Barren Lives Page 5

  Fabiano went from store to store, picking over the cloth, trying to beat the price down a fraction, fearful of being cheated. Long years of mistrustfulness were revealed in his hesitant gestures. At one point in the afternoon, half-tempted, he pulled out his money. Then he quickly changed his mind, sure that all the clerks were cheating both on the price and on the measure. He tied up the bills in the corner of his handkerchief, stuck it in his pocket, and headed for Inácio’s tavern, where he had stored his duffel.

  There he proved once more to his satisfaction that the kerosene had been watered. Feeling hot, he decided to have a drink. Inacio brought the bottle of rum. Fabiano downed his glass at one swallow, spat, wiped his lips on his sleeve, and frowned. He could swear that the rum was watered. Why did Inacio have to water everything, he wondered. Gathering up his courage, he questioned the tavern keeper.

  “Why do you water everything?”

  Inácio pretended not to hear.

  Fabiano went and squatted on the sidewalk, feeling in a mood for conversation. His vocabulary was limited but in moments of expansion he had recourse to some of the expressions used by Tomás the miller. Poor Tomás! Such a fine man to go drifting off like a mere hired hand, with a bundle on his back! Tomás was a man to be respected; he was a registered voter. Who would have thought this could happen?

  At this moment a policeman dressed in khaki came up and gave Fabiano a friendly swat on the shoulder.

  “How about it, fellow?” he asked. “Want to go in and have a game of cards?”

  Fabiano eyed the uniform with respect and, trying to recall some of the expressions of Tomás the miller, he stammered, “Yes and no. That is— I mean— Provided— Well, if you like.”

  He got up and followed the man in khaki, the representative of the law, the giver of orders. Fabiano had always obeyed. He was strong and muscular, but he was little given to thought. He asked for little, and obeyed.

  The two walked through the tavern and down a hall to a room where several men were playing cards on a mat.

  “Move over,” said the policeman. “You have company.”

  The card players drew closer together; the two newcomers sat down, and the policeman in khaki picked up the deck. It was not his lucky day. He was soon in the hole and so was Fabiano. Vitória would be furious, and with good reason.

  “Serves me right!”

  He rose to his feet angrily and left the room scowling.

  “Hey, wait there, fellow!” the man in khaki called.

  Fabiano, his ears burning, did not even turn his head. He asked Inácio for his belongings, slipped into his leather jacket, put his arms through the straps of his haversack, and went out into the street.

  He stopped under the courbaril tree in the square to talk to Rita, the pottery seller. He didn’t dare go home. What excuse could he give to Vitória? He got hopelessly involved in inventions: he had lost the package of cloth; he had paid for a bottle of something at the pharmacy for Rita the pottery seller. It was no use; he was all mixed up. He had a poor imagination and he was no good at lying. In all the stories he made up in his defense the figure of Rita appeared, and this annoyed him. He was determined he would think up something in which she had no part. He would say that the money for the calico had been stolen. After all, wasn’t it true? The other players had swindled him at cards. But he mustn’t mention the game. He would say merely that the handkerchief with the bills had disappeared from the pocket of his leather jacket. He would say: “I bought the provisions. I left the jacket and the saddlebags at Inácio’s tavern. I met up with a policeman in khaki.” No, he hadn’t met anyone. He was all mixed up again. He wanted to make the policeman out to be an old acquaintance, a childhood friend. His wife would get all puffed up over this. But then again, maybe she wouldn’t. She was smart and would see he was just bragging. Well then, the money had slipped out of his jacket pocket at Inácio’s tavern. That was perfectly natural.

  He was repeating to himself that it was perfectly natural when someone shoved him against the courbaril tree. The market was breaking up. It was growing dark and the lamplighter, climbing up on his ladder, was turning on the streetlights. The evening star shone over the church tower. The judge went to take his stand at the door of the pharmacy, where he would hold forth to an admiring circle. The tax collector limped by, with the stubs of his receipts under his arm. The garbage wagon rolled across the square, gathering up fruit rinds. The priest came out of his house, raising his umbrella for protection against the damp night air. Rita went her way.

  Fabiano shivered. It would be night by the time he got back to the ranch. Wrapped up in that cursed game, befuddled with the rum he had drunk, he had let time slip by. And since he wasn’t taking any kerosene, for the next week they would have to depend on pieces of torchwood for light at night. He straightened himself up, ready to get on his way.

  Another shove sent him off balance. He turned around and saw beside him the policeman in khaki, staring at him defiantly, his face a rusty red, his brow wrinkled in a frown. Fabiano started to shake his leather hat in the face of his attacker. With one well-aimed blow with that hat he could knock the little runt to the ground. But he looked at the people and things around him and his indignation died down. Out on the range he was cock of the walk, but on the streets in town he sang another tune.

  “Is that any way to treat a peaceful citizen?” he asked.

  “Get going!” bellowed the policeman, and he insulted Fabiano for leaving the tavern without saying goodbye.

  “Don’t be a f-fool,” stammered the backlander. “Is it my fault if you lost your shirt playing cards?”

  He choked. The representative of the law circled around for a minute, trying to pick a quarrel. Finding no pretext, he came up and planted the heel of his boot on the herdsman’s canvas sandal.

  “That’s no way to act,” Fabiano protested. “I’m not bothering anybody. People’s feet are tender.”

  The policeman ground his heel down harder and harder. Losing his temper, Fabiano made an insulting reference to the man’s mother. At once the khaki-clad adversary blew his whistle, and in a matter of minutes the town police force had the courbaril tree surrounded. “On your way!” the corporal shouted.

  Fabiano moved without knowing where he was going, found himself in jail, listened without understanding to a charge made against him, and offered no defense.

  “All right,” said the corporal. “Down you go, fellow!”

  Fabiano fell on his knees and was whacked on his back and chest with the flat side of a broad knife. Then a door was opened and he was given a shove that landed him in the darkness of a cell. The key rasped in the lock. Fabiano got up in a daze, stumbled, and went to sit down in a corner, muttering to himself.

  Why had they done that to him? He couldn’t figure it out. He was a well-behaved citizen, yes sir! He had never been arrested. And here, before he knew it, he was mixed up in a brawl for no reason at all. He was so upset he couldn’t believe it was true. They had all jumped on him without any warning, the bastards! They didn’t give a man a chance to defend himself.

  “Oh well—” There was nothing he could do. He ran his hands over his chest and shoulders. He felt completely done in. His bluish eyes shone like those of a cat. Yes, he really had been beaten and thrown in jail. But it was such a queer business that a few minutes later he was again shaking his head in disbelief, despite his bruises.

  The policeman in khaki— Yes, there was a guy in khaki, a good-for-nothing that he, Fabiano, could have knocked all apart with one good slap. He hadn’t, though, because he represented the law. Fabiano spat scornfully.

  “The dirty, low-down runt!”

  For the sake of a skunk like that they beat up the father of a family! He thought of his wife, the boys, the dog. Crawling on hands and knees, he hunted for the saddlebags, which had fallen on the floor. He made certain that all the things he had bought at the market were still there. Something might have got lost in the confusion. He rememb
ered a piece of goods he had seen at the last shop he visited—pretty, stoutly woven, wide, with flowers on a red background. Just what Vitória wanted. And by being stingy, by trying to beat down the price a bit, he had come to this at the end of the day!

  He fished around in the saddlebags again. Vitória would be worried about his not coming home. The house would be dark, the boys would be sitting by the fire, the dog would be keeping watch. They had certainly barred the front door.

  He stretched out his legs and leaned his sore back against the wall. If they had given him time, he would have explained everything perfectly. Taken by surprise, though, he hadn’t known what to say. Who would have, under the circumstances? He couldn’t convince himself that the brutality had been directed at him. It was a mistake; the policeman in khaki had confused him with someone else. That was the only explanation.

  Just because some worthless troublemaker got peeved, did they have to go and throw a fellow in jail and beat him up? He knew perfectly well that was the way things were. He was used to violence and injustice. And he had consoled such of his acquaintances as spent the night in the stocks or endured whipping saying, “Don’t worry. It’s no disgrace to take a beating from the law.”

  But now he ground his teeth. He sighed. Did he deserve to be punished?

  Try as he might, he could not be convinced that the policeman in khaki was really the law. The law was something far off and perfect; it couldn’t make mistakes. The policeman in khaki was right there, on the other side of the bars; he was wicked and weak; he played cards with country people and then picked quarrels with them. Surely the law could not permit such evil.

  After all, what good were policemen in their khaki uniforms? He kicked the wall and cried out in fury. What good were policemen? The other prisoners stirred; the jailer came up to the bars of the cell, and Fabiano calmed down. “All right, all right. Nothing’s the matter.”

  But a lot of things were the matter. He just couldn’t explain them. They could ask Tomás the miller, who read books and knew what was what. Tomás the miller could explain that business, but he, Fabiano, dull fool that he was, could not. He just wanted to go home to Vitória and lie down on their bed of tree branches. Why did they have to make trouble for somebody who only wanted to rest? Why didn’t they go bother someone else? It was all wrong.

  Did they have real courage? He tried to imagine the policeman in his khaki uniform attacking a bandit out in the brushland. What a laugh! A policeman that fell into a bandit’s hands wouldn’t even leave a grease spot.

  He thought of the old house where he lived, of the kitchen, of the kettle singing on the stones that held it off the fire. Vitória would be putting salt in her cooking. He opened the saddlebags again. The package of salt had not got lost. Good! Vitória would be tasting the soup, sipping from her coconut-shell ladle. And Fabiano was vexed because of her, because of the boys, because of the dog, who was like a member of the family, as smart as a person. On that long trek, at the time of the great drought, when they were all starving, the dog had brought them a cavy. It was getting old now, poor thing. Vitória would be worried and would be going often to listen at the front door. The rooster would flap his wings, the goats would bleat in their pen; the bells of the cows would tinkle.

  If only— But what was he thinking of? He looked out the grating into the street. Lord but it was dark! The light on the corner had gone out, probably because the man with the ladder had put in only half a quart of kerosene.

  Poor Vitória, worrying there in the dark, the boys sitting by the fire, the kettle hissing on the stones, the dog on watch, the tin lamp hanging from a peg that stuck out of the wall—

  He was so tired, and ached so, that he was on the point of going to sleep despite all his misfortune. A drunk was ranting in a loud voice, and some men were squatting around a fire that filled the jail with smoke, arguing and complaining about the damp wood.

  Fabiano nodded. His head dropped heavily to his chest, then snapped back. He ought to have bought the kerosene from Inácio. His wife and boys would get smoke in their eyes from the torchwood.

  He awoke with a start. Wasn’t he mixing things up, losing his mind? Perhaps it was the effect of the rum. No, it wasn’t. He had drunk just one glass—four fingers. If they would give him time he could explain how it all happened.

  As he listened to the disjointed raving of the drunk, a painful doubt assailed him. He too said things that had no sense or meaning. Angry at the comparison, he beat his head against the wall. He was stupid, yes; he had never had any schooling; he didn’t know how to explain himself. Was he in jail for that? How was it then? Do you put a man in jail because he doesn’t know how to explain things right? What was wrong with his being stupid? He worked like a slave, day in and day out. He cleaned out the watering trough, he mended the fences, he treated the stock for ailments. He had put life into an empty shell of a ranch. Everything was in order. They could see for themselves. Was it his fault he was stupid? Who was to blame?

  If it hadn’t been— He didn’t know. The thread of the idea grew—grew, and then broke. It was hard to think. He spent so much time with animals. He had never seen a school. That was why he couldn’t defend himself, why he couldn’t put things in their proper place. He no sooner got that devilish business in his head than it slipped out again. It was enough to drive a man crazy. If they had only given him some schooling, he could understand it. But it was no use. He only knew how to deal with animals.

  And yet— Tomás could tell them. They should go ask him. He was a good man, Tomás the miller. He had book learning. Well, every man was as God had made him. He, Fabiano, was just plain dumb.

  What he wanted— He forgot what he wanted. His thoughts now were turning to the journey he had made across the backland, ready to drop from hunger. The boys’ legs were as thin as rails; Vitória stumbled repeatedly under the weight of the trunk with their belongings. On the riverbank, from necessity, they had eaten the parrot that didn’t know how to talk.

  Fabiano didn’t know how to talk either. Sometimes he came out with a big word, but it was all a fake. He knew perfectly well it was foolish. He didn’t know how to set his thoughts in order. If he did, he would go out and fight policemen in khaki uniforms who beat up harmless people.

  He beat on his head and pressed it in his hands. What were those guys doing squatting around the fire? What was that drunk saying who was bellowing at the top of his lungs, wasting his breath? Fabiano wanted to cry out, to yell that they were no good. He heard a thin voice. Someone in the women’s cell was crying and cursing the fleas. Some whore probably, the kind that would take on anybody. She was no good either. Fabiano wanted to yell to the whole town, to the judge, the chief of police, the priest, and the tax collector, that nobody in there was worth a damn. He, the men squatting around the fire, the drunk, the woman with the fleas—they were all completely worthless, fit only to be hanged. That was what he wanted to say.

  But there was that running fire that came and went in his spirit. Yes, there was that. But just what was it? He needed to rest. His head ached, probably from being hit with a knife handle. His head hurt all over; it seemed as if it were on fire, as if a kettle were boiling in his brain.

  Poor Vitória, worried, but trying to calm the children. The dog on the alert, beside the fire. If it weren’t for them—

  At last Fabiano was managing to put his thoughts in order. What held him was his family. He was tied down, like a calf lashed to a stake for branding. If it weren’t for that, no policeman in khaki would tramp on his foot! What softened him was the thought of his wife and boys. Without their yoke upon him he would not bend his back. He would leave that place like a tiger and go out and do something wild. He would load his musket and put a shot into that policeman in khaki. No, the policeman was a poor devil who didn’t deserve so much as a smack from the back of his hand. He would kill the people from whom the policeman took his orders. He would join a gang of bandits and wipe those people out. He wouldn�
��t leave one of them to raise a family. That was the thought that was boiling in his head. But there was his wife, there were the boys, there was the dog.

  Fabiano gave a yell, scaring the drunk, the men who were fanning the fire, the jailer, and the woman who was complaining about the fleas. He had that yoke on his neck. Should he continue to bear it? Vitória would be sleeping uneasily on her bed of tree branches. The boys were stupid like their father. When they grew up they would herd cattle for a boss they never saw; they would be stepped on, abused, and hurt by a policeman in a khaki uniform.

  Vitória

  Squatting beside the stones that served her as a trivet, her flowered skirt tucked up between her legs, Vitória was blowing on the fire. A cloud of ashes rose from the embers, covering her face. Smoke filled her eyes; her rosary of blue and white beads slipped from her bosom and banged against the kettle. Vitória wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, wrinkled her eyelids, poked her rosary back in her dress, and, puffing out her cheeks, continued to blow with a will.

  Flames licked at the firewood, died down, then sprang up once more, and spread between the stones. Vitória straightened her back and began using a fan. A shower of sparks arose, casting a glow on the dog, who was curled up asleep, lulled by the heat and the smell of the cooking.

  Feeling the draft and hearing the crackling of the tinder, the dog awoke and drew back prudently, fearful lest a spark land on her coat. She looked in wonder at the little red stars that died out before touching the ground. She wagged her tail in approval of the spectacle and then sought to express her admiration to her mistress by jumping up, panting, and standing on her hind legs as if she were a person. Vitória, however, was in no mood for appreciation.

  “Get!” she cried, and kicked at the dog, who withdrew in humiliation and with feelings of revolt.

  Vitória had got out on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Without the slightest provocation she had made some rude remarks to her husband about the bed of tree branches on which they slept. Fabiano, who had not been expecting such an outburst, merely grunted. Since woman is a very difficult animal to understand, he took flight, going to stretch out in the hammock, where he again fell asleep. Vitória had walked back and forth, looking for something on which she could vent her spleen, but as she found everything in order she had been reduced to complaining about life in general. Now she took revenge on the dog by giving her a kick.