Barren Lives Page 10

  If he could only put something aside for a few months, he would be able to get his head up. Oh, he had made plans, but that was all foolishness. Ground creepers were never meant to climb. Once the beans had been eaten and the ears of corn gnawed, there was no place to go but to the boss’s cash drawer. He would turn over the animals that had fallen to his lot for the lowest of prices, grumbling and protesting in distress, trying to make his meager resources yield as much as possible. Arguing, he would choke and bite his tongue. Dealing with anyone else he would not let himself be so shamelessly robbed, but, as he was afraid of being put off the ranch, he would give in. He would take the cash and listen to the advice that accompanied it. He should give thought to the future, be more careful. He would stand there with his mouth open, red-faced, his throat swelling. Suddenly he would burst out:

  “Talk, talk! Money goes faster than a race horse, and people can’t live without eating. Ground creepers were never meant to climb.”

  Little by little the boss’s brand was put on Fabiano’s stock, and when he had nothing left to sell, the backlander went into debt. When time came for the division, he was in the hole, and when accounts were settled he received a mere nothing.

  This time, as on other occasions, Fabiano first made a deal regarding the stock, then thought better of the matter, and, leaving the transaction only half agreed upon, he went to consult with his wife. Vitória sent the boys to play in the clay pit, sat down in the kitchen, and concentrated, lining up different kinds of seeds on the ground, adding and subtracting. The next day Fabiano went back to town, but on closing the deal he noted that, as usual, Vitória’s figuring differed from that of the boss. He protested, and received the usual explanation: the difference represented interest.

  He refused to accept this answer. There must be some mistake. He was not very bright, that he knew. Anybody could see he was. But his wife had brains. Surely there was some mistake on the boss’s paper. The mistake couldn’t be found, and Fabiano lost his temper. Was he to take a beating like that his whole life long, giving up what belonged to him for nothing? Was that right? To work like a slave and never gain his freedom?

  The boss became angry. He refused to hear such insolence. He thought it would be a good thing if the herdsman looked for another job.

  At this point Fabiano got cold feet and began to back down. All right, all right. There was no need for a fuss. If he had said something wrong, he was sorry. He was ignorant; he had never had any learning. He knew his place; he wasn’t the cheeky kind. He was just a half-breed. He wasn’t going to get into any arguments with rich people. He wasn’t bright, but he knew how to show people proper respect. His wife must just be mistaken, that was all. In fact her figuring had seemed strange to him. But since he didn’t know how to read (he was just plain ignorant) he had believed his old lady. He was sorry and he wouldn’t make a blunder like this again.

  The boss calmed down and Fabiano backed out of the room, his hat dragging on the brick floor. Once outside the door he turned around, fastened the rowels on his spurs, and stumbled off, his untanned leather boots clumping on the ground like horses’ hoofs.

  He went to the corner, stopped, and caught his breath. They shouldn’t treat him like that. He walked slowly toward the square. He made a wide circle around Inácio’s tavern, and looked the other way. Since that trouble he had had he was afraid to go by there. He sat down on the sidewalk, took the money out of his pocket, and examined it, trying to guess how much he had been cheated. He couldn’t say out loud it was robbery, but it was. They gave him almost nothing for his stock and then on top of that they invented interest. Interest! It was a dirty trick, that was what it was.

  “Robbery!”

  He wasn’t allowed to complain. Because he had protested, because he had thought the charge exorbitant, the boss had risen up in fury and yelled at him. Why such a fuss?

  He shook his head.

  He remembered what had happened years ago, long before the drought. One day when he was strapped for funds he turned to the lean pig that refused to fatten in the stye and was being saved for Christmas expenses. He had slaughtered it before its time and had gone to sell it in town. But then some city official had come with his receipt book and had crossed him up. Fabiano had pretended not to understand. He was just an ignorant man from the country. Since the other fellow explained that in order for him to sell the pig he would have to pay a tax, he tried to convince him there was no pig there but just quarters of pork, pieces of meat. The official had got angry and insulted him, and Fabiano had cringed. All right, all right! Heaven forbid that he get into any mix-up with the government. He had just thought he could dispose of what was his. He didn’t understand anything about taxes.

  “I’m just ignorant, you see.”

  He had supposed the hog was his. Now if the town government had some claim on it, that was that. He would go home and eat the meat. Could he eat the meat? Could he or couldn’t he? The official had stamped in annoyance and Fabiano had made excuses, his hat in his hand and his back bent.

  “I don’t want to get into any fight. I guess it will be better for me just to quit talking.”

  He took his leave, put the meat in his sack, and went to sell it secretly in another street. But the collector caught up with him, and he had not only a tax but a fine to lament. From that day on he stopped raising pigs. It was dangerous.

  He looked at the bills neatly flattened out in his hand and at the silver and nickel coins; he sighed and bit his lips. He didn’t even have the right to protest. He had drawn in his horns, for if he had not he would have had to leave the ranch and take to the road with his wife, his small sons, and his scanty belongings. And where would they go? Where? Did he have a place to take his wife and boys to? The devil he did!

  He looked in all directions. The rooftops restricted his view but, beyond, the countryside stretched dry and hard. He remembered the painful trek he had made across it with his family, all of them in rags and famished. They had escaped, and this was a miracle in his eyes. He didn’t even know how they had done it.

  If he could move somewhere else he would shout from the housetops that he had been robbed. Resigned in appearance, he felt an immense hatred for something which was a combination of the dry countryside, the boss, the policemen, and the town officials. Really, everything was against him. He was used to it; his skin was hardened; but at times he got angry. No patience could hold out forever.

  “The day comes when a man does something wild and that’s the end of him.”

  Couldn’t they see he was a man of flesh and blood? It was his duty to work for others, naturally. He knew his place. That was all right. He was born to this lot; it was nobody’s fault that it was a hard one. What could he do? Could he change fate? If anyone were to tell him it was possible to better one’s lot, he would be amazed. He had come into the world to break untamed horses, cure cattle ailments by prayer, and fix fences from winter to summer. It was fate. His father had lived like that, his grandfather too. Farther back than his grandfather, family did not exist for him. Cutting cactus, greasing rawhide whips—that was in his blood. He accepted the situation; he did not ask for more. If they only gave him what was coming to him, it was all right. But they didn’t. He was a poor devil; like a dog, all he got was bones. Why then did rich people go and take part of the bones? It was sickening to think that important people would dirty their hands with things like that.

  The bills were damp with sweat in the palm of his hand. He wanted to know just how much he had been done out of. The last time he had had an accounting with the boss it seemed to him he had come out better. He had a feeling of alarm. He had heard of interest and due dates, and this had made a rather painful impression on him. Whenever men with book learning used big words in dealing with him, he came out the loser. It startled him just to hear those words. Obviously they were just a cover for robbery.

  But they sounded nice. Sometimes he memorized a few of them and introduced them into the conver
sation at the wrong moment. Then he forgot them. Why should a poor fellow like him go around talking like a rich man? Old Miss Terta now was one who had a terrible tongue for you. She talked almost as well as city folk. If he could talk like old Miss Terta, he would look for work at another ranch and would fix himself up. But he couldn’t. In difficult moments he would stammer and get all mixed up like a little boy; he would scratch his elbows in vexation. This was why they skinned him, the scoundrels! They would take from a poor devil that didn’t have a cent to his name. Couldn’t they see it was wrong? What did they hope to gain by it? What?

  He didn’t grow pigs any more, and he would like to see that guy from the collector’s office try to get a tax and a fine out of him. They took the shirt from his back and on top of that beat him and threw him in jail. Well, he wasn’t going to work any longer; he was going to take a rest.

  Perhaps he wasn’t, though. Ceasing his monolog he counted and recounted mentally the money he had received. He balled it up with rage and thrust it into his pants pocket, which he buttoned. What a dirty business!

  He got up and went to the door of a tavern, feeling like having a drink of rum. As there were a lot of people at the bar, however, he drew back. He didn’t like to find himself in the midst of other people. He wasn’t used to it. Sometimes he said something, without meaning to offend anyone, and they took it another way—and then there was trouble. It was dangerous to go into a tavern. The only living being who understood him was his wife. He didn’t even have to talk to her; gestures were enough. Old Miss Terta now was a woman who could make herself understood like town folks. It was good for a body to be that way, to have the means of putting up a defense. He didn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t be in that state.

  It was dangerous to go into the tavern. He felt like drinking half a pint of rum, but he remembered his last visit to Inácio’s tavern. If he hadn’t had the idea of drinking, that trouble wouldn’t have happened. He couldn’t even have a drink in peace. Well, he would go back home and sleep.

  He went slinking along dejectedly, the rowels of his spurs making no noise. He wouldn’t be able to sleep. In the bed of tree branches there was one with a knot in it, right in the middle. Only when he was dog-tired could a Christian get any rest on a thing as hard as that. He had to wear himself out on horseback or spend the whole day mending fences. Fagged out, completely limp, he would stretch out and snore away like a hog. But now he wouldn’t be able to close his eyes. He would toss all night on the tree branches, mulling over the unfair way he had been treated. He would like to imagine what he was going to do in the future. He wasn’t going to do anything! He would wear himself out working and would live in a house that belonged to someone else as long as they let him stay. Then he would have to take to the road and would die of hunger out on the dry brushland.

  He took a piece of rope tobacco from his pocket and cut some off with his knife to make a cigarette. If he could at least recall some pleasant things life wouldn’t be all bad.

  He had left the street behind him. He raised his head and saw a star, then many stars. The figures of his enemies faded away. He thought of his wife, of his sons, of the dead dog. Poor thing! It was as if he had killed a member of the family.

  The Policeman in Khaki

  Fabiano started down the sun-baked path, overgrown with catingueira trees and clumps of bushes, that led to the dry pond. He was heavily laden. The haversack slung across his chest bulged and whips and cowbells dangled from one of his arms. His machete slapped against his leg.

  He was studying the ground, as usual, trying to make out tracks. He recognized those of the gray mare and her foal— marks made by big hoofs and small ones. It must be the gray mare, for some whitish hairs were to be seen on the trunk of a mimosa tree. She had urinated on the sand and the urine had obliterated her tracks at that point, something which would not have happened in the case of a stallion.

  Fabiano absent-mindedly noted these signs and others mingled with them, made by smaller animals. Bent over, he seemed to be sniffing at the earth. The deserted brush took on life for him as the beasts that had passed by returned before his little eyes.

  He followed in the direction taken by the mare and had gone about two hundred yards when the halter that was slung over his shoulder caught on a bramble. He pulled it free, and taking out his machete began to hack away the thorns and the prickly pears that obstructed the path.

  He had wrought havoc among them, covering the ground with spiny branches, when he stopped, hearing a noise in the twigs. Turning around, he came face to face with the policeman in khaki who a year earlier had thrown him in jail, where he had been beaten and had had to spend the night. Failing for a moment to recognize the figure that thus appeared before him, Fabiano started to bring his weapon down upon the stranger. The impulse lasted only for a second—no, less, a fraction of a second. Had it lasted longer, the khaki-clad figure would have lain kicking in the dust with his skull cleft open. As it was, the blade stopped short at the intruder’s head, grazing his red cap. Only an equally strong, but contrary, second impulse had arrested a motion which could have resulted in homicide. At first the herdsman had understood nothing, save that he was in the presence of an enemy. Suddenly, however, he had noticed that it was a man, and, more important still, a representative of authority. He had stopped; his arm had hesitated, wavering from side to side.

  The policeman, thin and puny, stood there trembling. Fabiano once more felt like raising his machete. He felt like it, but his muscles relaxed. Really, he didn’t want to kill another Christian. He had acted instinctively, just as he avoided branches and thorns when breaking a horse. He wasn’t conscious of his movements when in the saddle; something pushed him to the right or to the left. It was this something that had been going to make him split the khaki-wearer’s head. If it had lasted a minute, Fabiano would have shown he was a man of real guts.

  But it hadn’t lasted. The certainty of danger had arisen, and he stood there, unable to make up his mind, breathing hard, true amazement showing on his sweat-covered face, his damp fingers providing but an unsure grip on the handle of his machete.

  He was afraid, and he repeated to himself that he was in danger, but this seemed so absurd to him that he started to laugh. Afraid of that guy? He had never seen anyone tremble so. The dog! Didn’t he act the bully in town? Wasn’t he the man who trod on country folk’s feet, the man who threw people into jail? The good-for-nothing scoundrel!

  A feeling of irritation came over him. Why were that good-for-nothing’s teeth chattering like a peccary’s? Couldn’t the guy see Fabiano was incapable of taking vengeance? He frowned. The thought of danger gradually disappeared. What danger? He didn’t even need to take a machete to that wretch; his nails were all the weapon he needed. With a shake of the cowbells and whips he stuck his big hairy fist in the face of the policeman, who stepped back against a catingueira. Had the tree not been there, he would have fallen.

  Fastening his bloodshot eyes on the man, Fabiano put his machete back in its sheath. He could kill him just with his bare hands. He remembered the beating he had taken and the night he had spent in jail. Yes, sir. This guy was paid for mistreating folks who were only minding their own business. Was that right? Fabiano’s face contracted, taking on a fearful appearance, uglier than an animal’s snout. Well, was that right? To go bothering people who weren’t harming anyone? Why? He choked. The wrinkles grew deeper on his forehead. His little blue eyes widened in a painful interrogation.

  The policeman shrank back, hiding behind the tree. Fabiano dug his nails into his callused palms. He wanted to relive that first moment of blindness, but it was impossible. He repeated to himself that the weapon was unnecessary; he was sure that in any case he wouldn’t be able to use it. He was just trying to deceive himself. For a moment the rage he experienced at feeling himself powerless was so great that he recuperated his energy and advanced upon his enemy.

  His rage ceased, however, and the nails which were digging into
his palms relaxed their grip. Fabiano stopped short and stood there as awkward and harmless-looking as a duck.

  Clinging to the catingueira tree, the policeman showed only an arm, a leg, and a part of his face, but this strip of man began to grow in the herdsman’s eyes. Obviously, the other part, that which was hidden, must be even bigger. Fabiano tried to rid himself of this absurd notion.

  “What a crazy idea!”

  A few minutes before he had nothing on his mind, but now he was in a cold sweat, plagued by unbearable recollections. He was a hot-tempered fellow, who easily flew off the handle. No, he was just a chap who let himself get peeved sometimes, and always had cause to regret it afterwards. That afternoon last year, for instance, if he hadn’t lost his patience and made an insulting reference to the officer’s mother, he wouldn’t have spent a night in jail after first taking a beating. Two devils had fallen on him, whacking him with their knives, one on his back, the other on his chest, and he had dragged himself off, shivering like a wet hen. All because he had got angry and had come out with an ill-advised word. It was bad manners. But was he to blame? The hubbub had begun; the policeman had pushed a way for them through the market people who came crowding around. “Get a move on!”

  Afterwards jail and a beating, all because of nothing at all. He, Fabiano, had been provoked. Had he, or hadn’t he? A boot heel on his canvas sandal. He had lost patience and had come out with an insult. Now insulting a body’s mother doesn’t mean anything, because anyone can see no real harm is intended. It’s just a meaningless bit of swearing. The fellow in khaki ought to have realized that. But he hadn’t. He had got all hot under the collar, and had blown his whistle. And Fabiano had got the short end of the stick. “Get a move on!”