Raised from the Ground

I got beaten x number of times when I was working for Berto and Humberto. That’s a good worker for you, one who, when he gets whipped, will show off his raw welts, and if they’re bleeding, all the better, these are the same sort of boasts that the urban rabble make, taking as proof of their virility the number of cankers and sores acquired from their labors in a hired bed. Ah, you people preserved in the grease or honey of ignorance, you have never lacked for exploiters. So, work, work yourself to death, yes, die if necessary, that way you’ll be remembered by the foreman and the boss, but woe betide you if you get a reputation for being an idler, no one will ever love you then. You can go and stand at the doors of inns with your companions in misfortune, and they, too, will despise you, and the foreman, or the boss, if he deigns to notice, will eye you with disgust and you’ll be given no work, just to teach you a lesson. The others have already learned their lesson, they go off every day to slave away on the latifundio, and when you get home, if the hovel you live in can be called a home, how are you going to explain that you have no work, that the other men have but you haven’t. Mend your ways while there’s still time, and swear that you’ve taken twenty beatings, crucify yourself, hold out your arm to be bled, open your veins and say, This is my blood, drink it, this is my body, eat it, this is my life, take it, along with the church’s blessing, the salute to the flag, the march past, the handing over of credentials, the awarding of a university diploma, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Ah, but life is a game too, a playful exercise, playing is a very serious, grave, even philosophical act, for children it’s part of growing up, for adults it’s a link with their childhood, advantageous for some. Whole libraries of books have been written on the subject, all of them solid, weighty tomes, only a fool could fail to be convinced. The mistake lies in thinking that such profundity can be found only in books, when in fact a quick glance, a moment’s attention, is all it takes to see how the cat plays with the mouse, and how the latter is eaten by the former. The question, the only one that matters, is knowing who exploits the initial innocence of the game, this game that was never innocent, for example, when the foreman says to the workers, Let’s run, and see who gets there last, And the innocents, blind to the obvious deceit, run, trot, gallop, stagger from Monte Lavre to Vale de Cães, merely for the glory of arriving first or for the smug satisfaction of not being last. Because the last man, well, someone always has to be last, will have to put up with the jeers and mockery of the winners, who are already panting and breathless, they haven’t even started work yet but the poor fools waste their breath on this explosion of scorn. Poor João Mau-Tempo won the booby prize, not that anyone knows what that is, a prize that marks you out as idle or not being fast enough on your feet, that says you’re not a man but a mere nothing. Portugal is a country of men, there’s certainly no lack of them, only the one who comes last in the race is not a man, get away, you lazy brute, you don’t even deserve the bread you eat.

But the games have not ended. The last to arrive, if he has any self-respect, will offer to carry the first load, well, it’s some compensation. The pile of wood that will eventually become charcoal is being prepared, and having placed a sack on your back to dull the pain to come, you say, Give me that big trunk, I’ll carry that. The foreman is watching, you have to prove to your colleagues that you’re as good a man as they, and besides, you can’t afford to be without work next week, you have children to think of, and then, groaning with effort, two men lift the trunk, they’re not your children but it’s as if they were, and they place the trunk on your shoulders, you kneel down like a camel, if you’ve ever seen one, and when you feel the weight, your knees sag, but you grit your teeth, brace your back and gradually draw yourself up, it’s a huge trunk, like the leg of a giant, it feels like a hundred-year-old cork oak on your shoulders, you take the first step, and how far away that pile of wood is, your colleagues are watching, and the foreman says, Let’s see if you can do it, if you can you’re a brave man. That’s what it’s about, being brave, bearing the weight of that trunk and the pain in your creaking spine and in your heart, just so as to look good in the foreman’s eyes, who will say to Adalberto, He’s a brave fellow that Mau-Tempo, although it could be any other name, you should have seen the piece of wood they gave him to carry, sir, it really was a sight to see, oh yes, he’s a real man all right. Possibly, but so far you’ve taken only three steps. What you really want to do now is put the load down on the ground, at least that’s what your tormented body is asking. Your soul, your spirit, if you have the right to one, tells you that you can’t, that you would rather die than be humiliated in your own village and dubbed a weakling, anything but that. People have been going on for two thousand years or more about how Christ carried the cross to Golgotha