he walked through Monte Lavre, past these men who look at him and watch him from afar, not that he’s afraid, a corporal in the national guard is never afraid, but the air of the latifundio seems suddenly to have become unbreathable, as if a storm were brewing.

  And then the talk turns to the first of May, a conversation that is repeated every year, but now it’s a vociferous public debate, with people recalling how only last year the celebrations had to be organized in secret, with the organizers constantly having to regroup, getting in touch with those in the know, encouraging the undecided, reassuring the fearful, and there are those who still can’t believe that the first of May will be celebrated as freely as the newspapers claim, the poor distrust charity. It’s not charity, declare Sigismundo Canastro and Manuel Espada, opening a newspaper from Lisbon, It says here that the first of May is to be openly celebrated as a national holiday, And what about the guards, insist those with good memories, They’ll have to watch us go strolling past them, who would think such a thing would ever happen, the guards standing silently by while we shout hooray for the first of May.