Barren Lives Page 6

  She looked out the low kitchen window at the boys, happy in the dirt, covered with mud, making clay oxen which they set to dry in the sun under the Jerusalem thorn. She could find no reason for taking them to task. She thought again of the tree-branch bed and mentally cursed Fabiano. Yes, they slept on that thing; they had got used to it; but it would be better to sleep on a leather-bottomed bed, like other people.

  She had been talking to her husband about this for more than a year now. Fabiano first agreed with her, and went mulling over figures that came out all wrong. So much for the leather, so much for the frame. Well, they could get the bed, he said finally, by saving on clothes and kerosene. Vitória declared that was impossible. The two of them were badly enough dressed as it was, and the children ran around naked. They all went to bed early. You might say they never lit a lamp in the house. They had discussed the matter, seeing whether they could cut expenses somewhere else, but, as they couldn’t reach any agreement, Vitória had made a caustic reference to the money her husband spent at the market on cards and rum. Piqued, Fabiano had reproached her for the patent-leather shoes she wore on feast days. They were expensive and useless. Stumbling along in them she swayed like a parrot, looking utterly ridiculous. Vitória was greatly offended by the comparison, and had it not been for the awe in which Fabiano held her, she would have told him a thing or two. As a matter of fact the shoes did hurt her feet and give her calluses. Trying to walk on the high heels she could hardly keep her balance. She stumbled and limped, and probably did look ridiculous, but to hear Fabiano say so hurt her deeply.

  The cloud having passed, her bitterness swallowed, the bed again loomed up on her limited horizon. Right now she was thinking of it ill-humoredly. She felt it was something she would never have. She mixed it up in her mind with her household chores.

  Vitória slipped into the sitting room, ducked under the end of the hammock in which Fabiano lay snoring, took from the corner shelf her pipe and a cake of tobacco, and went out into the yard. The bell of the red cow tinkled down by the river. She wondered whether Fabiano had remembered its treatment. She thought of waking him up and asking him, but her attention was attracted to the prickly pears and the mandacarus that stood out on the range.

  A shimmering haze rose from the scorched earth. She trembled, recalling the drought; her dark face grew pale; her black eyes widened. She strove to drive away the remembrance, fearful lest it become a reality. She muttered a Hail Mary under her breath, then, feeling more tranquil, she found her attention drawn to a hole in the fence around the goat pen. She crumbled the cake of tobacco between the palms of her hardened hands, filled her clay pipe, and went to mend the fence. Coming back, she circled the house, crossed the little enclosure at the side, and went into the kitchen.

  “Fabiano may have forgotten about the red cow.”

  She squatted down, stirred up the fire, picked up a coal with a spoon, lit her pipe, and began to pull on the bamboo stem, clogged with tobacco tar. She took a long spit out through the window and into the yard, and prepared to take another. For some strange reason, the act linked itself in her mind with the thought of the bed. If her spit reached the yard, the bed would be bought before the end of the year. She filled her mouth with saliva, leaned forward—and missed. She tried several times, but to no avail. The only result was that she ran out of spit. She arose in disappointment. It was nonsense; there was no point to it.

  She went to the corner where the water jar stood on a three-legged support and drank a mugful. The water was brackish.

  “Ugh!”

  Two images came to her mind simultaneously: pots and water holes. Mingling in confusion, they canceled each other out. Vitória laid her index finger on her brow in perplexity. What was she trying to think of? She looked at the ground in concentration, trying to remember, and saw her feet, big and flat, with widely separated toes. Suddenly the two ideas came back to her: the water hole was drying up and the contents of the pot hadn’t been seasoned.

  She raised the lid and a burst of steam rose in her red face. Wasn’t she letting the food burn? She added water and stirred with the black coconut-shell dipper. Then she tried the broth. It was tasteless—no food for a Christian. She went to the hanging shelf where they kept slabs of sun-dried meat and other provisions, opened the bag of salt, took a handful, and tossed it in the kettle.

  Then her thoughts turned to the water hole, with its dark liquid which the animals refused to drink. The only thing she feared was a drought.

  She looked again at her spreading toes. Really, she couldn’t get used to wearing shoes, but just the same Fabiano’s gibe had hurt. Feet like a parrot! Well, probably so. That’s the way it is with country people. But why did he have to hurt her feelings? The comparison rankled.

  The poor parrot. It had journeyed with her in the cage that swayed on top of the tin trunk. It would stutter, “Pretty birdie.” That was all it knew how to say. The only other sounds it made were imitations of Fabiano’s calls to the cattle and the dog’s bark. Poor thing. Vitória didn’t even want to think about it. She had forgotten her former life; it was as if she had been born after her arrival at the ranch. The reference to her shoes had opened an old wound, and the trip had come back to her mind. Her sandals had been worn out on the stones. Weary, half-dead of hunger, she carried the younger boy, the trunk, and the parrot cage.

  Fabiano was mean. “Ungrateful wretch!”

  She looked at her feet again. The poor parrot. She had killed it on the riverbank, out of necessity, to feed her family. At the moment the parrot was angry, keeping a firm eye on the dog, hopping along unsteadily, like country folks on a feast day. Why did Fabiano have to bring that memory back to her?

  She went to the door and looked at the yellow leaves of the brush. She sighed. Surely God would not permit another such misfortune. She shook her head and sought other matters to occupy her mind. She took the big gourd, went to the mudhole, filled the chickens’ dish with water, and straightened their perch. Then she went to the garden to water the pinks and the pots of wormwood. And she chased the boys into the house. They were covered with mud from head to toe.

  “You little devils!” she scolded. “You’re as dirty as pigs. You look as if you had been—”

  She stopped. She was going to say they looked as if they had been playing in the bottom of a parrot’s cage.

  Escaping, the boys went and rolled themselves up in the straw mat from the sitting-room floor, under the corner shelf. Vitória went back to the fire and relighted her pipe. The pot was hissing. A sultry, dusty breeze shook the cobwebs that hung like curtains from the roof beams. The dog, under the hanging shelf, bit at fleas and snapped at flies. Fabiano’s even snoring was plainly to be heard and its rhythm was not without influence on Vitória’s thoughts. Fabiano was snoring with assurance: chances were there was no danger; drought was far off.

  Once again Vitória set to thinking of the leather-bottomed bed. The dream, however, was linked in her mind to the recollection of the parrot, and she had to make a great effort to separate out the object of her desire.

  Everything there was stable and sure. Fabiano’s snoring, the crackling of the fire, the tinkling of the cowbells, even the buzzing of the flies gave her a feeling of firmness and repose.

  Would she have to sleep all her life on a bed of tree branches? Right in the middle of the bed there was a knot, a big bump in the wood. She curled up on one side and her husband on the other. They couldn’t stretch out in the middle. At first she hadn’t minded. Limp, exhausted from work, she could have lain on a bed of nails. Now, however, they had begun to be a bit more prosperous. They were eating and putting on weight. To be sure, they didn’t own anything. If they left, they would take with them their clothes, the shotgun, the tin trunk, and a few odds and ends. But they were getting along, by the grace of God. The boss trusted them. They could almost consider themselves fortunate. All they lacked was a bed. That was what tormented Vitória. Since she was no longer worn out with hard work
, she spent part of the night thinking. That business of turning in as soon as it was dark wasn’t right though. People aren’t the same as chickens.

  At this point Vitória’s thoughts took another road, which, however, shortly led back to the first one. The fox had made off with the black and white hen—the black and white one, the plumpest of all! She decided to set a trap near the perch. Her dander was up. That fox would pay for the black and white hen.

  “The thief!”

  Gradually her annoyance took still another direction. Fabiano’s snoring was unbearable. Nobody snored the way he did! It would be a good idea to get up and look for another tree branch to take the place of that one that didn’t let a body turn over. Why hadn’t they replaced that pesky branch? She sighed. They couldn’t make up their minds. Well, she would just have to be patient. It was better to forget about the knot and think of a bed like the one that belonged to Tomás the miller. Tomás had a real bed, made by a carpenter, with a frame of sucupira wood, smoothed with an adze, the dovetails cut out with a chisel and neatly fitted together, the frame covered with a rawhide, well stretched and nailed down. That was a bed on which a Christian could stretch his bones!

  Suppose they sold the chickens and the young sow? Unfortunately the fox had got the black and white hen, the one with the most meat on it. She was going to have to teach that fox a lesson. She was going to set a trap by the perch and break the wretch’s back.

  She got up, went to the bedroom to look for something, and came back discouraged having forgotten what it was she went for. Where was her head?

  She sat down by the low kitchen window, discontent. She would sell the chickens and the sow and she would stop buying kerosene. It was no use consulting Fabiano, who was always enthusiastically making plans which he then quickly abandoned. She wrinkled her brow, startled with her idea, but sure that her husband would be pleased with owning a bed. Vitória wanted a real bed, of leather and sucupira wood, just like Tomás the miller’s.

  The Younger Boy

  He got the idea the afternoon Fabiano put harness on the sorrel mare and started to break it. It wasn’t really an idea; it was just a vague hankering to do something new and different, something which would impress his brother and the dog.

  At the moment he was filled with admiration for Fabiano. Dressed all in leather—chaps, jacket, and chest protector—he seemed like the most important man in the world. The rowels of his spurs jingled in the yard. His hat, held by a strap under his chin, was pushed back on his head, its broad brim making an enormous frame around his sunburned face.

  The horse was saddled, the stirrups securely attached, and Vitória was holding it by the head to keep it quiet. The herdsman tightened the cinch and circled slowly around the animal, checking all the fastenings. Without so much as a jerk he avoided a kick, turning his body so that the mare’s hoofs passed by his chest, grazing the jacket. Then he climbed up on the shed and leaped into the saddle. His wife drew back, and there was a whirlwind in the brush.

  The younger boy clambered up on the corral gate and, wringing his sweaty hands, stretched to get a better view of the cloud of dust that blanketed the imburana trees. He stayed that way for what seemed an eternity, filled with mingled joy and fear, until at last the mare came back to the yard and began to buck furiously, as if the very devil were in her. Suddenly the cinch broke and everything came apart. The boy gave a cry and all but fell off the gate. He recovered his calm at once, however, for Fabiano had landed on his feet and was walking away unsteadily on his bandy legs, with the harness over his arm. The stirrups, which had come loose in the wild ride, bumped against each other, and the rowels of Fabiano’s spurs clinked.

  Vitória was calmly smoking her pipe, seated on the bench under the shed, as she looked for lice in the older boy’s hair. The younger boy couldn’t endure such indifference to his father’s prowess. He went to wake up the dog, who was stretched out lazily, her red belly shamelessly exposed. The dog opened one eye, leaned her head against the grindstone, yawned, and went back to sleep.

  Finding the dog stupid and self-centered the boy left her in indignation and went to pull at his mother’s sleeve, seeking to get her attention. Vitória uttered an exclamation of annoyance and then, when the youngster insisted, gave him a crack on the skull.

  The boy strode away angrily and leaned against one of the posts that supported the shed roof. The world was full of evil; it made no sense. He went to the goat pen, where the animals bleated and sniffed, raising their wrinkled noses. They seemed so funny to the boy that he forgot the dog’s egotism and Vitória’s ill humor. His admiration for Fabiano, however, continued to grow.

  Misunderstandings and rude words vanished from his mind as real enthusiasm filled his small breast. Though he was afraid of his father, he came slowly up to him, rubbed against his chaps, and touched the tail of his jacket. The chaps, the jacket, the chest protector, the spurs, and the hat with its chin strap seemed marvelous to him.

  Fabiano brushed the boy aside without noticing him and went into the sitting room to divest himself of his grandeur.

  The boy lay down on the straw mat, curled up, and closed his eyes. Fabiano filled him with awe. On the ground, stripped of his leather garments, he was less impressive, but astride the sorrel mare he was a frightening spectacle.

  The boy went to sleep and dreamed. A gust of wind covered the leaves of the imburana trees with dust, Vitória went on with her hunt for lice on the head of the older boy, the dog continued asleep with her head on the grindstone.

  The next day all these images were swept away completely. The jujubes at the end of the ranch yard were dark, standing out from the other trees. Why? the boy wondered.

  Approaching the goat pen he saw the old billy goat, his nostrils dilated, making an ugly noise, and the happenings of the day before came back to him. He walked over to the jujubes, bending forward, trying to make out the tracks of the sorrel mare.

  At lunch time Vitória scolded him. “That little imp is out of his head,” she declared.

  The boy got up, left the kitchen, and went to look at the chaps, the chest protector, and the jacket, hanging on a wooden peg in the sitting room. Then he walked over to the goat pen, and there the plan was born.

  At first he turned back. He had a mind to go talk to someone, but he didn’t know what he wanted to say. The images of the sorrel mare and the billy goat mingled in confusion in his mind, as did those of himself and his father.

  He circled the goat pen like a vulture, imitating Fabiano.

  He felt a need to consult his brother, but then he thought better of the matter. The older boy would laugh and make fun of him—and go tell Vitória. He was afraid of being laughed at and made fun of. And if his brother told on him Vitória would pull his ears.

  Obviously he wasn’t Fabiano. But supposing he were? He needed to show that he could be Fabiano. If only he had someone to talk to, perhaps he could explain himself.

  He walked around a bit aimlessly until his brother and the dog took the goats to the water hole. The gate opened, a stench spread over the surroundings, the bells tinkled. The boy in his little cotton shirt moved across the ranch yard, rounded the rock pile where they threw dead snakes, passed the jujubes, went down the slope, and arrived at the riverbank.

  The goats were pushing and shoving, sticking their noses in the water, their horns clattering against each other. The dog ran around barking busily.

  Climbing up on the bank, his heart beating wildly, the younger boy waited for the billy goat to come down to the water hole. It was a risky business, but it seemed to him that up there he was taller and could be another Fabiano.

  He couldn’t make up his mind though. The billy goat would surely buck and throw him.

  He straightened up and started away, almost free of the temptation. He saw a flock of parakeets flying over the brush. He would have liked to get hold of one, tie a string to its leg, and feed it. The parakeets disappeared, screeching, and the boy was left sadly scanning
the cloud-filled sky. Some of the clouds looked at first like little sheep, but then they lost that shape and took on those of other animals. Two big ones came together; one looked like the sorrel mare; the other like Fabiano.

  The boy lowered his sun-blinded eyes, rubbed them, and again approached the riverbank, from which he could view the confused mass of the flock and hear the clatter of horn on horn. If the billy goat had already drunk he was going to be disappointed. He examined his spindling legs and his dirty, torn shirt. He had made out figures of living beings in the sky and was convinced that mysterious forces would come to his aid. He would float in the air, like a parakeet.

  He began to bleat, imitating the goats, calling to his brother and the dog. Meeting with no response, he felt resentful. He was going to show the two of them something that would send them back to the house full of amazement.

  At this point the billy goat approached and stuck its nose in the water. The boy leaped from the bank and landed astride its back.

  He dug into the soft hair, slipped, tried in vain to get a hold with his heels. He was thrown forward and then back, and found himself straddling the animal’s hindquarters. The goat was bucking wildly, probably backing away from the water hole. The boy leaned to one side, but a violent shake brought him back to an upright position. Then a mad dance began, in which his arms and legs waved helplessly in the air. Thrown forward once again, he gave a somersault over the goat’s head, tearing his shirt still further on one of the horns, and landed sprawling in the sand. There he lay, flat and motionless, his ears buzzing. He was vaguely conscious that he had escaped from his adventure without honor.