Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  As the tractor inched forward, the steel cables tied to the truck’s front axle jerked, mangling the license plate amid rising noise. But neither the tractor driver nor the truck owner worried about the plate. They wanted to get out of the sandpit in which the truck were stuck and get to Good Hope Mill as soon as possible. To be helpful, the taxi driver got out and put wooden chalks under the truck’s wheels. The rescue looked like it would not be easy.

  He returned to the taxi and maneuvered around the truck and tractor with difficulty. A long stretch of dirt road lay between him and the main house of Alvorada Plantation. If he ran late, he wouldn’t find Colonel Barros, who ordinarily flew his helicopter to João Pessoa or Recife just after lunch, getting back that night or the next day.

  He turned on the radio, but the ignition wires of trucks that also kicked up dust as they passed caused electrical interference. And despite well-maintained shock-absorbers, the Corcel bounced over cane stalks that fell from the trucks, littering the road.

  He crossed the bridge at the stream called Córrego da Traíra and saw the red-tiled mansion, half-hidden among acacia and magnolia bushes and green coconut and macaw palm fronds. As he approached, bodyguards under the mango trees roused themselves, all of them with guns in their belts. He knew one of them—Bezouro. He forced another smile, even though he didn’t like people of that type.

  “I need to speak with the boss. It’s urgent!”

  Bezouro, sour-faced and muscular, came up to him.

  “What is it this time? You don’t need to exaggerate.”

  “Tell him it’s Alcides with the Corcel.”

  “Stay cool, man. Hang on a minute.”

  Alcides opened the taxi’s door and walked toward the shade. The bodyguards stayed below the mango trees, keeping an eye on him. He knew he was being watched and felt disgusted. He’d show them, when the colonel showed up. He’d offer his hand and receive him as a friend, for old times’ sake. From the time that he had owned but one small farm, the colonel had taken his taxi. The bodyguards didn’t know about that.

  Bezouro reappeared. “The boss is busy. He wants to know what it’s about.”

  “What? If he can’t see me, I’m outta here.”

  “What’s the big mystery, Alcides?”

  At the mansion’s front door another man appeared, this one well-dressed. He beckoned the driver to approach. Alcides buttoned his shirt. The man conjured up a smile.

  “Mr. Alcides, it’s a pleasure to receive you! The colonel is with some people from Recife, but asked me to see you.”

  Alcides entered an elegant, air-conditioned room with comfortable chairs and tables, expensive carpets on the shiny floor, and curtained windows to filter the harsh light. The functionary sat down, lit a cigarette, offered the pack. Alcides declined; he didn’t smoke.

  “What have you brought us, sir? The colonel holds you in high esteem.”

  “We were comrades in difficult times,” said a somewhat annoyed Alcides. “Those were the days, when all this here was just beginning. Colonel Barros had a knack for business. I’ve always liked him because he’s not a shirker. If it were up to me, he’d be the governor of this state.”

  “I’ll tell him so. But to what do we owe your visit?” the man asked unctuously.

  A young man, immaculately attired in a waiter’s uniform, brought coffee and ice water on a silver tray.

  “What exactly is your name?” Alcides asked the functionary as he drank coffee.

  “I’m Agripino. Colonel Barros’s secretary. I worked with him in Recife.”

  “Mr. Agripino, please accept my congratulations. It must be the best thing in the world to work with the colonel. If I were educated, I’d be trying to get a job with him.”

  “Very good, Mr. Alcides,” Agripino said insincerely. “The colonel must be very pleased to have a friend like you, sir.”

  “That’s why I came looking for him. Whenever something funny’s going on in town, I run over here.”

  “What’s the latest?”

  “Nothing yet, but you can bet on it, something’s going on. Last week it was the gringos coming to visit Father Juliano. They took photos of everything in Sapé, even my taxi. Now it’s a strange young guy carrying a backpack and calling himself a police detective. I didn’t go out of my way to talk with him. I don’t like talking with strangers. When he paid the fare, he flashed a wad of bills. Nobody’s got that much dough around here unless he works for Colonel Barros. Anyway, he got in at Augusto dos Anjos Square and had me head for the Juca Inn.

  “That’s not the end of it. He got out at the inn. Later I went back there. Didinho told me he took room thirty-five. As far as he knew, the boy came from Recife. I don’t believe it. He must have something to do with next Thursday’s rally in Market Square. I know that guy’s a red. I only had to hear him talk. He wanted to know if there were newspapers in Sapé and stuff like that. I told him we were a quiet town and don’t need papers that only stir up trouble. He didn’t like it a bit, I noticed. He kept quiet after that.”

  “What if he really should be a police officer, Mr. Alcides?”

  “That’s what needs finding out. But the colonel can’t leave that stranger running around town without knowing exactly who he is. There’s already the priest, the judge, the union people and that woman from Alagoa Grande who’s always in Sapé, Margarida Alves. What if the boy came to climb on the bandwagon, huh?”

  As Alcides was speaking and drinking coffee, Agripino took occasional notes in a small notebook. He maintained an appearance of friendliness each time Alcides’ sentimental reminiscences took him off the subject.

  “I’ve known Colonel Barros since the time he bought a spread around here, way out in the country. Later he disappeared for awhile, then turned up again. Around that time I’d sold an old truck and bought my taxi, started driving in town. When I fell behind in my payments, you know who I turned to? Him. He took care of everything just like that, you know.”

  Agripino eyed Alcides with a certain impatience. The intercom buzzed.

  “Hang on. He’s calling me,” said Agripino as he disappeared through a doorway.

  Alcides strolled back and forth in the spacious, finery-filled room. It hardly seemed to be a house in the outback, surrounded by cane fields on all sides. The taxi-driver admired the colonel’s good taste. Everything had to be the same way with him, just so. And whatever he touched turned to money. He fingered the heavy, luxurious curtain. The door opened and Agripino reappeared.

  “The colonel sends a hug,” Agripino said officiously. “He apologizes for not being able to see you personally. He’s ordered two bodyguards to go back with you. He thanks you for your interest and wants to know about the citizen you dropped off at the Juca Inn as soon as possible. He’s wondering why the inn didn’t call here itself.” He extended his hand and offered up his best smile.

  “What about the men coming with me?”

  “They’re to protect you.”

  As Alcides walked up to his taxi, he noticed that his traveling companions had taken their places, Bezouro next to the driver, Vinte e Cinco casually splayed out on the rear seat. They didn’t pay the least attention as Alcides got in, slammed the door, and started up.

  “Drive carefully, chauffeur. This road’s just one big pothole!”

  Vinte e Cinco began to laugh, not bothering with Alcides’ fierce glances at him via the rear-view mirror.

  “What about it? Who’d you rat on this time?” Bezouro wanted to know. His face was bearded and cynical, with red round eyes.

  “Mr. Alcides doesn’t like to see us guys relaxed. He thinks we’re loafing,” Vinte e Cinco interrupted.

  “I did my duty. I’m the man’s friend. If you think you work too hard, find something else to do.”

  Vinte e Cinco didn’t like that answer; he tapped the driver’s shoulder hard.

  “Listen up. People mouthin’ off at me are screwed. Got it? Bezouro has the stomach to put up with you, me no. So I’ll give yo
u some advice: you pretend you didn’t say nothin’, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it, and we’ll start over. That all right, pal?” He leaned back against the back seat as if he owned the taxi. “I can’t hear you, friend!”

  “Cool it,” said Bezouro. “Let’s change the subject. The old geezer’s too smart for his own good, but he drives well.”

  Bezouro looked back. Vinte e Cinco had his fishing knife in his hand. He smiled sourly as he wiped his hand on his sweaty face, and laughed.

  “You said it. See how it is, Mr. Alcides? Just one little word and a guy’s driving career could end kinda quick, just like that.”

  The taxi stopped in front of the Juca Inn’s office. Bezouro got out. Vinte e Cinco deliberately left the door open. Alcides closed it meekly. Didinho, whom Bezouro and the driver both knew, was in the office. Vinte e Cinco opened his shirt, revealing the .38 on one side and the bone-handled fish knife on the other.

  “What’s up, Didinho? How’s tricks?”

  “All quiet around here.”

  “That’s good.”

  Vinte e Cinco took the thermos jug and poured coffee into a cup. He drank it without speaking, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

  “Where’d that guest from Recife go? Colonel Barros wants to know what he’s up to,” explained Alcides.

  Didinho flipped through the pages of the guest book. He found it: Jorge Elias, room thirty-five. Nothing more. He looked in the key slot.

  “He left. Damn!”

  “That tricky asshole!” yelled Vinte e Cinco.

  “D’ya know where?”

  “He didn’t say anything.”

  “What’s he look like?” Vinte e Cinco demanded.

  “Taller than me, about twenty-eight, dark-skinned, nice haircut. He wears weird clothes, has a soldier’s pack.”

  “It’d be nice to know what he’s got in that pack,” said the taxi-driver.

  “What now, Alcides?” asked Bezouro.

  “He couldn’t have got away that quick.”

  “When he left, he went to Mr. Arlindo’s bakery.”

  “Let’s go!” said Vinte e Cinco, heading for the taxi.

  “The bakery’s right around here,” Alcides reminded him.

  Vinte e Cinco stuck his head out and jeered, “I just love your car. Or don’t our pal wanna help?”

  Bezouro got back in, too. Alcides started the engine, threw the car in gear and pulled out angrily, putting it in neutral as they rolled up to the bakery, a rather timeworn corner store with several doors. The counter featured a scale, a sleeping cat, and, occupying center stage, Arlindo hunched over, glasses on the tip of his nose, reading the Bible. Fat and calm, he had lived well for sixty years. There wasn’t anyone in Sapé who didn’t know him. Bezouro and Alcides went up to him while Vinte e Cinco stayed in the taxi, opening the doors and turning up the radio loud.

  “Been a long time, Mr. Alcides!”

  Bezouro took some bread and tore off a piece.

  “How much, Mr. Arlindo?”

  “Forget it.”

  Bezouro relaxed a bit, and Alcides fanned himself with a newspaper.

  “Mr. Arlindo, if you don’t mind, this morning you had a customer you might remember: a young man, maybe twenty-eight, carrying a backpack like a soldier’s.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all. I was just wondering,” said the taxi-driver. “I dropped him off at the Juca Inn. We went back to talk with him, but he’d checked out.”

  “He was here. He had a guaraná soft drink and a cheese sandwich. I asked if he was on vacation; he said he’d come to visit an uncle. He was from Recife, if I recall right.”

  “Where’d he go?” asked Bezouro.

  “Dunno, no sir.”

  They could hear the blare of the radio at full volume back in the street. Alcides had spoken quietly to Arlindo, almost in a whisper, his features angry. Sweat dripped from his jaw. He wanted to prolong things, to continue the conversation a little more with the storekeeper. But he couldn’t concentrate.

  “Thank you very much, Arlindo.”

  Alcides got in behind the wheel and turned off the radio. Bezouro slammed the door; Vinte e Cinco didn’t complain. He was cleaning his fingernails with his fish knife and warbling a song. He appeared to pay no attention to Alcides. Bezouro forced a conversation.

  “Know what I think?” he insisted. “Let’s find Chief Cordeiro. He’s known to be a crackerjack cop. He’ll order our friend picked up, and we can talk at our leisure. The outsider will tell us his stories, and we’ll tell ours.”

  The taxi drove around downtown streets. Alcides wasn’t enjoying using up gasoline without a definite objective.

  “Maybe the earth opened up and swallowed the bastard.”

  “He’s probably in the house of some whore. Sapé’s only got whores!” growled Vinte e Cinco.

  “They’re everywhere, compadre,” said Alcides. “Over there in Ceará state, your neck of the woods, forget it. Fathers sell their daughters to be deflowered by truck drivers. True or false?”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Bezouro, trying to remain neutral. “What I do know is that we’re going to go back to Alvorada without locating that scum of a stranger.”

  “I’m getting angry about that guy!” affirmed Vinte e Cinco. “You’ll see, he’s the son of some whore!”

  “I’m sure he’s over with Father Juliano or with Judge Odilon Fernandes. They’re the organizers of the rally. The big communists! Want to go visit the priest?”

  “Let’s. That’s the only way I’ll go to church. What do you do when you stick your neck in a church? Speak up, driver. I like to hear what you know-it-alls have to say,” said Vinte e Cinco.

  “We cross ourselves, and try to confess our sins in front of the Holy Mother.”

  Bezouro began to laugh.

  “In that case, I’ve got nothing to do in church. I’ve never done wrong to no one,” asserted Vinte e Cinco.

  “Even when we think we’ve been good, it’s always necessary to talk with the saints. I’m not a big churchgoer, but I confess and take communion once a month.”

  “Christ, Bezouro. Our driver’s sure upfront about religion. Confess and take communion? What’s confessing?”

  “It’s telling your sins or talking about religion with the priest. Communion is taking the host and drinking wine.”

  “What size is this ‘host’?” demanded Vinte e Cinco, beginning to act like an imbecile.

  “Don’t joke around about serious stuff, boy. If you don’t want to go to church, better get out here.”

  “Relax, Professor Alcides. Vinte e Cinco’s not from these parts. He’s getting used to the way things work here. In Quixeramobim he only learned to deal with oxen and rattlers.”

  “Yeah, but there were lots of cashews too,” said Vinte e Cinco, opening wide his maniacal eyes and laughing perversely. “And as I didn’t like to mix with folks there, I ate chestnuts. I’m not a cashew man, Mr. Alcides.”

  “That’s Santa Terezinha church. Father Juliano’s been overseeing the construction for some time. He even works on it, too. If only he hadn’t gotten involved with the reds.”

  The car parked near a well where a woman was turning a pump handle, filling a can with water. The men got out. Vinte e Cinco untucked his shirt. They walked toward the church, the main door ajar. Bezouro went ahead, followed by Alcides and Vinte e Cinco. Father Juliano, with the sacristan’s help, was finishing the painting of a long banner to be hung in Market Square on rally day.

  “Visiting us at this hour, Mr. Alcides?”

  The taxi-driver seemed not to bother with the priest’s words. He spelled out, letter by letter, the banner’s slogan: “SUPPORT THE LANDLESS.”

  “Isn’t that against the doctrine of the Holy Church, Father Juliano?”

  Vinte e Cinco rummaged among banners with painted messages and still blank placards, and kicked over a bowl of paint with the toe of his boot. The sacristan made a f
utile gesture to stop the paint from escaping.

  “What do you want?”

  “We wanna talk with a boy who arrived in Sapé and we heard was seen with you,” said the taxi-driver.

  “We came to ask your help, Father,” added Bezouro. “Look at us—we’re sons of God too!”

  “I work with everyone, good and bad; with those who come here motivated by faith, and with those who sometimes appear—often enough—with the intent to harm and disrespect that which is sacred.”

  “Our visit is peaceful, Father Juliano,” Alcides said.

  “I came for an audience, Father,” said Vinte e Cinco mockingly. “It’s the first time I’ve been in a church. I’ve always looked in from outside. One day I even made love to a girl in the doorway of a church. But I’ve never wanted to go inside. Today, I made up my mind.”

  “That pleases me. The more you visit, the more you’ll understand our work.”

  “And the boy we’re trying to find? Have you seen him around here?” Bezouro demanded.

  “Many boys pass through this house, son. Which one are you seeking?”

  Alcides exchanged a quick look with Bezouro. Vinte e Cinco hovered nearby, examining a bulletin board posted with announcements and with photos of farmworkers who had been murdered or had disappeared in the Jungle Zone.

  “The stranger’s tall and dark-skinned. He wears odd clothing, had a soldier’s pack,” said Alcides.

  “No. Nobody’s been by here who fits that description. And unless you tell me why you’re so interested, I must ask that you leave this house of God.”

  As he spoke Vinte e Cinco was near Father Juliano. He grabbed him by his rough cloth tunic, shook him vigorously, and made as if to draw his knife. Bezouro held him back.

  “Stop that, man!”

  “He’s making fools of us. Nobody bullshits with me!”

  Father Juliano tried to straighten out his clothing, and repeated loudly and firmly:

  “Out of this church. This is not the place for murderers!”

  The men stirred themselves to leave. Alcides didn’t like the priest’s attitude one little bit. He wanted to answer back what he considered to be an insult, but failed to spark an argument. Instead, Bezouro began to laugh.