Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  ______________________________

  LAND OF BLACK CLAY

  (Devotos do ódio)

  by

  José Louzeiro

  Translated by Ted Stroll

  ______________________________

  BOSON BOOKS

  Raleigh

  Published by Boson Books

  3905 Meadow Field Lane

  Raleigh, NC 27606

  ISBN 0-917990-13-7

  An imprint of C&M Online Media Inc.

  Copyright 2000 Ted Stroll

  All rights reserved

  For information contact

  C&M Online Media Inc.

  3905 Meadow Field Lane

  Raleigh, NC 27606

  Tel: (919) 233-8164

  e-mail:cm@cmonline.com

  URL: http://www.bosonbooks.com

  Introduction

  A long time ago a controversy arose over the indianismo of José de Alencar,[[1]] particularly as exhibited in Peri, the Indian to whom Ceci delivers her destiny at the end of the novel we have all read and whose emotions linger with us. The controversy revolved around the reality or lack thereof that Peri represented, and Alencar’s adversaries insisted emphatically that the Indian was not like that; that is, he was not as Alencar had portrayed him in his novel. He was not as chivalrous; he was not that dignified; he was not that “civilized.” To which an admirer of Alencar retorted vehemently, “But he should be so.”

  A fable is a moral allegory; it owes no duty to reality. Indeed, to take things to extremes, no art, including the literary, owes a duty to reality, and in this regard Alencar’s admirer in the above-mentioned controversy was entirely correct. It was not essential that the Indian be as portrayed; he should be so for the merely artistic ends at which the literary creation was aimed. The goal of a fable is to show how things should be, not how they are. How things in fact are we all know; we are tired of it. But it is how things should be that opens a perspective onto the future, that liberates from the stranglehold of harsh reality that torments us.

  This novel of José Louzeiro is a fable: it is unavailing to bring up the arguments of Alencar’s critics that reality cannot be so, that reality is not so. We know well enough that it is not so; but so it should be. What it means—and it is this that is important—is that it will be so some day, a day not far off. This is not a naturalist novel; it is a novel that naturally supports its structure in a fable, as the art of literature permits, and indeed as must be fundamental within it as in all the arts.

  José Louzeiro solidified his position as an excellent novelist, after having established himself as an outstanding journalist—while that activity was possible—in works that generated great repercussions and won a wide audience. His journalistic perspicacity and his easy writing style found an extensive arena and within it they grew proficient. His journalistic activity gave the author the best of everything it had to offer, including, in the main, his clear, objective and direct style. In fiction, in which Louzeiro would later establish himself, these fundamental gifts cemented his narrative manner and solidified his reputation. Certain scandalous cases, that required, besides the narrator’s talents, the courage to set down facts and characters often based on reality, entrenched José Louzeiro’s renown. Thereafter, and for good reason, the cinema required his services and he became responsible for some important screenplays, some of which have won prizes. He is, in sum, a master in his field.

  Here, in this novel that grabs the reader’s attention from the first pages, is present the technique of a motion picture scriptwriter and a novelist depicting the most dramatic scenes reality can generate, a reality that he welcomed in this work of honest and rigorous reconstitution. More important yet, we find a novelist whose capacity to narrate has been refined through journalistic expertise, and in which the reporter has an outstanding role. Here is, then, in his entirety, with all of his ability to tell a story, the reporter. But above all one finds present the Brazilian who knows his country’s problems and could never remain indifferent to their development.

  To be specific, the novel deals with the problem of the plantation and of the conflicts it has triggered everywhere, especially in the northeast. It deals with a problem that has filled news accounts and whose political import requires no reflection. It deals, the more the problem is particularized, with the assassination of peasant leaders, among whom appear, as a reference, figures like the leader João Pedro Teixeira, who became mainstays of the Peasant Leagues and who dedicated their lives to the organization of peasants to confront the fury of the plantation.

  A reporter from Rio de Janeiro is sent to the state of Paraíba, to Sapé, where so many crimes were committed during the “redemption” after April 1964, to cover the trial of the region’s land barons, whose abuses were stimulated by the installation of the country’s dictatorship. The novel revolves in particular around the trial of the perpetrators of crimes against farmworkers and union leaders who came to fight against the reigning oppression. Some characters stand out in the narrative: the audacious judge who confronts the dominant violence, the doctor who is allied with him, the priest who represents the presence of the church in this anguished portrayal, two or three women who are the preferred victims of oppression, gangsters, landowners, and more minor figures who play supporting roles: taxi-drivers, salespeople, military police soldiers, and humble workers—common folk in sum.

  Everything turns in this intense narrative around the preparation and realization of the jury trial at which the criminals and the masterminds of the crimes appear[. . . .] The fable is the novel. A novel that readers will read with interest from the first page to the last, and that is worth the effort!

  —Nelson Werneck Sodré

  Translator’s Preface

  Land of Black Clay takes place largely in the rural township of Sapé, a town in the northeast Brazilian state of Paraíba, many hundreds of miles north-northeast of Rio de Janeiro. The main character, Jorge Elias, is a newspaper reporter from Rio de Janeiro who is assigned to cover a news story in Sapé. A judge, Odilon Fernandes, has reopened the case of a farmworker union organizer whose murder local landowners ordered in the 1960s. The initial investigation into the murder was perfunctory, but now, in the 1980s when the novel takes place, the possibility of justice is given a second chance. Land of Black Clay is a political-adventure novel reminiscent of the material from which such Costa-Gavras movies as Z and Missing were made.

  Though this is a work of fiction, such union leaders as João Pedro Teixeira and Margarida Maria Alves actually lived. The land barons and their friends are fictional, as are the events themselves.

  The author, José Louzeiro, was born in São Luís, the capital of the far-northern Brazilian state of Maranhão, in 1932. He moved to Rio de Janeiro in 1954, and in 1958 published his first book, a collection of short stories entitled Depois da luta (After the Struggle). In 1975 he published Lúcio Flávio, o passageiro da agonia (Lúcio Flávio, Passenger of Agony), and his career as a screenwriter began when the renowned director Hector Babenco asked him to write a movie script based on the novel.

  Louzeiro may be best known for his work on the motion picture Pixote, a lei do mais fraco (Pixote: the Law of the Weakest), also directed by Babenco. Infância dos Mortos (Childhood of the Dead), which Louzeiro published in 1977, gave rise to Pixote, which has won international acclaim.

  The translator, Ted Stroll, has been a lawyer on the judicial staff of the California Supreme Court since 1989. Before that he practiced law at Stoel Rives, a firm in Portland, Oregon. He graduated from the Boalt Hall School of Law, at the University of California, Berkeley, in 1987, and from the Graduate School of Journalism at Columbia University in 1983. He studied Portuguese at Williams College, from whi
ch he graduated in 1978, and he has traveled in Brazil and Portugal. He lives in Oakland, California.

  Chapter 1

  The newsroom of The Nation newspaper buzzed with activity that day as usual. The editors copy-edited apprentices’ material, the layout staff planned the next day’s edition, wire copy piled up in the teletype room, the sports staff discussed the local team’s latest practices, and the editorial secretary, Andriano Barbosa, exchanged ideas with Hélio Gordo, the chief reporter, on stories to be pursued. The editor, Carlos Vinhaes, read the story list Benício Conrado had prepared at six a.m., drawing a red line through stories he didn’t like and asking to see those he did.

  Mathias roamed among the tables in his already somewhat soiled khaki uniform, passing out coffee cups and glasses of cold water.

  I had just come back from the slum known as Morro do Juramento, or Oath Hill, where, weeks before, a squad from the twenty-seventh precinct had been decimated. The police were killed as they unleashed a raid to capture cocaine traffickers. A black helicopter had soared from among the trees and, some 300 feet up, machine-gunned the police cars. Three detectives died immediately, and two military police in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. The helicopter was unmarked, so the case had gone unsolved.

  Every police reporter covering the “case of the black locust,” as the helicopter had come to be called, had a theory regarding the slaughter. Mine was perhaps the simplest: the helicopter had been rented by traffickers who knew about the twenty-seventh precinct’s planned blitz. But, to back up my theory, I had to find someone who would talk—no mean feat. The slum-dwellers on Morro do Juramento hadn’t dared. Nobody had seen the machine-gun fire; no one had seen the dead, much less the bullet-riddled cars.

  When I came into the newsroom, Gordo handed me a second story, as if he were unaware of my assignment: a follow-up on the murder of Zinnger Webel, a German and a professor, forty years old, killed on the slope of Saint-Roman Street in Copacabana. Inspector Marcos Fontenelle promised he had two suspects to show the press, but I knew he was bluffing. The police had been looking for leads and hadn’t found any. The detectives had found papers in Webel’s hotel room, but the interpreters had not completed translating them. Everything in Fontenelle’s precinct happened at a snail’s pace. But why complain to Gordo? His job was to delegate assignments, keep the wheel turning.

  I sipped coffee from the plastic cup Mathias had put on the desk, lit a cigarette, stuck paper in the typewriter, and flipped through my notepad, looking for names. I had friends and acquaintances in samba schools, dead-end dives, and dope-dealing hangouts. Why not look for them? Maybe one of them had a tip. The small stingray is always on guard. Anyone who isn’t careful could disappear.

  As I typed out a list of possible sources, Veiga de Castro, the editor-in-chief, appeared, wearing a light, well-tailored suit, starched collar, and pressed tie. He approached Gordo’s desk; Vinhaes and Barbosa greeted him. He carried the day’s paper, some stories circled. There was an argument. Gordo promised that The Nation was better informed than Rio’s two other major dailies, O Globo and the Jornal do Brasil, even though the reporters often doubted it. Veiga de Castro turned to Vinhaes, complaining about confusing front-page headlines. Vinhaes read and reread the headlines and didn’t find anything difficult to understand, but promised to speak with the copy desk. Unlike Hélio, Vinhaes wouldn’t argue with management. Or with anyone. His business was to get the paper out on time. He didn’t get worked up over details. The Nation advertised itself as getting out early. That was something Vinhaes could take pride in. Midnight would find the paper for sale in certain spots, especially the busiest bars and restaurants.

  The editor-in-chief accepted the coffee Mathias offered. He suggested Vinhaes demand more care from the editors, and went to his office, accompanied by Barbosa, Gordo, and Vinhaes.

  The sports department kept arguing. Veiga de Castro didn’t ordinarily involve himself in that area. He had never been to Maracanã Stadium on match day; he didn’t like soccer and didn’t feel an affinity for any team—something, naturally, that Achilles, the sports editor, couldn’t understand. Had Veiga de Castro his way, the sports section would shrink to two pages. Yet it was sports and the crime page that sold The Nation. General and economic news conferred only status.

  I thought of this without wanting to, worrying about the names I was putting down. Whom would I seek out first? Chico Gamela, on the hill of Morro do Turano, or Zezinho Alvorado, in the Mangueira? Maybe Zefa Sinhá, seamstress of the Mountain Empire, now a resident of Buraco da Lacraia, in the Caju neighborhood. And the ex-military policeman Neném Capeta, blind in one eye but nevertheless the watchman for a numbers game over in the Leopoldina district? Would he be there? There was only one way: pursue the target, day and night, by the book. If I had to work during fixed hours, I might as well forget it. Of this I was certain. It did no good to drag things out. The right thing was to take advantage of Veiga de Castro’s proximity and put the problem to him, as well as Vinhaes, Barbosa, and Gordo. Did they or did they not want a good story? Then let them give me at least two weeks, the whole day, on top of the case, as some papers were doing.

  I took one more swallow of coffee. One of Gordo’s phones began to ring. Mathias answered. It was for me. I put the phone to my ear, continuing to glance at the editor-in-chief’s office and his meeting with Vinhaes, Barbosa, and Gordo.

  The person speaking had a low voice and difficult pronunciation, as if she had loose dentures. She promised good information. She said she was the sister of one of the dead detectives. I asked the name of her brother who had died in the massacre; she hesitated. I hung up. Nut cases, exhibitionists and suicides are always turning up in editorial offices. . . . Some complain about their neighbors; others report the death of the Pope or the Queen of England. Still others say they’re stepchildren of important people. They bring in the family tree and show it off. In the highest branches, there they are, alongside Napoleon, the Pope, famous artists, or rich men like Howard Hughes.

  I returned to the list of names in my typewriter. I thought of the possibility of blowing off that difficult case. Gordo appeared at the editor-in-chief’s door and yelled my name:

  “Jorge Elias!”

  Veiga de Castro was coming to the end of a long telex that lay atop his cluttered desk. I pulled up a chair.

  “How’s the helicopter case coming?” he asked.

  “Somewhat difficult. Everyone’s afraid.”

  “And not for nothing,” Vinhaes commented. “Lots of heads’ll roll!”

  “I know how much you’re buried in that story,” said Veiga de Castro, “but we’ve just made a decision regarding you.”

  “Holidays at the beach, or am I fired?”

  “You’re a good reporter. The other papers, with a much larger staff than ours, don’t know anything about the slaughter either. But that’s not what I want to talk about. For all these years you’ve conducted yourself as a professional—prudent yet resolute. Now that we’ve got this telex, The Nation would like to have you on another story. Much more complex than a hillside massacre. More difficult to investigate. And if that’s not enough, it’s outside of Rio, in the interior of Paraíba state, way up north. Barbosa, Hélio and Vinhaes think you can do it. That’s a compliment, and it demands a sacrifice from you.”

  “Of what type?”

  “Sapé is a township in the Zona da Mata, the Jungle Zone, not far from João Pessoa. It was there that the farmworker João Pedro Teixeira started up the first Paraíba Farmworkers’ League. In ’62 he and some compatriots wound up dead. But the massacres didn’t stop. Landowners and factory owners were involved in all these deaths. It was all more or less forgotten until last month when, according to this telex, Judge Odilon Fernandes decided to reopen the cases. I don’t have to tell you it shook up the town. Sapé township is covered with cane and pineapple plantations. Best pineapple around. What do you say?”

  “Well, if I could choose, I’d go to the beach,
but as I’m a reporter, I want to know when I leave. I’m sorry the black locust case’ll slip away.”

  “We’ll carry on with that; don’t worry about it,” Gordo assured me.

  “The important thing is the series on Sapé,” said Barbosa. “Have you thought of the impact we’ll have?”

  “Your Sapé stories will secure your reputation as a great reporter. People are interested in the topic,” said Vinhaes.

  “In addition,” said Veiga de Castro, “The Nation is doing an important social service. In truth, we rarely think of the dramas occurring in the countryside. We’re always so urban-oriented.”

  “What’s the best day to travel?” I asked, beginning to warm up to the idea.

  “Tomorrow,” said Barbosa. “This story is urgent.”

  “But there’s one thing you must be aware of,” said Veiga de Castro, putting more coffee in his cup. “Nobody must know about you. Your mission is entirely clandestine. Not even our João Pessoa correspondent will be informed.”

  “Why the mystery?”

  “Things in Sapé are different from here,” the editor-in-chief declared. “A reporter like you could die the first day on the job. An accident, a fight in a restaurant, a burglary in your hotel room. Anything could be a subterfuge to eliminate you.”

  “How do you know so much, sir?”

  Vinhaes and Barbosa laughed. Veiga de Castro lit a cigarette.

  “I’m from there. I know the judge you’ll look for. I don’t want you to encounter the difficulties I did. The law in Sapé is decreed by the growers. The landowners’ wish is the law’s command.”

  More laughter. The telephone rang. Veiga de Castro picked up the receiver, smiled, looked at me.

  “Bon voyage.”