They wait. The hours pass. Now and then the door opens, more men are bundled in, the dungeon is beginning to be too small for so many people. Most have had nothing to eat since morning, and there’s no sign that the guards have any intention of feeding their prisoners. Some lie down on the straw, the more trusting or those with the strongest nerves fall asleep. They hear the town hall clock strike midnight, nothing more will happen today, it’s too late, they’d better get some sleep, their empty stomachs are protesting but not too much, and as the men are about to abandon themselves to slumber, made drowsy by the smell and the heat from all those bodies, the door is flung open and Corporal Tacabo and six guards appear, the corporal is clutching a piece of paper and the guards their rifles as if they had emerged fully armed from their mothers’ wombs, and the corporal bawls, João Mau-Tempo from Monte Lavre, Agostinho Direito from Safira, Carolino Dias from Torre da Gadanha, João Catarino from Santiago do Escoural. The four men, four shadows, stand up and go out through the door. Their companions feel as if their hearts were in their mouths, what will happen to the poor things. Then comes the voice of a man who can no longer keep the secret, Apparently they killed a man here yesterday.
This time, they do not cross the courtyard. They continue along by the wall, between the guards, before being pushed toward a door. The light from the lamp there is much brighter, the prisoners screw up their eyes against the aggressive brightness, the first aggression of the night. The guards left, leaving only the corporal, who went over and put the piece of paper down on a desk behind which were seated two men, one in uniform, Lieutenant Contente, and the other in plain clothes. João Mau-Tempo, Agostinho Direito, Carolino Dias and João Catarino were ordered to stand next to each other in a line. Lift your snouts up high so we can see if you resemble your whores of mothers, said the man wearing civilian clothes. João Mau-Tempo couldn’t resist retorting, My mother is dead, to which the man responded, Do you want your face smashed in, you may speak only when I tell you to, it won’t be long before you lose your taste for talking, but that’s precisely when you’ll have to talk. Then Lieutenant Contente began to give orders, Stand up straight, you’re not at home in your nice soft bed now, the usual military talk, and pay attention to the policeman here. The other man stood up, reviewed the ragged troop, staring at them hard, damn the man, it’s as if he were trying to look right inside me, fixing me with a lingering, intimidating look, What’s your name, and the man questioned answered, João Catarino, and you, Carolino Dias, and you, Agostinho Direito, and you, the one with the dead mother, what’s your name, João Mau-Tempo. The PIDE agent smiled broadly, That’s a fine name and very appropriate for the situation. Then he strode over to the desk, took his pistol out of its holster, slammed it down and turned angrily on the poor men, I want you to know that you won’t get out of here alive unless you vomit up everything you know about this strike, about the organization, the people who gave you orders, the propaganda they’ve fed you, everything, I want it all out in the open, and woe betide you if you don’t talk. Lieutenant Contente picked up four school exercise books that were in a pile at one end of the desk, You are each going to be locked in a room with one of these exercise books and a pencil, and you’re to write down everything you know, names, dates, meeting places and houses, how and when any leaflets and so on were delivered, do you understand, and you won’t be let out until it’s all there in black and white. The PIDE agent returned to the desk, put his pistol back in the holster, having completed his show of force, and said, It’s enough to drive a man crazy, you see before you an exhausted man, unable to sleep because of this wretched strike, so be sensible and write down everything you know and hide nothing, because if I find out later that you have left anything out, all the worse for you. João Catarino says, I can barely write, Agostinho Direito says, I can only write my name, João Mau-Tempo says, I can hardly write at all, Carolino Dias says, Nor can I. You know enough for our purposes, says the agent, we chose you because you know how to read and write, if you don’t like it, tough, you shouldn’t have learned, now you’re going to regret not having stayed as stupid as you were born. The agent laughed at his own joke, the corporal laughed as did the private, and Lieutenant Contente, of course, laughed contentedly. The lieutenant gives an order to the corporal, the corporal tells the private, the private opens the door, and the four rascals leave, outside are the other troops, it’s a public event, and like someone putting pigs in a pigsty, they march the four men down the corridor, opening doors and shoving them in, each with his own exercise book, Dias, Direito, Catarino and Mau-Tempo, they’re just scum, Father Agamedes, if you’ll forgive the expression.
In the barracks a great silence falls, full of noises as silences always are. The men locked up in the dungeon moan and sigh, unable to sleep, as is
