Some come by train, getting off at São Torcato, on the Setil line, or at Vendas Novas, or even Montemor, if the meeting is being held in Terra da Torre, and at the nearer stations if they’re meeting in Terra Fria. It’s just a hop and a jump for anyone coming from São Geraldo, but anyone leaving São Geraldo on similar business today will have gone farther afield, and this is not just chance, but doubtless in accordance with very sensible rules. It’s midmorning now and there’s no bicycle to be seen, the trains are far away somewhere, you can hear them whistling, and a red kite is hovering over Terra Fria, a lovely sight to see, but even lovelier is first seeing it and then hearing its cry, the thin, piping call that no one can quite put into words, but when we hear it, we immediately want to say what it sounded like and can’t, there’s no shortage of singing birds, but that cry of the red kite is different, so wild it almost sends a shiver down your spine, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that if you heard it often enough, you would sprout wings yourself, well, stranger things have happened. Hovering high up, the red kite drops its head a little, the smallest of movements, because it doesn’t need to be that tiny bit closer to see, we’re the ones troubled by myopia and astigmatism, a word that should be used with caution on the latifundio, in case the angels mistake it for stigmatism and rush to the balcony expecting to see Francis of Assisi and finding instead a red kite calling and five men approaching Terra Fria, some nearer, some farther off. Only the red kite sees them from on high, but it’s never been a telltale.
The first to arrive were Sigismundo Canastro and João Mau-Tempo, who have made a special effort to be early because one of them is new. While they waited, sitting in the sun so as not to get too cold, Sigismundo Canastro said, If you take off your hat, always place it on the ground crown uppermost, Why, asked João Mau-Tempo, and Sigismundo Canastro replied, So as not to reveal your name, we shouldn’t know each other’s names, But I know yours, Yes, but don’t say it, the other comrades will do the same, it’s just in case anyone should be arrested, if we don’t know each other’s names, we’re safe. They talked of other things too, just for talking’s sake, but João Mau-Tempo was still thinking about how careful they had to be, and when the man with the bicycle arrived, he realized at once that here was someone whose real name he would never know, perhaps because of the great respect with which he was treated by Sigismundo Canastro, who nevertheless addressed him as tu, but then perhaps that was the most respectful thing he could do. This is our new comrade, said Sigismundo Canastro, and the man with the bicycle held out his hand, it wasn’t the large, coarse hand of an agricultural worker, but strong and with a firm grip, Comrade, the word is not a new one, that’s what one’s work colleagues are, but it’s like saying tu, it’s the same and, at the same time, so utterly different that João Mau-Tempo’s knees buckle and his throat tightens, which is odd in a man past forty who has seen a great deal of life. The three men chat together while they wait for the others to arrive, We’ll wait half an hour, and if they don’t come, we’ll start anyway, and at some point João Mau-Tempo takes off his hat and, before putting it down on the ground, crown uppermost as Sigismundo Canastro had recommended, he quickly looked inside it and saw his name written on the band, in the hatter’s fine lettering, as was the custom in the provinces at the time, whereas city folk were already favoring anonymity. The man with the bicycle, as we know him, although João Mau-Tempo assumes that he has come all the way on foot, the man with the bicycle is wearing a beret, which might or might not have his name in it, and if it did, what would it be, after all, you can buy berets at markets and from cheap tailors who don’t take such pride in their craft and have no tools for doing poker work or gilding,
