Saturday comes. The overseers have been to speak to the owners, They’re very determined, they said, and the owners of the latifundio, Norberto, Alberto, Dagoberto, replied in unison, each from his particular place in the landscape, Let them learn their lesson. In their houses, the men have just had supper, the little or nothing they dine on every day, the women are looking at them in silence, and some ask, What now, while some men shrug glumly and others say, They’re sure to come to their senses tomorrow, and there are those who have decided to accept what they are being offered, the same pay as last year. It’s true that from all sides comes news that many men are refusing to work for such a pittance, but what is a man to do if he has a wife and children, the little urchins who are all eyes and who stand, chin resting on the edge of the table, using one saliva-moistened fingertip to hunt breadcrumbs as if they were ants. Some of the luckier men, although they might not seem so to those who know little of such things, have found employment with a smallholder, a man who cannot risk losing his harvest and who has already agreed to pay them thirty-three escudos. The night will be a long one, as if it were winter already. Above the rooftops is the usual wasteful sprawl of stars, if only we could eat them, but they’re too far away, the ostentatious serenity of a heaven to which Father Agamedes keeps returning, he has no other topic, stating that, up above, all our hardships in this vale of tears will end and we will all stand equal before the Lord. Empty stomachs protest, grumbling away at nothing, proof of that inequality. Your wife beside you isn’t asleep, but you don’t feel like rolling over on top of her. Perhaps tomorrow the bosses will come to an agreement, perhaps we’ll find a pot full of gold coins buried at the back of the fireplace, perhaps the chicken will start laying golden eggs, or even silver would do, perhaps the poor will wake up rich and the rich poor. But we do not find such delights even in dreams.
Dearly beloved children, says Father Agamedes at mass, because it’s Sunday already, Dearly beloved children, and he pretends not to notice how sparse the congregation is and how ancient most of its members are, nothing but old ladies and altar boys, Dearly beloved children, and it’s only natural that the old ladies should be thinking vaguely that they long ago ceased to be children, but what can one do, the world belongs to men, Dearly beloved children, be very careful, the winds of revolution are blowing across our happy lands, and once more I say to you, pay them no heed, but why bother writing down the rest, we know Father Agamedes’s sermon by heart. The mass ends, the priest disrobes, it’s Sunday, that holiest of days, and lunch, blessings be upon it, will be served in the cool of Clariberto’s dining room, although Clariberto goes to mass only when he really wants to, which is rare, and the ladies are equally lazy, but Father Agamedes doesn’t take it to heart, if they should be overcome by devotion or overwhelmed by fears of the beyond, they have a chapel in the garden, with newly varnished saints, including a Saint Sebastian generously sprinkled with arrows, may God forgive me, but the saint does seem to be enjoying it rather more than virtue should allow, and Father Agamedes enters through the same door that the overseer Pompeu has just left, carrying in his ear the consoling message, Not a penny more, there’s nothing quite like a man with authority, be it on earth or in heaven.
A few men are hanging around outside, and although the labor market normally starts later on, some of them go to the overseer and ask, So what has the boss decided, and he replies, Not a penny more, well, why waste a nice turn of phrase or spoil it with redundant variations, and the men say, But some farmers are already paying thirty-three escudos, and Pompeu says, That’s their business, if they want to bankrupt themselves, good luck to them. This is when João Mau-Tempo opens his mouth, and the words come out as naturally as water flowing from a good spring, The wheat won’t get harvested then, because we’re not working for less. The overseer did not reply, because his lunch was waiting for him and he wasn’t in the mood for such unsettling conversations. And the sun beat down hard, glinting like a guard’s saber.
Those who could eat ate, and those who couldn’t starved. The labor market has begun now, all the rural workers from Monte Lavre are there, even those who have already been hired, but only the ones who are being paid thirty-three escudos, anyone
