Land of Black Clay

by Jose Louzeiro

  “Friends, I’d like to ask Father Juliano to address us. He knows that our demands will only be met if we work together, hard and with determination. We’ll never have better wages if we don’t fight alongside our unions. We’ll never have a house in which to live, nor decent public transit, if we don’t join the struggle begun by Pedro Teixeira, Pedro Fazendeiro, and Nêgo Fuba. They fell, but their lesson lives on. They sacrificed their own lives so that we might proceed. They didn’t surrender; they didn’t even fear the enemy.”

  The applause was prolonged. Alves shook hands as new firecrackers went off. Just then Azulão spotted two men pushing their way through the crowd. It took little effort to see that they were Vinte e Cinco and Bezouro. And if those two were there, it was clear that trouble was not far behind. What to do? Decide to leave, leaving them free to start a brawl, or draw them away? He approached Vinte e Cinco, who was gesticulating in an effort to mimic the new speaker, Father Juliano.

  “I need to talk with you,” said Azulão. “I’m over here looking for Galho Dentro.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “He was trying to bribe Janete and disappeared.”

  “What of it? The order they gave us was to disrupt the stage up there.”

  “What if something happened to Galho Dentro? It’s been two days since anyone saw him.”

  “I know where he’s hidden,” said Bezouro.

  Vinte e Cinco looked over Azulão, made a face, clapped his hands, and laughed.

  “Let’s go!”

  The three men walked through the crowd.

  “Did ya’ get a load of that nervy woman?” commented Vinte e Cinco. “One of these days I’ll grab her and she can have a conversation with my dick.”

  Bezouro grabbed a poster out of the hands of some young men and tore it up. He stopped their reaction short by brandishing his .38.

  “It’s over in the next street,” he said as he continued to provoke passersby.

  Azulão behaved like the most ignorant of beings as they strolled through Sapé’s streets.

  “What about if the woman’s there?” he asked.

  “So what?” replied Vinte e Cinco animatedly. “If she’s alone, I’ll give her some company.”

  “What is this?” commented Bezouro. “Any woman of a friend of mine, she’s just like a guy.”

  They entered the alleyway and Bezouro stopped in front of the cottage at number seventeen. He knocked once, then twice, but nobody answered. Azulão felt like laughing. He put his hands in his pants pocket, fingering the house key.

  “I know the woman next door,” said Bezouro.

  He rang the neighbor. A pregnant woman missing her front teeth emerged, offering a sad, tired smile. Bezouro signaled with his hand.

  “She’ll let us in her house and we can go in the back way.”

  The two went. Azulão waited in front of the house, reflecting that his companions’ assertiveness was unbounded. He knew their eccentricities.

  All of a sudden Vinte e Cinco’s loud cries could be heard. “Son of a bitch! They’ve slaughtered Galho Dentro!”

  The front door flew open. Vinte e Cinco had forgotten his earlier humor. Azulão ran over.

  “Who could’ve done such a god-awful thing?”

  The pregnant neighbor loosed a shout:

  “Holy Mother of God!”

  “I swear it was those bastards from the union,” blustered Vinte e Cinco. “This is why they were celebrating today.”

  “How can you prove that?” countered Azulão. “It’s gotta be revenge.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything?” demanded Bezouro of the pregnant woman.

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Weird. I think they killed him while he was sleeping. Galho Dentro wasn’t the type to give up easily,” commented Vinte e Cinco.

  “Now what do we do?” asked Azulão.

  “Let’s get him in the van and take him out to the plantation. Jesuíno’s the one who’ll decide what needs to be done.”

  Vinte e Cinco eyed Azulão coldly and menacingly.

  “How did you find out Galho Dentro was in Sapé?”

  “In Mari. That gun-seller’s got a big mouth.”

  “Ambrósio. Always finding out the inside dope. Someday I’ll give him what he deserves,” Vinte e Cinco added.

  “Then who’ll fix our guns?” complained Bezouro.

  “Who knows? I’m boiling mad right now. We’ve got to find the smartass who rubbed out Galho Dentro—he’ll pay like Ticuca did.”

  “I’ll get the van.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on the union bash,” said Azulão.

  “Jesuíno will decide out at the ranch. If he wants to get right on this we’ll be back. Where will we find you?”

  “Over at the union or in the market square.”

  Vinte e Cinco took out his fish knife and cut his cohort down from the beam. Galho Dentro slumped onto the floor. The curious were gathering outside in the alley.

  At the union hall the speeches had ended. Some young men were still setting off firecrackers; girls were handing out lemon and passion-fruit cocktails. Azulão took a gulp from his glass. A young, thin girl with lively eyes drew up to him.

  “Father Juliano would like to speak with you, sir.”

  “With me?”

  The girl shook her head. Azulão started walking, removing his hat. He went through a large room full of loud-talking, laughing guests. The girl drew back a curtain revealing another room and Father Juliano, who extended his hand.

  “Thank you for coming,” said the priest. “I’d like to introduce Sólon de Almeida, president of the Sapé union; this is his daughter and this is Margarida Maria Alves, president of the Alagoa Grande Rural Workers’ Union. Our great ally. We’re one family, struggling so that all other families can live in peace. I appreciated your gesture earlier.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Father Juliano.”

  “You did much, son. And God blesses you for it. The church and the unions are open to you should you wish to seek us out.”

  The glasses were full; Father Juliano proposed a toast. Alves stood next to Azulão.

  I arrived late at the celebration. It had been a complicated day, with the judge alternating between periods of improvement and crisis and Dr. Jansen worried. I steered myself toward the group in the back room set off by the printed curtain: Father Juliano; Almeida; Vicente Marinho, the union secretary; Alves. We hugged and I apologized for my late arrival. They knew about the judge’s condition. Alves expressed her worry about it. Father Juliano drew me aside.

  “I want to introduce you to someone who will be on our side before long.”

  I shook the hand of the giant, sad-looking man.

  “Azulão just got us out of a bind,” the priest explained. “When I saw that Vinte e Cinco in the midst of the crowd, I feared that our warm-up rally would end in a brawl. Azulão somehow managed to distract him.”

  I looked over Azulão gratefully. He didn’t seem uncomfortable. Alves offered a drink and we sat down around a table. An overweight, perspiring woman brought us some hors d’œuvres as I watched Azulão’s movements. The musicians were beginning to play. Alves got up and with great enthusiasm did a few dance steps.

  “Why did the meeting take place?” I asked Father Juliano.

  “We didn’t let what happened to Judge Fernandes get us down.”

  “Do you think the city will understand?”

  “We’re here by agreement.”

  “What about the rally?”

  “Today’s meeting was a practice run. When Alves spoke, there must have been at least five hundred people. You had to see it!”

  “I wanted to get here earlier, but I couldn’t. The judge was having trouble with his breathing.”

  “What do you think of his condition?”

  “Well, there have been periods of improvement, but it’s not easy given his age.”

  “We must pray,” said Father Juliano, excusing himself.

 
Alves also took her leave. “I’m going far away!” she said.

  The musicians continued to play to a large audience of dancing couples.

  “Are you the journalist?” asked Azulão.

  I felt alarmed. Why had Father Juliano been so enthusiastic about him?

  “The same. What do you want?”

  “Janete wants to see you.”

  “I’ve got nothing to do with that woman,” I said petulantly.

  Azulão remained calm, indeed indifferent to my response.

  “She suffered a lot because of Galho Dentro. She might not recover.”

  “Her problem. She tried to kill me.”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem around here, young man. You got away. You don’t know what she did to help you. Or do you think you’re alive because you’re smarter than other people?”

  “I did escape. I figured out how to get myself out of a jam.”

  “Your mistake. When you went to buy the pistol, you might well have had an accident with it.”

  “Pistol?” I asked to buy time.

  “Next week Janete’s supposed to be home. Go talk with her. I’ll be nearby.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No—a guarantee. I’m Janete’s friend, ever since she tried to make it as a singer in an Olinda nightclub. She was pretty; she had a lot of dreams. One more thing: when you leave here, watch out. The word’s out to get rid of you!”

  “Am I speaking with my executioner?”

  “I’m a hired thug, but I think with my head. If you’re interested, I’m looking for a brother who was kidnapped. I’ve been looking for him everywhere between here and Pernambuco. That’s my only cause. Days off, I work for the colonel. But I don’t lose my way, nor do I sell out for money, young man.”

  Azulão took off. I noticed his awkwardness as he walked away through the throng of happy people. What was he up to? What was the next game that would include Janete? And why was Father Juliano getting mixed up with such an oddball? The party was as lively as ever. Almeida went out onto the dance floor with his wife. I sat down at the table with Vicente Marinho, the union secretary, and had another passion-fruit cocktail.

  Chapter 14

  Asbal had cultivated a singular pastime: he took care of long-abandoned roadside graves, pulling weeds, smoothing out the dirt, and planting roses and carnations.

  On a day of low clouds over Sapé—not a phenomenon foretelling rain—he was tending the tomb of João Pedro Teixeira on Café do Vento Road, where the peasant had met his end.

  “May the peace we don’t enjoy and the grace we don’t deserve be with thee,” Asbal said in poetic and archaic language to the grave, as was his custom. He poked holes in the dirt with the point of his walking stick.

  “Dost thou want to know about Elizabeth? She’s getting along, as God wills. Her children have grown. Each one is his own master. But Elizabeth is not assuaged. Her fate is her memory of thee: of the union struggles, of meetings that continued until dawn, of goals to be met, of people’s varied perspectives. A wonderful time, woven by thy hands, Pedro! Thou hast left traces that will not be easily extinguished. Didst thou know that? After thy departure, Pedro Teixeira and Nêgo Fuba also went away. Last week I visited their home. How dirty it was over there! What? Elizabeth must forget thee? What talk is this, man of God? Thy wife doth personify suffering and courage. Many years without land, yet she hath not taken to the road. Suffering here, she watched the birth of the future. She bled waiting. Her father? Poor thing! He hath not changed. He is the embodiment of insensitivity, the standard-bearer of anguish and pain. He hated thee for being black; he hated thee because thou didst love Elizabeth. Thou, drawer of stone from the quarry; the worker with callused hands. Elizabeth, the pretty young woman, white, daughter of a small businessman who ardently desired to grow. And he too grew, at least outwardly. But inside, he rotted with hate. He hated thee, Pedro; he plotted thy death. Dost thou not resent him? I know the answer. Thy understanding is the pay for my work. I do not beautify the grave of one who did not die for love. When they planted thee on the Café do Vento road, there was a meaning to it. The wind that carried thee away brought thee to us. Thy soul is among us, Pedro; it liveth in Alves. She hath thy voice, thy words. At times I come from far away to hear what she hath to say. Do you know what I think of Alves? She is thy ghost. She conformeth not, she feareth not—she loveth. She desireth for others what she will never have for herself.”

  When he decided he’d finished his task, Asbal poured out the contents of his old canteen on the cuttings, softening clods of dirt that he broke up with his hands. His work was complete. He rose and began to walk, not looking back, even when the wind whispered, calling him. Asbal walked among fantasies; he unnerved Sapé’s inhabitants, who blessed themselves when they encountered him.

  Below a tree, a van was stopped, its doors open. Two men were taking a break. Asbal stopped and extended his hand.

  “Get a job, old man.”

  The other only stared.

  “I’ll give you something if you tell me where you’re coming from.”

  “From the Café do Vento and from repentance.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “To be crazy is to be blinded by happiness.”

  “And so what if you are happy, grandpa?”

  “Life. Solidarity.”

  “Get outta here, old man!”

  The affable one got out a coin and, as he was handing it over, let it fall. Both men laughed. Asbal bent over and picked up the coin, which turned into a brilliant rose in his hand.

  “When hate turns to love, there is hope.”

  Asbal made off toward the road.

  “Asshole sorcerer, that’s what he is!”

  The second man didn’t dare to say anything. He drank a little water from his bottle and watched Asbal recede into the distance.

  “I dunno, old pal. His magic don’t scare me. But I’m persuaded by the things he says.”

  “Just as well. If it were the other way around, I’d kill myself. You know what we can do to cut this conversation short? Take the van and run him over.”

  “What the hell are you talking about!?”

  “It’ll be one beggar less. A nut on the road to heaven. Isn’t that what he was talking about anyway?

  “I’ll be doing the driving, thank you.”

  “Drive if you want, girlie. Don’t forget I’m going to be the boss of our group and therefore your boss. You’d already be calling me ‘mister’ if you were smart.”

  Asbal continued to walk all afternoon long. He climbed and descended hillsides, finally arriving at a wire fence. Janaína stopped hanging clothes on her clothesline.

  “Where are you coming from, prophet?”

  “From the eternal house of those who have been.”

  Janaína lifted the fence so Asbal could get through. “Come on in. I have cold water and some coffee.”

  “I’ll accept a little water, daughter.”

  As he was gathering his clothes about him, Jeruza appeared. Asbal extended his arms and the girl ran to him. Quickly Janaína set the table, covered it with a clean tablecloth, and put out a flask of water and a glass. Asbal rummaged in the sack he used as a backpack and pulled out a rather withered rose, which he placed in the water. The little girl accompanied his movements. Instantly the flower revived.

  “A rose to illuminate the house.”

  “Amen, prophet!”

  Asbal drank a little water and prepared to get back on the road. Janaína insisted he stay.

  “There’s no time, daughter.”

  “Luís would like to see you, sir.”

  “Tell him that hate never blazes a trail.”

  Janaína remained standing on the porch, watching the tall, thin man walking slowly away, as if measuring his steps. She wanted to cry, and did. Jeruza came up next to her, showing her the white rose once again, but she couldn’t pay attention to her daughter. What did it mean—why so much sadness? Did it
have to do with Luís? And the prophet’s mysterious words?

  As night fell, Asbal found himself in a canefield. The plantation stretched down both sides of the road. The winds were light and the dusk filled with silence and reddish hues—painful colors. Asbal sat down on a rock and there remained, listening to the winds’ conversation with each stalk of cane. He thought it odd that those words had not been disseminated far away from the land of black clay. Could it be that people felt humiliated by listening and learning?

  “Why, Lord?”

  There was no sun, nor evening stars. Asbal overcame the darkness eddying at his feet, overcame the dust and his fatigue. He oriented his steps toward a light he saw glimmering above the canefield.

  “A peasant’s house, or a bunkhouse full of roughnecks?” he asked himself.

  Light makes no distinction, he thought. He needed the strength to arrive there and fall into a state of ecstasy. The winds sobbed next to his face; he didn’t want to look but felt tempted to do so. He could make out a small cross hidden in a thicket. The prophet groped about with his thin hands. He knelt, casting his walking stick aside. Fireflies formed a halo of stars around Asbal. He worked as best he could.

  Who, in such great solitude, had fallen asleep in this remote place? What roads were traveled, what dreams dreamt? Was the person young or old—male or female?

  Preoccupied with these ruminations, Asbal reached a long, ivy-covered wall lined intermittently with shrubbery. He pushed open a broken gate and came upon a mansion shrouded in trees. Climbing a broken-banistered stair, he reached the verandah. A lamp hung from the roof, bugs surrounding it and falling to the ground. Asbal rapped his staff on the wooden floor. A long-haired hunchback with a scared countenance appeared.

  “Where are the owners of the house?”

  The hunchback disappeared, then returned pushing a wheelchair holding an old, overweight man. He was well-dressed and had the large, deteriorated eyes of a leper. Old man and hunchback alike began to laugh.

  “Frightened?”

  “I need a place to stay.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of getting sick, or do you consider yourself invulnerable?”