The War Of The End Of The World Part 27

The nearsighted journalist looked at him intently. And the baron noted how surprised he looked.

"He burned Calumbi down," he explained slowly. "He was the one who...Did he die? How did he die?"

"I suppose he's dead," the nearsighted journalist said. "Why wouldn't he be? Why wouldn't he and Abbot Joao and Big Joao-all of them-be dead?"

"You didn't die, and according to what you've told me, Vilanova didn't die either. Was he able to escape?"

"They didn't want to escape," the journalist said sadly. "They wanted to get in, to stay there, to die there. What happened to Vilanova was exceptional. He didn't want to leave either. They ordered him to."

So he wasn't absolutely certain that Pajeu was dead. The baron imagined him, taking up his old life again, free again, at the head of a cangaco cangaco he'd gotten together again, with malefactors from all over, adding endless terrible misdeeds to his legend, in Ceara, in Pernambuco, in regions more distant still. He felt his head go round and round. he'd gotten together again, with malefactors from all over, adding endless terrible misdeeds to his legend, in Ceara, in Pernambuco, in regions more distant still. He felt his head go round and round.

"Antonio Vilanova," the Counselor murmurs, producing a sort of electrical discharge in the Sanctuary. "He's spoken, he's spoken," the Little Blessed One thinks, so awestruck he has gooseflesh all over. "Praised be the Father, praised be the Blessed Jesus." He steps toward the rush pallet at the same time as Maria Quadrado, the Lion of Natuba, Father Joaquim, and the women of the Sacred Choir; in the gloomy light of dusk, all eyes are riveted on the long, dark, motionless face with eyelids still tightly closed. It is not a hallucination: he has spoken.

The Little Blessed One sees that beloved mouth, grown so emaciated that the lips have disappeared, open to repeat: "Antonio Vilanova." They react, say "Yes, yes, Father," rush to the door of the Sanctuary to tell the Catholic Guard to go fetch Antonio Vilanova. Several men leave on the run, hurriedly making their way between the stones and sandbags of the parapet. At that moment, there is no shooting. The Little Blessed One goes back to the Counselor's bedside; he is again lying there silent, his bones protruding from the dark purple tunic whose folds betray here and there how frightfully thin he is. "He is more spirit than flesh now," the Little Blessed One thinks. The Superior of the Sacred Choir, encouraged at hearing the Counselor speak, comes toward him with a bowl containing a little milk. He hears her say softly, in a voice full of devotion and hope: "Would you like a little something to drink, Father?" He has heard her ask the same question many times in these last days. But this time, unlike the others, when the Counselor lay there without answering, the skeleton-like head with long disheveled gray hair drooping down from it shakes from one side to the other: no. A wave of happiness mounts within the Little Blessed One. He is alive, he is going to live. Because in these recent days, even though Father Joaquim came to the Counselor's bedside every so often to take his pulse and listen to his heart to a.s.sure them that he was breathing, and even though that little trickle of water kept constantly flowing out of him, the Little Blessed One could not help thinking, as he saw him lying there, so silent and so still, that the Counselor's soul had gone up to heaven.

A hand tugs at him from the floor. He looks down and sees the Lion of Natuba's huge, anxious, bright eyes gazing up at him from amid a jungle of long, tangled locks. "Is he going to live, Little Blessed One?" There is so much anguish in the voice of the scribe of Belo Monte that the Little Blessed One feels like crying.

"Yes, yes, Lion, he's going to live for us, he's going to live a long time still."

But he knows that this is not true; something deep inside him tells him that these are the last days, perhaps the last hours, of the man who changed his life and those of all who are in the Sanctuary, of all who are giving their lives there outside, fighting and dying in the maze of caves and trenches that Belo Monte has now turned into. He knows this is the end. He has known it ever since he learned, simultaneously, that Fazenda Velha had fallen and that the Counselor had fainted dead away in the Sanctuary. The Little Blessed One knows how to decipher the symbols, to interpret the secret message of the coincidences, accidents, apparent happenstances that pa.s.s unnoticed by the others; he has powers of intuition that enable him to recognize instantly, beneath the innocent and the trivial, the deeply hidden presence of the beyond. On that day he had been in the Church of Santo Antonio, turned since the beginning of the war into a clinic, leading the sick, the wounded, the women in labor, the orphans there in the recitation of the Rosary, raising his voice so that this suffering, bleeding, purulent, half-dead humanity could hear his Ave Marias and Pater Nosters amid the din of the rifle volleys and the cannon salvos. And just then he had seen a "youngster" and Alexandrinha Correa come running in at the same time, leaping over the bodies lying one atop the other.

The young boy spoke first. "The dogs have entered Fazenda Velha, Little Blessed One. Abbot Joao says that a wall has to be erected on the corner of Martires, because the atheists can now pa.s.s that way freely."

And the "youngster" had barely turned around to leave when the former water divineress, in a voice even more upset than the expression on her face, whispered another piece of news in his ear which he immediately sensed was far more serious still: "The Counselor has been taken ill."

His legs tremble, his mouth goes dry, his heart sinks, just as on that morning-how long ago now? Six, seven, ten days? He had to struggle to make his feet obey him and run after Alexandrinha Correa. When he arrived at the Sanctuary, the Counselor had been lifted up onto his pallet and had opened his eyes again and gazed rea.s.suringly at the distraught women of the Choir and the Lion of Natuba. It had happened when he rose to his feet after praying for several hours, lying face down on the floor with his arms outstretched, as always. The women, the Lion of Natuba, Mother Maria Quadrado noted how difficult it was for him to get up, first putting one knee on the floor and helping himself with one hand and then the other, and how pale he turned from the effort or the pain of remaining on his feet. Then suddenly he sank to the floor once again, like a sack of bones. At that moment-was it six, seven, ten days ago?-the Little Blessed One had a revelation: the eleventh hour had come for the Counselor.

Why was he so selfish? How could he fail to rejoice that the Counselor would be going to his rest, would ascend to heaven to receive his reward for what he had done on this earth? Shouldn't he be singing hosannas? Of course he should be. But he is unable to; his soul is transfixed with grief. "We'll be left orphans," he thinks once again. At that moment, he is distracted by a little sound coming from the pallet, escaping from underneath the Counselor. It is a little sound that does not make the saint's body stir even slightly, but already Mother Maria Quadrado and the devout women hurriedly surround the pallet, raise his habit, clean him, humbly collect what-the Little Blessed One thinks to himself-is not excrement, since excrement is dirty and impure and nothing that comes from his body can be that. How could that little watery trickle that has flowed continually from that poor body-for six, seven, ten days-be dirty, impure? Has the Counselor eaten a single mouthful in these days that would make his system have any impurities to evacuate? "It is his essence that is flowing out down there, it is part of his soul, something that he is leaving us." He sensed this immediately, from the very first moment. There was something mysterious and sacred about that sudden, soft, prolonged breaking of wind, about those attacks that seemed never to end, always accompanied by the emission of that little trickle of water. He divined the secret meaning: "They are gifts, not excrement." He understood very clearly that the Father, or the Divine Holy Spirit, or the Blessed Jesus, or Our Lady, or the Counselor himself wanted to put them to the test. In a sudden happy inspiration, he came forward, stretched his hand out between the women, wet his fingers in the trickle and raised them to his mouth, intoning: "Is this how you wish your slave to take Communion, Father? Is this not dew to me?" All the women of the Sacred Choir also took Communion, in the same way.

Why was the Father subjecting the saint to such agony? Why did He want him to spend his last moment defecating, defecating, even though what flowed from his body was manna? The Lion of Natuba, Mother Maria Quadrado, and the women of the Choir do not understand this. The Little Blessed One has tried to explain it and prepare them: "The Father does not want him to fall into the hands of the dogs. If He takes him to Him, it is so that he will not be humiliated. But at the same time He does not want us to believe that He is freeing him from pain, from doing penance. That is why He is making him suffer, before giving him his recompense." Father Joaquim has told him that he did well to prepare them; he, too, fears that the Counselor's death will upset them, will wrest impious protests from their lips, reactions that are harmful to their souls. The Dog is lying in wait and would not miss an opportunity to seize upon this prey.

He realizes that the shooting has begun again-a heavy, steady, circular fusillade-when the door of the Sanctuary is opened. Antonio Vilanova is standing there. With him are Abbot Joao, Pajeu, Big Joao, exhausted, sweaty, reeking of gunpowder, but with radiant faces: they have learned the news that he has spoken, that he is alive.

"Here is Antonio Vilanova, Father," the Lion of Natuba says, rising up on his hind limbs toward the Counselor.

The Little Blessed One holds his breath. The men and women crowded into the room-they are so cramped for s.p.a.ce that none of them can raise his or her arms without hitting a neighbor-are gazing in rapt suspense at that mouth without lips or teeth, that face that resembles a death mask. Is he going to speak, is he going to speak? Despite the noisy chatter of the guns outside, the Little Blessed One hears once again the unmistakable little trickling sound. Neither Maria Quadrado nor the women make a move to clean him. They all remain motionless, bending over the pallet, waiting.

The Superior of the Sacred Choir brings her mouth down next to the ear covered with grizzled locks of hair and repeats: "Here is Antonio Vilanova, Father."

The Counselor's eyelids flutter slightly and his mouth opens just a bit. The Little Blessed One realizes that he is trying to speak, that his weakness and his pain do not allow him to utter a single sound, and he begs the Father to grant the Counselor that grace, offering in return to suffer any torment himself, when he hears the beloved voice, so feeble now that every head in the room leans forward to listen: "Are you there, Antonio? Can you hear me?"

The former trader falls to his knees, takes one of the Counselor's hands in his, and kisses it reverently. "Yes, Father, yes, Father." He is drenched with sweat, his face is puffy, he is panting for breath and trembling. The Little Blessed One feels envious of his friend. Why is Antonio the one who has been called, and not him? He reproaches himself for this thought and fears that the Counselor will make them all leave the room so as to speak to Antonio alone.

"Go out into the world to bear witness, Antonio, and do not cross inside the circle again. I shall stay here with the flock. You are to go out there beyond the circle. You are a man who is acquainted with the world. Go, teach those who have forgotten their lessons how to count. May the Divine guide you and the Father bless you."

The ex-trader's face screws up, contorts into a grimace as he bursts into sobs. "It is the Counselor's testament," the Little Blessed One thinks. He is perfectly aware what a solemn, transcendent moment this is. What he is seeing and hearing will be recalled down through the years, the centuries, among thousands and thousands of men of every tongue, of every race, in every corner of the globe; it will be recalled by countless human beings not yet born. Antonio Vilanova's broken voice is begging the Counselor not to send him forth, as he desperately kisses the dark bony hands with the long fingernails. He should intervene, remind Antonio that at this moment he may not oppose a desire of the Counselor's. He draws closer, places one hand on his friend's shoulder; the affectionate pressure is enough to calm him. Vilanova looks at him with eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears, begging him for help, for some sort of explanation. The Counselor remains silent. Is he about to hear his voice once more? He hears, twice in a row, the soft little sound. He has often asked himself whether each time he hears it, the Counselor is experiencing writhing, stabbing, wrenching pains, terrible cramps, whether the Dog has its fangs in his belly. He now knows that it does. He has only to glimpse that very slight grimace on the emaciated face each time the saint quietly breaks wind to know that the sound is accompanied by flames and knives that are sheer martyrdom.

"Take your family with you, so that you won't be alone," the Counselor whispers. "And take the strangers who are friends of Father Joaquim's with you. Let each one gain salvation through his own effort. As you are doing, my son."

Despite the hypnotic attention with which he is listening to the Counselor's words, the Little Blessed One catches a glimpse of the grimace contorting Pajeu's face: the scar appears to swell up and split open, and his mouth flies open to ask a question or perhaps to protest, beside himself at the prospect that the woman he wishes to marry will be leaving Belo Monte. In utter amazement, the Little Blessed One suddenly understands why the Counselor, in this supreme moment, has remembered the strangers whom Father Joaquim has taken under his wing. So as to save an apostle! So as to save Pajeu from the fall that this woman might mean for him! Or does he simply wish to test the caboclo? caboclo? Or give him the opportunity to gain pardon for his sins through suffering? Pajeu's olive face is again a blank, serene, untroubled, respectful, as he stands looking down at the pallet with his leather hat in his hand. Or give him the opportunity to gain pardon for his sins through suffering? Pajeu's olive face is again a blank, serene, untroubled, respectful, as he stands looking down at the pallet with his leather hat in his hand.

The Little Blessed One is certain now that the saint's mouth will not open again. "Only his other mouth is speaking," he thinks. What is the message of that stomach that has been giving off wind and leaking water for six, seven, ten days now? It torments him to think that in that wind and that water there is a message addressed to him, which he might misinterpret, might not hear. He knows that nothing is accidental, that there is no such thing as sheer chance, that everything has a profound meaning, a root whose ramifications always lead to the Father, and that if one is holy enough he may glimpse the miraculous, secret order that G.o.d has inst.i.tuted in the world.

The Counselor is mute once again, as though he had never spoken. Standing at one corner of the pallet, Father Joaquim moves his lips, praying in silence. Everyone's eyes glisten. No one has moved, even though all of them sense that the saint has spoken his last. The eleventh hour. The Little Blessed One has suspected that the end was at hand ever since the little white lamb was killed by a stray bullet as Alexandrinha Correa was holding it one evening, accompanying the Counselor back to the Sanctuary after the counsels. That was one of the last times that the Counselor had left the Sanctuary. "His voice was no longer heard, he was already in the Garden of Olives." Making a superhuman effort, he still left the Sanctuary every day to climb up the scaffolding, pray, and give counsels. But his voice was a mere whisper, barely understandable even to those who were at his side. The Little Blessed One himself, who remained inside the living wall of Catholic Guards, could catch only a few words now and again. When Mother Maria Quadrado asked the Counselor whether he wanted this little animal sanctified by his caresses to be buried in the Sanctuary, he answered no and directed that it be used to feed the Catholic Guard.

At that moment the Counselor's right hand moves, searching for something; his gnarled fingers rise and fall on the straw mattress, reach out, contract. What is he looking for, what is it he wants? The Little Blessed One sees his own distress mirrored in the eyes of Maria Quadrado, Big Joao, Pajeu, the women of the Sacred Choir.

"Lion, are you there?"

He feels a knife thrust in his breast. He would have given anything for the Counselor to have uttered his name, for his hand to have sought him out. The Lion of Natuba rises up and thrusts his huge s.h.a.ggy head toward that hand to kiss it. But the hand does not give him time, for the moment it senses that that face is close it runs rapidly along it and the fingers sink deep into the thick tangled locks. What is happening is hidden from the Little Blessed One's eyes by a veil of tears. But he does not need to see: he knows that the Counselor is scratching, delousing, stroking with his last strength, as he has seen him do down through the many long years, the head of the Lion of Natuba.

The tremendous roar that shakes the Sanctuary forces him to close his eyes, to crouch down, to raise his hands to protect himself from what appears to be an avalanche of stones. Blind, he hears the uproar, the shouts, the running footsteps, wonders if he is dead and if it is his soul that is trembling. Finally he hears Abbot Joao: "The bell tower of Santo Antonio has fallen." He opens his eyes. The Sanctuary has filled with dust and everyone has changed places. He makes his way to the pallet, knowing what awaits him. Amid the cloud of dust he makes out the hand quietly resting on the head of the Lion of Natuba, who is still kneeling in the same position. And he sees Father Joaquim, his ear glued to the thin chest.

After a moment, the priest rises to his feet, his face pale and drawn. "He has given his soul up to G.o.d," he stammers, and for those present the phrase is more deafening than the din outside.

No one weeps and wails, no one falls to his knees. They all stand there as if turned to stone. They avoid each other's eyes, as though if they were to meet they would see all the filth in the other's soul, as though in this supreme moment all their most intimate dirty secrets were welling up through them. Dust is raining down from the ceiling, from the walls, and the Little Blessed One's ears, as though they were someone else's, continue to hear from outside, both close at hand and very far away, screams, moans, feet running, walls creaking and collapsing, and the shouts of joy with which the soldiers who have taken the trenches of what were once the streets of Sao Pedro and Sao Cipriano and the old cemetery are hailing the fall of the tower of the church that they have been bombarding for so long. And the Little Blessed One's mind, as though it were someone else's, pictures the dozens of Catholic Guards who have fallen along with the bell tower, and the dozens of sick, wounded, disabled, women in labor, newborn babies, centenarians who at this moment must be lying crushed to death, smashed to pieces, ground to bits beneath the adobe bricks, the stones, the beams, saved now, glorious bodies now, climbing up the golden stairs of martyrs to the Father's throne, or perhaps still dying in terrible pain amid smoking rubble. But in reality the Little Blessed One is neither hearing nor seeing nor thinking: there is nothing left of the world, he is no longer a creature of flesh and bone, he is a feather drifting helplessly in a whirlpool at the bottom of a precipice. As though through the eyes of another, he sees Father Joaquim remove the Counselor's hand from the mane of the Lion of Natuba and place it alongside the other, atop his body.

The Little Blessed One then begins to speak, in the solemn, deep voice in which he chants in the church and in processions. "We shall bear him to the Temple that he ordered built and we shall keep a death watch over him for three days and three nights, in order that every man and woman may adore him. And we shall bear him in procession amid all the houses, through all the streets of Belo Monte in order that his body may for the last time purify the city of the wickedness of the Can. And we shall bury him beneath the main altar of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus and place on his tomb the wooden cross that he made with his own hands in the desert."

He crosses himself devoutly and all the others do likewise, without taking their eyes off the pallet. The first sobs that the Little Blessed One hears are those of the Lion of Natuba; his entire little hunchbacked, asymmetrical body contorts as he weeps. The Little Blessed One kneels and the others follow suit; he can now hear others sobbing. But it is Father Joaquim's voice, praying in Latin, that takes possession of the Sanctuary, and for a fair time drowns out the sounds from outside. As he prays, with joined hands, slowly coming to, recovering his hearing, his sight, his body, the earthly life that he seemed to have lost, the Little Blessed One feels that boundless despair that he has not felt since, as a youngster, he heard Father Moraes tell him that he could not be a priest because he had been born a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child. "Why are you abandoning us in these moments, Father?"

"What will we do without you, Father?" He remembers the wire that the Counselor placed around his waist, in Pombal, that he is still wearing, all rusted and twisted, become flesh of his flesh now, and he tells himself that it is a precious relic, as is everything else that the saint has touched, seen, or said during his stay on earth.

"We can't do it, Little Blessed One," Abbot Joao declares.

The Street Commander is kneeling next to him; his eyes are bloodshot and his voice filled with emotion. But he says, with authority: "We can't take him to the Temple of the Blessed Jesus or bury him the way you want to. We can't do that to people, Little Blessed One! Do you want to plunge a knife in their backs? Are you going to tell those who are fighting, even though they've no ammunition or food left, that the one they're fighting for has died? Are you capable of such an act of cruelty? Wouldn't that be worse than the Freemasons' evil deeds?"

"He's right, Little Blessed One," Pajeu says. "We can't tell them that he's died. Not now, not at this point. Everything would fall to pieces, it would be chaos, people would go crazy. We must keep it a secret if we want them to go on fighting."

"That's not the only reason," Big Joao says, and this is the voice that astonishes him most, for since when has this timid giant, whose every word must be dragged out of him by force, ever voluntarily opened his mouth to venture an opinion? "Won't the dogs look for his remains with all the hatred in the world so as to desecrate them? n.o.body must know where he is buried. Do you want the heretics to find his body, Little Blessed One?"

The Little Blessed One feels his teeth chatter, as though he were having an attack of fever. It is true, quite true; in his eagerness to render homage to his beloved master, to give him a wake and a burial worthy of his majesty, he has forgotten that the dogs are only a few steps away and that they would be bound to vent their fury on his remains like rapacious wolves. Yes, he understands now-it is as though the roof had opened and a blinding light, with the Divine in the center, had illuminated him-why the Father has taken their master to His bosom at this very moment, and what the obligation of the apostles is: to preserve his remains, to keep the demon from defiling them.

"You're right, you're right!" he exclaims vehemently, contritely. "Forgive me; grief clouded my mind, or the Evil One perhaps. I know now; I understand now. We won't tell the others that he's dead. We'll hold his wake here, we'll bury him here. We'll dig his grave and n.o.body except us will know where. That is the Father's will."

A moment before, he had felt resentment toward Abbot Joao, Pajeu, and Big Joao for opposing the funeral ceremony. Now, however, he feels grat.i.tude toward them for having helped him to decipher the message. Thin, frail, delicate, full of energy, impatient, he moves in and out among the women of the Choir and the apostles, pushing them, urging them to stop weeping, to overcome their paralysis that is a trap of the Devil, imploring them to get to their feet, to get moving, to bring picks, shovels to dig with. "There's no time left, there's no time," he says to frighten them.

And so he manages to communicate his sense of energy: they rise to their feet, dry their eyes, take courage, look at each other, nod, prod each other into moving. It is Abbot Joao, with that sense of practicality that never forsakes him, who makes up the white lie to tell the men on the parapets protecting the Sanctuary: they are going to dig a tunnel, of the sort found everywhere in Belo Monte these days to permit free pa.s.sage between houses and trenches, in case the dogs block off the Sanctuary. Big Joao goes out and comes back with shovels. They immediately begin digging, next to the pallet, taking turns by fours, and on handing their shovels over to the next man, they kneel down to pray till it is their turn again. They go on in this way for hours, not noticing that darkness has fallen, that the Mother of Men has lighted an oil lamp, and that, outside, the shooting, the hate-filled shouts, and the cheers have begun again, stopped again, started yet again. Each time someone standing next to the pyramid of earth that has grown higher and higher as the hole has become deeper and deeper asks, the Little Blessed One's answer is: "Deeper, deeper."

When inspiration tells him that it is deep enough, all of them, beginning with himself, are exhausted, their hair and skin encrusted with dirt. The Little Blessed One has the sensation that the moments that follow are a dream, as he takes the head, Mother Maria Quadrado one of the legs, Pajeu the other, Big Joao one of the arms, Father Joaquim the other, and together they lift up the Counselor's body so that the women of the Sacred Choir may place beneath it the little straw mat that will be his shroud. Once the body is in place, Maria Quadrado places on his chest the metal crucifix that was the sole object decorating the walls of the Sanctuary and the rosary with dark beads that he has never been without so long as any of them can remember. They lift up the remains, wrapped in the straw mat, once again, and hand them down to Abbot Joao and Pajeu, standing at the bottom of the grave. As Father Joaquim prays in Latin, they again work by turns, accompanying the shovelfuls of dirt with prayers. Amid his strange feeling that all of this is a dream, a sensation heightened by the dim light, the Little Blessed One sees that even the Lion of Natuba, hopping in and out between the legs of the others, is helping to fill the grave. As he works, he contains his grief. He tells himself that this humble vigil and this poor grave on which no inscription or cross will be placed is something that the poor and humble man the Counselor was in life would surely have asked for himself. But when it is all over and the Sanctuary is exactly as it has always been-except that the pallet is empty-the Little Blessed One bursts into tears. In the midst of his weeping, he hears the others weeping, too. Then after a while he gets hold of himself and in a subdued voice asks them all to swear, in the name of the salvation of their souls, that they will never reveal, even under the worst of tortures, whatever they might be, where the Counselor's body reposes. He has them repeat the oath, one by one.

She opened her eyes and continued to feel happy, as she had all that night, the day before, and the day before that, a succession of days that were all confused in her mind, till the evening when, after believing that he'd been buried beneath the rubble of the store, she found the nearsighted journalist at the door of the Sanctuary, threw herself into his arms, heard him say that he loved her, and told him that she loved him, too. It was true, or, at any rate, once she'd said it, it began to be true. And from that moment on, despite the war closing in around her and the hunger and thirst that killed more people than the enemy bullets, Jurema was happy. More than she could ever remember having been, more than when she was married to Rufino, more than in that comfortable childhood in the shadow of Baroness Estela, at Calumbi. She felt like throwing herself at the feet of the saint to thank him for what had happened to her life.

She heard shots close by-she had heard them in her sleep all night long-but she had not noticed any of the activity in the Menino Jesus, neither the running footsteps and cries nor the frantic hustle and bustle as people lined up stones and sacks of sand, dug trenches, and tore down roofs and walls to erect parapets such as had gone up everywhere in these last weeks as Canudos shrank in size in all directions, behind successive concentric barricades and trenches, and the soldiers captured houses, streets, corners one by one, and the ring of defenses came closer and closer to the churches and the Sanctuary. But none of this mattered: she was happy.

It was the Dwarf who discovered this abandoned house made of wooden palings, wedged in between other bigger dwellings, on Menino Jesus, the little street that joined Campo Grande, where there was now a triple barricade manned by jaguncos jaguncos under the command of Abbot Joao himself, and the zigzag street of Madre Igreja, which as the ring around Canudos tightened had now become the outer limit of the city to the north. The blacks of the Mocambo, which had been captured, and the few Cariris of Mirandela and Rodelas who had not been killed had fallen back to that sector. Indians and blacks now lived together side by side, in the trenches and behind the parapets of Madre Igreja, along with Pedrao's under the command of Abbot Joao himself, and the zigzag street of Madre Igreja, which as the ring around Canudos tightened had now become the outer limit of the city to the north. The blacks of the Mocambo, which had been captured, and the few Cariris of Mirandela and Rodelas who had not been killed had fallen back to that sector. Indians and blacks now lived together side by side, in the trenches and behind the parapets of Madre Igreja, along with Pedrao's jaguncos jaguncos, who had gradually withdrawn there in turn after stopping the soldiers in Cocorobo, in Trabubu, and at the corrals and stables on the outskirts of Canudos. When Jurema, the Dwarf, and the nearsighted journalist came to stay at this little house, they found an old man sprawled out dead on top of his blunderbuss, in the shelter that had been dug in the only room in the dwelling. But they had also found a sack of manioc flour and a pot of honey, which they had husbanded like misers. They hardly ever went out, except to carry off corpses to some dry wells that Antonio Vilanova had turned into ossuaries, and to help erect barricades and dig trenches, something that took more of everyone's time than the fighting itself did. So many excavations had been made, both inside and outside the houses, that a person could very nearly go from any one place to another in what was left of Belo Monte-from house to house, from street to street-without ever coming up to the surface, like lizards and moles.

The Dwarf stirred at her back. She asked him if he was awake. He did not answer, and a moment later she heard him snoring. All three of them slept, one against the other, in the dugout shelter, so narrow they barely fit into it. They slept in it not only because bullets easily pierced the walls of wooden pickets and mud but also because at night the temperature went way down and their bodies, weakened by their forced fastings, shook with cold. Jurema looked closely at the face of the nearsighted journalist, who was curled up against her breast, fast asleep. His mouth was gaping open and a little thread of saliva, as thin and transparent as a spiderweb, was hanging from his lip. She brought her mouth down to his and very delicately, so as not to awaken him, sipped the little trickle. The nearsighted journalist's expression was calm now, an expression he never had when he was awake. "He's not afraid now," she thought. "Poor thing, poor thing, if I could rid him of his fear, if I could do something so that he'd never be afraid again." For he had confessed to her that even in the moments when he was happy with her, the fear was always there, like mire in his heart, tormenting him. Even though she now loved him as a woman loves a man, even though she had been his as a husband or a lover makes a woman his, in her mind Jurema went on taking care of him, spoiling him, playing with him, like a mother with her son.

One of the nearsighted journalist's legs stretched out and, after pressing down a little, slid between hers. Not moving, feeling her face flush, Jurema thought to herself that he was going to want to have her then and there, that in broad daylight, as he did in the dark of night, he was going to unb.u.t.ton his trousers, raise her skirts up, get her ready for him to enter her, take his pleasure, and make sure that she took hers. A tremor of excitement ran through her from head to foot. She closed her eyes and lay there quietly, trying to hear the shots, to remember the war being fought just a few steps away, thinking about the Sardelinha sisters and Catarina and the other women who were devoting what little strength they had left to caring for the sick and wounded and newborn in the very last two Health Houses left standing, and of the little old men who carried the dead off to the ossuary all day long. In this way, she contrived to make that sensation, so new in her life, go away. She had lost all shame. She not only did things that were a sin: she thought about doing them, she wanted to do them. "Am I mad?" she thought. "Possessed?" Now that she was about to die, she committed, in body and in thought, sins that she had never committed before. Because, even though she had been with two men before, it was only now that she had discovered-in the arms of this being whom chance and this war (or the Dog?) had placed in her path-that the body, too, could be happy. She knew now that love was also an exaltation of the flesh, a conflagration of the senses, a vertigo that seemed to fulfill her. She snuggled up to this man sleeping alongside her, pressed her body as close to his as she could. At her back, the Dwarf stirred again. She could feel him, a tiny little thing, all hunched over, seeking her warmth.

Yes, she had lost all shame. If anyone had ever told her that one day she would sleep like this, squeezed in between two men, though one of them was admittedly a dwarf, she would have been horrified. If anyone had ever told her that a man to whom she was not married would lift up her skirts and take her in plain sight of the other one who lay there at her side, sleeping or pretending to be asleep, as they took their pleasure together and told each other, mouth pressed against mouth, that they loved each other, Jurema would have been scandalized and would have covered her ears with her hands. And yet, ever since that evening, this had happened every night, and instead of making her feel ashamed and frightening her, it seemed natural to her and made her happy. The first night, on seeing that they were embracing each other and kissing each other as though they were the only two people in the world, the Dwarf had asked them if they wanted him to leave. No, no, he was as necessary to both of them, as dearly loved as ever. And it was true.

The gunfire suddenly grew heavier, and for a few seconds it was as though the shots were landing inside the house, above their heads. Dirt and dust fell into the hole. Hunched over with her eyes closed, Jurema waited, waited for the direct hit, the explosion, the cave-in. But a moment later the shooting was farther in the distance. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself staring into blank watery eyes whose gaze seemed to glide past her. The poor thing had awakened and was half dead with fear again.

"I thought it was a nightmare," the Dwarf said at her back. He had stood up and was peeking over the edge of the hole. Rising up on her knees, Jurema also looked out, as the nearsighted journalist continued to lie there. Many people were running down Menino Jesus toward Campo Grande.

"What's happening, what's happening?" she heard his voice say at her feet. "What do you see?"

"Lots of jaguncos jaguncos," the Dwarf said before she could answer. "They're coming from Pedrao's sector."

And just then the door opened and Jurema saw a bunch of men in the doorway. One of them was the very young jagunco jagunco she had met on the slopes of Cocorobo the day the soldiers arrived. she had met on the slopes of Cocorobo the day the soldiers arrived.

"Come on, come on," he called to them in a loud voice that carried over all the shooting. "Come and give a hand."

Jurema and the Dwarf helped the nearsighted journalist out of the hole and guided him out into the street. All her life she had automatically done whatever anyone with authority or power told her to do, so that it took no effort on her part, in cases such as this, to rouse herself from her pa.s.sivity and work side by side with people at any sort of task, without ever asking what they were doing or why. But with this man at whose side she was running along the twists and turns of Menino Jesus, that had changed. He was forever wanting to know what was happening, to the right and to the left, in front and behind, why people were saying and doing certain things, and she was the one who was obliged to find out in order to satisfy his curiosity, as consuming as his fear. The young jagunco jagunco from Cocorobo explained that the dogs had been attacking the trenches at the cemetery since dawn that morning. They had launched two attacks, and though they had not managed to occupy the trenches, they had taken the corner of Batista, and were thus in a position to advance on the Temple of the Blessed Jesus from behind. Abbot Joao had decided to erect a new barricade, between the trenches at the cemetery and the churches, in case Pajeu found himself obliged to fall back yet again. That was why they were collecting people, why the ones who had been in the trenches at Madre Igreja had come. The young from Cocorobo explained that the dogs had been attacking the trenches at the cemetery since dawn that morning. They had launched two attacks, and though they had not managed to occupy the trenches, they had taken the corner of Batista, and were thus in a position to advance on the Temple of the Blessed Jesus from behind. Abbot Joao had decided to erect a new barricade, between the trenches at the cemetery and the churches, in case Pajeu found himself obliged to fall back yet again. That was why they were collecting people, why the ones who had been in the trenches at Madre Igreja had come. The young jagunco jagunco ran on ahead of them. Jurema could hear the nearsighted journalist panting and could see him tripping over the stones and stumbling into the holes along Campo Grande and she was sure that at this moment he was thinking, as she was, of Pajeu. Yes, they would be meeting him face to face now. She felt the nearsighted journalist squeeze her hand, and squeezed his back. ran on ahead of them. Jurema could hear the nearsighted journalist panting and could see him tripping over the stones and stumbling into the holes along Campo Grande and she was sure that at this moment he was thinking, as she was, of Pajeu. Yes, they would be meeting him face to face now. She felt the nearsighted journalist squeeze her hand, and squeezed his back.

She had not seen Pajeu again since the evening that she had discovered what happiness was. But she and the nearsighted journalist had talked a great deal about the caboclo caboclo with the slashed face whom both of them knew to be an even greater threat to their love than the soldiers. Ever since that evening, they had hidden out in refuges toward the north of Canudos, the section farthest away from Fazenda Velha, and the Dwarf would go out on forays to find out what was happening to Pajeu. The morning that the Dwarf came to report to them-they had taken shelter underneath a tin roof on Santo Eloi, behind the Mocambo-that the army was attacking Fazenda Velha, Jurema had told the nearsighted journalist that the with the slashed face whom both of them knew to be an even greater threat to their love than the soldiers. Ever since that evening, they had hidden out in refuges toward the north of Canudos, the section farthest away from Fazenda Velha, and the Dwarf would go out on forays to find out what was happening to Pajeu. The morning that the Dwarf came to report to them-they had taken shelter underneath a tin roof on Santo Eloi, behind the Mocambo-that the army was attacking Fazenda Velha, Jurema had told the nearsighted journalist that the caboclo caboclo would defend his trenches to the death. But that same night they learned that Pajeu and the survivors from Fazenda Velha were in the trenches at the cemetery that were now about to fall. Thus, the hour when they would be forced to confront Pajeu had come. But even that thought could not take away the happiness that had come to be part of her body, like her skin and bones. would defend his trenches to the death. But that same night they learned that Pajeu and the survivors from Fazenda Velha were in the trenches at the cemetery that were now about to fall. Thus, the hour when they would be forced to confront Pajeu had come. But even that thought could not take away the happiness that had come to be part of her body, like her skin and bones.

Happiness kept her-as nearsightedness and fear kept the man she was holding by the hand, as faith, fatalism, or habit kept those who were also running, limping, walking down to erect the barricade-from seeing what was all about her, from reflecting and drawing the conclusion that common sense, reason, or sheer instinct would have allowed her to draw from the spectacle: the little streets, which had once been stretches of dirt and gravel and were now seesaws riddled with sh.e.l.l holes, strewn with the debris of objects blown to bits by the bombs or torn apart by the jaguncos jaguncos to build parapets; the creatures lying about on the ground, who could scarcely be called men or women any more, since they had no features left on their faces, no light left in their eyes, no strength left in their muscles, yet through some perverse absurdity were still alive. Jurema saw them and did not realize that they were there, for they were scarcely distinguishable from the corpses that the old men had not yet had time to come get, the only difference between them being the number of flies swarming over them and the intensity of the stench they were giving off. She saw and yet did not see the vultures that were hovering above them and from time to time also being killed by the bullets, and the children with the blank faces of sleepwalkers poking about in the ruins or chewing on clods of dirt. They had run a long way, and when they finally stopped, she had to close her eyes and lean against the nearsighted journalist till the world stopped going round and round. to build parapets; the creatures lying about on the ground, who could scarcely be called men or women any more, since they had no features left on their faces, no light left in their eyes, no strength left in their muscles, yet through some perverse absurdity were still alive. Jurema saw them and did not realize that they were there, for they were scarcely distinguishable from the corpses that the old men had not yet had time to come get, the only difference between them being the number of flies swarming over them and the intensity of the stench they were giving off. She saw and yet did not see the vultures that were hovering above them and from time to time also being killed by the bullets, and the children with the blank faces of sleepwalkers poking about in the ruins or chewing on clods of dirt. They had run a long way, and when they finally stopped, she had to close her eyes and lean against the nearsighted journalist till the world stopped going round and round.

The journalist asked her where they were. It took Jurema some time to realize that the unrecognizable place was Sao Joao, a narrow lane between the jumble of little houses around the cemetery and the back of the Temple under construction. There were holes and rubble everywhere, and a crowd of people were frantically digging, filling sacks, drums, boxes, barrels, and casks with dirt and sand, and dragging beams, roof tiles, bricks, stones, and even carca.s.ses of animals to the barrier that was going up there where before a picket fence had marked off the cemetery. The shooting had stopped, or else Jurema's ears had been so deafened that they could no longer distinguish it from the rest of the din. As she was telling the nearsighted journalist that Pajeu wasn't there, though both Antonio and Honorio Vilanova were, a one-eyed man roared at them, asking what they were waiting for. The nearsighted journalist sat down on the ground and began scratching about. Jurema brought him an iron bar so he could do a better job of it. And then she plunged once again into the routine of filling gunnysacks, carrying them wherever she was told to, and taking a pickax to walls to get stones, bricks, roof tiles, and beams to reinforce the barrier, already several yards tall and wide. From time to time, she went to where the nearsighted journalist was piling up sand and gravel, to let him know that she was close at hand. She did not even notice that the shooting started again, died down, stopped, and then began yet again behind the stout barricade, nor that every so often groups of old men pa.s.sed by, carrying wounded to the churches.

At one point a group of women, among whom she recognized Catarina, Abbot Joao's wife, came by and handed her some chicken bones with a little skin on them and a dipper full of water. She went to share this gift with the journalist and the Dwarf, but they, too, had been given the same rations. They ate and drank together, happy and yet disconcerted by this repast, knowing that the food supplies had long since given out and it was understood that the few remaining sc.r.a.ps were reserved for the men staying day and night in the trenches and the towers, their hands covered with powder burns and their fingers callused from shooting so much.

She had just gone back to work after this pause when she happened to look at the tower of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus and something caught her eye. Beneath the heads of the jaguncos jaguncos and the barrels of rifles and shotguns peeking out from the parapets on the rooftop and the scaffoldings, a little gnome-like figure, bigger than a child but smaller than an adult, had been left hanging suspended in an absurd posture on the little ladder that led up to the bell tower. She recognized him: it was the bell ringer, the little old man who acted as s.e.xton, sacristan, and keeper of the keys of the churches, the one who, people said, scourged the Little Blessed One. He had continued to climb up to the bell tower just as night was falling every evening to ring the bells for the Ave Maria, after which, war or no war, all Belo Monte recited the Rosary. He had been killed the evening before, no doubt after ringing the bells, for Jurema was certain that she had heard them. A bullet must have hit him and his body been caught in the ladder, and no one had had time to get him down. and the barrels of rifles and shotguns peeking out from the parapets on the rooftop and the scaffoldings, a little gnome-like figure, bigger than a child but smaller than an adult, had been left hanging suspended in an absurd posture on the little ladder that led up to the bell tower. She recognized him: it was the bell ringer, the little old man who acted as s.e.xton, sacristan, and keeper of the keys of the churches, the one who, people said, scourged the Little Blessed One. He had continued to climb up to the bell tower just as night was falling every evening to ring the bells for the Ave Maria, after which, war or no war, all Belo Monte recited the Rosary. He had been killed the evening before, no doubt after ringing the bells, for Jurema was certain that she had heard them. A bullet must have hit him and his body been caught in the ladder, and no one had had time to get him down.

"He was from my village," a woman who was working alongside Jurema said to her, pointing to the tower. "Chorrocho. He was a carpenter there, when the angel's wings brushed him."

She went back to her work, putting the bell ringer out of her mind, and forgetting about herself as well, she toiled away all afternoon, going every so often to where the journalist was. As the sun was setting she saw the Vilanova brothers running off toward the Sanctuary and heard that Pajeu, Big Joao, and Abbot Joao had also come by, running that way from different directions. Something was about to happen.

A little while later, she was leaning over talking to the nearsighted journalist when an invisible force compelled her to kneel, to fall silent, to lean against him. "What's the matter, what's the matter?" he said, taking her by the shoulder and feeling her all over. And she heard him shout at her: "Have you been wounded, are you wounded?" No bullet had struck her. It was just that all the strength had suddenly been drained from her body. She felt empty, without the energy to open her mouth or lift a finger, and though she saw leaning over her the face of the man who had taught her what happiness was, his liquid eyes opening wide and blinking, trying to see her better, and realized that he was frightened and knew that she ought to rea.s.sure him, she was unable to. Everything was far away, strange, make-believe, and the Dwarf was there, touching her, caressing her, rubbing her hands, her forehead, stroking her hair, and it even seemed to her that, like the nearsighted journalist, he was kissing her on the hands, the cheeks. She was not about to close her eyes, because if she did she would die, but there came a moment when she could no longer keep them open.

When she opened them again, she no longer felt so freezing cold. It was night; the sky was full of stars, there was a full moon, and she was sitting leaning against the nearsighted journalist's body-whose odor, thinness, heartbeat she recognized at once-and the Dwarf was there too, still rubbing her hands. In a daze, she noted how happy the two men were on seeing her awake once again, and felt herself being embraced and kissed by them so affectionately that tears came to her eyes. Was she wounded, ill? No, it had been exhaustion: she had worked so hard for such a long time. She was no longer in the same place as before. While she was lying in a faint, the gunfire had suddenly grown heavier and the jaguncos jaguncos had come running from the trenches in the cemetery; the Dwarf and the journalist had had to carry her to this street corner so that the men would not trample her underfoot. But the soldiers had not been able to get past the barricade erected along Sao Joao. The had come running from the trenches in the cemetery; the Dwarf and the journalist had had to carry her to this street corner so that the men would not trample her underfoot. But the soldiers had not been able to get past the barricade erected along Sao Joao. The jaguncos jaguncos from the cemetery trenches who had escaped with their lives and many who had come from the churches had stopped them there. She heard the journalist telling her that he loved her, and at that very moment the world blew up. Dust filled her nose and eyes and she found herself knocked flat on the ground, for the journalist and the Dwarf had been thrown on top of her by the force of the shock wave. But she was not afraid; she huddled beneath the two bodies lying on top of her, struggling to utter the necessary sounds to find out if they were all right. Yes, just bruised from the chunks of stone, wood, and other debris that had rained down on them from the explosion. A confused, frantic, many-voiced, dissonant, incomprehensible outcry roiled the darkness. The nearsighted man and the Dwarf sat up, helped her to a sitting position, and the three of them stayed there where they were, hugging the only wall still standing on that corner. What had happened, what was happening? from the cemetery trenches who had escaped with their lives and many who had come from the churches had stopped them there. She heard the journalist telling her that he loved her, and at that very moment the world blew up. Dust filled her nose and eyes and she found herself knocked flat on the ground, for the journalist and the Dwarf had been thrown on top of her by the force of the shock wave. But she was not afraid; she huddled beneath the two bodies lying on top of her, struggling to utter the necessary sounds to find out if they were all right. Yes, just bruised from the chunks of stone, wood, and other debris that had rained down on them from the explosion. A confused, frantic, many-voiced, dissonant, incomprehensible outcry roiled the darkness. The nearsighted man and the Dwarf sat up, helped her to a sitting position, and the three of them stayed there where they were, hugging the only wall still standing on that corner. What had happened, what was happening?

Shadows were running in all directions, terrifying screams rent the air, but the strange thing to Jurema, who had drawn her legs up and was leaning her head on the nearsighted journalist's shoulder, was that along with the cries, the shrieks, the weeping and wailing, she could also hear loud bursts of laughter, cheers, songs, and now a single vibrant, martial song, being roared out by hundreds of voices.

"The Church of Santo Antonio," the Dwarf said. "They've hit it, they've brought it tumbling down."

She looked, and in the dim moonlight, up above, where the smoke that had been hiding it was slowly being blown away by a breeze from the river, she saw the looming, imposing outlines of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, but not those of the bell tower and roof of Santo Antonio. That was what the tremendous din had been. The screams and cries had come from those who had fallen with the church, from those crushed beneath its stones as it caved in, but not yet dead. With his arms about her, the nearsighted journalist kept shouting at the top of his lungs asking what was happening, what the laughing and singing were, and the Dwarf answered that it was the soldiers, beside themselves with joy. The soldiers! The soldiers shouting, singing! How could they be this close? The triumphant cheers were mingled in her ears with the moans, and sounded as though they were coming from even nearer at hand. On the other side of this barricade that she had helped to erect, a crowd of soldiers was milling about, singing, about to cross the s.p.a.ce of just a few feet separating them from the three of them. "Father, may the three of us die together," she prayed.

But curiously enough, instead of fanning the flames of war, the fall of Santo Antonio appeared to bring a lull in the fighting. Still not moving from their corner, they heard the cries of pain and of victory gradually grow fainter, and then, after that, there came a calm such as had not reigned for many a night. There was not a single cannon or rifle report to be heard, only sounds of weeping and moaning here and there, as though the combatants had agreed on a truce so as to rest. It seemed to her at times that she fell asleep, and when she awoke she had no idea whether a second or an hour had gone by. Each time she was still in the same place, sheltered between the nearsighted journalist and the Dwarf.

At one of these times, she spied a jagunco jagunco from the Catholic Guard walking away from them. What had he wanted? Father Joaquim was asking for them. "I told him you weren't able to move," the nearsighted man murmured. A moment later the cure of c.u.mbe came trotting along in the dark. "Why didn't you come?" she heard him say, in an odd tone of voice, and she thought: "Pajeu." from the Catholic Guard walking away from them. What had he wanted? Father Joaquim was asking for them. "I told him you weren't able to move," the nearsighted man murmured. A moment later the cure of c.u.mbe came trotting along in the dark. "Why didn't you come?" she heard him say, in an odd tone of voice, and she thought: "Pajeu."

"Jurema is exhausted," she heard the nearsighted journalist answer. "She's fainted away several times."

"She'll have to stay here, then," Father Joaquim answered, in the same strange voice, not angry, but broken, disheartened, sad. "You two come with me."

"Stay here?" she heard the nearsighted journalist murmur, feeling him straighten up, his whole body tense.

"Be still," the cure ordered. "Weren't you the one who was so desperate to get away? Well, you're going to have your chance now. But not a word out of you. Come along, you two."

Father Joaquim began to walk off. Jurema was the first one on her feet, gathering her strength together and thus putting an end to the journalist's stammering-"Jurema can't...I...I..."-and demonstrating to him that indeed she could, that she was already on her feet, following along behind the cure's shadow. Seconds later, she was running, the nearsighted man holding her by one hand and the Dwarf by the other, amid the ruins and the dead and injured of the Church of Santo Antonio, still not able to believe what she had heard.

She realized that the cure was leading them to the Sanctuary, through a labyrinth of galleries and parapets with armed men. A door opened and by the light of a lamp she spied Pajeu. She doubtless uttered his name, thereby alerting the nearsighted journalist, for he immediately burst into sneezes that doubled him over. But it was not by order of the caboclo caboclo that Father Joaquim had brought them here, for Pajeu was paying no attention to them at all. He was not even looking their way. They were in the women disciples' little room, the Counselor's antechamber, and through the cracks in the stake wall Jurema could see in the inner chamber the Sacred Choir and Mother Maria Quadrado kneeling and the profiles of the Little Blessed One and the Lion of Natuba. In the narrow confines of the antechamber, besides Pajeu, there were Antonio and Honorio Vilanova and the Sardelinha sisters, and in the faces of all of them, as in Father Joaquim's voice, there was something unusual, irremediable, fateful, desperate, feral. As though they had not entered the room, as though they were not there, Pajeu went on talking to Antonio Vilanova: he would hear shots, disorder, confusion, but they were not to move yet. Not until the whistles sounded. Then yes: that was the moment to run, fly, slip away like vixens. The that Father Joaquim had brought them here, for Pajeu was paying no attention to them at all. He was not even looking their way. They were in the women disciples' little room, the Counselor's antechamber, and through the cracks in the stake wall Jurema could see in the inner chamber the Sacred Choir and Mother Maria Quadrado kneeling and the profiles of the Little Blessed One and the Lion of Natuba. In the narrow confines of the antechamber, besides Pajeu, there were Antonio and Honorio Vilanova and the Sardelinha sisters, and in the faces of all of them, as in Father Joaquim's voice, there was something unusual, irremediable, fateful, desperate, feral. As though they had not entered the room, as though they were not there, Pajeu went on talking to Antonio Vilanova: he would hear shots, disorder, confusion, but they were not to move yet. Not until the whistles sounded. Then yes: that was the moment to run, fly, slip away like vixens. The caboclo caboclo paused and Antonio Vilanova nodded gloomily. Pajeu spoke again: "Don't stop running for any reason. Not to pick up anybody who falls, not to retrace your steps. Everything depends on that and on the Father. If you reach the river before the dogs notice, you'll get through. At least you have a chance to." paused and Antonio Vilanova nodded gloomily. Pajeu spoke again: "Don't stop running for any reason. Not to pick up anybody who falls, not to retrace your steps. Everything depends on that and on the Father. If you reach the river before the dogs notice, you'll get through. At least you have a chance to."

"But you have no chance at all of getting out-neither you nor anyone else who goes with you to the dogs' camp," Antonio Vilanova moaned. He was weeping. He grabbed the caboclo caboclo by the arms and begged him: "I don't want to leave Belo Monte, much less if it means your sacrificing yourself. You're needed here more than I am. Pajeu! Pajeu!" by the arms and begged him: "I don't want to leave Belo Monte, much less if it means your sacrificing yourself. You're needed here more than I am. Pajeu! Pajeu!"

The caboclo caboclo slipped out of his grasp with a sort of annoyance. "It has to be before it gets light," he said curtly. "After that, you won't be able to make it." slipped out of his grasp with a sort of annoyance. "It has to be before it gets light," he said curtly. "After that, you won't be able to make it."

He turned to Jurema, the nearsighted man, and the Dwarf, who were standing there petrified. "You're to go too, because that's what the Counselor wishes," he said, as though talking past the three of them to someone they couldn't see. "First to Fazenda Velha, in Indian file, crouching down. And there where the youngsters tell you, you're to wait for the whistles to blow. Then you're to dash through the camp and down to the river. You'll get through, if it be the Father's will."

He fell silent and looked at the nearsighted man, standing with his arms around Jurema and trembling like a leaf. "Sneeze now," Pajeu said to him, in the same tone of voice. "Not then. Not when you're waiting for the whistles to blow. If you sneeze then, they'll plunge a knife in your heart. It wouldn't be right if they captured everyone on account of your sneezes. Praised be Blessed Jesus the Counselor."

When he hears them, Private Queluz is dreaming of Captain Oliveira's orderly, a pale young private whom he has been prowling around for some time and saw s.h.i.tting this morning, crouched behind a little pile of rocks near the wells down by the Vaza-Barris. He has kept intact the image of those hairless legs and those white b.u.t.tocks that he glimpsed, bared to the dawn air like an invitation. The image is so clear, steady, and vivid that Private Queluz's c.o.c.k gets hard, swelling against his uniform and awakening him. His desire is so overpowering that even though he can hear voices nearby, and even though he is forced to recognize that they are the voices of traitors and not of patriots, his immediate reaction is not to grab his rifle but to raise his hands to his trousers fly to stroke his c.o.c.k inflamed by the memory of the round b.u.t.tocks of Captain Oliveira's orderly. Suddenly the thought is borne in upon him that he is alone, in open country, with the enemy close at hand, and instantly he is wide awake, every muscle tense, his heart in his mouth. What has happened to Leopoldinho? Have they killed Leopoldinho? They've killed him: he sees quite clearly now that the sentry didn't even have time to shout a warning or even realize that they were killing him. Leopoldinho is the soldier with whom he shares the guard in this empty stretch of land that separates A Favela from the Vaza-Barris, where the Fifth Infantry Regiment is encamped, the good buddy with whom he takes turns sleeping, thereby making the nights on guard duty more tolerable.

"Lots and lots of noise, so they'll think there are more of us," their leader says. "And above all, get them all confused, so they don't know