That night, which was again starry but moonless, while many women were grieving in Montemor, one woman more than all the others, there was a great uproar at the guards’ barracks. More than once, patrols were dispatched to search the surrounding area, they entered houses, woke people up, in an attempt to solve the mystery of the stones or pebbles that kept falling onto the roof, some tiles had been broken and some windows too, constituting damage to public property, perhaps it was revenge on the part of the angels or mere mischief-making born of sheer boredom up there on heaven’s balcony, because miracles shouldn’t only involve restoring sight to the blind and giving new legs to the lame, a few well-aimed stones have their place in the secrets of the world and of religion, or so thinks António Mau-Tempo, because that’s why he stayed behind, in order to perform that miracle, hidden away high up on the hill, in the pitch-black shadow of the castle, hurling the stones with his strong right arm, and whenever a patrol came by, he hid away in a cave from which he would later emerge as if from the dead, and fortunately no one spotted him. At around one in the morning, his arm grown weary, he threw one last stone and felt as sad as if he were about to die. A tired and hungry man, he went around the south side of the castle and down the hill, then spent the rest of the night walking the four leagues to Monte Lavre, following the road but keeping well away from it, like some malefactor afraid of his own conscience, occasionally having to go around the edge of some of the unharvested wheatfields blocking his path, because he couldn’t risk walking through them and had to remain hidden from both the latifundio guards with their hunting rifles and the uniformed national guards armed with carbines.
When he was within sight of Monte Lavre, the sky was beginning to grow light, a glow so faint that only expert eyes would notice. He forded the stream, not wanting to be seen by anyone watching from the bridge, and then he followed the course of the stream, keeping close to the willows, until he reached a point where he could climb up the bank and into the village, taking great care in case any insomniac guards should still be out and about. And when he drew near the house, he saw what awaited him, a light, a lantern, like the lantern on a small fishing boat, where the mother of this boy of thirty-one was watching and waiting for him to return home, late from playing at throwing stones. António Mau-Tempo jumped over the fence and into the yard, he was safe now, but this time Faustina Mau-Tempo, absorbed in tears and dark thoughts, did not hear him arrive, but she did notice the sound of the door latch or perhaps felt a vibration that touched her soul, My son, and they embraced as if he had returned from performing great deeds in a war, and knowing herself to be hard of hearing, she did not wait for his questions, but said, as if she were reciting a rosary, Your father got home safe and so did Gracinda and your brother-in-law, and all the others, you were the only one who had me sick with worry, and António Mau-Tempo again embraced his mother, which is the best and most easily understood of answers. From the next room, still in darkness, João Mau-Tempo asks, and not in the voice of someone who has just woken up, You’re back safe then, and António Mau-Tempo answers, Yes, Pa. And since it’s nearly time to eat, Faustina Mau-Tempo lights the fire and puts the coffeepot on the trivet.
THE LATIFUNDIO IS AN inland sea. It has its shoals of tiny, edible fish, its barracuda and its deadly piranha, its pelagic fish, its leviathans and its gelatinous manta rays, blind creatures that drag their bellies along in the mud and die there too, as well as other great, strangling, serpentine monsters. It’s a Mediterranean sea, but it has its tides and undertows, gentle currents that take time to complete the circuit, and occasional sudden churnings that shake the surface, provoked by winds that come from outside or by unexpected inflows of water, while in the dark depths the waves slowly roll, bringing with them nourishing ooze and slime, for how much longer, one wonders. Comparing the latifundio with the sea is as useful as it is useless, but it has the advantage of being easily understood, if we disturb the water here, the water all around will move, sometimes too far away to be seen, that is why we would be wrong to call this sea a swamp, and even if it were, it would still be a great mistake to believe in mere appearances, however dead this sea might seem to be.
Every day, the men get out of their beds, and every night, they lie down in them, and by beds we mean whatever serves them as a bed, every day, they sit down before their food or their desire to have enough food, every day, they light and extinguish a lantern, there is nothing new under the rose of the sun. This is the great sea of the latifundio, with its clouds of fish-sheep and predators, and if it was ever thus, why should it change, even if we accept that some changes are inevitable, all it needs is for the guards to remain vigilant, that’s why every day the armed boats put out to sea with their nets intending to catch fishermen, Where did you get that bag of acorns, or that bundle of firewood, or What are you doing here at this hour, where have you come from, where are you going, a man cannot choose to
