This is the family’s first move. They came from Monte Lavre to São Cristóvão on a strangely rainy summer’s day. They traversed the whole district from north to south, what on earth can have made Domingos Mau-Tempo decide to move so far away, well, he’s a bungler and a good-for-nothing, and things were getting difficult for him in Monte Lavre because of drink and certain shady deals, and so he said to his father-in-law, Lend me your cart and your donkey, will you, I’m going to live in São Cristóvão, By all means go, and let’s hope you acquire a little common sense, for your own good and for the sake of your wife and son, but be sure to bring that donkey and cart back promptly, because I need them. They took the shortest route, following cart tracks, or highways when they could, but mostly heading across country, skirting the hills. They lunched in the shade of a tree, and Domingos Mau-Tempo gulped down a whole bottle of wine that he soon sweated out again in the heat of the day. They saw Montemor in the distance, to the left, and continued south. It rained on them when they were just one hour from São Cristóvão, a deluge that presaged no good at all, but today it is sunny, and Sara da Conceição, sitting in the garden, is sewing a skirt, while her son, still rather unsteady on his legs, is feeling his way along the wall of the house. Domingos Mau-Tempo has gone to Monte Lavre to return the donkey and cart to his father-in-law and tell him that they’re living in an excellent house, that customers are already beating a path to his door and that he won’t lack for work. He will return on foot the following day, as long as he doesn’t get drunk, because apart from his drinking, he isn’t a bad man, and God willing he’ll sort himself out, after all, there have been worse men than him and they’ve turned out all right in the end, and if there’s any justice in the world, what with one small child and another on the way, he’ll shape up to be a respectable father too, and as for me, well, I’ll do what I can to give us all a good life.
João has reached the end of the wall, where the picket fence begins. He grips it hard, his arms being stronger than his legs, and peers out. His horizon is quite limited, a strip of muddy road with puddles that reflect the sky, and a ginger cat sprawled on the doorstep opposite, sunning its belly. Somewhere a cock crows. A woman can be heard shouting out, Maria, and another, almost childish voice answers, Yes, Senhora. And then the silence of the great heat settles again, the mud will soon harden and return to the dust it was. João lets go of the fence, that’s quite enough looking at the landscape for the moment, executes a difficult half-turn and commences the long journey back to his mother. Sara da Conceição sees him, puts her sewing down on her lap and holds out her arms to her son, Come here, little one, come here. Her arms are like two protective hedges. Between them and João lies a confusing, uncertain world with no beginning and no end. The sun sketches a hesitant shadow on the ground, a tremulously advancing hour. Like the hand of a clock on the great expanse of the latifundio.
When Lamberto Horques Alemão stepped out onto the terrace of his castle, his gaze could not encompass all that lay before him. He was the lord of the village and its lands, ten leagues long and three leagues wide, and he had the right to exact a tribute, and although he had been charged to go forth and multiply, he had not ordered the rape of the girl at the fountain, it happened and that was that. He himself, with his virtuous wife and his children, will scatter his seed where he pleases, depending on how the mood takes him, This land cannot remain as uninhabited as it is now, for you can count on the fingers of one hand the number of settlements in the whole estate, while the uncultivated areas are as many as the hairs on your head, Yes, sir, but these women are the swarthy cursed remnants of the Moors, and these silent men can be vengeful, besides, our king did not call on you to go forth and multiply like a Solomon, but to cultivate the land and rule over it so that people will come here and stay, That is what I am doing and will do, and whatever else I deem appropriate, for this land is mine and everything on it, although there are sure to be people who will try to hamper my efforts and cause trouble, there always will be, You are quite right, sir, you obviously gleaned such knowledge from the cold lands of your birth, where people know far more than we natives of these remote western lands, Since we are in agreement, let us discuss what tributes should be imposed on these lands I am to govern. Thus, a minor episode in the history of the latifundio.
THIS SO-CALLED SHOEMAKER is really nothing but a cobbler. He soles and heels and dawdles over his work when he isn’t in the mood, often abandoning last, awl and knife to go to the taberna, he argues with impatient customers and, for all these reasons, beats his wife. Not just because he is obliged to sole
