“That’s about all you get out of life, captain,” he explained. “You live down there in the wilderness, felling the timber so that you can plant cacao, slaving like any back-country clodhopper, dodging snake-bites and bullets fired from behind a tree—and if you don’t eat well, what are you going to do? We don’t have any big-town luxuries—no theatres, women, cafés, nothing of that sort. It’s work day and night, cutting timber and planting cacao.”
Ferreirinha bore him out: “It’s hard work, all right.”
“But there’s a lot of money to be made,” put in the travelling salesman, wiping the wine from his lips.
Once again Maneca Dantas smiled.
“That’s the truth,” he said, “there is money to be made. It’s good land, captain, worth the labour that it takes. The yield is good, you raise a lot of cacao, and you get a good price for it. There’s no complaint on that score. You always have enough to be able to offer a bite to your friends.”
“I’m going to be in that neighbourhood on the 16th,” the salesman said, “on my way to Sequeiro Grande; I’m spending the night there.”
“At your service,” said Maneca. “And you, captain—will you come along?”
João Magalhães said it was quite possible that he would. He was thinking of staying in the region for some little time. As a matter of fact, he wanted to see if it was worth his while to invest a little money in cacao land. He had heard of this country down in Rio and of the money that was to be made there, and he was tempted to invest a portion of his capital in cacao plantations. True, he likewise had no reason to complain; the greater part of his wealth was in Rio de Janeiro real estate and it gave him a good return; but he had a little left over in the bank, some dozens of contos, and he also had large holdings in government bonds. If it was worth while—
“Indeed it is worth your while, captain.” Maneca Dantas’s tone was serious. “It is certainly worth while. Cacao is a new crop, but the land there is the best in the world for that purpose. Many experts have been down to look it over, and they are all agreed on that. There is no better land for cacao-raising. And the yield is all that anybody could ask; I wouldn’t trade it for coffee, nor even for sugar-cane. The only thing is, the folks down our way are a rough and ready lot, but a gentleman of your courage shouldn’t mind that. I am telling you, captain, in twenty years’ time Ilhéos will be a great city, a capital; and all the little towns of today—they will be big cities, too. Cacao is gold, captain.”
Thus they went on talking, of the voyage and one thing and another. João Magalhães spoke of other places he had visited, of his journeys by rail and on great ocean liners. His prestige was growing moment by moment, and the circle of admirers was also increasing as story after story was told and the wine flowed freely. All the while, the captain was subtly endeavouring to steer the conversation to the subject of cards, and they ended by getting up a poker game. Colonel Totonho, proprietor of Riacho Seco, sat in, but the travelling salesman did not—the ante was too high for him, the game too fast. And so João and the three colonels made up the table, the others looking on.
“I don’t know much about this game,” Maneca Dantas remarked as he took off his overcoat. Ferreirinha burst into another guffaw.
“Don’t you believe that, captain. Maneca is a master hand at poker. I’ve never seen his match.”
Maneca now stuck his revolver in the pocket of his overcoat, so that it would not be in plain sight there in his belt; and João Magalhães pondered the question as to whether it might not be a good thing for him to lose at first and not display his abilities all at once. The bar-boy brought a deck.
“Joker wild?” Maneca inquired.
“As you like,” replied João Magalhães.
“Joker wild is not poker,” said Totonho, speaking for the first time. “Don’t keep the joker, please.”
“Very well, my friend,” and Maneca tossed it in the discard.
Ferreirinha was banker, and each one bought five hundred milreis’ worth of chips. João was studying Totonho attentively. The latter had a vacant eye and wore three rings on one of his hands. He was silent and sombre-looking. It would be well to give him the cards. The captain had made up his mind not to cheat, but to play fairly, even foolishly if possible, to lose a little something. That way he would have these fellows for another game which would pay a good deal better.
He held a pair of kings, and made his bet; Maneca Dantas raised him sixteen; Ferreirinha passed, Totonho stayed, and João “saw” the raise. Ferreirinha dealt the cards; Maneca drew two, Totonho one.
“It’s up to you gentlemen,” said João.
Totonho threw down his cards; Maneca bet, but no one “saw” him, and he took the pot. He was bluffing and could not refrain from showing his hand.
“A three-wheeler,” he said. He held a king, a queen, and a jack and had drawn for a straight. João Magalhães laughed and slapped him on the back.
“Very good, colonel; that was very good.”
Totonho was eyeing him grimly, but said nothing. The captain proceeded to lose all he had to the other players. There was no doubt of it, he would make a fortune in the land of cacao.
9
Tired of watching the game, the travelling salesman went up on, deck, where Margot stood leaning over the rail, drenched in moonlight and lost in thought. The sea was dark green, and the last of the city’s lights had long since disappeared. The boat was tossing, and nearly all the passengers had retired to their cabins or were lying stretched out on deck-chairs, wrapped in heavy blankets. In third-class the harmonica again was playing a languid air. The moon was in the centre of the heavens now, and a cold gust of wind blew in from the south, lifting Margot’s blond locks. She grasped the rail as her hair floated on the breeze. When he saw that she was alone, the salesman whistled softly to himself and approached her gradually. He had no definite plan of action, no more than a vague hope in his heart.
“Good evening.”
Margot turned, putting up a hand to her hair.
“Good evening.”
“Turning cool, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
Once more she gazed at the sea, where the stars were reflected. Drawing a kerchief over her head to restrain her hair, she moved over to make room for the salesman at the rail. There was a prolonged silence. Margot appeared not to be aware of his presence, being lost in contemplation of the mystery of sea and sky. It was he who finally spoke.
“You are going to Ilhéos?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Going to stay down there?”
“I don’t know. If I make out all right—”
“You were in Lisia’s place, weren’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” and she nodded her head.
“I saw you there, last Saturday. You were with Lawyer—”
“I know.” She turned back to gaze at the sea, as if she did not care to continue the conversation.
“Ilhéos is the land of money, big money. A kid as pretty as you ought to get herself a grove. There can’t fail to be a colonel among the customers.”
She took her eyes away from the sea and looked hard at her companion. It was as if she were doubtful whether she ought to speak or not. Then she gazed back into the water without saying a word.
“Juca Badaró,” the salesman continued, “was talking to you a little while ago. Better be careful.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s one of the rich men of the country—a brave one, too. The workers on his plantation are a hell-raising lot, they say. They are bullies and braggarts; they run over other people’s land and kill folks right and left. He’s the master of Sequeiro Grande.”
Margot was interested, and he went on.
“They say the whole family is brave, men and women alike, that even the women are killers. Want some advice? Don’t get mixed up with him.”
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Margot stuck out her lip disdainfully.
“And who told you that I was interested in him? He’s just an old rooster who runs after every young pullet that he sees. I want nothing to do with him. I’m not out for money.”
The travelling salesman gave an incredulous smile and shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that her opinion mattered little to him.
“There was one young girl,” he said, “who was friendly with him, and Juca’s wife had her done in.”
“But whatever put it in your head that it’s any concern of mine? He can have as many women as he pleases; he’s not going to have this one.” And she struck her hand to her bosom. Once again she seemed on the verge of speaking, and then apparently made up her mind.
“You saw me dancing with Virgilio, didn’t you? Well, he’s in Ilhéos, and I’m going to him.”
“That’s right—I’d forgotten. He is down there, sure enough. Practising law—lad with a future, eh? They tell me Colonel Horacio sent for him to come down and take over the leadership of the party.” The salesman nodded his head as if convinced. “If that’s how it is, I’ve nothing more to say. My only advice is: watch out for Juca Badaró.”
He walked away. It was not worth while talking to her, for a girl in love is worse than a virgin. But what would Juca Badaró have to say to it?
Margot undid the kerchief and let the wind lift her hair.
10
A shadowy figure glided up the stairs and, before setting foot in first-class, glanced around furtively to see if anyone was about. The man smoothed down his hair, adjusted the scarf that was tied about his throat. His hands were still swollen from the treatment he had received at the police station. The big ring with the false stone was no longer on his finger. The sergeant had said there was nothing to do but to crack the fellow’s hands, so that they would not go into another person’s pockets. Fernando climbed the last step and made for the side of the boat opposite where Margot was standing. Catching sight of a member of the crew, he went up to the rail, as if he were a first-class passenger taking the night air; after which he stole slowly over to the deck-chair where a man was snoring. His deft hands slipped under the blanket, under the overcoat, touched the cold steel of a revolver, and drew out from his victim’s pocket a fat bill-fold. The man did not stir.
The thief returned to third-class. Tossing the bill-fold into the sea, he stuck the money into his own pocket. Then he tiptoed along among the sleeping passengers looking for someone. In one corner, stretched out as if he were lying on the ground, the old man who was going back to avenge his son’s death was snoring away sonorously. Taking out a few of the banknotes, Fernando, with all the dexterity of which his hands were capable, crammed them into the old man’s pocket. Holding his breath as he did so, he hid the remaining ones in the lining of his overcoat and then went over to the far-distant corner where Antonio Victor lay dreaming of Estancia and of Ivone’s warm body beside him.
11
It was cold in the late hours of night, and the deck-passengers huddled under their blankets. Margot caught the sound of voices at a distance.
“If cacao brings fourteen milreis this year, I’m going to take the family to Rio.”
“I’d like to build a house in Ilhéos.”
The speakers were drawing nearer, talking as they came.
“That was a nasty business, having Zequinha shot in the back.”
“But there will be a trial this time, I’ll guarantee you that.”
“Let’s hope so.”
They came to a stop in front of Margot and stood looking her over without the least ceremony. The short man smiled beneath an enormous moustache, which he stroked every other minute.
“You’ll catch cold like that, young lady.”
Margot made no reply.
“Where are you staying in Ilhéos?” the other asked. “At Machadão’s place?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Don’t be stuck up, miss. It’s off folks like us that you’re going to make a living, ain’t that right? Look, my friend Moura here can fix you up in fine style.”
The short man tugged at his moustache. “And I’ll come around, too, my dear. All you have to do is say the word.”
They saw Juca Badaró approaching.
“Excuse me.”
“Good evening, Juca.” And the two of them slipped away.
Juca nodded, then turned to Margot.
“It’s time you were asleep, young lady. It’s better to sleep than to stand here gabbling with everyone who comes along.” He gazed resentfully at the backs of the retreating pair, but Margot stared straight at Juca.
“Who gave you the right to meddle in my life?”
“Better look sharp, young lady. I’m going below to see how my wife’s getting along in the cabin; but I’ll be back, and if I find you here, there’s going to be a rumpus. A woman of mine does what I say.” And with this he left.
“A woman of mine—” Margot repeated to herself contemptuously. Then, taking her time about it, she went down to her stateroom. As she passed, she heard the short man with the moustache saying:
“That fellow Juca Badaró has a good lesson coming to him.”
Of a sudden she felt as if she were Juca’s woman.
“Then why don’t you teach it to him?” she asked.
12
A deepening silence lay upon the ship as it ploughed through the night sea. The harmonicas and guitars in third-class had stopped playing, and no voice sang the sad, sad songs of love and longing. Margot had gone to her cabin, and no musing passenger leaned on the ship’s rail. The words of the poker-players were lost before they reached the sea. Suffused in the red and ominous light of the moon, the boat ploughed on, blanketed now in silence. The night aboard ship was filled with sleep—with sleep and dreams and the hopes of men.
The captain came down from the bridge, accompanied by the first mate. Together they made their way through the cluster of first-class passengers, asleep beneath their blankets. Now and then one of the figures would mutter a word; he was dreaming of cacao plantations laden with fruit. The skipper and the first mate descended the narrow stairs to third-class, where men and women lay huddled against one another for warmth. The skipper was silent. The second officer whistled a popular tune. Antonio Victor had a beatific smile on his lips, as he dreamed of an easy fortune won in the land of Ilhéos and of his return to Estancia in quest of Ivone.
The captain halted and looked at the sleeping mulatto.
“You see?” he said, turning to the mate. “He won’t smile so much when he gets down there in the woods.” And with his foot he pushed Antonio Victor’s head. “I feel sorry for them.”
They came up to the rail in the stern of the ship. The waves were tossing high and the moon was red. They were silent as the second officer lighted his pipe. It was the skipper who spoke at last.
“You know,” he said, “there are times when I feel like the captain of one of those slavers in the old days.” As the mate did not reply, he went on to explain. “One of those ships that brought blacks over to sell them as slaves.” He pointed to the sleeping figures, to Antonio Victor, who was smiling still. “What difference is there?”
The first mate shrugged his shoulders, gave a puff on his pipe, but said nothing. He was gazing out over the sea, the immensity of the night, and the heaven of stars.
II
THE FOREST
1
The forest lay sleeping its never interrupted sleep. Over it passed the days and the nights. The summer sun shone above it, the winter rains fell upon it. Its trees were centuries old, an unending green overrunning the mountain, invading the plain, lost in the infinite. It was like a sea that had never been explored, locked in its own mystery. It was like a virgin whose flesh had never known the call of passion. Like a virgin, it was lovely, radiant, young, despite
those century-old trunks. Mysterious as the body of a woman that has not as yet been possessed, it, too, was now ardently desired.
From the forest came the trill of birds on sunny mornings. Summer swallows flew over its tree-tops, and troops of monkeys ran up and down the trees and leaped crazily from bough to bough. Owls hooted by the yellow light of the moon on nights of calm. Their cries were not forebodings of evil, for men had not yet come to the giant wood. Innumerable species of snakes glided noiselessly among the dried leaves, and jaguars yowled frightfully those nights when they were in rut.
The forest with its age-old trees lay sleeping, and its interlacing lianas, its mire, and its prickly thorns stood guard over it as it slumbered.
Out of the forest, out of its mystery, fear came to the hearts of men. As they arrived of an afternoon, after having made their way through mud and stream to open a trail, as they stood there face to face with this virginal growth, they were paralyzed with fright. Night came, bringing with it black clouds, heavy with June rains, and for the first time the owl’s hoot was an augury of woe. The weird cry resounded through the forest, awakening the animals; snakes hissed, jaguars howled in their hidden lairs, swallows dropped dead from the bough, and the monkeys took flight. As the tempest fell, ghostly forms awoke. The truth is, they had come with the men, in their wake, along with the axes and the scythes—or can it be that they had dwelt in the forest since the very beginning of time? On this night they awoke: the werewolf and the goblin, the padre’s she-mule, and the fire-breathing ox, the boi tátá.
The men huddled together in fright, for the forest inspired a religious awe. There was no trail here; here were only animals and ghosts. And so they came to a halt, fear in their hearts.
The tempest broke, lightning rent the skies, thunder crashed as though the deities of the wood were gritting their teeth at the threat that man brought with him. The lightning’s rays illumined the forest from moment to moment, but all that the men could see was the dark green of the trunks as they listened intently to the sounds that reached their ears: the hiss of the fleeing snakes, the yowl of the terror-stricken jaguars, the terrifying voices of those shadowy shapes let loose in the wilderness. That fire which ran along the tops of the tallest boughs, that came without a doubt from the nostrils of the boi tátá. And that sound of hoofs which they heard, what was it if not the padre’s she-mule scurrying through the undergrowth, once a beautiful maiden, who, in an access of love, had given herself to the sacrilegious embraces of a priest? They were no longer conscious of the howling of the jaguar. Now it was the ugly cry of the werewolf, a creature half wolf, half man, with enormous claws, and crazed by a mother’s curse. The sinister goblin dance of the caapora on its one leg, with its one arm, as it laughed from a face that was cloven in two. There was fear in the hearts of men.