Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  “How do they do it?”

  “That’s just it. Back when I was on the land with my people, those moneybags would say this: ‘We want to buy your land.’ And you know, our little plots weren’t exactly ‘land.’ My father said he wasn’t interested in selling, because the land sustained us. Another warning came. This time the bully Bené Brabo brought the message. He knocked loudly on the door, woke everyone up in the middle of the night. My dad lit the lamp; the goon loomed over us and yelled loudly: ‘Tomorrow the boss’ll need the land. Otherwise, your fields and house are history!’“

  “And the old man?”

  “He sold the land; we moved to a swampy area. One brother ended up ill. That was when I got work on the truck and took everyone to João Pessoa.”

  For the rest of the trip, Geraldo made occasional comments, usually linked to his time on the land. I listened. Secretly I was happy to have encountered a companion who knew Sapé, one who’d suffered on the land. Just then the taxi was cutting through a sugar cane plantation, one of the big ones. The cane fields stretched from one side to the other. Withered stalks, not very high. I thought, “Those are the worst cane stalks I’ve ever seen,” and said so to Geraldo, who began to laugh.

  “Wrong, boss. Sapé’s cane is good. They’re thin but it’s pure sugar. There are places in this land of black clay where the cane puts out ten leaves. You cut it, it grows, and old Barros stuffs the banks full of money.”

  A bit after three o’clock, as Geraldo had predicted, we were entering Sapé. First the Rotary Club monument, in the middle of the median strip that made Getúlio Vargas Avenue a boulevard. Then the police station and jail. Why was the Rotary Club monument so prominently displayed in Sapé? I didn’t ask Geraldo. But, as a reporter, I had wanted several times to do a story for The Nation on this curious organization. What it truly was, what it did, how it prospered so much in a country without definitive associative habits. From Santa Rosa, in the state of Rio Grande do Sul, to Guadalupe in Piauí state, you’d find the Rotary.

  The taxi drove on, now along a cobblestoned street, and arrived at the Public Market, a low, timeworn building. Around it, stalls, some roofed with oilcloth, others bare. Next to the open-air market, a craft store; in Tiradentes Passage, an old man rolling tobacco in a hole in the wall piled high with sacks and aluminum panels. I spoke with him but he seemed not to hear. Geraldo smiled. We left. We had fresh-squeezed sugar cane juice in a fly-bitten dive. Geraldo ate couscous; he didn’t seem bothered by the filth. I paid the bill for the trip.

  “If you don’t find your uncle, you can go to the Juca Inn. It’s near Santa Terezinha church, in the Nova Brasília neighborhood. It’s good enough for one or two nights. The city doesn’t have a hotel.”

  I walked a fair piece with the pack on my back. People glanced at me; some even stopped to stare. Underneath the century-old fig tree, two taxis were parked next to the ruins of the small square of Augusto dos Anjos—broken benches and light fixtures, the poet’s bust destroyed. One taxi driver was shirtless, the other open-necked. I got into the taxi, a Corcel. The fat driver wiped a cloth on his face and put it carefully on the dashboard. I told him to go to the Juca Inn. We drove down two paved roads, others done in parallelogram stonework, but most were only dusty dirt. The houses were squat, some well-tended, but most extremely poor, without paint, without anything. We crossed the tracks of the old English-named Great Western Railway, now labeled the Rede Ferroviária do Nordeste in Portuguese.

  “Are you a friend of Father Juliano, sir?”

  “No. I’m here to find an uncle who moved to Nova Brasília.”

  This driver didn’t have Geraldo’s friendliness. He weighed his words before uttering them. His questions seemed interrogatory. At one corner, near a school with broken windows, stood four or five armed policemen.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Judge Odilon Fernandes decided to try Colonel Barros’s men because some farmworkers were killed, awhile back. That judge is either a communist or crazy!”

  “Are there many communists around here?”

  He gave me a withering look.

  “That’s all there is. The Rural Workers’ Union is just a front. If you stay in the city a few days, you’ll see what I mean. Yesterday the streets were covered with posters and flyers announcing a rally next Thursday. I heard it’s to support some farmworker that the police proved to be a good-for-nothing. He was a mugger who’d been locked up several times. What’s the world coming to?”

  “And the newspapers here, what do they say?”

  “Papers? When we had that Sugarcane News, there were shootouts every day; the city was always in an uproar. Some men of Dr. Barros went in there and gave it to them good: they broke the stupid operation up. Sapé then had years of peace, until Father Juliano showed up with his bizarre sermons and Judge Fernandes followed along, causing all sorts of trouble.”

  The taxi stopped in front of the Juca Inn. As I paid the driver looked me over again, eyes full of hate.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, you must be from João Pessoa or Campina Grande—you’re not from here.”

  I smiled.

  “I’m from Recife. Detective work. Besides the quick errands I have to do in Sapé, I want to find my uncle.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “He’s about 50, tall and white. His name is Elindo José de Albuquerque.”

  The driver seemed confused.

  “Elindo? Tall and white? I don’t know anybody in Nova Brasília with that name. Strange. I never heard anybody mention your uncle. The city’s growing.”

  I got out of the taxi, worried. The taxi moved off in a cloud of dust. The street was deserted, the houses too. The driver was no doubt an informer; he’d never forget the passenger he’d dropped off at the Juca Inn. I remained standing, watching the taxi disappear into the distance. A thin, shoeless young woman crossed the street, balancing a water can on her head. I went into the inn’s front gate and encountered a prematurely old man seated in an easy chair underneath a jack tree.

  “I’d like a room.”

  He got up, buttoned his shirt, and opened a grimy book on the reception desk. He ran a fat finger down the lined page. He seemed to have difficulty seeing. I helped.

  “This one here. Which block is it located in?”

  “The blue block.”

  “What’s the daily rate?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Is there a bathroom?”

  “Shared.”

  I got the key and went to look at the room. It was filthy. It had a floor of beaten earth, a single bed, a little table and chair, and a clothes hanger on the wall. I locked the door, which caused the odor of mildew to intensify. I opened the window and began to realize a long stay in the inn would be intolerable. I got the bath towel and went into the bathroom, which had neither a roof nor a shower. There was only a basin full of water. I took a bath as best I could and went back to the room. The old man stayed in the easy chair. The sun began to disappear and for the first time I regretted not having a weapon. The place seemed pretty strange and at night no doubt it would be worse. I thought about going out, leaving my luggage in the room. Perhaps it would be better to rest while I could, so as to be able to get up early. But, what about dinner or at least a snack? Doubtless I’d have to go into town. I’d buy bread, biscuits, fruit, mineral water. Things that wouldn’t spoil. The inn didn’t have a refrigerator, even though it had electricity. I changed clothes and went back to the old man. He seemed friendly. I asked him where I could buy fruit and biscuits. He recommended I buy a liter of garapa, a sugary soft drink, in Mr. Tarcísio’s store, and explained where it was.

  “Garapa, it’s good for health!”

  I went out into the street, carrying my key. I wasn’t going to leave it at the desk, given the equipment and papers in my pack. In the street by the church a bus waited. I asked if it went into Sapé’s center; the fare-taker said yes. The bus began to move, but stopped every moment, pi
cking up more passengers, all seeming poor, badly dressed. At one particular stop two policemen got on. One was quite dark, the other light with blondish hair. The dark one said something to the driver. It meant the bus would have to wait a few minutes. He posted himself by the exit door. The other walked slowly, eyeing the passengers. He passed by me without showing any interest, and began to speak. I looked back. He was heading for a youngster of about eighteen, who looked both terrified and hungry, with jutting cheekbones.

  “You’re Cipó. Are you or aren’t you?”

  The boy appeared tongue-tied. The policeman grabbed him by the shirt and gave him a tap.

  “I’m asking you a question. Are you Cipó or aren’t you, you idiot?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Come with us.”

  A woman yelled. The policeman looked us in the eyes.

  “Be quiet, lady!”

  The woman began to sob quietly. I forced myself not to protest. After all, why ruin a project so carefully planned? On leaving the bus the youngster was hit on the head and fell to the ground. The two officers began to kick him. The white one held him as if he was choking him, and pulled him alongside a car.

  “Poor fellow,” said the man next to me.

  The motorist closed the front door, put the bus in first. Soon we were passing elegant houses, lights on, then men in front of a theater featuring a pornographic movie, and children pedaling bicycles in the little square. I got out, imagining the fate of Cipó in the police’s hands.

  I went into a luncheonette with stuffed barstools lining the counter and loud rock music shaking powerful speakers. I ordered a cheese sandwich and sugar cane juice. But this was a chic place—all they had were soft drinks and beer. If I wanted—which I hadn’t noticed before—I could take a wicker chair out on the sidewalk, facing the square of children on bicycles. I sat down. The wind was cool; cars drove by with headlights on. I ate the sandwich and had a first beer, slowly, until two men showed up to take the next table. The stronger and lighter-skinned of the two opened a copy of The North. One of the lead headlines on page one announced the rally in Sapé, to be led by the Sapé Rural Workers’ Union.

  “Do you think they’ll have the courage to confront the chief of police?”

  “With Judge Fernandes giving them cover, it’s almost certain.”

  A cane-loaded truck drove by, then a second. I drank my beer, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation.

  “That priest, God forgive me, is a great agitator. That’s what he is. Trouble in Sapé was over and done with. It started up again the day he arrived and gave that sermon demanding justice for those who work the land and don’t have anything.”

  “That’s just great,” mused the second man. “To get the little I have I had to bust my butt. Then that priest shows up and says we’ve got to share what we’ve won. It takes the cake!”

  The stronger man ordered another beer. I waited a while and did the same. The conversation was interesting. Friends and acquaintances arrived. One of them asked to borrow chairs from my table. The talkative one got up. The darker one, in his cowboy hat, became more animated. He clapped his hands, summoning the waiter. Only then did I notice that at least two of them were armed, a sheathed knife on one side, a .38 on the other.

  “What about it? Are we going to let the commies have the rally, or shall we fix their wagon?”

  Laughter. The dark, strong one proposed a toast. Lots of hands raised mugs of foamy beer.

  “Sapé, love it or leave it!”

  “Anyone against it who doesn’t clean up his act winds up cabrocó!” yelled the cowboy-hatted one, still expansive and gross in his gestures.

  I had one more swallow of beer, interested in the word Alice had uttered earlier. To be cabrocó evidently meant to have suffered some punishment. Others were arriving, loud and happy. The rock music continued. I paid the bill, left, lit a cigarette and walked down a good stretch of Getúlio Vargas Avenue. In the small houses, people watched television—nobody on the sidewalk taking in the fresh air; nobody in the windows. From eight to ten o’clock—soap-opera time—downtown Sapé emptied. Only trucks went by with any frequency, carrying loads of sugar cane.

  At nine o’clock, I decided to go back to the inn. I repeated the odd word cabrocó several times so as not to forget it; I recalled Alice’s nervous and expressionless eyes, her shaky hands, the panic wanting to overwhelm her. The same fear stamped on Cipó’s face, the boy the police had dragged from inside the bus, without any passenger protesting, including me.

  Chapter 3

  It was still dark the next morning when the noise and conversation of my neighbors awoke me. I opened the window a little and saw them: humble men, some in shorts, others in rags, with hoes, scythes and machetes to cut cane and banana bunches. They left and silence returned. I slept anew, awaking to a high sun. I went to the bathroom, using the pit toilet, which was shielded by a stamped plastic curtain. Behind the bathroom I had found a hose and pump handle. I brushed my teeth and rinsed my head. Returning to my room, I slipped into my clothes, put the Olympus-Pen into my widest pocket, and checked my money, leaving the typewriter at the bottom of my pack. I donned my dark glasses against Sapé’s intense sunlight and closed the door. The old man I’d seen the evening before had been replaced by a young man twenty years old. I passed by him and said good morning. He didn’t respond.

  “What’s your room number?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  The question annoyed me. Why didn’t he look in the guest register?

  The boy opened a thermos jug and offered me some coffee.

  “Did you leave the window open for ventilation?”

  “What about my things?”

  “Nobody’ll mess with ’em.”

  “If I leave the window closed, what’s the problem?”

  “When a room gets humid in this hot weather, the toads always come. You get back at night, you’ll run into a bunch of ’em.”

  The boy began to laugh. Honestly, living with toads didn’t sound too great. I left the key with him, walked a fair piece, and began to hear bells. Getting out into the plaza, I saw women and children around the church. The cause of their happiness was the feast day of Santa Terezinha, the patron saint. The atmosphere had become festive: bells ringing, some women bringing plates of food and napkin-covered trays, while others occupied themselves with flowers and streamers, hand-embroidered cloths, and bobbin-worked fancy white lace doilies.

  The liturgical procession was to get underway at five o’clock. It would run through the main streets of the Nova Brasília neighborhood, Father Juliano in front. I thought this would make it impossible for him to see me. I passed by the women who were speaking with the sacristan, and knocked on the door of the house, whose windows were kept closed. Like all others in the area, the house had a Dutch door: the top half opened while the lower stayed locked.

  A still-young, friendly, pipe-smoking man appeared. I told him I was from Rio, passing through Sapé. He offered me a chair. Father Juliano was a lot taller than I was. He wore old, baggy clothes.

  “I’m a reporter for The Nation. Do you know the paper?”

  “Of course! It’s run by a native son of Sapé, Veiga de Castro!”

  His words relieved me. They spared me quite a few explanations. I drank a little coffee; Father Juliano did likewise.

  “Did you come to do a story on Nova Brasília?”

  “Not exactly. Our interest is to gather material for a series of pieces on the farmworkers’ fight and their relation to Judge Odilon Fernandes and to you.”

  Father Juliano seemed amused. He blew pipe smoke, which filled the house’s small verandah with a sweet, pleasant perfume.

  “Judge Fernandes proposes to do in one month what the military have spent years undoing. I’m not sure I’m making myself clear.”

  The happiness on the priest’s face disappeared. He lit a match to relight the pipe. I lit a cigarette. Though the morning was hot, the verandah was well-
ventilated. The noise the women made in the churchyard drifted inside. The bells had stopped ringing.

  “Do you think Judge Fernandes is being hasty?”

  “No. He’s a prudent person, erudite and very courageous.”

  I took my The Nation-labeled notebook from my pocket.

  “What does this courage consist of?”

  “Everything’s difficult here. The city revolves around the growers and mill owners. Whoever doesn’t fit into this machinery doesn’t have many options: it’s difficult to find work, sustain one’s family, or pay rent. And everything is expensive in relation to a farmworker’s pay. The owners explain that the high cost of living is a consequence of Sapé’s wealth. They say the proof of this is the tons of cane the trucks take out day and night, and the continual arrival of more workers, driven by the drought in other parts of this Northeast of Our Lord.

  “But in truth, Sapé is a plantation owner’s paradise. Two figures hold the cards: Colonel Aguinaldo Vilar Barros and Júlio Roberto Martinho. The first owns, from what they say, sixty or so great plantations. The lands of the second run into Rio Grande do Norte state. Those men and their subordinates are law and justice. It’s with them Judge Fernandes has decided to fight.”

  “What do you think will happen?”

  “Well, Thursday we’re going to have a rally in front of the church of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. On Friday, Judge Fernandes is going to try two friends of Colonel Barros, who’s charged with the deaths of three union organizers: João Pedro Teixeira, Pedro Fazendeiro, and Nêgo Fuba. The defense lawyers say the statute of limitations on those crimes has run, but Judge Fernandes says the statute of limitations for a political crime will only accrue when the country has entered a truly democratic phase for all: the rich, the poor, and the middle class.”

  “What’s the theme of the rally?”

  “Support agricultural labor-relations legislation: an eight-hour day, the right to a union card, workers’ compensation, at least one month’s leave for women after childbirth, minimum wages for children (as children work more than the adults do), schools on the farms themselves, proper transport for farmworkers, holidays, a yearly bonus like urban workers get, union organizers’ access to mills and plantations, and retirement after thirty years.”