Many land barons got up and with their jackets wrapped over their arms began to clap. The meeting had come to an end. Guilherme Moreira de Carvalho was hugged. The caterers came in with food and drink. A bottle of champagne was uncorked. Thus began the celebration of Martinho’s fifty-sixth birthday, and he embraced everybody.
Hours later, at Carvalho’s house, only the members of the executive commission were present. They began to make decisions amidst glasses of imported whiskey and the swimming-pool frolicking of the host’s grandchildren under the watchful eye of Grandma Sinhazinha.
“And you, Guilherme, where will you begin?”
“It’s urgent that we stop that farce Judge Fernandes is running. Colonel Barros, Batista and Cordeiro can’t continue to be subjected to this kind of abuse.”
“I’m worried about a big mix-up with the feds,” warned Alcino José.
“It’s a risk we’ve got to take,” declared Martinho. “And it gives us an advantage: we’ll be rid of a whole bunch of ruffians. Everyone into the fire in one go. And who’s going to take care of that? The government’s own soldiers.”
“Well thought out,” said Castro. “Anyone left over will have to be silenced by other means.”
“We’ve already got a lot of men under retainer in Rio, São Paulo, Bahia and Pernambuco,” observed Martinho. “They’re waiting for the green light.”
“In addition,” stressed Carvalho, “we’re counting on the element of surprise. No matter how agile Judge Fernandes may be, he’ll never be able to guess what we’re going to do.”
“Let’s be quick about it then,” said Agamenon.
The men eyed each other. Carvalho chuckled.
“Who’s going to wipe out the gangsters who manage to escape?” Castro wanted to know.
“We’ll give them a rendezvous point for their getaway and they’ll never escape from it. It’s the end of all their trickery, all the mistakes and provocations,” said Martinho bitterly.
Some of his friends were amused. Carvalho proposed a toast. Their arms were raised, glasses in hand. On their faces, the gleam of a strange happiness. A little boy in the pool began to cry, complaining about his brother. Dona Sinhazinha intervened.
“If you don’t hush, Grandpa Guilherme is going to order everyone out of the pool.”
The men drank, watching the children, as the golden afternoon faded, the sun etching the sky with reds and blues even as the first breezes of evening insinuated themselves amidst the palm fronds, as light and soft as the waves of high tide.
Chapter 21
Returning home I found Jandira rearranging chairs and dusting furniture. I asked her not to clean the table where I’d left paper, cigarette packs, used film, and the Olympus-Pen camera. Jandira laughed. She had become a friend.
“How’s the judge?”
“Sleeping.”
“I need to talk with him. Almeida, Alves and Dr. Jansen are going to arrive within the half-hour.”
“Are they planning a party?”
“No—we’re going to discuss the trial. And your help will be indispensable.”
“What can I possibly do?”
“Receive the visitors and fix that coffee of yours.”
Jandira was amused.
“Want me to call the judge too?”
“Please do.”
I accommodated myself in an armchair, trying to recall the details of my conversation with Azulão. Then I opened a book and tried to concentrate on it but couldn’t. I was preoccupied with the thought of sending another story for the next edition of The Nation, and Azulão’s observations worried me. Was he really Alice’s uncle or was the whole thing just another trap that I’d wandered into like a sucker? Jandira reappeared.
“The judge is on his way.”
I tried to give the tabletop a semblance of neatness. Judge Fernandes showed up in pajamas and soft slippers.
“Please ignore the mess.”
“Nonsense! When I was on a newspaper it was the same thing. How do you like the house?”
“It couldn’t be better. If not for your generosity, I’m not sure what would have become of me, not having a hotel to stay at.”
“Everything’s difficult in Sapé.”
“I took an initiative that perhaps you’ll think ill-considered. But I did it because Father Juliano doesn’t have a phone and it’s difficult to reach Alves.”
“What is it?”
“I invited all of them for a meeting with you. I’ve been told by a roughneck named Azulão that the colonels are conspiring to shoot up the courtroom. During the commotion the defendants will be set free. It’s supposed to happen tomorrow.”
“A good reporter’s work. Asbal’s already said something along those lines to Jansen.”
“Azulão sought me out. Father Juliano knows him.”
“And who else?”
“I would guess Sólon and Margarida.”
There was a knock at the door and Alves and Father Juliano came in. The judge welcomed them, apologizing for his manner of dress.
“I was sleeping and was called suddenly.”
“How about Sólon?”
“On his way.”
“And how are you, Dona Margarida?…How’s the struggle over there in Alagoa Grande?” asked the judge.
“No different from here, Judge Fernandes. Join the union and you’ll incur the growers’ wrath.”
Almeida came in and was embraced by the judge.
“Thank you very much for your support.”
“Think nothing of it! Your struggle is ours too.”
“Jandira, can you come up with some of that great coffee?”
“How’s the reporting going?” asked Father Juliano.
“Doing what I can. But the paper hasn’t been going along.”
“What do you think is behind it?” asked Alves.
“The same as anywhere else. When they can’t impose authoritarianism one way, they do it through publicity. The Nation printed an advertisement from the Northeastern Sugarcane Planters’ Association. A full-page ad.”
Jandira handed out cups of coffee.
“Friends, Jorge Elias, who’s on our side, called this meeting. Whether they publish his stories or not, he’s with us in this seemingly interminable battle.”
“As a reporter, it seems that I end up following events,” I interjected too late.
Dr. Jansen arrived and everyone shook hands. I took advantage of the moment to light a cigarette. I didn’t know why, but I felt a bit bewildered and welcomed the break the doctor’s arrival had caused. I would try to start over.
“Is this a political meeting or a house-call trial?”
“Jorge Elias called the meeting,” explained the judge. “I was sleeping; Jandira woke me up.”
Amidst laughter, I offered a cigarette to Dr. Jansen.
“Well, perhaps it would be better to run through the history of this situation,” I said, trying to get myself out of my mental bind. “When I arrived in Sapé, I ended up being kidnapped. I was taken in a van far out in the country. I didn’t die because it wasn’t time yet. The gangsters who held me captive wound up getting drunk and I was able to escape. I asked for help from a peasant named Luís Queirós, who was later murdered. It was then I learned that one of the gangsters, Colonel Barros’s best man, was following me. It turned out to be Azulão, a man who, according to Luís, didn’t get involved in disorders, and also kept his distance from parties and cabarets. I tried to take the right precautions, by which I mean I traveled around more cautiously. Yesterday, when I returned home, I found him sitting in the armchair the judge is occupying.”
“How did he get in?” wondered Dr. Jansen.
“I didn’t worry about that detail. The important thing is he was sitting there, dead silent, waiting for me.”
“Why didn’t you call for help?” demanded the judge.
“I thought it was my problem. He waited for me to speak. He told me initially he wasn’t interested in bumping me off
anymore. I tried to joke about it. Azulão doesn’t have any sense of humor. He looked at me bitterly and with some impatience. If he didn’t want to kill me, why had he broken into this house where I’m a guest at that hour of the night? I asked. He shrugged his wide shoulders and made a weary gesture.
“ ‘I came to warn you,’ he said. ‘The colonels are hiring new gangsters to form a band capable of facing off against the soldiers from Sapé and the new arrivals from João Pessoa. The thing’s set to go off tomorrow.’ ”
“Azulão’s an odd sort,” observed Father Juliano. “The first time I saw him he was circling the church. I thought he might be a mugger. When he was able to force open a door, he walked up to the nave, knelt before the image of Santa Terezinha, and spent quite a bit of time there. I approached and he left without saying a word. I said a few supportive words to him, but it was no use. He was neither intimidated nor annoyed, but seemed fatigued and had an air of disappointment about him. He looked at me as though not seeing I was there. Another time, we were having a festival in the church. He came in with an offering. It was a night of litany, and he kept accompanying the singing. When I went to look for him, he had disappeared. Then one Saturday last year, Abelha and Tolentino, our ‘watchmen of faith,’ went on a bender, merry as only they can be. A small band of gangsters wanted to take advantage of the situation. Adelaide came looking for me in a panic. Leading the thugs was Bezouro, followed by Pamonha, Zé Anta and Gorgulho. The skinniest of the group, a certain Biguá, was being provocative. I confess I was scared. Two of the troublemakers came into the church and started bothering the congregation. I prayed to Santa Terezinha, seeing as I couldn’t call the police. All of a sudden they started quieting down. I glanced over to see what had happened. It turned out Azulão was standing outside the church. The gangsters made sure they got going, except for that Bezouro, who took out a knife and took off like a raging bull. Azulão tripped him and hit him in the stomach. The thug dropped his knife, trembling. We had to rescue him. After that day, Azulão only showed up that Sunday at the union meeting. Another gang of roughnecks was trying to stir up trouble among the workers, but he stopped them, I don’t know with what promises.”
“Well, that Sunday, Father Juliano, I was still on Azulão’s blacklist.”
“He’s a strong man and, from everything you’ve said, on our side. I believe the message he sent. We’ve got to evaluate his warning and have Judge Fernandes tell us what to do.”
“I know Azulão from an encounter we had at the union,” explained Almeida. “He went so far as to go there trying to find a relative who’d disappeared in Recife. A brother, if I’m not mistaken. A typographer for the newspaper.”
“I don’t understand how that man can work for Colonel Barros,” countered Alves.
“I’ve heard talk about that Azulão,” said Dr. Jansen. “One time he attacked three gangsters in the market square. One of the men he beat wound up in the hospital. His right arm was broken in two places, and he had a fractured rib.”
“My! That Azulão’s a giant,” said the judge.
“From what they tell me,” I emphasized, “he’s a stubborn man. He doesn’t give up easily. Upon leaving here, he was going to meet up with the men of Jesuíno the foreman, but was going to look for a way to find Asbal so he could let him know when the colonel’s men are going to march on the courthouse.”
“How odd! A goon squad marching on a courthouse in the middle of 1983, at the turn of the century. Only in this feudal Brazil,” commented Judge Fernandes.
“How can we avoid a massacre?” wondered Almeida.
“As a judge, I could proclaim the insecurity of the situation to the Supreme Court and try to transfer the cause to another district. But it so happens that that takes time and no doubt all sorts of appellate judges will crop up who favor the landowners. Our effort to wake up the country with this trial will founder. The more we extend the testimony, the more witnesses who appear, the better. We are aware that, being penalized, the guilty parties will try to flee or their lawyers will look to a higher court and liberate them under the Fleury Law, which eliminated preventative detention.”
“So what do you suggest?” I asked somewhat impatiently.
“If Azulão is correctly putting us on alert, as I believe he is, I think the best choice is to try to resist. A conflict of large proportions here in Sapé, though we don’t desire it, would benefit our cause, because of the farmworkers and union members in general and also the church, which has been doing so much for the poor and downtrodden of this township. Once more the blood of the innocent must flow so that justice may be done. If it be my own blood, let it be a lesson to other judges. I don’t believe we should flee, nor transfer the trial from Sapé, for it is part and parcel of Sapé. In that venerable jury trial room, stage for so many scenes of workers’ humiliation, we will punish those feudal lords of the twentieth century. They will remain seated in the defendant’s box before being officially delivered to the police as criminals under the norms of law and justice. If you think you must stand with me to the end, I welcome your loyalty with open arms; but if you decide it’s crazy to take this struggle toward extreme sacrifices, you have my support. I see this moment as singular, even unique. I don’t want to be a martyr; I do desire for the impoverished peasant at least to have a reason for pride. For a time they will be able to say: one day there appeared a crazy judge who preferred to die rather than leave us to the disillusionment of the law.”
Alves wiped her eyes discreetly with a handkerchief she had removed from her purse. Father Juliano and Almeida exchanged glances. I thought of a comment but didn’t have the courage to utter it. Dr. Jansen lit another cigarette. Judge Fernandes paced back and forth before a window open onto the night: the street was deserted and the little square was the dominion of stars and silence.
“Now, now, let’s cheer up!” said the judge, smiling. “I’m not leaving out the possibility that everything may work out to the contrary of what the colonels are planning, and in our favor. Why not?”
“Why don’t we ask for more reinforcements?”
“Impossible! The governor is already under the greatest pressure for having helped us. And not much: we asked for a hundred men and they sent fifty.”
“If you desired it, sir, we could arm the workers,” said Almeida.
“I don’t wish to impose my will, dear friend Sólon,” said Judge Fernandes. “Do you know how many heads of family will die, how many brothers, how many friends? This is a difficult decision. We can be certain of one thing: tomorrow at nine I’ll be at the courthouse. The trial will resume at 9:30 with all defendants and the jury present. I intend to hear the most possible from the witnesses, without interruption; and let the army of the parallel power smash, under the weight of its intolerance, law and justice as guaranteed in the constitution.”
“And Azulão?” I asked.
“Tell him I consider his concern admirable. According to Father Juliano, he’s a wounded man, seeking an ointment for his injuries.”
“And you, Father Juliano, what do you think?” I asked.
“Judge Fernandes’s words are wise. To administer justice is no easy task when one places duty above personal convenience. Historically, we have the example of Christ and the apostles. As a pastor of peace and harmony, I do not desire confrontations. But there is a time to flee and a time to stand fast. It seems to me that we are at a stage of resistance, so that we may say before God: here we are, Father! And he will give us courage and show us the way. I will call together the faithful to be at the courthouse at nine o’clock, and will lead, carrying a cross. Let the final chapter of the trial be transformed into an act of faith, under the laws of humans and the justice of God.”
“I’ll return from Alagoa Grande with the largest possible number of compatriots,” said Alves.
“It seems I’ll have to get extra beds ready at the hospital and call in some additional personnel,” said Dr. Jansen ironically, seeking to break the emot
ional atmosphere that had settled in.
After people had left, I kept imagining the problem that had been created. I stretched out in my hammock, rocking it violently and frenetically. Had I acted correctly by summoning the priest, the two union presidents, and the judge? What if it all resulted in a tragedy? And what was I to do in the middle of those people, ready to spill their own blood? Was Judge Fernandes crazy, or getting sclerotic? Might he have a serious problem perceiving reality as a result of his wife’s leaving? If so, why drag the community into it? It couldn’t be that simple. The judge had revealed himself frankly. I had never heard anybody talk like that. He sounded like a pastor. And Alves? And Almeida? Were they crazy too, or did they value their cause above their own lives? It was a moment unlike any other I’d encountered. I had been in the midst of serious turmoil, but nothing approaching this germination of chaos. Twelve hours remained until the beginning of events. What was giving me any hope? Why not get out now? Is not life itself our great triumph? I, the one journalist present at a tragedy I had accompanied since its conception. Maybe Alice was right. Even if The Nation stopped publishing my stories, I could not leave Sapé. I imagined Judge Fernandes hunched over his voluminous law books. Father Juliano had been quite clear about his intentions. Alves had promised to bring a lot of people, and Almeida had gone further: he’d give weapons to the workers. And I? I was the only one to promise nothing. I would not speak, I would bring nobody; I would merely write. And what would Alice do? Would she have another explanation about her uncle? I recalled the words of Barbosa, the firm stance of Veiga de Castro, my modest bedroom in the house of my Portuguese family, the books in the small bookshelf, short stories written and others incomplete, the copper spatula I’d won in an end-of-the-year festival and never used. It was curious. Why would I remember about a simple spatula? What about Jeruza’s baptism? Who would go there with me? And how would Janaína be, knowing of her husband’s death? I felt guilty. From the moment I’d bought the 7.65 and Luís had gripped it, I’d seen death in his eyes. What was a gun like that worth to a peasant? And all the others whom Almeida suggested arming? When it was all over, I’d go looking for Janaína. I’d invite Alice. I didn’t want to go alone, especially when the mission is a sad one. What can one say to a widow less than thirty years old who’s lost an equally young husband? And the killer—what had happened to him? In truth I had never felt weighed down with so many problems. I had become so absorbed in events that it had become difficult to write. I was under constant stress; news was constantly happening on all sides. Alice was the good news; Janete was an unknown quantity. What did she want? Why not talk with her right now, before going to the courthouse? That seemed to me to be a reasonable proposition. If I died, as so many were willing to see to, at least I’d have discharged that burden. It was inconceivable that Janete could have more surprises with which to scare me. It was too bad I didn’t have a telephone so I could call Alice. I’d spend quite a bit of time talking with her. At that moment my desire was to speak, to say whatever came to mind. Moreover, if I could give some coherence to my ideas, maybe I could get down to real reporting. The facts that were beginning to emerge were superseding all the stories I’d written to date. Would this be my greatest and last dispatch? I thought of some good reporters, my compatriots: Nestor Duarte, Luciano Carneiro, José Leal, Luiz Carlos Ventura, Agostinho Seixas. All dead and me rowing there in the land of black clay, around a powderkeg. At what time was it set to explode? Asbal the wanderer was the one who would know. Was it irony or infinite wisdom?
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