“Trial will resume in 30 minutes.”
A crowd lined Getúlio Vargas Avenue and Gentil Lins Street. Gossip said that Albuquerque was dead. Military police milled around in the crowd. A well-dressed man climbed on top of a car and yelled fervently:
“If the communist rabble have killed Zoé, we’ll have to stop the trial!”
A police officer pulled him down from the car roof. The atmosphere was tense—some union members displayed posters demanding punishment for those who had killed Teixeira. I made an effort to leave by the sidewalk on the other side, where Father Juliano and Almeida were standing. I still needed to write that story and send it off to The Nation. One question continued to trouble me: when that trial reached its end, would Judge Fernandes take up the cases of Fazendeiro and Fuba? Would he have the stamina for it, or would it be a form of suicide? And Albuquerque, the juror? Had she really fainted or was she trying to disrupt the trial? The possibility had to be considered. Who was she? Did she have ties, as a city employee, to small or large landholders? I walked as fast as I could and pushed the door to my temporary residence, but it didn’t open. As I was fumbling with the key, somebody unlocked the door from inside. Luís stuck his face out.
“What’s up?”
“I found Azulão. Know who he is? A big shot who’s helped out Colonel Barros from time to time.”
“A real gangster!…”
“Maybe not. He wanders about Sapé and its outskirts looking for a brother that the police grabbed in Recife. That’s all anyone knows.”
“What else?” I asked, putting down my notebook on the table next to a pack of cigarettes and used rolls of film.
“What else is that he sent a message: Vinte e Cinco and some ten enforcers of Colonel Barros’s are coming to torch the houses around here. Then they’re going to burn down the courthouse.”
“When does the war begin?”
“Tomorrow or later, late afternoon. They’re waiting for more gangsters willing to take on the challenge. Meanwhile, Vinte e Cinco decided to hide out in a hostelry in Mari near the railroad tracks.”
“You seem to know his steps well.”
“I’ve been following Vinte e Cinco for a long time; I know what he likes, what he doesn’t. When you hate it’s like that, just like when you love.”
“Be careful.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a lot to ask him about.”
“And Janaína and Jeruza?”
“They’ll have reason to be pleased with me. I’m not going to be a poor chump anymore!”
“What are you talking about, man?”
“The truth. I’ve been listening to those lawyers talk about justice for so long I thought I’d come back here to clear out my head. I drank a shot of cane liquor but didn’t feel any better. The real cure is Vinte e Cinco.”
I got to work. I tried to weave together the speeches of Romão and Colares with the highlights of Soares’s discourse. His co-counsel, Magalhães, while pursuing the same line of reasoning—that is, stressing a right-wing line to win over the jurors—had said nothing of importance other than to try to link Sister Genoveva of the Vincentians, who had testified against Batista, to leftist groups. What about the other accused individuals? Why was he calling them all at once? Was it a subtle maneuver on his part? How could I write without these essential details? Damn. Would it be worth it to write a story featuring only one character, or should I wait to profile all of them: the prosecution’s case, the defense, the testimony of the accused? It was clear: the best way to proceed was the latter. But that was becoming impossible. Barbosa and Gordo needed more copy. I would go back to the trial and try to talk with Judge Fernandes.
Luís reappeared with a sandwich and soft drink he had gotten at the corner store. I was grateful for his show of friendship. Why not take him on as my secretary? He could mail stories and buy newspapers in Campina Grande.
“Do you want to help me?”
“As you wish. Ever since you showed up out there at the house, I’ve been beholden to you.”
“Then you can go to Campina Grande early tomorrow morning. The post office is near the Apollo bookstore, on Vila Nova Rainha Street.”
“When will Batista’s trial be over?”
“Maybe tomorrow afternoon, unless the other defendants are also brought in for trial.”
“And the lawyers—will they be the same?”
I hadn’t thought of that. Luís was showing himself to be a good observer. New defendants, new lawyers?
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said without conviction.
“How does a person become accused of breaking the law?”
“Well, when it comes to homicide, often the physical evidence is enough. Then they add the witnesses’ testimony. Details and more details to round out the investigation. Why so curious?”
“I want to make sure I’ll be a good defendant. The day my turn comes, I will sit in the defendant’s box with my head held high. Nothing like Batista, with his tail between his legs. Nasty as a cobra, that guy. I worked a bit for him, putting up a fence. He counted every pole we dug into the ground and handed out oranges to the letter of our agreement so we wouldn’t rip him off. Batista will have a lot to answer for to God.”
“Why all this now?”
“This is my day of decision.”
“What about our agreement?”
“I’ll be back real early.”
“This all scares me.”
“The present you gave me will assuage my honor.”
“Killing doesn’t solve anything.”
“You may be right. Maybe he should be maimed. A leg mangled, an eye put out, his tongue lopped off? He can beg for charity in the market square, everyone staring and commenting: ‘Look at Vinte e Cinco, chief of the colonel’s goons—just look at what happened to him! Who had the courage to do it? It must have been someone with a lot of anger.’“
“Honestly! You’re obsessed.”
“In a way that’s true. When I think of my best moments with Janaína, I think of him. He is linked to us, having been our torturer. He’s the thing I detest the most. Were it not for the memories, it would be enough to move, as Janaína already agreed to do—I forgot about that. You know, our wedding party was a nice event, you can be sure of that. Something to see, it was. Suddenly him, the torturer—a nodule that won’t dissolve.”
“Did you try to forget your hate, or did you perfect it?”
“I tried. Didn’t work. Some nights I can’t sleep. Vinte e Cinco comes by on a honey-colored horse, or driving a gleaming van. Like Colonel Barros, he’s the master out there where I live. Not even Jesuíno is as dominant. Should he come to set fire to houses in Sapé, you can be sure nobody will stop him.”
“It so happens the city is well-policed right now. There are soldiers everywhere.”
“Something slipped up in João Pessoa. Colonel Barros will straighten it out.”
“I’m going to run by the trial. I’ve got to ask the judge some questions.”
“I’m going to Mari. It’s my lucky day.”
We shook hands.
“Keep an eye out!”
Luís nodded. He went outside and sat down on the steps. I started walking down to the square without looking back. Luís’s determination made me nervous. What was he going to do? When I got to Gentil Lins Street and saw the crowd, however, I forgot about him. There were people in the middle of the street, under the trees, and around the food and drink stalls. Heavily armed soldiers walked about. Azulão blocked my path. He stood an instant without saying anything.
“What do you want?”
“Janete’s waiting for your visit.”
“What business do I have with her?”
“I think you have some. What she’ll tell you may be of interest to your reporting.”
“And you—why are you involved in this?”
“None of your business!”
“Don’t play the tough guy with me—I’ll call a cop and you’ll be in the sl
ammer,” I said recklessly. I was talking before thinking, irresponsibly. “Where does Janete live?”
“Right over there. In the same house.”
I got myself going. Azulão stayed put. Before going into the courthouse, I looked back where he was standing, solitary and seemingly melancholy though surrounded by many people nearby. The jury was back in its box. Young women from the city, nicely decked out and made up, occupied a row of chairs. The trial had become Sapé’s showcase attraction.
The whirring fans failed to lighten the sultry air inside the building. Father Juliano, Almeida, Marinho and Alves were listening to Romão’s remarks. With effort I found a seat, not forgetting Azulão’s remark: Janete’s waiting for your visit. What she’ll tell you may be of interest to your reporting.
A tall, thin man, about sixty years old, ambled forward, leaning on his walking staff as Judge Fernandes repeated his name.
“The witness who all in Sapé know as Asbal will come forward.”
Asbal sat down in the witness box, holding his staff. His gray eyes ranged around the room. Hair and beard blurred together. His clothes consisted of a tunic of red-dyed coarse cloth and faded pants. He was shod in pigskin sandals.
Soares took a few steps and stopped in front of the witness he had summoned.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. The city in which we live is full of sin, just as are other cities large and small. But Sapé can take pride in the fact that it shelters a saint known as Asbal. Who would dare to criticize him? Who would laugh at his lifestyle? Who would have the nerve to block his path, crazy as he may be? For this reason, no resident of this township would be as credible a witness in Batista’s behalf as this man who is, in truth, a prophet, just as many call him. He is here to tell his story. Let his words be heard attentively. This is not a publicity stunt. The accused has no need of such schemes. We invited Asbal because he knows the Café do Vento area; he knows quite a bit about they there who live, work, sacrifice themselves and die like anonymous heroes of a growing country. Of this I am certain Asbal will speak.”
Judge Fernandes made a gesture; Soares drank a bit of water. Asbal began his testimony. Batista looked at him without emotion.
“My baptismal name is Ascêncio Barrieux da Luz, poet and gardener. With time, since I found my true calling, I have been Asbal. Forgive me for mentioning this detail, but it’s that I never get a chance to remember my name and so I’m beginning to forget it, which in a way is contemptible. As a child, my nickname was Acê. As Acê”—some people were snickering, and the judge ordered silence—”I saw the world without participating in it. Later, as a young boy, without ever having been able to go to school, I learned to read at my mother’s side and undertook the most difficult studies with an uncle who certain people considered crazy. They thought so because this uncle distributed his wealth to the poor so as to become one of them.”
There was more laughter, but this time the judge did not interfere. Asbal continued:
“After reading some important books, I wanted to learn new things. Blocked from attending school, as I had not the economic means, I decided to wander the streets and roads. They are the best university. Through them, I learned how the world is beautiful, how people are good, even those who are considered bad. All have one project in common: they want to live. It was then, while I was learning my first lesson, that I met Batista on the Café do Vento road. He opened the earth to make it fecund with seeds. I made it a point always to walk there, so as to see that boy with his hands dirty with earth and with seeds. Batista opened his eyes to the world; he could see so neatly, I thought.
“Some time later, on returning from a long trip, I ran into him again. He had become tired and irritable even though life had been generous to him: the earth remained fertile and the seeds willing to sprout. He had children, among them a girl of innocent bearing who called herself Elizabeth. I was pleased to see that girl—she shone like a wildflower. I felt that life was continuing to be good to Batista. If on the one hand he was showing bitterness with business and with his fellow men, on the other the house was brightened by that girl who represented hope. Had he spoken his mind back then, do you know what he would have said? That Asbal is like his uncle; he’s crazy.
“I spoke to him with my silence. Elizabeth offered me water. I asked her to pardon me for being a pilgrim before her goodness. She smiled. Pretty Elizabeth! Batista paid no attention to my words. He had decided to grow rich though his house was already wealthy. Elizabeth’s gaze was one of peace, just as Batista’s was one of fatigue. She could wander without moving an inch. She was not born to my fate, which is to wander so that the blood will circulate and the heart beat faster.
“I went many places thinking of Elizabeth. Would she give to that house the peace that Batista needed? Would that be the recompense of the land, above and beyond its fruits and it ears of corn? Maybe it would. The land does not forget.
“On a later walk along the Café do Vento road, Noé’s house horrified me. So many points of light, yet so much darkness. On one side a pigpen, on another a flourmill, women and men moving about as if prisoners in a jail. All of them with the dull look of decay on their face. What was going on, Noé? He told me he had prospered. Indeed, he could consider himself a rich man. He had the help of influential friends. And the more he spoke of prosperity, the darker it grew in the Café do Vento area. His children had taken their own paths; his salaried workers looked at him with hatred. Noé had no eyes to see, nor ears to listen. An enormous hole had opened, but he seemed unconcerned. And Elizabeth? He told me she had died. She had married a black man and died.”
“It was a joke on his part. He was disappointed with his daughter’s action,” clarified Magalhães.
“Continue, Asbal,” said the judge.
“Elizabeth had married, and she who marries opens herself to life, not death. Noé didn’t know that. Nor that love knows no color. Elizabeth had chosen according to strength of heart and the transparency of the waters. From that point on I was not able to find her in Café do Vento. A day came that I was using the rivers to guide me. For two whole weeks I walked. I stopped to rest where some women were washing clothes. One of them had eyes full of hope. I called her by her name, afraid I might be wrong. She responded sadly. ‘Elizabeth died; I’m Marta,’ and she began to cry. I embraced her and cried with her, and the river cried for both of us.”
“Your Honor, the witness may step down,” bellowed an irritated Soares.
Romão stood up.
“With the court’s permission, Your Honor, I would like the witness to continue.”
“Permission granted.”
I had written down almost everything Asbal had said. His poetic phraseology weighed on me. At times he seemed like an actor playing the role of Saint Francis of Assisi. Squeezed between an overweight old man and a woman in a printed dress who was crying, I was wrapped up in these thoughts when a young woman entered the courtroom. She had on a pretty dress and ribbons in her hair.
“Alice!” I almost yelled.
I waved my hand until she saw me. She smiled. People around me didn’t seem to notice my happiness.
Why Alice once again? The hope that one of the witnesses might mention her father? It must be that. She wouldn’t give up. She resembled Elizabeth, resembled Asbal. Alice’s eyes also had that peaceful quality that the prophet had mentioned.
“You, here?” I said, squeezing her hand.
Asbal had resumed his testimony. The silence in the courtroom grew profound. Even the police remained glued to his words.
“Anything I can say about Noé Batista will be the same I said the other day to Senator Martinho, isolated in a mansion out on the black clayey land, nurturing pain and regret.”
“He’s dreaming, Your Honor! Senator Martinho is dead!” yelled Magalhães.
“To die is recompense for noble feats that the senator has not yet performed; he lives the immortality of a punishment that may be eternal. I met him in his mansion,
covered with leprosy and anguish, with nary an arm to help him. For company, only the hunchback Alfredo, who remains there motivated by greed. He dreams of inheriting half the senator’s estate, and the latter keeps him hoping, because the greedy are like the stupid: easy to delude. Batista lies between life and death like the senator and all of us, but with one difference. He and the senator fear to leave behind what they judge to be theirs, though their goods are of the earth and will to the earth return.”
“What can you tell us about João Pedro Teixeira, the black worker who generated so much hatred in Batista?” asked Romão.
Asbal looked at the judge humbly, wondering if he should continue. The judge nodded assent.
“Pedro Teixeira was God’s worker. He would dig rock and his fingers would bleed. When he could dig dirt, with Elizabeth, such work seemed much easier to him. With the first hole he dug to plant a seed, he discovered the inequality among humans: the ill-will of those who have everything toward those who have nothing. Pedro planted corn; from the ears dangled the future. Elizabeth taught him to read in the portal of the Vento. Pedro learned for his own sake and for that of his sleeping young children—children he wished to rear with the love of a man steadfast yet sensitive in the midst of the rising clamor. Pedro learned valuable lessons from the land, from Elizabeth, from books, from his union colleagues, and from the red flags that only he saw flutter over the canefields. All this I noticed; I dwelt upon it and felt satisfied. Around the darkness that Batista had generated, there was a new clarity that Elizabeth and Pedro had inaugurated. Noé had become a digger of dreams, blind in both eyes because he wanted it that way. I, gardener of crosses along the roads, could do nothing for him.
“Much later I returned to Café do Vento. I spoke with Pedro Teixeira, who rests without hatred or bitterness. He passed among us like a rainbow in the sky, but we refused to see. He was close to Noé, but Noé hated him. He walked in the streets but only the pebbles and the poor gave him love and respect. He was not a great laborer, but he sewed a field that will bloom forever. Pedro gave us lessons of justice and that lesson no peasant will renounce, for time does not run backward. He wrote in blood, on the roads, a sentence that will endure: ‘The land belongs to those who work it.’ When Mr. Soares invited me to come to this trial, he coached me on what to say. I do not guide myself with anyone else’s head. I am Asbal, gardener of crosses and of resignation. I plant flowers in a floor of tears. Every grave is a mystery, imitating life, which endures. I neither accuse nor defend. I have no pride, nor do I stoop to flattery. Saint John the Baptist was beheaded to disguise vanities, Jesus crucified by the kiss of betrayal; Joan of Arc, dragged to the pyre, burns in our hearts. And us? What fire will transform us into ashes and what winds will carry us to the domain of the infinite? I know not…I know not, lord judge!…”
Land of Black Clay Page 19