Raised from the Ground

turning back the pages and repeating the words we said previously, The wheat was ripe but no one was harvesting it, they weren’t allowed to, the fields have been abandoned, and when the men go to ask for work, they are told, There is no work, what kind of liberation is this, people are saying that the war in Africa is nearly over, and yet the war on the latifundio rages on. All that talk of change and hope, the soldiers leaving their barracks, the cannons decked with eucalyptus and scarlet carnations, call them red, madam, say red, because we can now, on the radio and the television they preach democracy and equality, and yet when I want work, there is none, tell me, what kind of revolution is this. The guards are lolling in the sun now, the way cats do when they’re sharpening their claws, the same people continue to dictate the laws of the latifundio so that the same people obey them, I, Manuel Espada, I, António Mau-Tempo, I, Sigismundo Canastro, I, José Medronho of the scarred face, I, Gracinda Espada and my daughter Maria Adelaide, who wept when she heard them say Viva Portugal, I, the man and the woman of this latifundio, heir to only the tools of my trade, if they’re not as spent and broken as I am, desolation has returned to the fields of the Alentejo, there will be more blood spilled.

Don’t give them any work and then we’ll see who’s strongest, says Norberto to Clariberto, it’s simply a matter of letting time pass, and the day will come when once again they’ll be eating out of our hand, these are the scornful, rancorous words of someone who has just had a nasty fright and who, for some time, remained meekly closeted in his own little domestic shell, whispering with his wife and relatives about the dreadful news of revolution emanating from Lisbon, the rabble in the streets, the demonstrations about everything and nothing, the flags and banners, about how, on the very first day, the police were forced to hand over their weapons, poor things, a grave insult to a fine body of men, who had rendered them so many services and could still do so, but it’s like a wave, you see, you mustn’t confront it full on, because while that might look like courage, it is, in fact, rank foolishness, no, crouch down as low as you can and it will pass right over, almost without noticing you, having found no obstacle to strike, and now you’re safe, out of reach of the break line, the foam and the current, these are fishermen’s terms, but how often must we repeat that the latifundio is an inland sea, with its barracuda, its piranha, its giant squid, and if you have workers, dismiss them, keep only the man in charge of the pigs and the sheep, and the estate guard in case the herdsman gets uppity.

The fate of the wheatfields is clear, the crops are lying here on the ground, and it won’t be long before it’s time to start sowing, what will Gilberto do, let’s go to his house and ask him, after all, it’s a free country and we all have to give an account of ourselves, Tell your master there are some people here who want to know what he’s doing, the first rains have fallen and it’s time for sowing to begin, and while the maid goes off to get an answer, we stand at the door, because we haven’t been asked inside, and the maid returns and declares rudely, I hope she isn’t the Amélia Mau-Tempo mentioned in this story, The master says it’s none of your business, the land is his, and if you come here again, he’ll call the guards, and with that she slams the door in our face, they wouldn’t even do that to a vagrant, because the masters are scared stiff of such wanderers, fearing that they might have a knife. There’s no point asking again, Gilberto isn’t sowing, Norberto isn’t sowing, and if someone of another name is sowing, that’s because he’s still afraid that the soldiers might come and start asking questions, What’s going on here, but there are other ways of swatting these flies, by smiling and pretending to oblige, yes, of course, and then doing exactly the opposite, encouraging intrigue, withdrawing money from the bank and sending it abroad, there’s always someone happy to do this in exchange for a reasonable commission, or stashing it away in the car somewhere, the border guards will close their eyes, poor things, they don’t want to waste their time crawling underneath the chassis or removing the mudguards, they’re not young lads anymore, they’re worthy public servants, they have to keep their uniforms clean, and thus five or ten or twenty million escudos or the family jewels, the family silver and gold or whatever, slip out of the country, no problem. What hopeless fools they were, these workers, who, seeing the olive trees laden with fruit, ripe and black and glossy, as if the oil were already oozing out, finally, after much thought and discussion, what’s the best way to go about this, picked and sold the olives, then took the money they would have earned, charging the going rate, and gave the rest to the latifundio owner. Who gave them permission, it’s a shame the estate guard didn’t catch them, they should have been shot, that would teach them to meddle in other people’s business, Sir, the olives were ready to be picked, if we had waited any longer, they would have all gone to waste, here’s the money left over after we’ve taken our day’s pay, it’s more than the amount we set aside for ourselves, the sums are easy enough to do, But I didn’t give you permission, and wouldn’t have even if you’d asked, We gave ourselves permission. This was one case, a sign that the wind