Raised from the Ground

and heel, but also because he can find no peace in himself, he’s a restless man who has no sooner sat down than he wants to get up again, who as soon as he has arrived in one place is already thinking about another. He’s a child of the wind, a wanderer, this bad-weather Domingos, who returns from the taberna and enters the house, bumping into the walls, glancing sourly at his son, and for no reason at all lashes out at his wife, wretched woman, let that be a lesson to you. And then he leaves again, goes back to the wine and his carousing mates, put this one on the slate, will you, landlord, of course, sir, but there’s quite a lot on the slate already, so what, I always pay my debts, don’t I, I’ve never owed anyone a penny. And more than once, Sara da Conceição, having left her child with the neighbor, went out into the night to search for her husband, using the shawl and the darkness to conceal her tears, going from taberna to taberna, of which there weren’t many in São Cristóvão, but enough, peering in from outside, and if her husband was there, she would stand waiting in the shadows, like another shadow. And sometimes she would find him lost on the road, abandoned by his friends, with no idea where his house was, and then the world would suddenly brighten, because Domingos Mau-Tempo, grateful to have been found in that frightening desert, among hordes of ghosts, would put an arm about his wife’s shoulders and allow himself to be led like the child he doubtless still was.

And one day, because he had more work than he could cope with, Domingos Mau-Tempo took on an assistant, thus giving himself more time with his fellow drinkers, but then, on another ill-fated day, he got it into his head that his wife, poor, innocent Sara da Conceição, was deceiving him in his absence, and that was the end of São Cristóvão, which the guiltless assistant had to flee at knifepoint, and Sara, pregnant, quite legitimately, for a second time, underwent her own painful via dolorosa, and the cart was loaded up again, another trek to Monte Lavre, more toing and froing, We’re fine, and your daughter and grandson are happy, with another on the way, but I’ve found a better job in Torre da Gadanha, my father lives there and will be able to help us out. And once more they set off north, except that this time the landlord was waiting for them on the way out of São Cristóvão, Just a moment, Mau-Tempo, you owe me for the rent and the wine that you drank, and if you don’t pay up, me and my two sons here will make you, so pay me what you owe or die.

It was a short journey, which was just as well, because almost as soon as Sara da Conceição set foot in the house, she gave birth to her second son, who, for some forgotten reason, was named Anselmo. He was fortunate from the cradle on because his paternal grandfather was a carpenter by trade and very pleased to have his grandson born so close to home, almost next door. His grandfather worked as a carpenter and had no boss and no apprentice, no wife either, and he lived among lengths of timber and planks, permanently perfumed by sawdust, and used a vocabulary particular to laths, planes, battens, mallets and adzes. He was a serious man of few words and not given to drinking, which is why he disapproved of his son, who was hardly a credit to his name. Given Domingos Mau-Tempo’s restless nature, however, his father had little time in which to enjoy being a grandfather, just long enough to teach his oldest grandson that this is a claw hammer, this is a plane and this a chisel. But Domingos Mau-Tempo could bear neither what his father said nor what he didn’t say, and like a bird hurling itself against the bars of its cage, what prison is this in my soul, damn it, off he went again, this time to Landeira, in the extreme west of the district. Preferring this time not to approach his father-in-law, who would find such wanderings and uncertainties odd, he had, at some expense, hired a cart and a mule, intending to keep quiet about his plans and tell his father-in-law later. We never seem to settle anywhere, we go from one place to another like the wandering Jew, and it’s not easy with two small children, Be quiet, woman, I know what I’m doing, there are good people in Landeira and plenty of work, besides, I’m a craftsman, not like your father and brothers tied to their hoes, I learned a trade and have a skill, That’s not what I’m saying, you were a shoemaker when I married you and that’s fine, but I just want some peace and to stop all this moving around. Sara da Conceição said nothing about the beatings, nor would it have been appropriate, because Domingos Mau-Tempo was traveling toward Landeira as if to the promised land and carrying on his shoulders his eldest son, holding on to his tender little ankles, which were a bit grubby, of course, but what does that matter. He barely felt the weight, because years of sewing leather had given him muscles and tendons of iron. With the mule trotting along behind, with a sun as warm as a cozy blanket, Sara da Conceição was even allowed to ride in the cart. But when they reached the new house, they found that their furniture was once again badly damaged, At this rate, Domingos, we’ll end up with no furniture at all.

It was in Landeira that João, who already had his real godparents in Monte Lavre, found a new and more illustrious godfather. He was Father Agamedes, who, because he lived with a woman he called