It’s because of these and other, similar deficiencies that we invent stories about hidden treasure, or search out ones that have been invented already, proof of a very ancient need, it’s nothing new. There are always warnings that must be attended to, one false move and the gold turns into a fish and the silver into smoke, or a man goes blind, it’s happened before. Some say that one cannot trust dreams, but if, on three consecutive nights, I dream of a treasure and tell no one about it nor about the place I saw in my dream, it’s certain that I’ll find it. But if I speak about it, I won’t, because treasures have their fate too, they can’t just be distributed as man wishes. There’s that old story about a girl who dreamed three times that on the branch of a particular tree she would find fourteen coins and beneath the tree’s roots a clay pot full of gold pieces. One should always believe these things even when they’re invented. The girl told her dream to her grandparents with whom she lived, and they went together to the tree. There on the branch were the fourteen coins, so half the dream had come true, but they didn’t want to dig down into the roots because it was a lovely tree, and with its roots exposed it would die, well, the heart has its reasons. Anyway, the news spread, no one knows how, and when she and her grandparents went back, having thought better of their scruples, they found the tree had been dug up and in the hole was a clay pot split in two, and nothing else. Either the gold had disappeared by magic or someone, less scrupulous or with a harder heart, had taken the treasure and made off with it. Anything is possible.
A still clearer case is that of the two stone chests buried by the Moors, one containing gold and the other containing the plague. It is said that, fearful of opening the wrong chest, no one had had the courage to look for them. But if that’s true, how is it that the plague has spread throughout the world.
JOÃO MAU-TEMPO AND FAUSTINA are married, a peaceful conclusion to the romantic episode which, on a rainy, overcast night in January, with no moon and no nightingales, in a tangle of half-unfastened clothes, satisfied the desires of both parties. They have three children. The oldest is a boy called António, who is the very image of his father, although he is of a stronger build and lacks his father’s blue eyes, which have not as yet reappeared, where can they have gone to. The other two are girls, as gentle and discreet as their mother was and continues to be. António Mau-Tempo is already working, he helps out keeping pigs, for he isn’t old enough nor his arms strong enough to do any heavier work. The foreman doesn’t treat him well, but that’s the custom in this place and this time, so don’t let’s get steamed up over nothing. As is also traditional, António Mau-Tempo’s lunch sack is light as a feather, a banquet consisting of half a mackerel and a hunk of maize bread. As soon as he leaves the house, the mackerel vanishes, because some hungers simply cannot wait, and his is a very old hunger. The bread is all he has left for the rest of the day, just a mouthful now and then, as he nibbles away at the crust, taking scrupulous care not to let a single crumb fall into the grass, where the ants, their noses in the air like dogs, are desperate to fill their stores with any leavings and leftovers. The foreman, in his role
