Raised from the Ground

is a bad year for the latifundio. There goes the maiden out for a ride on her fine steed, her skirt and saddle cloth flapping, her veil fashionably loose in the wind, the picture of composure, when suddenly the beast stumbles, for these are medieval roads, sir, and she falls flat on the ground, revealing all her most private penumbras, she doesn’t seem too seriously hurt, poor love, the worst thing was the way the animal reared up and kicked as it scrambled to its feet. They say that pride goeth before a fall, which is a horsey version of the more melancholy dictum, Misfortunes never come singly, why, only yesterday those prisoners escaped from Peniche, bloody communists, baby eaters, have you seen my children, neighbor, only yesterday souls and seas were all stirred up by that new tale of pirates, we should shoot the lot of them, such a lovely ship too, all dressed in white, Santa Maria walking on the water like her divine son, and now there’s news from Africa as well, about the blacks, Well, I always said we were too lenient with them, I said as much, but no one would believe me, you have to live there to know how to deal with them, they don’t like work, you see, they’re shirkers, they’ll always go to the bad, and now you see the result, we treated them too kindly, as if they were Christians, but all is not lost, we won’t lose Africa if we send in the army and have a proper war, remember Gugunhana,^* brave words from the mayor, spoken quickly and boldly, he could have been a general if he’d had the military training, but at least he spoke out. The imperial dream soon faded, best to run away from the mess we made, the black man is now a Portuguese citizen, long live the black man who comes bearing no weapon, but keep your eye on him nonetheless, and down with the other sort, and one day, if we happen to wake up in a good mood, we’ll declare that these overseas provinces, our former colonies, are now independent states, well, what’s in a name, what matters is that the shit stays the same and that those who have eaten nothing else should continue to eat shit, whites and blacks, and anyone who can spot the difference wins a prize.

It would seem, Father Agamedes, that God and the Virgin have turned their benign eyes away from Portugal, look how discontented and restless people are, the devil has clearly taken hold of the gentle hearts of the Lusitanians, perhaps we didn’t pray enough, the priests told us as much, and I’ve done what I can, and I’ve always been ready with good advice, both in the pulpit and in the confessional, this is, in fact, a dialogue, in which two people take turns to speak, but when Father Agamedes returns to his house, he is thinking something quite different, something more suited to a man of this time or of that other time when souls were conquered with the sword and with fire, What they need is a sound beating, that’s telling them.

One really doesn’t know where to turn, now it’s the fortresses in India, weep, O souls of da Gama, Albuquerque, Almeida and Noronha,^* no, that’s all we need, for grown men to weep, we must hold out to the last man, we will show the world what we Portuguese are worth, anyone who retreats is betraying the nation, better cut the shoe than pinch the foot, the government calls on everyone to do his duty. It’s a sad Christmas in Alberto’s house, not that there is any shortage of food or of the Lord’s blessings, at least it was a good year for cork, so that’s something, but there are black clouds with thunder in their bellies gathering over the country and over the latifundio, what will become of Portugal and of us, true, we have someone to protect us, for a start, there are the guards, to each of whom we give a gift, to the captain, lieutenant, sergeant and corporal, poor things, it’s only right, they earn so little and are always so ready to defend our property, imagine if we had to pay them out of our own pockets, it would cost us a fortune. It’s just as well, now that the last vestiges of a Portuguese presence in the East are being removed, along with our soldiers and sailors, that we never really took much interest in Goa, Daman and Diu anyway, a gift, you say, what an idea, I don’t mean that kind of gift, we’ve already mentioned the ones we gave to the captain, the lieutenant, the sergeant and the corporal, each of whom either came to fetch his own or, out of discretion and a desire to avoid prattling tongues, had it brought to him, no, this is a different kind of gift, that given by the soldiers and sailors who, on the point of death, raise themselves up on their elbow and, dying, cry out in response to the roll call, absent, an ancient practice, for when necessary even the dead can vote. The other good thing is that all this is happening a long way off, India and Africa are not exactly close, the fires are burning far from my borders, the sea, lots of sea, separates us from them, they won’t come over here, and Portugal won’t lack for sons to defend the latifundio from afar, don’t bite the hand that feeds you, you’ve been warned.

Tomorrow, said Dona Clemência to her children, and her nieces and nephews, is New Year’s Day, or so she had gleaned from the calendar, placing her hopes in the brand-new year and sending her best wishes to all the Portuguese people, well, that isn’t quite what she said, Dona Clemência has always spoken rather differently, but she’s learning, we all choose our