Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  As the three were leaving, some women entered, nervous. They knew those were Colonel Barros’s men.

  “What happened, Father Juliano?” asked Maria Aparecida, a strong-looking, green-eyed peasant.

  “Nothing, daughter. They tried to intimidate me. They want to talk with a boy who passed by here. But I told them nothing.”

  “If you wish, I’ll speak with Abelha and Tolentino—they can set up a watch,” offered Adelaide.

  “Let’s leave things as they are. I don’t believe Colonel Barros wants to get involved in new complications.”

  “Do you think they came because of the rally?”

  “No doubt. It was that turncoat Alcides, who poses as a downtown taxi driver, that brought them. But with the help of God and Santa Terezinha, neither they nor anybody will stop the rally. The banners are painted; the posters will be shortly. Our act will be one of faith and hope.”

  Maria Aparecida and Adelaide left the church in time to see Alcides and some children pushing the Corcel, whose starter motor had died. Inside, like two pashas, sat Bezouro and Vinte e Cinco. From time to time the latter stuck his head outside and yelled:

  “Get going! Can’t you push this junker any faster?”

  Vinte e Cinco laughed, as did Bezouro.

  “Get moving, you trash!”

  Chapter 5

  The judge’s adjacent house could not have been nicer. It had a den, full bookshelves, a reading room, walls lined with curtains and hooks for hanging hammocks, and a verandah whose windows opened onto a garden of roses and lilies. Iron bars backed the heavy, solid doors and windows. Judge Fernandes had explained the house had been his office until Sapé’s situation had deteriorated and his wife had decided to take herself and the children to Campina Grande. He had remained. He was not one to flee, he had said. His judicial office had to be respected or Sapé would become lawless, a true no-man’s-land in which three or four landowners would administer justice along with everything else.

  I put up a hammock and rocked in it a bit. I didn’t have any idea how to begin my first story. I had Father Juliano and Judge Fernandes’s interviews, but nothing more. I decided to wait and see if the rally would yield new material to enliven the story. Later there would be the trial of those implicated in João Pedro Teixeira’s death. No doubt the stories would really take shape and a certain weight at that time. They were already beginning to, in fact.

  In addition to journalistic concerns, I was beginning to wonder about this too-quiet city, with its low clouds, intensely green trees, wide streets, and cottages of open windows. I needed to learn what it meant to live in Sapé. I rocked the hammock more strongly as a car rumbled by. On a somnolent, luminous afternoon, the hummingbirds darted in and out of the garden. I could hear a loudspeaker in the distance, the words indistinct. Then the yell of Jandira, the judge’s maid. What was up? I put on my shirt and opened the window. A Corcel was at the door, and the hubbub was coming from it. I went through the kitchen and heard Jandira sobbing. Had the judge reprimanded her?

  I found the young woman on the verandah, lolling her head on the table. In the living room, on the carpet lay Judge Fernandes, a trickle of blood running down his face. The front door was ajar. The assailants had left boot marks on the carpet and the polished floor. I took a wet towel and daubed the judge’s head; he was coming around slowly. I helped him to his bed.

  “They had the nerve to come to my house, Jorge Elias!”

  “Just relax. Don’t speak.”

  “Call Dr. Antônio Jansen. His phone number is in my address book.”

  The judge’s study was a complete mess. Stacks of papers and documents and torn-out book pages littered the desk; pens and pencils were strewn on the floor. A fan swiveled; the glass cover of a photograph of the judge’s wife was broken, the photo itself ripped. The address book lay to one side. I rang; someone asked me to wait. I explained that I was calling from Judge Odilon Fernandes’s house and it was urgent. Dr. Jansen listened as I explained what had happened, and said he’d be right there. I went back to the judge, who was trembling. The blood continued to flow from a blow to the right temple. As I was asking Jandira to bring some ice, Dr. Jansen knocked at the front door.

  “What happened, anyway?”

  “Colonel Barros’s men. One of them really began to scare me,” said the judge. “I’ve never seen such a ruthless type.”

  As he talked, the doctor applied a disinfectant ointment. I just stayed nearby. After all, I knew only that some men had gotten out of a Corcel automobile I had glimpsed, and broken into the house.

  “They arrived asking about a boy who had come to Sapé and put himself up at the Juca Inn. Alcides, the taxi-driver, accompanied the gangsters.”

  “Was that the driver who took me to the inn?”

  The judge shook his head affirmatively as the doctor continued to apply ointment. There was a scalp cut, but nothing serious. Jandira brought a glass of water for the pills Dr. Jansen had gotten from his case. The judge tried to sit up.

  “What do you plan to do now?” asked Dr. Jansen.

  “I’ll file a complaint, and call the João Pessoa media to denounce the attack.”

  “Did they say they’d be back?”

  “You never know. And me who bought a .45 to protect myself from vagabonds!”

  “If you want a friend’s advice, think about this: They’re talking a lot about political openness; all sorts of people who’ve gotten amnesty are giving interviews on Rio and São Paulo television. But in Sapé, Odilon, the dictatorship hasn’t changed and you know it. Why take chances? Why continue with this business of disinterring closed cases, many of them lacking a formal complaint?”

  “You’re a doctor, Jansen. My role is different from yours. I’m paid to administer justice, and have been involved in this affair for some time. Do you really think I should desist in order to protect myself, when so many poor people live under the constant threat of these bandits? I’m talking about the delinquents who invade houses and those who command them.”

  “Yes. Perhaps I’m erring on the side of caution,” said Dr. Jansen. “One way or another, it’s nice to know the country’s situation is improving. It’s what we hear said, what we read in certain newspapers. But here it’s growing worse. Extremism is getting worse every day. Some are killed; others disappear mysteriously.”

  “I’m sorry to have brought you so many problems, Judge Fernandes,” I said. “Had I known it would end up like this, I would never have accepted your invitation.”

  “Are you the backpacker, sir?” inquired Dr. Jansen, surprised.

  “That’s me. I’m a reporter for The Nation. I came to Sapé on a special mission: to interview Judge Fernandes.”

  “Jansen, call Chief Cordeiro. Tell him there’s a case for him, and to bring his stenographic clerk.”

  For a moment, the doctor continued to watch the judge, who still trembled slightly. He got up and went to the phone on the paper-strewn table. Not really knowing quite what to do, I remained seated near the judge. What if the police chief learned I worked for The Nation and was in Sapé to cover stories? But I didn’t want to tell the judge my work required a certain secrecy and that it would be better if I could remain incognito, at least for awhile. Dr. Jansen lingered on the phone. They told him the chief was in the field on official business.

  “Today of all days Cordeiro decides to work,” said Dr. Jansen.

  “He’s always where the action isn’t,” commented Judge Fernandes.

  “What next?” I asked.

  “Best to wait,” said the judge. “I’ll get better and go to the police station tomorrow.”

  “Want me to go with you?” I asked.

  “Better to be on your own. Jansen’ll go with me. He’s already used to Sapé’s tricksters.”

  The doctor lit a cigarette, took off his shoes, and leaned back in an easy chair.

  “Just as well Lourdes and the children left.”

  “Lourdes is courageous, but I to
ld her things were getting worse.”

  “In that case,” I asked the judge, “what do you intend to do?”

  “There’s one extreme measure that I may have to take: ask the state government for help. I have to proceed cautiously, so they won’t accuse me of instigating the violence. I don’t want to go out on a limb. I simply want to proceed to put things back in order and do justice in the face of so much abuse.”

  “What a victim!” ventured the doctor somewhat ironically.

  “Victim’s not the right word, you know that. I’d rather think of myself as a judge who didn’t sell out. Let the whole world know that in Sapé there existed one judge who didn’t allow himself to be corrupted by the land barons. I think that fact could be important in the meager history of this place—so good and so beautiful, yet so wretched.”

  “Father Juliano would consider that statement vain. Wounded ego or something of that type,” Dr. Jansen commented.

  “I’m not a vain man. Last week, when the Brazilian Democratic Movement Party asked if I wanted to be a candidate for I don’t know what post, I refused. I didn’t take an oath to enforce the law just to take advantage of my position.”

  The doctor got up and gave the judge another pill.

  “What I think, and don’t mind saying in front of our friend the reporter here, is that you’re growing more and more isolated in Sapé. Do you remember your circle of friends who’d get together at night, in this house, with people out in the street? After you decided to give yourself the job of ‘faithful execution of the laws,’ people started staying away. You’re absolutely right: the law must be enforced. But on the other hand you can’t forget that Brazil has always been a corrupt country, and that the public service exists for the enrichment of the bureaucratic caste. And as for politicians, forget it. I know fifty cases of poor people who ran for alderman, then state representative, earning relatively little, who today are rich, with landholdings everywhere that rival the land barons’. Where did all that money come from? And why doesn’t it seem to be subject to inflation? Look, my dear Odilon. You have to think about others. Even here, your judicial sense of duty has caused you to think only about yourself. That’s why Lourdes was smart to take herself and the kids away—she couldn’t have done otherwise. Have you thought about it? Now your house has been invaded by a goon squad. Know why they had the bravery to do it? Because they know that Judge Odilon Fernandes, the great fighter, is up the creek without a paddle. I call the police chief; he can’t come because he’s on duty elsewhere. Sapé is a one-horse town. If there were the least interest in your case, there’d already be ten police officers out looking for the chief. After all, the call was from a district judge. Yet nobody gives a fig. Pardon these comments, Judge Fernandes. I don’t mean to be rude, nor do I wish to turn you into a coward. I’m not against the way you’re going about this. I only think you lack political savvy. You’ve got to attract a following and make it their fight too, so they can give you the support you deserve. It’s a big battle; we all know that. You’ve got to win and Sapé’s got to go from being a hick town to an important place, a center of culture. But you can’t be too careful. Don’t take my speech badly. Really, I’m just getting old. And tired of all this. Suddenly I just couldn’t contain myself.”

  “You know very well I never opposed Lourdes and the children’s leaving. I even encouraged it. With regard to your speech, I can say this with certainty: it’s the best you’ve done yet. For a doctor it’s not bad at all. There are lawyers and prosecutors who lack your eloquence. The way I see it, I have to do something, politically speaking. You’re right. I feel myself becoming, as you just said, more isolated. That’s not good.”

  “Do you mind if I leave you two?” I asked both of them.

  “Absolutely not!” said the judge. “You came to do a story, and I don’t have to tell you events have already begun. As a good reporter, you must have noticed you know more today than yesterday, when you formulated those questions for me.”

  “Of course. A good story comes from willing sources,” I commented. “Questions and answers, when there are many of them, form an interview. And it wasn’t my idea to do it. I like to find out the reason for things, the why of them! That’s the fundamental question.”

  “Why?” repeated the doctor. “Now there’s a curious question. It has a philosophical air about it.”

  “Journalism and its nuances!” I said. “Too bad reporters often are viewed as in a hurry. I’m from the ranks of the slow. I’ve never been able to do a story in fewer than three days. On the positive side, I’ve never had to defend a lawsuit.”

  “Good for you!” said the doctor. “Here in Sapé you’re going to have a severe test.”

  “So I’ve heard. I left Rio with these recommendations from the editor-in-chief: ‘Be careful. Sapé is a difficult city,’ he said. And know what the oddest thing is? The editor-in-chief is from Sapé.”

  “It’s Veiga de Castro. Brother of Ermínio who works at the pharmacy,” explained the judge.

  “Ah! . . . Veiga. We were at the same private high school in João Pessoa. I’ve always liked The Nation. We had a newsletter in high school, too. He was the managing editor. I published a sonnet for my first love. Those were good times. My job was to study and pursue Ana Maria. I was thirteen, she eleven or twelve. I thought João Pessoa the most enchanting city in the world. I doubted there could be another as nice.”

  “Our dear Jansen is a romantic, Jorge Elias. Don’t flirt with him,” said the judge with a smile. He was already recovering from his headache.

  “I’m glad he thinks so. To be a romantic in this city, my dear reporter, is like being a priest in a brothel. I suppose Odilon hasn’t had time to fill you in on our social structure around here. I believe the same things take place everywhere, but I doubt there’s any similarity to the realism they assume in Sapé, in this turn-of-the-century era in which we’re living. Am I exaggerating, Odilon?”

  “Sapé belongs to the landowners,” said the judge. “The black clay, the rivers and streams, what’s left of our meager fauna, the trees and indeed many people belong to them, or at least they believe so.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the doctor provocatively.

  “If the concept of possession is a reality for them, the landowners believe they have the right to dictate norms and customs. So when a colonel comes upon a peasant girl who’s had the luck to turn out pretty, despite the hunger she faces, he all but lassoes her, subjugating her to his whims as he pleases. If her family reacts, the same gangsters that visited us will show up to do their dirty work.”

  “What type?” I asked, interested because the answer could be a lead-in to the type of story I wanted to write.

  “Well, the usual is a beating. Two or more bandits hold the worker in front of his wife and children while a third beats him. It’s common afterward to subject him to more indignities, so as to break his spirit.”

  “Of what type?” I pressed.

  “Well, there was one case last year in the town of Mari, in which the head of the family was kept on his knees, surrounded by his wife and son, and had to keep his mouth open waiting for a thug to urinate in it.”

  “Incredible!” said the doctor. “That’s what leads to everlasting hate.”

  “And the police?”

  “You won’t find any record of such incidents at the police station,” said the judge. “When the bullies invade a shack, everyone knows they represent power—absolute power. The victims are totally demoralized. They don’t know in whom to believe. This demoralization ends up creating cynicism.”

  “And the raped girl, how’s she?”

  “She spent some time with the colonel, until he lost his interest in her. Now she’s with some aide or foreman, and she’ll continue down the ladder, to gangsters and then to a rented room on a dead-end alley, where she’ll receive the men of the city.”

  “That’s the fate of many women peasants,” the doctor reflected.

 
; Someone knocked on the door. The doctor opened it to let in Chief of Police Juarez Cordeiro—a Falstaffian, pot-bellied man with a sardonic air, who took off his dark glasses upon entering. Black shoes covered his big feet. He shook hands with the doctor and me.

  “What happened, doctor?”

  The judge outlined the story of the roughnecks’ invasion, explaining that they were accompanied by Alcides the taxi driver.

  “Mr. Alcides is always mixed up with trouble,” the chief commented from the easy chair he had settled into.

  The doctor turned on a rotating fan that whirred noisily in a corner. Chief Cordeiro mopped his brow with a perfumed handkerchief.

  “Why would Mr. Alcides be involved with toughs?” he asked.

  “Hard to say,” replied Judge Fernandes. “What can be safely said, chief, is that the house of Sapé’s judge was invaded by ruffians, and that I was pistol-whipped with a revolver. I ask that you respond by imprisoning the taxi driver and the aggressors. Let them remain under lock and key until I recover, so that I can help you question them if the need arises. I want to be present at all times. It’s difficult to believe that the men who beat me were acting on their own volition. I don’t want to prejudge the case, but I believe at least one of the delinquents was Colonel Barros’s man. I also suggest, chief, that you try to run the various hoodlums out of town for the coming rally in Market Square. The Attorney General in João Pessoa gave Father Juliano the necessary permit for the event.”

  “Do you believe, sir, that there’s a link between the men who broke into your house and the rally?”

  “To put it cautiously, it’s the best explanation I can think of for such audacity.”

  “Don’t you think it could be because of next Friday’s trial?” suggested the chief. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Whatever the reason, I ask you please to find the toughs and get them out of town. I know it’s a difficult task but it’s worth a try.”