IN THE INLAND SEA of the latifundio the waves continue to roll in. One day, Manuel Espada went to see Sigismundo Canastro, the two of them then sought out António Mau-Tempo, and these three then went to find Damião Canelas, We need to have a talk, before calling on José Medronho and Pedro Calção, who made a sixth, and that was their first meeting. At the second meeting, another four voices joined them, two male, Joaquim Caroço and Manuel Martelo, and two female, Emília Profeta and Maria Adelaide Espada, which is her preferred name, and all spoke in secret, and since they needed a spokesperson, they chose Manuel Espada. In the following two weeks, the men went for seemingly casual walks about the estate and, using the old familiar methods, left a word here, another there, discussed and agreed to a plan, for we each have our own war to fight, but let’s forgive them this belligerent vocabulary, then they moved on to the second phase, which, one hot midsummer’s night, involved summoning the foremen on the estates still being worked and saying, Tomorrow at eight o’clock, all the workers, wherever they are, should get into trailers and head for the Mantas estate, which we’re going to occupy, and having gained the agreement of the foremen, who had been spoken to individually beforehand, and having warned many of those who would be the principal combatants in the battle, they all went off to sleep their last night in prison.
This is a just sun. It burns and sears the dry stubble, which is the yellow of washed-clean bones or like the tanned hide of old wheatfields scorched by excessive heat and immoderate rains. The machines flow forth from every workplace, the advance guard of armored vehicles, oh, dear, this bellicose language, it creeps in everywhere, they’re not tanks but very slow-moving tractors, intending to meet up with more tractors coming from other places, those that have already met call to each other, and the column grows in size, it’s even larger up ahead, the trailers are laden with people, some, the younger ones, are walking, for them it’s like a party, and then they reach the Mantas estate, where one hundred and fifty men are cutting cork, they all join forces, and on each parcel of land that they occupy, they appoint a group of workers to be in charge, the column is more than five hundred strong, men and women alike, now there are six hundred, soon there will be a thousand, it’s a pilgrimage retracing the paths of martyrdom, following the stations of this particular cross.
After Mantas, they go to Vale da Canseira, to Relvas, to Monte da Areia, to Fonte Pouca, to Serralha, to Pedra Grande, and at each farm they take the keys and draw up an inventory, we are workers, not thieves, not that there is anyone there to contradict them, because in each place they occupy, in each house, room, cellar, barn, stable, hayloft, pen, run, corral, pigsty, chicken coop, cistern and irrigation tank, there are no Norbertos or Gilbertos to be seen, whether talking or singing, silent or weeping, who knows where they have gone. The guards stay in their barracks, the angels are busy sweeping heaven, it’s a day of revolution, how many of these workers are there.
Overhead, the red kite is counting, one million, not to mention those we can’t see, for the blindness of the living always overlooks those who went before, one thousand living and one hundred thousand dead, or two million sighs rising up from the ground, pick any number and it will always be too small if we do the sums from too great a distance, the dead cling to the sides of the trailers, peering in to see if they recognize anyone, someone close to their body and heart, and if they fail to find the person they’re looking for, they join those traveling on foot, my brother, my mother, my wife and my husband, which is why we can see Sara da Conceição over there, carrying a bottle of wine and a rag, and Domingos Mau-Tempo with the noose still around his neck, and here’s Joaquim Carranca, who died sitting at the door of his house, and Tomás Espada, hand in hand with his wife Flor Martinha, what kept you so long, how is it that the living notice nothing, they think they’re alone, that they’re carrying on their task as living people, the dead are dead and buried, that’s what they think, but the dead often visit, usually in
