Raised from the Ground

work yesterday can work today, those are our orders, although there was little point in saying this, since everyone had missed work. What’s going to happen now, the workers draw back, how are they going to resolve this, and because the guards had occupied the terrain, and the overseer was hiding behind them rather than taking his due part in the negotiations, the workers decided to go back to their houses, it was still early in the morning, you see, and enjoy another day’s holiday, and the guards stayed behind to keep an eye on the ants, who were going about their business and raising their heads in surprise like dogs. But before the workers left, the sergeant, standing next to the overseer or foreman or manager or whatever, made intelligent use of his interrogation methods, Why didn’t you come to work yesterday, Because it was the first of May, the day of the worker, and we’re workers. It was an innocent enough reply, there they were, standing before me, Corporal, looking at me with grave eyes, thinking they could deceive me, as if I would be so easily taken in, that’s what these shameless wretches do, they look at you gravely like that and you can’t tell what they’re really thinking, but I gave it to them straight, I know how to deal with them, I said, you’d better tell me the truth, you can’t fool me, the reason you didn’t come to work was political, but they said, No, sir, it wasn’t political, the first of May is the day of the worker, and when they said that, I gave a little mocking laugh, And what would you know about that, and someone at the back, unfortunately I couldn’t see his face, said, It’s the same all over the world, and that, as you can imagine, really got my goat, This isn’t the world, this is Portugal and the Alentejo, we have our own laws, and at this point, the foreman whispered a secret to me, well, it wasn’t a secret exactly, it was simply what we’d already agreed I would say, and I declared, with all the authority with which I had been invested, Only those who didn’t miss work yesterday can work today, and as soon as I said this, they all moved away, all together as they usually do, it’s the same when they sing, and off they went back home, their hoes on their shoulders, because it was hoeing they had come to do, and I couldn’t help but feel a certain respect for them really, although I’m not sure why. Words are like ticks, or like the cherries that ripen in May, and if respect is not the final word, it is at least the right one.

April is the month of a thousand words.^* Meetings are held at night in the fields, the men can barely see each other’s faces, but they can hear each other’s voices, slightly muffled if the place isn’t deemed particularly safe, or louder and clearer if they’re in the middle of nowhere, but they always keep sentinels posted, in accordance with the strategic art of prevention, as if they were defending an encampment. On their side, they are waging a peaceful war. The guards don’t come in pairs anymore, but in dozens or half dozens, and when the roads allow, they arrive in jeeps or trucks, or they advance in a line, like beaters, so if in the dark of night the guards are heard approaching, the workers’ sentinels draw back to give the alarm, and either the guards pass right by, in which case silence is the best defense, with every man seated or standing, holding both breath and thoughts, turned suddenly to stone like ancient megaliths, or the guards head straight for them, and the order then is to scatter along the beaten tracks, fortunately the guards don’t yet have dogs.

The following night, they will pick up the conversation where they left off, in that same place or somewhere else, their patience is infinite. And when they can, they meet by day as well, in smaller groups, or go to someone’s house and talk by the fire while the women silently wash the dishes and the children sleep in the corner of the room. And if one man happens to be standing next to another on the threshing floor, each word spoken and heard is like a mallet striking a stake, driving it a little further in, and when, in the fields, it’s time to eat, they sit on the ground with their lunch pails between their legs, and while the spoon rises and falls and the cool breeze chills their body, their words return to the same theme, and they say slowly, Let’s demand an eight-hour day, enough of working from dawn to dusk, and the more prudent among them speak fearfully of the future, What will happen if the bosses refuse to give us work, and the women washing the dishes after supper, while the fire burns, feel ashamed of their husbands’ caution and agree with the friend who knocked on the door to say, Let’s demand an eight-hour day, enough of working from dawn to dusk, because that is how long the women work too, except they often do so when in pain or menstruating or heavily pregnant, or with their breasts overflowing with the milk that should have been suckled, they’re lucky it hasn’t dried up, so those who believe that all one has to do is raise a banner and say, Right, let’s go, are much mistaken. Yes, April has to be the month of a thousand words, because even those who are certain and convinced have their moments of doubt, of soul-searching and despair, there are the guards, the dragons of the PIDE and the black shadow that spreads over the latifundio and never leaves, there is no work, and are we, with our own hands, going to shake