And now there are stairs to climb. João Mau-Tempo is still flanked by the two men, well, you can’t be too careful, high security, he is, after all, a dangerous element. Above and below, it’s like a termites’ nest, a hive of buzzing drones and ringing telephones, but as they go up, first floor, second floor, across wide landings, the noise and bustle diminish, they meet fewer people, and on the third floor there is almost complete silence, only the muted sounds of car engines and the vague murmur of the city in the heat of the afternoon. These are the attic rooms and this corridor leads to a long, low chamber where the ceiling is almost at head height, and some other men are sitting on long benches, and I am going to sit down next to them, I, João Mau-Tempo, native and inhabitant of Monte Lavre, forty-four years old, the son of Domingos Mau-Tempo, shoemaker, and Sara da Conceição, madwoman, and I have been dubbed a dangerous element, as Corporal Tacabo at the local barracks was kind enough to inform me. The other men sitting there look at João Mau-Tempo, but no one says a word. This is the house of patience, and here we await our immediate destiny. The roof is right above our heads, it creaks in the heat, if you poured water on it, it would boil, and João Mau-Tempo hasn’t eaten for more than twenty-four hours, and for him there is no heat, it’s a winter’s day, he shivers as if he were exposed to the December wind blowing across the latifundio, with no more protection than his own bare skin. That is exactly what it is like, for this is the bench of the naked, every man for himself, they will not help each other, you must clothe yourself in strength and determination, in the loneliness of the moors, in the high soaring flight of the red kite who finally descends to ground level to count his own and test their courage.
However, the victims must be fed, we don’t want to lose them sooner than would be convenient. Half an hour passed, and another, and finally in came some kitchen servant or other, bringing each prisoner a bowl of prison soup and two deciliters of wine, a kind thought from the nation to these her stepchildren, I hope they’re grateful. And as João Mau-Tempo was scraping the bowl with his spoon, he heard one policeman say to the other, they were standing by the door keeping watch over the flock and shuffling papers, That guy’s being handed over to Inspector Paveia, and the other replied, Rather him than me, and João Mau-Tempo said to himself, That’s me they’re talking about, and, as he found out later, it would have been far better not to have known. The plates and glasses were taken away, and the waiting continued, what will become of us, it was nearly night when they got their marching orders, some were being sent here and some there, Caxias or Aljube, provisional billets, there would be further moves, all of them to worse places, as the name became a face, so the face became a target. And the voice of Dona Patrocínio, a functionary in this socially useful service, was definitely the voice of the nation, So-and-so is to go there, So-and-so somewhere else, she could not have a better name as patron of displacements, it’s the same with Dona Clemência, who is now doubtless chatting with Father Agamedes, I hear that João Mau-Tempo has been arrested, Yes, Senhora, he’s paid for all his sins at once, and to think I went out of my way to help him and others, He seemed such a decent fellow, They’re always the worst, Senhora Dona Clemência, they’re always the worst, He wasn’t even a drinking man, If only he had been, then he wouldn’t have been tempted into such evil actions, What evil actions, Ah, that I don’t know, but if he was innocent, they wouldn’t have arrested him, Perhaps we should give his wife some help, You’re a saint, Senhora Dona Clemência, if it wasn’t for your kind patronage, I don’t know what would become of these wretches, but leave it for a while, and see if they learn to be less proud, because that’s their worst defect, pride, You’re quite right, Father Agamedes, and pride is a mortal sin, The worst of all sins, Senhora Dona Clemência, because it is pride that causes a man to rise up against his employer and his god.
On the way back, the truck passed through Boa-Hora to pick up some prisoners who were being tried there. All of this is carefully measured and calculated, according to the order of service, the police van must be used to capacity, it’s like saying, you have to take the rough with the smooth, and given how poor the nation is, the prisoners would be the first to agree, indeed, they might even suggest it, Let’s pass through Boa-Hora, and some will think, Hmm, Boa-Hora, Good-Hour, what an inappropriate name, and pick up those who are being judged by the worthy judges, and then we can all go together, it’ll make for better company, it’s just a shame we don’t have a guitar with which to accompany our sorrows. João Mau-Tempo has never traveled so much in his life. Or, rather, as much as any other man in the latifundio, but not as much as his son António, now a soldier, but who traveled a lot in the past, driven by life’s obligations and the needs of his stomach, with his knapsack on his back, with hoe and scythe, ax and adze, but the latifundio is the same everywhere, some parts have more cork oaks or holm oaks, some have more wheat or rice, some have guards or overseers or managers
