The condemned men arrived at sunset. No sooner had they arrived than their mothers cried, What have you done, and they replied, We haven’t done anything, we left because we couldn’t face working with that machine anymore. There seems nothing wrong with that, but if you did do wrong, then what’s done is done, tomorrow you must go to Montemor, don’t worry, they won’t arrest you, said their parents. And so the night passed in stifling heat, the lads would have been sleeping on the threshing floor now, and perhaps some woman from the north would have come out for a pee and lingered there, breathing in the night air and perhaps hoping that the world might take a turn for the better, Shall I go or will you, until one of the lads decides to chance it, his heart beating fast and his groin tense, well, he is only seventeen, what do you expect, and the woman doesn’t move away, she stands there, perhaps the world really is going to take a turn for the better, and this space between the bales seems tailor-made for the purpose, big enough for two bodies lying one on top of the other, it’s not the first time, the boy doesn’t know who the woman is, and the woman doesn’t know who the boy is, it’s better like that, come morning, there’ll be no need for embarrassment if there was none at night, it’s a game played fairly, with each player giving his or her all, and the slight giddiness they feel when they slip in between the bales, the sweet smell, and then the flailing limbs, the trembling body, but that way we’ll get no sleep, and tomorrow I have to go to Montemor.
The four travel in a small cart pulled by José Palminha’s parents’ most precious possession, a rather rickety-looking mule, who nevertheless trots tirelessly on, they are silent, their hearts filled with dread, they cross the bridge and go up the hill beyond, and now they’re in Foros, with one house here, another one there, that’s what these far-flung hamlets are like, and then on the left-hand side is Pedra Grande, and shortly afterward, rising above the horizon, in the already hot morning air, stands the castle of Montemor, what remains of the city walls, it makes you sad. A man of seventeen starts speculating about the future, what will become of me, denounced as a striker by Anacleto, and the only thing my three friends are guilty of is keeping me company, our only other unforgivable fault being that we lacked the strength to keep up with the killing pace set by a thresher that was threshing me as it threshed the wheat, in I go through the machine’s mouth and out it spits my bare bones, turning me into straw, dust, chaff, I’m being forced to buy the wheat at a price not of my choosing. Augusto Patracão, who is a great whistler, does so to calm his nerves, but his stomach hurts, he’s no hero and doesn’t even know what a hero is, and José Palminha keeps his mind occupied driving the mule, a task he performs to perfection, as if the mule were a high-stepping steed. Felisberto Lampas may be called Felisberto, but that’s just a coincidence, and he sits sulkily, legs dangling, his back turned on his destiny, as he will do for the rest of his life. Then suddenly Montemor is upon them.
They leave the cart under a plane tree, and the mule with its nosebag on, what more can life have to offer a mule, and the four of them go up to the barracks, where a corporal tells them brusquely that they’re to be at the town hall at one o’clock. The four lads kick their heels in Montemor for the rest of the morning without even the possibility, given their youth, of waiting inside the local taberna, it’s impossible to describe the hours that precede any interrogation, so much happens in them, all the fear and dread inside each person’s head, ill-disguised anxiety etched on every face, and the knot in the throat that neither wine nor water can dissolve. Manuel Espada says, It’s all my fault you’re here, but the others shrug, what difference does it make, and Felisberto Lampas answers, We just have to put on a brave front and show no weakness.
For these callow youths, things turned out well. At one o’clock, they were waiting in the corridor of the town hall listening to administrator Goncelho’s voice booming around the building, Are the men from Monte Lavre here. Manuel Espada answered as he should, after all, he was the leader of the rebellion, Yes, sir, we’re here, and they stood in a line, waiting to see what would happen next. The administrator played his part as the representative of the authorities, and Lieutenant Contente stood by him, You young rascals, do you have no shame, you’re going to be sent across the sea to Africa, that will teach you to respect authority, Manuel Espada, come here, and the interrogation began, Who taught you to be strikers, who taught you, because you’ve obviously had good teachers, and Manuel Espada answered, with all the force of his innocence, No one taught us, we don’t know anyone, we know nothing about strikes either, it was the machine, it kept eating and eating and the piles of straw were getting higher and higher. And the administrator said, I know your sort, that’s what they taught you to say, and who is going
