THEN THE REPUBLIC arrived. The men earned twelve or thirteen vinténs, and the women, as usual, less than half. Both ate the same black bread, the same cabbage leaves, the same stalks. The republic rushed in from Lisbon, traveled from village to village by telegraph, if there was one, advertised itself in the press for those who knew how to read, or passed from mouth to mouth, which was always by far the easiest way. The king had been toppled, and according to the church, that particular kingdom was no longer of its world, the latifundio got the message and did nothing, and the price of a liter of olive oil rose to more than two thousand réis, ten times a man’s daily wage.
Long live the republic. So how much is the new daily rate, boss, Let’s see, I pay whatever the others pay, talk to the overseer, So, overseer, how much is the daily rate, You’ll earn an extra vintém, That’s not enough to live on, Well, if you don’t want the job, there are plenty more who do, Dear God, a man could die of hunger along with his children, what can I give my children to eat, Put them to work, And if there is no work, Then don’t have so many children, Wife, send the boys off to collect firewood and the girls for straw, and come to bed, Do with me as you wish, I am my master’s slave, and there, it’s done, I’m pregnant, with child, in the family way, I’m going to have a baby, you’re going to be a father, I’ve missed a period, That’s all right, eight can starve as easily as seven.
And because far from there being any visible differences, only similarities, between the latifundio under the monarchy and the latifundio under the republic, and because the wages they earned could buy so little that they only served to increase their hunger, some innocent workers got together and went to the district administrator to demand better living conditions. The person with the best handwriting wrote out their request, remarking on the new joy felt among the Portuguese people and the new hopes that had sprung up with the coming of the republic, we wish you good health and send fraternal greetings, sir, and await your reply. Once the supplicants had been dismissed, Lamberto Horques sat down in his Hanseatic chair, meditated deeply on what would be best for the farms, himself and the people he governed, and having perused the maps on which the various parcels of land were marked, he placed his finger on the one most densely populated and summoned the captain of the guard. The captain had formerly belonged to the civil police force and now cut a martial figure in his new uniform, but he had a short memory and had, therefore, forgotten the days when he had worn the blue-and-white ribbon on his left sleeve.* Thanks to the captain’s zeal and vigilance, Lamberto learned that the workers were agitating for change and protesting about the forced loans and other such impositions, they were complaining, too, about the poor-quality food, which, after paying the various taxes and tributes, was all they could afford, these complaints were all there in the letter of petition, albeit expressed in measured tones, but perhaps those tones only disguised other, worse intentions. An ill wind of insurrection was blowing through the latifundio, the snarling of a cornered, starving wolf that could cause great damage if it should turn into an army of teeth. It was necessary, therefore, to set an example, to teach them a lesson. Once the interview was over and he had received his orders, Lieutenant Contente clicked his heels and ordered the bugle to be sounded on the parade ground. There the republican national guard lined up, sabers at their side and reins tight, harnesses, mustaches and manes gleaming, and when Lamberto appeared at the window of his room, the guards saluted him as if they were waving goodbye, thus uniting in one gesture both affection and discipline. Then he withdrew to his chamber and summoned his wife, with whom he took his pleasure.
See how the guards go flying through the countryside. They trot, they gallop, the sun beats down on their armor, the saddle cloths swirl about the horses’ legs, O cavalry, O Roland, Oliveros and Fierabras,* happy the country that gave birth to such sons. The chosen village is within sight, and Lieutenant Contente orders the squadron to prepare to charge, and when the bugle sounds, the troops advance in lyrical, warlike fashion, sabers unsheathed, the whole nation comes to the balcony to observe the spectacle, and when the peasants emerge from their houses, from barns and cattle sheds, they are mown down by the charging horses and struck from behind by the blades of the soldiers’ swords, until Fierabras, frisky as an ox stung by a gadfly, grips his saber in his hand and cuts, scythes, slices, pierces, blind with rage, although quite why he doesn’t know. The peasants lay moaning on the ground, and when finally carried back into their huts, they did not rest but tended their wounds as best they could, with lavish use of water, salt and cobwebs. We’d be better off dead, said one. Our time has not yet come, said another.
The national guard, belovèd child of the republic, is leaving, the horses are still trembling, and flecks of foam still fill the air, and now they move on to the second phase of the battle plan, which is to ride into the hills and gullies and hunt down the workers who are inciting the others to rebellion and strikes, leaving the work in the fields undone and the animals untended, and thus thirty-three of them were taken captive, along with the main instigators,
