Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  “I had problems. Things in Sapé are more complicated than you’d think.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m sending the first story and a thirty-six-exposure roll of film. A real scoop!”

  “We’d heard that the judge was shot in his courtroom.”

  “That’s what the story is about. You’ll get a full account.”

  “We’ll find space for it!”

  “After tomorrow I’ll send the second one.”

  Barbosa was obviously pleased. He’d appreciate the story. I went in search of a store where I could buy a calendar and a map of Paraíba. The office-supplies store was very busy. I picked out the best map available and went back onto the narrow sidewalk, cars jamming the tiny street, and asked an old man with an intellectual air where I could buy newspapers from the south.

  “Just beyond the Apollo Bookstore.”

  The newsstand had everything: newspapers from Rio, São Paulo, and other cities in the northeast. I saw yesterday’s edition of The Nation.

  “What time do the Rio papers usually arrive?”

  “Between three and four o’clock. Sometimes, if the plane’s late, a little bit later.”

  I bought copies of The Nation, O Globo, Jornal do Brasil, Folha de São Paulo, and Estado de São Paulo—all the big newspapers. I opened up The Nation and skimmed through it—nothing on the incidents in Sapé. The other newspapers were no different. Nobody was interested in the uproar that had exploded in the small Paraíban city. I bought a copy of José Américo de Almeida’s The Fugitive-Harborers to give Judge Fernandes as a present. I wanted to go to a movie but worried about the bus schedule. I hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the bus terminal, a large, metal-framed building topped with a lattice of aluminum panels, beneath which snaked huge lines of ticket-buyers. I was glad I hadn’t gone to the movies. There was one bus at six p.m., but the next wasn’t until ten. Lingering in the line and reading The Nation, I saw that the stories were all about Rio and São Paulo—nothing on the northeast. The police page featured a follow-up on the case of the “black helicopter” on Oath Hill, followed by an item on a new shootout: two bandits killed and a police officer seriously wounded. I got my ticket, sat down in the snack bar to wait, sipped at a beer and continued to read the paper. Absorbed as I was in The Nation, I didn’t notice her until, standing over the table, she rapped on it.

  “Alice! . . . You, here?”

  “I was in line when I saw you. I’m going to Sapé.”

  “Why?”

  “As I told you before, I’m not giving up on looking for my father.”

  I pulled out another chair and Alice sat down. I offered her a beer, but she asked for a guaraná soft drink.

  “How do you plan to do it? Sapé is a violent city, don’t you know that?”

  She shook her head and made clear she was up to date on what had been happening in the Jungle Zone.

  “I’ve got an uncle there. He’s trying to locate my father too.”

  I looked at Alice closely. She seemed as determined and yet as subdued as the first time we’d seen each other. I felt like laughing admiringly. How could somebody be like that? She could never take a punch if one came her way, but still was thrusting herself into that demimonde, populated by gangsters.

  “I discovered what cabrocó means.”

  She looked at me, frightened.

  “What?”

  “It’s what they call a guy who’s put in a sugarmill washing tank where they spray hot and cold water on him. The poor devil winds up raw flesh, besides getting rheumatism.”

  “Have you managed to see a cabrocó?”

  “No. But they tell me that in Market Square, in Sapé, you could once find an old man who was a victim of it. But that was a long time ago. It couldn’t be your father.”

  Alice took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes. I touched her hair.

  “Now, take it easy!”

  “If I don’t find him in Sapé, I’ll call off the search. I’m going to dedicate myself to the union’s work. It’s my way of paying tribute. My father, even though he was a typographer by trade, spent his whole life fighting for a better life for farmworkers. I’m going to continue his struggle.”

  I couldn’t fathom Alice’s behavior. How could she suddenly sound like such an idealist?

  “It’s an old dream,” she continued. “I’ve always admired the activism of Maria Margarida Alves from afar. Have you heard of her? Why can’t I do my part? I’ll be a teacher—of children and adults.”

  “Aren’t you being rather romantic?”

  “Romantic? No, I’m quite a realist—more than you can imagine.”

  We went to board the bus. Alice was carrying a suitcase; I offered to carry it for her.

  “What about your mother and brothers?”

  “It’s a long story. My mother died a year after my father disappeared.”

  “What about your life—what’s it been like up until now?”

  “Like other people’s. I ended up being raised in my aunt and uncle’s house: Eugênia and Dilermando de Albuquerque. She would do piecework sewing; he was a fisherman for a while and then went to work on the docks. When I began looking for my father, he decided to help.”

  “Where is your uncle now?”

  “He lives in Sapé, Alagoa Grande, and Santa Rita. Once he sent a letter saying he was still looking. He’s not one to give up easily.”

  For the rest of the trip Alice rested her head on the armrest and dozed. I thought about holding her hand but was too intimidated. Instead I kept looking over at her.

  After interminable stops and a slow crawl through Santa Rita, we arrived in Sapé. There was hardly any activity inside the modest bus terminal, but some taxis were waiting outside. I offered to drop Alice off at home, and she didn’t object. Getting into the car, she gave the driver her address.

  “Peregrino de Carvalho Street, number 28.”

  “Peregrino de Carvalho Street?” I asked her.

  “Of course. I’ve been here twice. The last time, my uncle convinced me to stay. He thinks his brother’s in this neck of the woods.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve already spent so much time looking, I don’t have much hope left.”

  “What about the dangers? Didn’t your uncle ever discuss them with you?”

  “My uncle resembles my father: he’s not afraid of danger. Tell the truth, we are—or were?—a family of hardheads.”

  “Does he know you want to join the union?”

  “No. It’s just a plan that’s taken ahold of me lately.”

  The taxi, headlights on, drove down cobblestoned and dirt streets, finally stopping in front of a tiled cottage surrounded by a large yard.

  “This is it!”

  “When can we get together again?”

  “I’ll be at the union every day.”

  “Want my phone number?” I asked, giving her a piece of paper I’d torn from my newspaper.

  Alice took it, smiling bittersweetly.

  “What about the goats? Have you found many to buy?”

  I was amused she’d remembered.

  “Everything in sight!”

  Alice jumped out and went through the gate; a dog began to bark. As she rang the doorbell, I asked the driver to take me to João Pessoa Square.

  The car got moving, with me lost in thought over that peculiar, intelligent woman, suddenly so insistent on becoming part of the peasant movement and yet always half-hidden behind a mask, never showing her true face.

  I asked how the judge was doing. Jandira told me he was sleeping. I switched on the lights of the comfortable room I’d turned into an office and unfolded the newspapers. I tried to lose myself in the news but Alice’s delicate image kept interfering. I turned on the radio and listened to music as I read. The night breezes were soft. An idea occurred to me: why not have Judge Fernandes hire some bodyguards to protect him, since the police obviously couldn�
�t do it? I was surprised at myself for not thinking of it before. I would have to discuss it with Dr. Jansen; in fact I’d call him first thing in the morning, as the need seemed urgent.

  And Alice’s uncle: would he be as stubborn as she? I’d have to bring flowers and invite her to go to a movie—or would it be better not to take the risk? What about my second story? Should I devote it to the coming rally, or should I report on my own kidnapping instead? What about pictures and interviews with other people to give the story more weight? No. My own abduction wasn’t the right subject for a news report. Only I knew the underlying meaning of that story. And Janete—the beautiful and traitorous Janete? To be honest, lots of events take place, but few are worth a story. The simplest solution would be to interview Father Juliano and Judge Fernandes about the rally and the trial in progress. Moreover, Chief Cordeiro had promised to come up with the man who’d tried to kill the judge. Given this state of affairs, I wouldn’t have a worthwhile story until I had the interviews in hand. The judge himself had said the man who had tried to kill him was Vinte e Cinco. Was that the man the police chief would arrest? The music stopped as the radio announcer began to read the midnight national news. Nothing about João Pessoa, much less Sapé.

  I put the newspapers aside and changed to music on an FM station, then stretched out on the hammock. Two thoughts preoccupied me: Alice, and the next story for The Nation. The more Barbosa played up the first piece, the greater would be my responsibility for the second.

  Chapter 12

  Alice was received by her grandmother Quitéria, a very elderly and obese woman whom she called Dindinha.

  “Your uncle was here early, said he’d be back.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Close-mouthed as usual.”

  “Any news of my father?”

  “If he’s got any, he’s not saying. He shows up, flops in the hammock, rocks back and forth. Sometimes I’ll sleep and wake up; he’ll still be rocking away. I even complained about it the other day. What the hell’s going on, for Chrissake?”

  “So what did he say?”

  “Nothing was going on. He was worried about work.”

  “And you, what have you been up to?”

  “Rotting away in this corner of the world. I don’t know hardly anyone around here. If you haven’t made friends by a certain time . . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m here to stay, and I’ll be bringing lots of people around. You can chat with them.”

  “Do that, honey. If you don’t know the people who live in it, you won’t know anything about the town either.”

  “How about Heleninha?”

  “In school, poor thing. She sells candy during the day and goes to high school at night. If you want to wait a bit, you can have dinner with her.”

  “I’m not hungry, Dindinha.”

  “But Heleninha has to eat. She spends the whole day out selling the candies I make.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “At first I was scared. I’d pray to Our Lady that nothing bad would happen to her. Sapé’s a rough town, not at all like Olinda. There you’ve got the beaches; people make ends meet by gathering shellfish or net-fishing. Here it’s different. All you hear about is killings. A neighbor was knifed last month. He got into an argument with some boy on the bus—the next day they got him. The local butcher killed one of his employees with a club. Then last week it was Janete. Remember her? The pretty girl, the one from Olinda, who even got to sing on TV? Well, even her.”

  Alice looked frightened.

  “Janete from the nightclub where uncle Dilermando worked?”

  “That’s the one. She came here to find a better life. Then she got involved with those colonels and their hired thugs. She couldn’t have done worse.”

  “So how’d it happen?”

  “Who knows? The only sure thing is her neighbors took her to the hospital, where she was out like a light, so they say. Dilermando went there; she was complaining. Apparently she doesn’t want to be alone.”

  “Did they beat her?”

  “You bet! Dilermando’s gonna go back to the hospital—he thinks there could be trouble. You know how your uncle is when he becomes stubborn about something.”

  “He knows how to proceed, Dindinha. As you said, this is no Olinda. Even less so for Dilermando, who isn’t a big talker.”

  “He’s almost mute, daughter. Your uncle’s lost his tongue.”

  “What does he do for work?”

  “I really don’t know. He leaves at dawn and sometimes doesn’t come back for a week or two. When he does return he flops in the hammock and rocks back and forth.”

  “Could he be sick?”

  “Dunno. Seems to be unhappy about his brother. They were pretty close.”

  “I’ll talk with him. If he’s sure my father isn’t around here, we can leave. There’s nothing tying us down in Sapé.”

  “That’s what I think too. But Dilermando has a fixation on this place.”

  They heard a knock on the door. Heleninha came in, plainly happy to see Alice. They embraced. Heleninha put her text and notebooks down on the table.

  “I aced the test, granny. I’m sure I’ll pass.”

  “Great. What test was it?”

  “Brazilian history. I knew everything!”

  “Wonderful! Alice is going to stay with us. She can help you with your lessons, more than I can.”

  “What about the candies, granny?”

  “They’re ready.”

  “I’ll go sell them at the bus terminal. It’s a good place for it.”

  “Be careful, Heleninha. Going over there the way you do is dangerous,” said Alice.

  “She’s used to it, poor thing,” said the grandmother.

  “Nobody fools me, Aunt Alice. I only sell to those who can pay. This morning some men yelled over to me from a construction site. Know what I did? I ran.”

  The old lady laughed, but Alice was alarmed.

  “A bus driver’s going to help me. He’s from Recife, just like us.”

  “We’re from Olinda, Heleninha,” Alice reminded her, brightening up and laughing.

  “Recife and Olinda, it’s all the same. It’s Sapé that’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “Around here, auntie, all they talk about is who died.”

  “And uncle, what does he think?”

  “He tells me to forget it. He says it’s all crazy. You know, I went to sell candies to Dona Janete. She’d been completely worked over.”

  “What happened?”

  “Dunno, auntie. They say it was the gangsters.”

  Heleninha sat down at the table. A napkin covered two plates at each place setting. The grandmother brought a spoon to ladle out the food, which consisted of scrambled eggs with dried beef. The girl had a strong appetite.

  “Smells great, granny!”

  She began to eat. The old lady cupped her withered face in one of her hands and watched the young girl.

  “You know what I think,” said Heleninha. “Along with candies, I could sell jewelry.”

  “And where are we going to find the money to get a supply, Heleninha?”

  “We could buy it on consignment.”

  “I’d rather you study, Heleninha. After you’ve graduated, no matter what else you’ll have less tiring work.”

  “I don’t get tired.”

  The old lady took away the plate as Heleninha continued talking.

  “What about your boyfriend, auntie?”

  “He never showed up again,” said Alice, flashing a smile.

  “Have you got yourself another?”

  Before Alice could respond, Heleninha drew close and whispered that she had a boyfriend.

  “Lighter-skinned than me. Light brown.”

  “Does Dindinha know about this?”

  “She’s clueless,” said the niece, keeping her voice low. “But one day I’ll bring him here.”

  The old lady reappeared with a smal
l wire object in hand.

  “Know where your comb was, girl? Above the kitchen window. Your hair’s a mess.”

  The grandmother stood behind the girl and began to straighten her hair with the comb, which was shaped like a small claw.

  “My granddaughter’s prettier every day, Alice.”

  They laughed, and Heleninha let her grandmother fuss over her.

  Late that night, Alice was reclining in an easy chair, reading one of Heleninha’s books, an anthology of famous writers.

  Then she stopped, thinking back to her youthful niece’s question: What about your boyfriend, auntie?

  Would he be that young man she’d met under such bizarre circumstances? Why had she sought him out at the hotel? Why had they come to Sapé together? Heleninha’s question intrigued her. Was she beginning to take to Jorge Elias, who said he was a goat merchant? Who was he in fact? She’d have to find out. She had the phone number he’d given her; the next day she’d call him. Why not get together with him again, leaving the search for her father out of it? She rested her head against the seat back, letting her thoughts drift. Outside the night pulsed with the sounds of crickets and frogs, while she stayed inside, the lamp dimmed, her mind racing. And Heleninha’s boyfriend, what would he be like? Poor girl, wandering from street to street selling candy, taking chances in a bad neighborhood. Alice began to realize that her quest had become more difficult. It wasn’t a question anymore just of locating her father, who had vanished when Heleninha was young. Henceforth she would also need to help keep the family, once so much larger, intact.

  Elindo, her father, used to sit at the head of the table; her mother Corina at the other end; Grandma Quitéria near Grandpa Eustáquio. The other chairs would fill with her brothers and sisters Pedro, Rubens, Marina, and Cristina. The foster children, Alice reflected, whom we considered blood relatives, were Heleninha and Clóvis. My father had a print shop. He had difficulty the first few years, and then the business became successful. He printed for a company that exported guava paste, and later acquired three union clients: packers, bus-drivers, and longshoremen. Uncle Dilermando usually would have lunch with us. Mother dominated those gatherings of the Albuquerque clan. Family get-togethers would take place Sundays. The house would overflow with happiness. Who could imagine that Clóvis would suddenly become sick, that Rubens and Pedro would have to exile themselves to distant countries, that Marina would die in childbirth and Cristina would move to São Paulo with her husband? Who could suppose that father would come to be persecuted and as a consequence mother would die of a hemorrhage? Grandma Quitéria, notwithstanding her rheumatic pain, was in truth the only one who lasted to take care of the rest: Heleninha, me, and Uncle Dilermando. The decision to find father occupied my time and my mind but, on the other hand, never quit being an egotistical act. Why had I never thought about Grandma Quitéria? Why had I not found Heleninha a job so that she wouldn’t have to roam the streets selling candy and her youth? Where had Pedro and Rubens gone? What kind of life had Uncle Dilermando led, he who had always been so thoughtful of all of us, who had worried so much about mother and who knew of the mischief we’d get into, even the quietest among us?