Raised from the Ground

of the Spanish nationalists, it’s an anticommunist rally, transport’s free, you’ll be taken there in a truck, all expenses paid by the bosses or the government, it comes to the same thing. The man feels like saying no, but can’t find the will to say it, he sits there chewing, pretending he hasn’t heard, but there’s no point, the other man repeats what he’s said, but in a different, somewhat threatening tone, and João Mau-Tempo looks at his wife, who is there as well, and Faustina looks at her husband, who wishes he weren’t there, and at the hound grasping the piece of paper, waiting for a reply, what shall I say to him, what do I care about such things, I don’t know anything about communism, well, that’s not quite true, last week I found some papers wedged under a stone, with one corner sticking out, as if they were trying to attract my attention, and I dropped behind and picked them up, no one saw me, but what’s this hound doing here, baring his teeth, perhaps someone told him, perhaps he came here to see if I would dare to say that I don’t want to go to Évora, that I won’t sign, the worst thing is that afterward, because everyone knows this dog, his name’s Requinta, he’ll go and tell on me, there’s sure to be someone with a grudge against me, but if I come up with an excuse, tell him I’ve got a pain in the gut or that I have to mend the rabbit hutch, he won’t believe me, and they might arrest me, All right, Requinta, I’ll sign.

João Mau-Tempo signed where others had signed before him, or put their mark because they didn’t know how to write, which was most of them. And when Requinta left to continue collecting signatures, his nose in the air, sniffing the wind, the impudent creature, João Mau-Tempo felt a great thirst and drank straight from the jug, drowning in water the sudden fire that was merely a wave of unexplained embarrassment, other men would have drunk wine. Faustina had heard something of the conversation and hadn’t liked what she heard, but she preferred to console her husband, Well, at least it will mean a trip to Évora, it will be a distraction, and it’s free too, with transport there and back, it’s a shame you can’t take António, he’d love it. This wasn’t all that Faustina said, she continued to murmur something or other without really thinking what she was saying, and João Mau-Tempo knew that her words were like gestures that bring no hope of salvation, but which the patient receives gratefully like a soft hand on his brow, or rather a rough hand, given that we’re in the country, but all the same. All the same, they shouldn’t force a man to go, because that’s what they’re doing, I’d rather pretend to be ill. Faustina said, It’s not so dreadful, treat it like an outing, I’m sure the government knows what it’s doing. João Mau-Tempo said, Yes, you’re right. Anyone overhearing this conversation might declare that these people are a lost cause, but he or she has no idea what it’s like here, the people live miles from anywhere, they either get no news at all or don’t understand it when they do, and only they know what a struggle it is simply to survive.

The day came, and at the appointed time, the men gathered in the street, and while they waited, some went into the taberna and drank as much wine as their pockets could afford, each drinker sticking out his lips to catch the surface bubbles bursting under his nose, ah, wine, blessed be the man who invented you. The more refined and better-informed among them were expecting great things of Évora and kept their appetites for later, but they soon learned their lesson, because they were dropped at the door of the bullring and picked up from there at the end of the rally. Forewarned is forearmed, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, that’s what people say, some live their whole lives according to such wisdom, and it does them no harm. This time the drinkers were right and were pleasantly merry by the time the trucks arrived, with their bellies singing hosannas and uttering the holy belch of wine, and enjoying the aftertaste that lingers in the mouth, the taste of paradise.

It’s quite a journey. On the bends, even when not taken at speed, the truck leans to one side and the men have to cling to each other so as not to be thrown out, they totter about, the wind catches their hats and they have to hang on to them so they don’t fly away, Go more slowly, driver, we don’t want a man overboard. One of the wittier men said this, well, that’s what gives a little spice to life, if not, life would be very dull indeed. They stopped in Foros to take on more people, and then it was plain sailing, they glimpsed Montemor, but there was no time to visit, and Santa Sofia and São Matias, I’ve never actually been there myself but I have family there, a cousin of my sister-in-law, he’s a barber and has done really well for himself, it would be a different story, of course, if men’s beards stopped growing, it would be the same for prostitutes if men’s cocks stopped growing too. The man who says this knows what he’s talking about, well, once in a while never hurts, I haven’t been to a whorehouse since I did my national service, this time, though, I’m going to fill my boots. Men’s talk. Humanity has done its best to improve communications, even the estate has trucks at its disposal, Évora lies before them, and the hound Requinta, because he came too, barks, When we get out, follow me, and those fateful words cast a pall