Let’s take this ant, or, rather, let’s not, because that would involve picking it up, let us merely consider it, because it is one of the larger ones and because it raises its head like a dog, it’s walking along very close to the wall, together with its fellow ants, it will have time to complete its long journey ten times over between the ants’ nest and whatever it is that it finds so interesting, curious or perhaps merely nourishing in this secret room, before this episode doomed to end in death is over. One of the men has fallen to the ground, he’s on the same level as the ants now, we don’t know if he can see them, but they see him, and he will fall so often that, in the end, they will know by heart his face, the color of his hair and eyes, the shape of his ear, the dark arc of his eyebrow, the faint shadow at the corner of his mouth, and later, back in the ants’ nest, they will weave long stories for the enlightenment of future generations, because it is useful for the young to know what happens out there in the world. The man fell and the others dragged him to his feet again, shouting at him, asking two different questions at the same time, how could he possibly answer them even if he wanted to, which is not the case, because the man who fell and was dragged to his feet will die without saying a word. Only moans will issue from his mouth, and in the silence of his soul only deep sighs, and even when his teeth are broken and he has to spit them out, which will prompt the other two men to hit him again for soiling State property, even then the sound will be of spitting and nothing more, that unconscious reflex of the lips, and then the dribble of saliva thickened with blood that falls to the floor, thus stimulating the taste buds of the ants, who telegraph from one to the other news of this singularly red manna fallen from such a white heaven.
The man fell again. It’s the same one, said the ants, the same ear shape, the same arc of eyebrow, the same shadow at the corner of the mouth, there’s no mistaking him, why is it that it is always the same man who falls, why doesn’t he defend himself, fight back. This is the reasoning of the ant and of ant civilization, they do not know that Germano Santos Vidigal is not fighting with those two thugs Escarro and Escarrilho,* but with his own body, with the searing pain between his legs, or his testicles, to use the language of a physiology manual, or his bollocks, to use the more easily acquired and cruder language of the street, fragile balls, balloons full of some imponderable ether which raise us men up to ecstasy, that carry us between heaven and earth, but not these pathetic objects anxiously protected by hands that suddenly release them when the heel of a boot thuds brutally into the small of the back. The ants are surprised, but only fleetingly. After all, they have their own duties, their own timetables to keep, it is quite enough that they raise their heads like dogs and fix their feeble vision on the fallen man to check that he is the same one and not some new variant in the story. The larger ant walked along the remaining stretch of wall, slipped under the door, and some time will pass before it reappears to find everything changed, well, that’s just a manner of speaking, there are still three men there, but the two who do not fall never stop moving, it must be some kind of game, there’s no other explanation, let’s hope Cesaltina’s son never plays this game, they are engaged in hurling the other man against the wall, they grab him by the shoulders and propel him willy-nilly in the direction of the wall, so that sometimes he hits his back, sometimes his head, or else his poor bruised face smashes into the whitewash and leaves on it a trace of blood, not a lot, just whatever spurts forth from his mouth and right eyebrow. And if they leave him there, he, not his blood, slides down the wall and he ends up kneeling on the ground beside the little trail of ants, who are startled by the sudden fall from on high of that great mass, which doesn’t, in the end, even graze them. And when he stays there for some time, one ant attaches itself to his clothing, wanting to take a closer look, the fool, it will be the first ant to die, because the next blow falls on precisely that spot, the ant doesn’t feel the second blow, but the man does, and his stomach, not he, gives a lurch, and again he collapses, retching, from that violent kick to the stomach, followed by another to his private parts, which is an expression too widespread to cause offense.
One of the men leaves the room to rest from his exertions. His name is Escarrilho, he has a mother and father and is married with children, which isn’t saying much, because the one who stayed behind to guard the prisoner, Escarro, also has a mother and father, and is married with children, the men are distinguishable only by their features, although only just, and by their names, one is Escarro and the other Escarrilho, they are not related and yet they belong to the same family. He walks down the corridor and, in his weariness, stumbles over the bench, These guys who won’t talk will be the death of me, but screw the bugger, I’ll get something out of
