Raised from the Ground

be that as it may, even a child knows that the guards are here to guard the latifundio, To guard it from what, it’s not going anywhere, From the risk of theft, looting and other such wickedness, because the ordinary people we’ve been talking about until now have bad blood, by which I mean that the wretches and their parents and grandparents and the parents of their grandparents have known nothing but hunger all their lives, how could they not covet another’s wealth, And is that wrong, It’s the worst sin there is, You’re kidding, Of course I am, but there are plenty of people who genuinely believe that this band of rustics want to steal their land, these sacred lands that go way back, and so the guards were posted here to maintain order, to suppress the slightest murmur of discontent, And do the guards like that, Oh, they do, the guards have their reward, a uniform, boots, a rifle, the authority to use and abuse, and the gratitude of the latifundio, let me give you one example, in payment for this extraordinary military operation, Corporal Tacabo will receive a few dozen liters of olive oil and a few cartloads of firewood, and while he may receive seventy of something, the mere guard will receive less because he’s lower down the ranks, but he’ll nonetheless receive some thirty or forty of whatever is on offer, because the latifundio is very reliable on that score, it always repays a favor, and the national guard is pretty easy to please, just imagine what must go on in Lisbon behind closed doors, How sad, Don’t start crying now, imagine coming back from a day spent clearing land and walking miles with a sack of kindling on your back, panting like a beast of burden, and the guards ambush you, rifles cocked, hands up, what have you got in that sack, and you say, I’ve been working in such-and-such a place, and they’ll check to see if you’re telling the truth, and if not, you’re in trouble, Personally, I’d rather be ambushed by José Gato, for at least he, Yes, José Gato would be preferable, but even worse would be to find, farther on, a whole cartload of six or seven hundred or a thousand kilos of firewood set aside for the guards, a gift from the latifundio in payment for their good and loyal service, They sell people very cheap, Whether they sell them cheap or dear doesn’t matter, the problem isn’t how much or how little.

This conversation went no further, what would be the point, although the narrator is free to say what he likes, that’s his privilege, but now Adalberto has arrived along with his army, he stops the car, the doors open, it’s an invasion, a landing, and from high up they wave to the shepherd, but he’s a lazybones, a native of these parts, seated he is and seated he remains, then, finally, he gets to his feet, making it quite clear what an effort this entails, and yells, What’s the problem, and Corporal Tacabo gives the order to charge, to attack, to release the bombs, take no notice of these warlike exaggerations, what do you expect, they have so few opportunities, by now, the shepherd has understood the situation, the same thing once happened to his father, laughter bubbles up inside him, the lines around his eyes betray him, it’s enough to make you split your sides, Do you have permission to be on this land, the question comes from Corporal Tacabo, who, as master of the law and the carbine, thunders, That’s a fine of five escudos per sheep, let’s see, six hundred sheep at five escudos each, six times five is thirty, add the zeros, why that’s three thousand escudos, that’s very expensive grazing, and the shepherd says, There must be some mistake, the sheep belong to the boss here and I’m on his land, What did you say, asks Corporal Tacabo foolishly, and the private with them gazes up at the skies, and Adalberto, backtracking, says, You mean this is mine, Yes, sir, I’m in charge of these sheep, and these sheep are yours, Go, beloved muses, my song is ended.

The troops returned to the barracks, the three men on the expedition said not a word, and when Adalberto arrived home, he issued orders about the olive oil, while Corporal Tacabo and the private put away their weapons, totting up how much they would earn and praying to Saint Michael the archangel for more such dangerous but profitable adventures. This is the kind of minor incident that occurs on the latifundio, but many pebbles go to make a wall and many grains make a harvest, What’s that noise, It’s an owl, any moment now the other owl will respond, Domingos, he’s the one nearest the nest.

JUST BECAUSE Sigismundo Canastro told that story about the dog Constante and the partridge doesn’t mean he has a monopoly on strange hunting tales. António Mau-Tempo has his own tales to tell, as well as those he has picked up from others, indeed, so many and so various are they that he could easily have told the aforementioned story, with Sigismundo Canastro chipping in to confirm its truth with the irrefutable proof that he had dreamed about it. To those surprised at the freedom with which people add to, subtract from and generally alter stories, we need only remind them of the vastness of the latifundio, of the way in which words are lost and found, whether mere days or centuries later, when you sit beneath a cork oak, for example, and listen in on the conversation between that tree and its neighbor, ancient, albeit somewhat confused stories, because cork oaks do get muddled as they grow older, but whose fault is that, ours perhaps, because we’ve never bothered to learn their language. Anyone who has ever got lost on the latifundio always ends