Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  “That guy,” said Janete, “always has a cow when he sees a couple. I think he’s a nut. He’s never spoken with me, but hates any guy I’m with.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Tell me about the rally.”

  “There’s been a lot of talk about it. You know what the city fathers decided? Not to let it happen.”

  “The priest got permission from the Attorney General in João Pessoa.”

  “João Pessoa’s a long ways from here. The whole thing could fall apart, with the polidoros pitted against the farmworkers. I feel sorry for the working poor. The first rally Father Juliano organized a year ago, four of them were killed and two women knifed. One of them was five months pregnant.”

  “What’s a polidoro?”

  “That’s what we call the state cops in these parts.”

  “Are you going to the rally?”

  “Wanna, but I’m afraid. I hardly go out in daylight.”

  I took Janete’s hand and squeezed it, which she seemed to appreciate. Why was this woman telling me so much? Janete lit another cigarette and seemed happy. She asked the waiter to put on a Roberto Carlos record, asking me if I liked him. I shrugged. She wanted to know if I’d prefer Julio Iglesias.

  “In that case, I’d rather hear Roberto.”

  We laughed. The night remained hot, the moon full and high in the heavens. The bar was clearing out somewhat. The young men decided to leave. The one who’d thrown the lighter back at me put his foot on a chair, making a lot of noise. The manager apologized. Janete said something; I kept quiet. I was preoccupied with a new problem: should I go with Janete or get rid of her? What if she was setting a trap? I could see it now: reporter from The Nation arrives in Sapé, goes to a nightclub and gets killed while being rolled by a hooker. A ridiculous thought. Still, it was hard to fight off a sense of foreboding. I decided Janete would suggest one place, I’d pick another. What could be simpler?

  “So now, where should we go?”

  “Do you think you should?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m a marked woman. Did you see that big lug?”

  “You surprise me.”

  “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Above all your work.”

  “What work? I’m a detective, here on vacation to find my uncle.”

  Janete’s hand glided over my face.

  “Lying for my sake, huh? Everyone in Sapé knows you’re a journalist. You’re here to cover tomorrow’s rally and Friday’s trial.”

  “Who told you?”

  “In the Juca Inn there’s an old man named Bertazo. When you went out he went through your things and found out. That’s why the management in this bar is so attentive. The client deserves it. Me, at your side, on this gala occasion, why, I must be the first lady of Sapé. The Pineapple Queen, if you will.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Pineapple Coronation is one of the city’s big events. The girls who take part in the competition do well for themselves. The queen usually ends up sleeping with one of the sons of the powerful. Later she marries some bureaucrat, one of their functionaries. They’re able to do anything, including keeping the family together, with God’s help.”

  “This business of everyone knowing I’m a journalist wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  “I decided to warn you, so you wouldn’t be surprised. Sapé’s just one big fishbowl.”

  We walked quite a ways down Presidente Vargas Avenue. Janete said her house was on Peregrino de Carvalho Street.

  “It’s not fancy, but comfortable. Living and family room, two bedrooms, and a kitchen where I make up something new from time to time. Are you willing to go there?”

  The challenge weakened my will. What should I do now? Was she feigning; would somebody be waiting for us there?

  Janete opened her purse and asked me to hold her small Beretta .22, which was light and shiny. Now that I had the gun, I began to see our encounter as providential.

  “Here’s my palace!”

  The lights went on. The living room featured a tile floor, some wicker armchairs, a television on a stand, potted plants, an easel, and some paintings.

  “Who’s the painter?”

  Janete beat on her chest in an amusing way.

  “When my sign reads badly, I submerge myself in my brushes.”

  I looked at one of the paintings and thought it looked well executed, but didn’t say so. I didn’t want to go around handing out compliments. I’d been contaminated by reporting—an occupational illness. What if these paintings weren’t hers? What if Janete wasn’t Janete—what if the house belonged to one of Sapé’s rulers? I discreetly slipped the Beretta in a pocket. Janete had decided to make a special cocktail. I embraced her from behind and kissed her neck, indifferent to her complaints that the drinks would spill. I didn’t want to let up. I slipped down one side of her blouse, kissed her tenderly on the shoulder. We kissed; the drinks would wait. When Janete set the carafe and glasses down on a tray, I got back to embracing her. This time she didn’t resist. I laughed and told her to relax. Janete was pretty—more so than she’d seemed in the bar.

  In bed, in the heat of the battle of love, I wanted to turn on the fan to relieve the intense heat. I stretched my arm but couldn’t reach the bedside table. Janete was clutching and nibbling at me. After we’d done it once, I felt exhausted. She got up and poured another for each of us, offering a toast. We drank the first gulps arms intertwined like lovers. Janete climbed on top, her hair covering my face. She kissed me forcefully; I began to feel faint. I couldn’t figure out why. I felt like I was getting weaker and weaker. I felt like I was bloating, growing heavy; I thought the bed would collapse. I perceived voices and bright lights. I wanted to yell for Janete, ask her what was happening, but couldn’t get the words out. I couldn’t remember anything. I felt like I was inflating and soon would float to the ceiling. Accompanying this sensation, I also felt a sense of drowsiness engulfing me, and the anxiety one feels on a roller-coaster ride.

  Janete tried to drink a glass of milk she’d gotten from the refrigerator. She detested milk, so added sugar. She sat down on the side of the bed and began to caress the reporter. She lay on top of him, rubbed herself, trembled, and turned on the television, catching a movie halfway through. She spent a few moments watching. She hated spy movies and changed the channel. A gray-haired man was interviewing another gray-haired man. The drought in the northeast, the loan needed to thwart a disastrous situation; the same talk that had gone on for years.

  A car stopped outside. Janete was filled with fear. Two young men came up to her.

  “We came to get the guy,” said the mixed-race man.

  “He’s mine. No one takes him.”

  “Get real, lady!”

  The big man walked in, dirtying the floor with his boots. He laughed.

  “I don’t want you in my house, Galho Dentro!”

  “I don’t want you in my house, Galho Dentro!”

  The man’s heavy hand grabbed Janete’s arm. He pushed her into the bedroom, where the two young men were covering Jorge Elias’s body.

  “Tie the guy up,” Galho Dentro ordered. “I’m staying here for awhile. Janete lives to insult me but, beneath it all”—he squeezed her buttocks—“she adores me.”

  The car sped off. Galho Dentro closed the door and kept the key. The television continued to blare.

  “Cm’ere, you cow. Unzip my fly, do what you like to do.”

  Janete remained frozen, knees on the bed. Elias’s clothes were nearby, the Beretta in his jacket pocket. A gleam of hope. She began to tremble. Galho Dentro grabbed her by the hair.

  “Why don’t we do it straight, like most people do?” she begged him.

  “I’m a pervert. That’s the kind whores like.”

  Janete tried to react. In one sweep Galho Dentro ripped off her blouse and grabbed one side of her breast until it bled. Janete writhed, struggling to free herself, but a strong right from the thug overwhelmed h
er.

  “Didn’t I warn you I’d be back, huh? Or do you think that you only have to open up for newcomers and plantation owners?”

  Janete trembled. She closed her eyes and hoped death would be quick.

  Chapter 7

  The van drove down the bumpy road, radio blaring.

  “And that Janete, huh? Galho Dentro doesn’t waste any time,” said a young man with Indian features as he puffed on a marijuana roach.

  “These days, he’s got it in for her.”

  “Galho Dentro’s a savvy guy.”

  They took more drags on the roach, the van bouncing over potholes.

  “And the journalist. Boy, is he up a creek!”

  “He showed up at the Covil Bar, carrying on like a plantation owner, and lassoed Janete. Crazy idiot!”

  “A real expert, that Janete. Not even old Josafá, Colonel Barros’s brother, escaped her.”

  “I still want to fuck her ass. And she’ll have to put up a fight.”

  They drove in through a broken gate and up to a storage depot cluttered with old machinery.

  “What now, compadre?”

  “Let’s wait for Jesuíno.”

  “I feel sorry for that poor guy,” said the one dressed in blue, looking at Elias stretched out in the back of the van.

  The Indian-featured man opened the glove compartment, reached for a flask of cane liquor, and pulled off the cork with his teeth. He took one swig and passed it to his compatriot. The night was cool and calm; only the music coming from the car—an old Elvis Presley song—broke the silence. The one with the printed jacket rocked back and forth, trying to follow the rhythm as he drank the liquor.

  “You know what our mistake was? We should have brought Janete.”

  “And Galho Dentro?” asked the one with the printed jacket.

  “He’s got no smarts, compadre. You can’t attract bees with vinegar.”

  “Shut your mouth. When I’m feeling good, I don’t like being scared.”

  “Don’t be stupid! Galho Dentro isn’t any more of a man than anyone else. Luck was on our side, and how! Falling all over the lady while we carried off that poor devil. All we had to do was stick him with the fish scaler and Janete would’ve been there, dancing nude, showing off those legs and that body I once saw in old Josafá’s swimming pool. The old sucker had the pool built just ’cause she liked to swim and sunbathe.”

  “Why so much gab? Let’s tie up this loser and get the girl.”

  “And Jesuíno?”

  “He never shows up on time.”

  “How long to get to Janete’s house?”

  “If I noticed right, a little over an hour if we floor it. One day we’re going to wind up as crosses by the side of the road, you know.”

  “Shut your trap, dude. I hurried ’cause we had to.”

  “I’m sick of taking orders. If I’m wiped out in a smashup I won’t be thrilled about it, darling.”

  “Don’t call me that, I warned you,” said the Indian.

  “Didn’t mean no offense.”

  “It’s like this: when the first of Jesuíno’s guys shows his mug, we give him the fall guy and go rope Janete.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  They drank more cane liquor and took more pulls from the roach. The one dressed in blue stretched out atop some burlap sacks as the other reclined against a pile of bald tires. Elias stirred. The one in the printed jacket noticed the noise, rubbed his ears, and poured more liquor down his throat.

  “You know what’d be great. Heist all the jewels and dough on the colonel’s spread and make off with it.”

  “Too dangerous. Colonel Barros has a pact with the devil. Anybody who even thinks of messing with him is a goner.”

  At that moment one of Jesuíno’s men came in through the gate on a bicycle, transistor radio dangling from the handlebars.

  “I’m Biguá. Jesuíno’s on his way.”

  “Have a drink, Biguá.”

  “I’m Beto. My friend’s Ticuca.”

  Biguá smiled and grabbed the flask.

  “Ticuca! You like loafing like this, or what?”

  Laughter. The radio continued to blare, blocking the noise coming from the back of the van.

  Still in a stupor, I began to regain consciousness. I could hear laughter but couldn’t figure out where I was. My stomach ached. In the depot the men were talking loudly while a radio played. I forced myself to grip the framework of the van and get up. I eyed the men, who were enjoying themselves around a fire made of kindling. I got out of the car and took a few steps outside, feeling stupor and fatigue. There was no real road, just a narrow county-line track, which I crossed as I penetrated into the bush. My feet hurt, my body hurt, but I knew I couldn’t stop. I found a wooden stick and used it to lean on. For a long time I could hear rock songs in English and the drunkards’ raucous laughter. It was all far away; my head spun and my stomach continued to ache. I went down into an arroyo, gripping the hillside as best I could. It was still night; the sky was sewn with stars and the earth with silence. Now I could no longer hear the radio or make out the laughter—only the terrifying warble of a nocturnal bird. I got to a place that had trees with long, hard, extensive roots. I wanted to sit down but wouldn’t let myself be overcome by lassitude: I would only escape alive if I could find a hiding place. I crossed a stream and stopped a minute to wet down my head. The dizziness diminished. Now I could consider my situation a little bit, though everything seemed far away and small or as if I had had nothing to do with recent events. I recalled Janete’s nice figure and rather timid manner, her laughter, her eyes. How could I have let her deceive me? Ridiculous. I continued down the path, water dripping from my naked body. I felt cold but continued anyway, not knowing the outcome, but a certainty pushing me forward: the more distance I put between myself and them, the likelier I’d remain alive.

  The foreman Jesuíno arrived in a truck caked with mud. He brought two men with him: Zé Anta, a muscular show-off, and Azulão, who was tall, strong, big-handed, and had anguished facial features. Jesuíno wore boots and a cowboy hat. He had a Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter pistol in his belt and a fish scaler in a leather sheath.

  “Where’s the journalist?”

  “Sleeping,” said Beto, offering him the cane liquor flask.

  Jesuíno took a swallow and passed it to his companions. The muscular one shook his head no.

  “Our work ends here,” said Ticuca. “We want the dough.”

  “I pay C.O.D.,” said Jesuíno, his smile revealing white teeth.

  Ticuca’s expression became furious; his eyes gleamed.

  “Beto, bring the stiff over here!”

  Beto drew up his trousers and walked toward the van.

  “And the girl?” asked Jesuíno.

  “Galho Dentro’s settling his score with her.”

  The conversation was interrupted by Beto’s yell, which pierced the light night air, a blood-curdling shriek. Ticuca’s eyes grew wide; he felt bewildered. No! What he was hearing couldn’t be true. Beto was just kidding, showing off—typical juvenile behavior. Why would he act so foolish?

  “The guy got away!” Beto yelled again.

  “Galho Dentro was so sure. Even though I told him to tie the son of a bitch up,” growled Ticuca, gnashing his teeth.

  “What now, Ticuca? What’re we gonna tell the man?” Jesuíno demanded.

  Biguá found the situation funny. Beto tried to run, but Zé Anta grabbed him, his arm reaching out, muscles bulging.

  “Over here, toadstool!”

  Biguá was doubled over with laughter. Azulão remained calm, on his feet.

  “Let’s go get the son of a whore,” proposed Ticuca somewhat offhandedly.

  “When you got here were you already boozing it up or did you have a few swigs just ‘cause you were waiting for us?” Zé Anta asked ironically.

  “Cool it, Zé Anta. These guys know they’re in enough hot water,” said Jesuíno.

  “I’ll skin the bast
ard. He can’t be far,” insisted Beto.

  “I’ve never had such lousy luck,” said Ticuca.

  “Get a move on! We’ll wait for daylight,” Jesuíno decided. “We can’t break our word with the colonel.”

  Beto and Ticuca got into the van. The motor started and the van roared off. Zé Anta laughed; Biguá and Jesuíno followed suit. The foreman grabbed the flask and had another pull, then passed it to Biguá. Nearby, a night owl made itself heard. Azulão curled up next to the fire.

  “What if these guys manage to get away?” demanded Zé Anta.

  “Oh, man—you think Ticuca’s lost his senses?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Jesuíno. As afraid as he is, he could do anything,” said Biguá.

  “That’s what I think,” added Zé Anta.

  “And you, Azulão? What do you think?” Jesuíno wanted to know.

  The giant had his hands stretched over the coals. He needed a shave; his leather hat had fallen behind him.

  “They’re not gonna bring the boy back!”

  “So?”

  “We’ve gotta follow ‘em and get him back,” Zé Anta interjected.

  “Right. Ticuca’s afraid. If he finds the journalist, he’ll wind up doing something awful to him. The colonel told us he wanted him alive.”

  “Sometimes I don’t get the colonel,” Zé Anta complained.

  “He knows what he’s doing,” said Jesuíno, staring at Zé Anta.

  “Did I say he didn’t? I’m thinking it over. Where’d the man go? How do we know he isn’t holed up out there with a gun, ready to plug one of us? Ticuca and Beto are both idiots”

  “It’s decided,” Jesuíno declared. “Let’s wait until it’s light and go after them.”

  “What if Ticuca gets away with the gas he’s got left?” Biguá speculated.

  “He won’t go far,” Jesuíno assured him. “I filled up the tank myself.”

  Azulão got up and rubbed his hands. The night owl continued to warble; bats fluttered against the dawn sky in razorlike flight. Some of the men rested against the tires; Jesuíno went to his truck. For an instant the storage depot again became silent. Then a shot rang out. Jesuíno opened the truck door.