The voice roaming the latifundio may not hear these mutterings, and if it does, it ignores them, these are old-fashioned ideas from the days of Lamberto, Work keeps them busy, if they weren’t working, they’d be getting drunk in bars and then going home to beat their wives, poor things. Don’t go thinking these are easy paths to follow. This voice has been pounding roads and streets for a whole year now, eight hours, eight hours of work, and some don’t believe it, some believe that this will happen only when the world is about to end and the latifundio wants to save its soul and be able to appear at the final judgment and say to the angels and archangels, I took pity on my serfs, they were working far too many hours, and for the love of God, I ordered them to work only eight hours a day, with a rest on Sunday, and because I did this, I expect nothing less than a place in paradise at God’s right hand. That is what some skeptics think, afraid that it will be a change for the worse. But the carriers of the voice did not rest all year, they traveled the whole latifundio proclaiming those words, while the guards and the PIDE agents twitched their ears uneasily, the way donkeys do when tormented by flies. Then they unleash furious, martial patrols, all that’s missing are the bugles and drums, and they would have loved that, but it didn’t fit in with the battle plan, imagine if the conspirators were gathered together on some lonely hillside or deep in the woods and they heard the trumpets blaring in the distance, tantararatantan, we’d never catch anyone. The guards were given reinforcements, so were the PIDE agents, and any village without a doctor was given the medicine of twenty or thirty guards and accompanying weapons, and these guards were, of course, in permanent communication with the dragons defending the State and who don’t like me at all, pity the real dragons, they’re as ugly as toads and lizards, but they don’t do any real harm, the proof of which is that paradise is full to bursting with fire-breathing dragons.* And given that guards tend to be astute rascals, they invented the subtle art of placing a pamphlet beneath a stone, yet visible enough for a blind man to see, the kind of pamphlet left by those commies who travel around the latifundio saying subversive things about eight-hour days and so forth, they might as well hand over the country to Moscow right now. Anyway, having laid this trap, they hide behind a hedge or in a hollow or behind an innocent tree or boulder, and when some unsuspecting man comes along, he perhaps picks up the pamphlet and puts it in his pocket or inside his hat or between skin and shirt, it’s one of those white sheets covered in small black lettering, not only does he not read very well, his eyesight is poor too, anyway, he hasn’t gone ten steps when the guards ambush him on the path, Halt, show us what you’ve got in your pockets, if this doesn’t strike you as a show of great astuteness, then all we can say is that there is clearly a lot of ill feeling against the guards, who deserve only praise for their expert application of the principles of hypocrisy and petty mendacity, rammed into them at the same time as they were being taught how to use a gun and organize an ambush.
Surrounded by carbines, the finder of the pamphlet has no choice but to empty his pockets of a gypsy knife, half an ounce of tobacco, a book of cigarette papers, a piece of string, a gnawed crust of bread and ten tostões, but this doesn’t satisfy the guards, who have other ambitions, Take another look, it’s for your own good, you might get hurt if we were to frisk you, and then, from between skin and shirt, he produces the pamphlet, already damp with sweat, not that it’s so very hot, but the poor man isn’t made of steel, marooned as he is amid these guffawing guards, things are getting serious, Corporal Tacabo, or some private temporarily promoted to lead the patrol, knows very well what the pamphlet is, but he pretends to be surprised and examines it carefully, before saying slyly, Now you’re in for it, we’ve caught you carrying communist propaganda, we’re taking you to the barracks, it’s Montemor or Lisbon for you, my lad, I certainly wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. And when the man tries to explain that he has just found the pamphlet a moment ago, that he hasn’t had time to read it, that he doesn’t know how to read, that he happened to be passing by, saw the pamphlet and, out of natural curiosity, picked it up as anyone would, but he doesn’t finish what he has to say, because he receives a blow to the chest or the back with the butt of a rifle, or else a kick, get a move on or I’ll shoot you, arms are my theme and these matchless heroes.*
Talking is like eating cherries from a bowl, you take hold of one word and others immediately follow, or perhaps they’re like ticks, which are equally hard to disentangle if they’re attached one to the other, because words never come singly, even the word loneliness needs the person who’s feeling lonely, which is just as well, I suppose. These guards are so steadfast and loyal that they go wherever the latifundio sends them, they never question, never argue, they are mere minions, you only have to consider what happened on May Day, when men and women duly celebrated the day of the worker, but when they returned to their labors the following day, the guards were waiting for them, Only those who didn’t miss
