The War Of The End Of The World Part 28

But, on entering Colonel Medeiros's hut, Queluz immediately remembers all that. The face of the commanding officer of the First Brigade is about to explode with rage. He is not waiting at the doorway to congratulate him, as Queluz imagined he would be. He is sitting on a folding camp stool, heaping abuse on someone. Who is it he's shouting at? At Pajeu. Peeking between the backs and profiles of the crowd of officers in the hut, Queluz spies the sallow face with the garnet-colored scar cutting all the way across it, lying on the ground at the colonel's feet. He is not dead; his eyes are half open, and Queluz, to whom no one is paying the slightest attention, who has no notion why they have brought him here and who feels like leaving, tells himself that the colonel's fit of temper is doubtless due to the distant, disdainful look in Pajeu's eyes as he gazes up at him. It is not that, however, but the attack on the camp: eighteen men have been killed.

"Eighteen! Eighteen!" Colonel Medeiros rages, clenching and unclenching his teeth as though champing at a bit. "Thirty-some wounded! Those of us in the First Brigade spend the whole d.a.m.ned day up here scratching our b.a.l.l.s while the Second Brigade fights, and then you come along with your band of degenerates and inflict more casualties on us than on them."

"He's going to burst into tears," Queluz thinks. In a panic, he imagines that the colonel is going to find out somehow that he went to sleep at his post and let the bandits get past him without giving the alarm. The commanding officer of the First Brigade leaps up from his camp stool and begins to kick and stamp his feet. The officers' backs and profiles block Queluz's view of what's happening on the ground. But seconds later he sees the jagunco jagunco again: the crimson scar has grown much larger, covering the bandit's entire face, a featureless, shapeless ma.s.s of dirt and mud. But his eyes are still open, and in them that indifference that is so strange and so offensive. A thread of b.l.o.o.d.y spittle trickles from his lips. again: the crimson scar has grown much larger, covering the bandit's entire face, a featureless, shapeless ma.s.s of dirt and mud. But his eyes are still open, and in them that indifference that is so strange and so offensive. A thread of b.l.o.o.d.y spittle trickles from his lips.

Queluz sees a saber in Colonel Medeiros's hands and he is certain that he is about to give Pajeu the coup de grace coup de grace. But he merely rests the tip of it on the jagunco jagunco's neck. Total silence reigns in the hut, and Queluz finds himself in the grip of the same hieratic solemnity as the officers.

Finally Colonel Medeiros calms down. He sits back down on the camp stool and flings his saber on the cot. "Killing you would be doing you a favor," he mutters in bitter rage. "You have betrayed your country, murdered your compatriots, sacked, plundered, committed every imaginable crime. There is no punishment terrible enough for what you have done."

"He's laughing," Queluz thinks to himself in amazement. Yes, the caboclo caboclo is laughing. His forehead and the little crest of flesh that is all that is left of his nose are puckered up, his lips are parted, and his little slits of eyes gleam as he utters a sound that is undoubtedly a laugh. is laughing. His forehead and the little crest of flesh that is all that is left of his nose are puckered up, his lips are parted, and his little slits of eyes gleam as he utters a sound that is undoubtedly a laugh.

"Do you find what I'm saying amusing?" Colonel Medeiros says, slowly and deliberately. But the next moment his tone of voice changes, for Pajeu's face has turned rigid. "Examine him, Doctor..."

Captain Bernardo da Ponte Sanhueza kneels down, puts his ear to the bandit's chest, observes his eyes, takes his pulse.

"He's dead, sir," Queluz hears him say.

Colonel Medeiros's face blanches.

"His body's a sieve," the doctor adds. "It's a miracle that he's lasted this long with all that lead in him."

"It's my turn now," Queluz thinks. Colonel Medeiros's piercing little blue-green eyes are about to seek him out among the officers, find him, and he will hear the question he is so afraid of: "Why didn't you give the alert?" He'll lie, he'll swear in the name of G.o.d and his mother that he did give it, that he fired warning shots and yelled out. But the seconds pa.s.s and Colonel Medeiros continues to sit there on the camp stool, contemplating the corpse of the bandit who died laughing at him.

"Here's Queluz, sir," he hears Captain Oliveira say.

Now, now. The officers step aside to allow him to present himself before the commanding officer of the First Brigade. Colonel Medeiros looks at him, rises to his feet. Queluz sees-his heart is pounding in his chest-the colonel's face relax, notes that he is trying his best to smile at him. Queluz smiles back at him, gratefully.

"So you're the one who captured him?" the colonel asks.

"Yes, sir," Queluz answers, standing at attention.

"Finish the job," Medeiros says to him, holding his sword out to him with an energetic gesture. "Put his eyes out and cut his tongue off. Then lop his head off and throw it over the barricade, so those bandits who are still alive will know what awaits them."

[VI].

When the nearsighted journalist finally left, the Baron de Canabrava, who had accompanied him to the street, discovered that it was pitch-dark outside. On coming back into the house, he stood leaning against the ma.s.sive front door with his eyes closed, trying to banish a seething ma.s.s of violent, confused images from his mind. A manservant came running with an oil lamp in his hand: would he like his dinner reheated? He answered no, and before sending the servant to bed he asked him whether Estela had eaten dinner. Yes, some time ago, and then she had retired to her room.

Instead of going upstairs to her bedroom, the baron returned to his study like a sleepwalker, listening to the echo of his footsteps. He could smell, he could see, floating like fluff in the stuffy air of the room, the words of that long conversation which, it now seemed to him, had been not so much a dialogue as two monologues running side by side without ever meeting. He would not see the nearsighted journalist again, he would not have another talk with him. He would not allow him to bring to life yet again that monstrous story whose unfolding had involved the destruction of his property, his political power, his wife. "Only she matters," he murmured to himself. Yes, he could have resigned himself to all the other losses. For the time he had left to live-ten, fifteen years?-he possessed the means to do so in the manner to which he was accustomed. It did not matter that this style of life would end with his death: he had, after all, no heirs whose fortunes he should be concerned about. And as for political power, in the final a.n.a.lysis he was happy to have rid himself of that heavy load on his shoulders. Politics had been a burden that he had taken upon himself because there was no one else to do so, because of the vast stupidity, irresponsibility, or corruption of others, not out of some heartfelt vocation: politics had always bored him, wearied him, impressed him as being an inane, depressing occupation, since it revealed human wretchedness more clearly than any other. Moreover, he harbored a secret resentment against politics, an absorbing occupation for which he had sacrificed the scientific leanings that he had felt ever since he was a youngster collecting b.u.t.terflies and making herbariums. The tragedy to which he would never be able to resign himself was Estela. It had been Canudos, he thought, that stupid, incomprehensible story of blind, stubborn people, of diametrically opposed fanaticisms, that had been to blame for what had happened to Estela. He had severed his ties to the world and would not reestablish them. He would allow nothing, no one to remind him of this episode. "I will have them give him work on the paper," he thought. "As a proofreader, a court reporter, some mediocre job that's tailor-made for a mediocrity like him. But I won't receive him or listen to him again. And if he writes that book about Canudos-though naturally he won't-I shall not read it."

He went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a gla.s.s of cognac. As he warmed the drink in the palm of his hand, sitting in the leather easy chair from which he had set the course of politics in the state of Bahia for a quarter of a century, the Baron de Canabrava listened to the harmonious symphony of the crickets in the garden, with a chorus of frogs joining in from time to time in dissonant counterpoint. What was making him so anxious? What was responsible for this feeling of impatience, this p.r.i.c.kling sensation all over, as though he were forgetting something extremely urgent, as though in the next few seconds something decisive, something irrevocable were about to happen in his life? Canudos still?

He had not banished it from his mind: it was there again. But the image that had loomed up, vivid and threatening, before his eyes was not something that he had heard from the lips of his visitor. It had happened when neither that nearsighted man nor the little servant girl from Canudos who was now his woman, nor the Dwarf, nor any of the survivors of Canudos, was any longer about. It was old Colonel Murau who had told him about it, over a gla.s.s of port, the last time they had seen each other here in Salvador, something that Murau had heard in turn from the owner of the Formosa hacienda, one of the many burned to the ground by the jaguncos jaguncos. The owner had stayed on at the hacienda, despite everything, out of love for his land, or because he didn't know where else to go. And he had stayed on there all through the war, eking out a living thanks to the commercial deals he arranged with the soldiers. When he learned that the war was all over, that Canudos had fallen, he hurriedly made his way up there with a bunch of peons to lend a hand. When they sighted the hillsides of the former jagunco jagunco citadel, the army had gone. While still a fair distance away-Colonel Murau recounted, as the baron sat there listening-they had been dumfounded by a strange, indefinable, unfathomable sound, so loud it shook the air. And the air was filled, as well, with a terrible stench that turned their stomachs. But it was only when they made their way down the drab, stony slope of O Poco Trabubu and discovered at their feet what had ceased to be Canudos and become the sight that greeted their eyes, that they realized that the sound was that of the flapping wings and pecking beaks of thousands upon thousands of vultures, of that endless sea of grayish, blackish shapes covering everything, devouring everything, gorging themselves, finishing off, as they sated themselves, what neither dynamite nor bullets nor fires had been able to reduce to dust: those limbs, extremities, heads, vertebras, viscera, skin that the conflagration had spared or only half charred and that these rapacious creatures were now crushing to bits, tearing apart, swallowing, gulping down. "Thousands upon thousands of vultures," Colonel Murau had said. And also that, stricken with terror in the face of what seemed like a nightmare come true, the owner of the hacienda of Formosa and his peons, realizing that there was n.o.body left to bury, since the carrion birds were doing their work, had left the place on the run, covering their mouths and holding their noses. The intrusive, loathsome image had taken root in his mind and refused to go away. "The end that Canudos deserved," he had answered before forcing old Murau to change the subject. citadel, the army had gone. While still a fair distance away-Colonel Murau recounted, as the baron sat there listening-they had been dumfounded by a strange, indefinable, unfathomable sound, so loud it shook the air. And the air was filled, as well, with a terrible stench that turned their stomachs. But it was only when they made their way down the drab, stony slope of O Poco Trabubu and discovered at their feet what had ceased to be Canudos and become the sight that greeted their eyes, that they realized that the sound was that of the flapping wings and pecking beaks of thousands upon thousands of vultures, of that endless sea of grayish, blackish shapes covering everything, devouring everything, gorging themselves, finishing off, as they sated themselves, what neither dynamite nor bullets nor fires had been able to reduce to dust: those limbs, extremities, heads, vertebras, viscera, skin that the conflagration had spared or only half charred and that these rapacious creatures were now crushing to bits, tearing apart, swallowing, gulping down. "Thousands upon thousands of vultures," Colonel Murau had said. And also that, stricken with terror in the face of what seemed like a nightmare come true, the owner of the hacienda of Formosa and his peons, realizing that there was n.o.body left to bury, since the carrion birds were doing their work, had left the place on the run, covering their mouths and holding their noses. The intrusive, loathsome image had taken root in his mind and refused to go away. "The end that Canudos deserved," he had answered before forcing old Murau to change the subject.

Was this what was troubling him, making him anxious, setting his every nerve on edge? That swarm of countless carrion birds devouring the human rot that was all that was left of Canudos? "Twenty-five years of dirty, sordid politics to save Bahia from imbeciles and helpless idiots faced with a responsibility that they were incapable of a.s.suming, the end result of which was a feast of vultures," he thought to himself. And at that moment, superimposed on the image of the hecatomb, there reappeared the tragicomic face, the laughingstock with the watery crossed eyes, the scarecrow frame, the overprominent chin, the absurdly drooping ears, speaking to him of love, of pleasure in a fervent voice: "The greatest thing in all this world, Baron, the one and only thing whereby man can discover a measure of happiness, can learn what the word happiness means." That was it. That was what was troubling him, upsetting him, causing him such anguish. He took a swallow of cognac, held the fiery liquid in his mouth for a moment, swallowed it, and felt its warmth trickle down his throat.

He rose to his feet: he had no idea as yet what he was going to do, what he wanted to do, but he was aware of a stirring deep within him, and it seemed to him that he had arrived at a crucial moment in which he was obliged to come to a decision that would have incalculable consequences. What was he going to do, what was it he wanted to do? He set the gla.s.s of cognac down on top of the liquor cabinet, and feeling his heart, his temples pounding, his blood coursing through the geography of his body, he crossed the study, the enormous living room, the vast entry hall-with not a soul around at this hour, and everything in shadow, though there was a faint glow from the street lamps outside-to the foot of the staircase. There was a single lamp lighting the way up the stairs. He hurried up, on tiptoe, so softly that even he was unable to hear his own footfalls. Once at the top, without hesitating, instead of heading for his own apartments, he made his way toward the room in which the baroness was sleeping, separated only by a screen from the alcove where Sebastiana had installed herself so as to be close at hand if Estela needed her in the night.

As his hand reached out toward the latch, the thought occurred to him that the door might be locked. He had never entered the room without knocking. No, the door was not barred. He entered, closed the door behind him, searched for the bolt, and slid it home. From the doorway he spied the yellow light of the night lamp-a candlewick floating in a little bowl of oil-whose dim light illuminated part of the baroness's bed, the blue counterpane, the canopy overhead, and the thin gauze curtains. Standing there in the doorway, without making the slightest sound; without his hands trembling, the baron slowly removed all his clothes. Once he was naked, he crossed the room on tiptoe to Sebastiana's little alcove.

He reached the edge of her bed without awakening her. There was a dim light in the room-the glow from the gas lamp out in the street, which took on a blue tinge as it filtered through the curtains-and the baron could make out the woman's sleeping form, lying on her side, the sheets rising and falling with her breathing, her head resting on a little round pillow. Her long loose black hair fanned out across the bed and over the side, touching the floor. The thought came to him that he had never seen Sebastiana standing up with her hair undone, that it must no doubt reach to her heels, and that at one time or another, before a mirror or before Estela, she must surely have played at enveloping herself in this long hair as though in a silken mantle, and the image began to arouse a dormant instinct in him. He raised his hands to his belly and felt his member: it was flaccid, but in its warmth, its complaisance, the swiftness and the feeling close to joy with which he unsheathed the glans from the prepuce, he sensed a profound life, yearning to be called forth, reawakened, poured out. The things he had been afraid of as he approached-what would the servant's reaction be? what would Estela's be if Sebastiana woke up screaming?-disappeared instantly and, as startling as a hallucination, the face of Galileo Gall flashed before his mind and he remembered the vow of chast.i.ty that the revolutionary had sworn to himself in order to concentrate his energies on things he believed to be of a higher order-action, science. "I have been as stupid as he was," he thought. Without ever having sworn to do so, he had kept a similar vow for a very long time, renouncing pleasure, happiness, in favor of that base occupation that had brought misfortune to the person he loved most dearly in this world.

Without thinking, automatically, he bent over and sat down on the edge of the bed, at the same time moving his two hands, one downward to pull back the sheets covering Sebastiana, and the other toward her mouth to stifle her cry. The woman shrank away, lay there rigid, and opened her eyes, and a wave of warmth, the intimate aura of Sebastiana's body reached his nostrils; he had never been this close to her before, and immediately he felt his member come to life, and it was as though he were also suddenly aware that his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es existed, that they, too, were there, coming back to life between his legs. Sebastiana had been unable to cry out, to sit up: only to utter a m.u.f.fled exclamation that brought the warm air of her breath against the palm of the hand that he was holding a fraction of an inch away from her mouth.

"Don't scream; it's best if you don't scream," he murmured. He could hear that his voice was not firm, but what was making it tremble was not hesitation but desire. "I beg you not to scream."

With the hand that had pulled the sheets back, through her nightdress b.u.t.toned all the way up to the neck, he now fondled Sebastiana's b.r.e.a.s.t.s: they were large, well proportioned, extraordinarily firm for a woman who must be close to forty years old; he felt the nipples grow hard, shiver from the cold beneath his fingertips. He ran his fingers along the ridge of her nose, her lips, her eyebrows, with the most delicate touch of which he was capable, and finally sank them in the tangle of hair and gently wound her locks round them. Meanwhile, he tried to exorcise with a smile the tremendous fear he saw in the woman's stunned, incredulous gaze.

"I should have done this a long time ago, Sebastiana," he said, brushing her cheeks with his lips. "I should have done it the very first day I desired you. I would have been happier, Estela would have been happier, and perhaps you would have been, too."

He brought his face down, his lips seeking the woman's, but struggling to break the hold of fear and surprise that had paralyzed her, she moved away, and as he read the plea in her eyes he heard her stammer: "I beg you, in the name of what you love most, I implore you...The senhora, the senhora."

"The senhora is there and I love her more than you," he heard himself say, but had the sensation that it was someone else who was speaking, and still trying to think; he for his part was merely that body in heat, that member, completely roused now, that he felt bounding against his belly, erect and hard and wet. "I'm also doing this for her, although you may not be able to understand that."

Fondling her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, he had found the b.u.t.tons of her nightdress and was popping them out of their little b.u.t.tonholes, one after the other, as with his other hand he took Sebastiana by the nape of the neck and forced her to turn her head and offer him her lips. He could feel that they were ice-cold and tightly pressed together, and noted that the servant's teeth were chattering, that she was trembling all over, and that in the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds she had become drenched with sweat.

"Open your mouth," he ordered her, in a tone of voice that he had very seldom used in his life when speaking to servants, or to slaves when he had had them. "If I must force you to be docile, I shall do so."

He felt the servant-conditioned, doubtless by a habit, a fear, or an instinct of self-preservation that had come down to her from the depths of time, along with a centuries-old tradition that his tone of voice had succeeded in reminding her of-obey him, as at the same time her face, in the blue shadow of the alcove, contorted in a grimace in which fear was mingled now with infinite repulsion. But this did not matter to him as he forced his tongue inside her mouth, met hers violently, pushed it back and forth from one side to the other, explored her gums, her palate, tried his best to introduce a little of his saliva into her mouth and then suck it back and swallow it. Meanwhile, he had gone on ripping the b.u.t.tons from her nightdress and trying to remove it. But though Sebastiana's spirit and her mouth had yielded to his will, her entire body continued to resist, despite her fear, or perhaps because an even greater fear than the one that had taught her to bow to the will of any person who had power over her made her defend what he was trying to take from her. Her body was still hunched over, rigid, and the baron, who had lain down in the bed and was trying to embrace her, felt himself stopped by Sebastiana's arms, held like a shield in front of her body. He heard her say something in a pleading, m.u.f.fled whisper and he was sure that she had begun to cry. But he was concentrating his entire attention now on trying to remove her nightdress, which he was having difficulty pulling down past her shoulders. He had been able to put one arm around her waist and draw her to him, forcing her to press her body against his, as with his other hand he went on tugging the nightdress off. After a struggle-he could not have said how long it lasted-during which, as he pushed and pulled, his energy and his desire grew greater and greater by the moment, he finally managed to climb on top of Sebastiana. As he forced her legs, pressed as tightly together as though they were brazed, apart with one of his, he avidly kissed her neck, her shoulders, her bosom, and, lingeringly, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He felt himself about to e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e against her belly-an ample, warm, soft form against which his rod was rubbing-and closed his eyes and made a great effort to hold back. He managed to, and then slid all over Sebastiana's body, caressing her, sniffing her, kissing her haunches, her groin, her belly, the hairs of her pubis, afterward discovering them in his mouth, thick and curly. With his hands, his chin, he pressed down with all his strength, hearing her sobs, until he had made her part her thighs enough for his mouth to reach her v.u.l.v.a. As he was kissing it, sucking gently, burying his tongue in it, sucking its juices, overcome by an intoxication that, at long last, freed him of everything that was making him sad and bitter, of those images that were eating his life away, he felt the gentle pressure of fingers on his back. He turned his head and looked, knowing what he would see: Estela standing there looking at him.

"Estela, my love, my love," he said tenderly, feeling his saliva and Sebastiana's juices running down his lips, still kneeling on the floor beside the bed, still holding the servant's legs apart with his elbows. "I love you, more than anything else in the world. I am doing this because I have wanted to for a long time, and out of love for you. To be closer to you, my darling."

He felt Sebastiana's body shaking convulsively and heard her sobbing desperately, her mouth and eyes hidden in her hands, and he saw the baroness, standing motionless at his side, observing him. She did not appear to be frightened, enraged, horrified-merely mildly intrigued. She was wearing a light nightdress, beneath which he could dimly make out in the half light the faint outlines of her body, which time had not contrived to deform-a still harmonious, shapely silhouette-and her fair hair, with none of the gray visible in the dim light, caught up in a hairnet with a few stray locks peeking out. As far as he could see, her forehead was not furrowed by that single deep wrinkle that was an unmistakable sign that she was greatly annoyed, the sole manifestation of her real feelings that Estela had never succeeded in controlling. She was not frowning; her lips, however, were slightly parted, emphasizing the interest, the curiosity, the calm surprise in her eyes. But what was new, however minute a sign it might appear to be, was this turning outward, this interest in something outside herself, for since that night in Calumbi the baron had never seen any other expression in the baroness's eyes save indifference, withdrawal, a retreat of the spirit. Her paleness was more p.r.o.nounced now, perhaps because of the blue half shadow, perhaps because of what she was experiencing. The baron felt all choked up with emotion and about to burst into sobs. He could just make out Estela's bare white feet on the polished wood floor, and on impulse bent down to kiss them. The baroness did not move as he knelt there at her feet, covering her insteps, her toes, her toenails, her heels with kisses, pressing his lips to them with infinite love and reverence and stammering in a voice full of ardor that he loved them, and that they had always seemed extremely beautiful to him, worthy of intense worship for having given him, all during their life together, such unrequitable pleasure. On kissing them yet again and raising his lips to her frail ankles, he felt his wife move and immediately lifted his head, in time to see that the hand that had touched him on the back before was coming toward him once again, without haste or abruptness, with that naturalness, distinction, discretion with which Estela had always moved, spoken, conducted herself. He felt it alight on his hair and remain there, its touch soft and conciliatory, a contact for which he felt the most heartfelt grat.i.tude because there was nothing hostile or reproving about it; on the contrary, it was loving, affectionate, tolerant. His desire, which had vanished completely, again made its appearance and the baron felt his p.e.n.i.s become hard again. He took the hand that Estela had placed on his head, raised it to his lips, kissed it, and without letting go of it, turned back toward the bed where Sebastiana was still curled up in a ball with her face hidden, and stretching out his free hand he placed it on the pubis whose p.r.o.nounced blackness was such a striking contrast to the matte duskiness of her skin.

"I always wanted to share her with you, my darling," he stammered, his voice unsteady because of the contrary emotions he was experiencing: timidity, shame, devotion, and reborn desire. "But I never dared, because I feared I would offend you, wound your feelings. I was wrong, isn't that so? Isn't it true that you would not have been offended or wounded? That you would have accepted it, looked upon it with pleasure? Isn't it true that it would have been another way of showing you how much I love you, Estela?"

His wife continued to observe him, not in anger, no longer in surprise, but with that calm gaze that had been characteristic of her for some months now. And he saw her turn after a moment to look at Sebastiana, who was still curled up sobbing, and saw that gaze, which until that moment had been neutral, grow interested, gently complaisant. Obeying this sign that he had received from the baroness, he let go of her hand. He saw Estela take two steps toward the head of the bed, sit down on the edge of it, stretch out her arms with that inimitable grace that he so admired in all her movements, and take Sebastiana's face between her two hands, with great care and precaution, as though she were afraid of breaking her. He did not want to see any more. His desire had returned with a sort of mad fury and the baron bent down toward Sebastiana's v.u.l.v.a once again, pressing his face between her legs so as to separate them, forcing her to stretch out, so as to be able to kiss it again, breathe it in, sip it. He remained in that position for a long time, his eyes closed, intoxicated, taking his pleasure, and when he felt that he could no longer contain his excitement he straightened up, got onto the bed, and crawled on top of Sebastiana. Separating her legs with his, fumbling about for her privates with an uncertain hand, he managed to penetrate her in a moment that added pain and rending to his pleasure. He heard her moan, and managed to see, in the tumultuous instant in which life seemed to explode between his legs, that the baroness was still holding Sebastiana's face between her two hands, gazing at her with pity and tenderness as she blew gently on her forehead to free a few little hairs stuck to her skin.

Hours later, when all that was over, the baron opened his eyes as though something or someone had awakened him. The dawn light was coming into the room, and he could hear birdsong and the murmur of the sea. He sat up in Sebastiana's bed, where he had slept by himself; he stood up, covering himself with the sheet that he picked up off the floor, and took a few steps toward the baroness's room. She and Sebastiana were sleeping, their bodies not touching, in the wide bed, and the baron stood there for a moment looking at them through the transparent mosquito netting, filled with an indefinable emotion. He felt tenderness, melancholy, grat.i.tude, and a vague anxiety. He was walking toward the door to the hallway, where he had stripped off his clothes the evening before, when, on pa.s.sing by the balcony, he was stopped short by the sight of the bay set aflame by the rising sun. It was something he had seen countless times and yet never grew tired of: Salvador at the hour when the sun is rising or setting. He went out onto the balcony and stood contemplating the majestic spectacle: the avid green of the island of Itaparica, the grace and the whiteness of the sailboats setting out to sea, the bright blue of the sky and the gray-green of the water, and closer by, at his feet, the broken, bright-red horizon of the roof tiles of houses in which he could picture in his mind the people waking up, the beginning of their day's routine. With bittersweet nostalgia he amused himself trying to identify, by the roofs of the Desterro and Nazareth districts, the family mansions of his former political cronies, those friends he didn't see any more these days: that of the Baron de Cotegipe, the Baron de Macauba, the Viscount de Sao Lourenco, the Baron de Sao Francisco, the Marquis de Barbacena, the Baron de Maragogipe, the Count de Sergimirim, the Viscount de Oliveira. His sweeping gaze took in different points of the city: the rooftops of the seminary, and As Ladeiras, covered with greenery, the old Jesuit school, the hydraulic elevator, the customhouse, and he stood there for a time admiring the sun's bright reflections on the golden stones of the Church of Nossa Senhora da Conceicao de Praia which had been brought, already dressed and carved, from Portugal by sailors grateful to the Virgin, and though he could not see it, he sensed what a multicolored anthill the fish market at the beach would be at this hour of the morning. But suddenly something attracted his attention and he stood there looking very intently, straining his eyes, leaning out over the balcony railing. After a moment, he hurried inside to the chest of drawers where he knew Estela kept the little pair of tortoisesh.e.l.l opera gla.s.ses that she used at the theater.

He went back out onto the balcony and looked, with a growing feeling of puzzlement and uneasiness. Yes, the boats were there, midway between the island of Itaparica and the round Fort of Sao Marcelo, and, indeed, the people in the boats were not fishing but tossing flowers into the sea, scattering petals, blossoms, bouquets on the water, crossing themselves, and though he could not hear them-his heart was pounding-he was certain that those people were also praying and perhaps singing.

The Lion of Natuba hears that it is the first of October, the Little Blessed One's birthday, that the soldiers are attacking Canudos from three sides trying to breach the barricades on Madre Igreja, the one on Sao Pedro, and the one at the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, but it is the other thing that keeps ringing in his great s.h.a.ggy head: that Pajeu's head, without eyes or a tongue or ears, has been for some hours balanced on the end of a stake planted in the dogs' trenches, out by Fazenda Velha. They've killed Pajeu. They've doubtless also killed all those who stole into the atheists' camp with him to help the Vilanovas and the strangers get out of Canudos, and they've doubtless also tortured and decapitated these latter. How much longer will it be before the same thing happens to him, to the Mother of Men, and to all the women of the Sacred Choir who have knelt to pray for the martyred Pajeu?

The shooting and the shouting outside deafen the Lion of Natuba as Abbot Joao pushes open the little door of the Sanctuary.

"Come out! Come out! Get out of there!" the Street Commander roars, gesturing with both hands for them to hurry. "To the Temple of the Blessed Jesus! Run!"

He turns around and disappears in the cloud of dust that has entered the Sanctuary with him. The Lion of Natuba hasn't time to become frightened, to think, to imagine. Abbot Joao's words bring the women disciples to their feet, and some of them screaming, others crossing themselves, they rush to the door, pushing him, shoving him aside, pinning him against the wall. Where are his glove-sandals, those little rawhide soles without which he can hardly hunch along for any distance at all without injuring his palms? He feels all about in the darkened room without finding them, and aware that all the women have left, that even Mother Maria Quadrado has left, he trots hurriedly to the door. He doggedly focuses all his energy, his lively intelligence on the task of reaching the Temple of the Blessed Jesus as Abbot Joao has ordered, and as he lurches along through the maze of defenses surrounding the Sanctuary, b.u.mping into things, getting all scratched and bruised, he notes that the men of the Catholic Guard are no longer there, not the ones who are still alive at any rate, because here and there, lying on top of, between, under the bags and boxes of sand are human beings whose feet, arms, heads his hands and feet keep tripping over. When he emerges from the labyrinth of barricades onto the esplanade and is about to venture across it, the instinct of self-preservation, which is more acute in him than in almost anyone else, which has taught him since he was a child to sense danger before anyone else, better than anyone else, and also to know instantly which danger to confront when faced with several at once, makes him stop short and crouch down amid a pile of barrels riddled with bullet holes through which the sand is pouring. He is never going to reach the Temple under construction: he will be swept off his feet, trampled on, crushed by the crowd frantically bolting in that direction, and-the huge, bright, piercing eyes of the scribe see at one glance-even if he manages to reach the door of the Temple he will never be able to make his way through that swarm of bodies shoving and pushing to get past the bottleneck that the door has become: the entrance to the only solid refuge, with stone walls, still standing in Belo Monte. Better to remain here, to await death here, than to go seek it in that crush that would be the end of his frail bones, that crush that is the thing he has feared most ever since he has been involved, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, in the gregarious, collective, processional, ceremonial life of Canudos. He is thinking: "I don't blame you for having abandoned me, Mother of Men. You have the right to fight for your life, to try to hold out for one day more, one hour more." But there is a great ache in his heart: this moment would not be so hard, so bitter, if she, or any of the women of the Sacred Choir, were here.

Sitting hunched over amid barrels and sacks, peeking out first in one direction and then in another, he little by little gathers some idea of what is happening on the esplanade bounded by the churches and the Sanctuary. The barricade that was erected behind the cemetery barely two days ago, the one that protected the Church of Santo Antonio, has been taken and the dogs have entered, are entering the dwellings in Santa Ines, which is right next to the church. It is from Santa Ines that all the people who are trying to take refuge in the Temple have come: old men, old women, mothers with suckling babes in their arms, on their shoulders, cradled on their bosoms. But there are many people in the city who are still fighting. Opposite him, there are still continuous bursts of gunfire coming from the towers and scaffoldings of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, and the Lion of Natuba can make out the sparks as the jaguncos jaguncos ignite the black-powder charges of their blunderbusses, can see the impacts of the b.a.l.l.s that chip the stones, the roof tiles, the beams of everything around him. At the same time that he came to warn the disciples to run for their lives, Abbot Joao no doubt also came to take the men of the Catholic Guard protecting the Sanctuary off with him, and now all of them are doubtless fighting in Santa Ines, or erecting another barricade, tightening a little more that circle of which the Counselor so often-"and so rightly"-used to speak. Where are the soldiers, from which direction will he see the soldiers coming? What hour of the day or evening is it? The clouds of dirt and smoke, thicker and thicker, irritate his throat and his eyes, make him cough, make it hard to breathe. ignite the black-powder charges of their blunderbusses, can see the impacts of the b.a.l.l.s that chip the stones, the roof tiles, the beams of everything around him. At the same time that he came to warn the disciples to run for their lives, Abbot Joao no doubt also came to take the men of the Catholic Guard protecting the Sanctuary off with him, and now all of them are doubtless fighting in Santa Ines, or erecting another barricade, tightening a little more that circle of which the Counselor so often-"and so rightly"-used to speak. Where are the soldiers, from which direction will he see the soldiers coming? What hour of the day or evening is it? The clouds of dirt and smoke, thicker and thicker, irritate his throat and his eyes, make him cough, make it hard to breathe.

"And the Counselor? What about the Counselor?" he hears a voice say, almost in his ear. "Is it true that he's gone to heaven, that the angels bore him away with them?"

The deeply wrinkled face of the old woman lying on the ground has only one tooth in its mouth and eyelids glued shut with a gummy discharge. She does not appear to be injured, simply utterly exhausted.

"Yes, he's gone to heaven," the Lion of Natuba says, nodding his head, with the clear perception that this is the very best thing he can do for her at this moment. "The angels bore him away."

"Will they come to take my soul with them, too, Lion?" the old woman whispers.

The Lion nods again, several times. The little old woman smiles at him and then lies there immobile, her mouth gaping open. The shooting and the screaming coming from the direction of the fallen Church of Santo Antonio suddenly grow louder and the Lion of Natuba has the feeling that a hail of shots grazes his head and that many bullets embed themselves in the sandbags and barrels of the parapet behind which he has taken cover. He continues to lie there stretched out flat on the ground, his eyes closed, waiting.

When the din dies down a bit, he raises his head and spies the pile of rubble left when the bell tower of Santo Antonio collapsed two nights before. The soldiers are here. His chest burns: they are here, they are here, moving about among the stones, shooting at the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, riddling with bullets the mult.i.tude that is struggling in the doorway and that at this moment, after a few seconds' hesitation, on seeing them appear and finding itself being shot at, comes rushing out at them, hands outstretched, faces congested with wrath, indignation, the desire for vengeance. In seconds, the esplanade turns into a battlefield, with hand-to-hand fighting everywhere, and in the cloud of dust swirling all round the Lion of Natuba he sees pairs and groups grappling with each other, rolling over and over on the ground, he sees sabers, bayonets, knives, machetes, he hears bellows, insults, cries of "Long live the Republic,"

"Down with the Republic,"

"Long live the Counselor, the Blessed Jesus, Marshal Floriano." In the crowd, in addition to the oldsters and the women, there are now jaguncos jaguncos, men of the Catholic Guard who continue to pour onto the esplanade from one side. He thinks he recognizes Abbot Joao and, farther in the distance, the bronze-skinned figure of Big Joao, or perhaps Pedr$$$o, advancing with a huge pistol in one hand and a machete in the other. The soldiers are also on the roof of the church that has caved in. They are there where the jaguncos jaguncos were, raking the esplanade with gunfire from the walls with their bell tower fallen in; he sees kepis, uniforms, leather cartridge belts up there. And he finally realizes what it is that one of them-suspended in empty air almost, up on the sheared-off roof above the facade of Santo Antonio-is doing. He is putting up a flag. They have raised the flag of the Republic over Belo Monte. were, raking the esplanade with gunfire from the walls with their bell tower fallen in; he sees kepis, uniforms, leather cartridge belts up there. And he finally realizes what it is that one of them-suspended in empty air almost, up on the sheared-off roof above the facade of Santo Antonio-is doing. He is putting up a flag. They have raised the flag of the Republic over Belo Monte.

He is imagining what the Counselor would have felt, said, if he had seen that flag fluttering up there, already full of bullet holes from the round after round of shots that the jaguncos jaguncos immediately fire at it from the rooftops, towers, and scaffoldings of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, when he spies the soldier who is aiming his rifle at him, who is shooting at him. immediately fire at it from the rooftops, towers, and scaffoldings of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, when he spies the soldier who is aiming his rifle at him, who is shooting at him.

He does not crouch down, he does not run, he does not move, and the thought crosses his mind that he is one of those little birds that a snake hypnotizes in a tree before devouring it. The soldier is aiming at him and the Lion of Natuba knows by the jerk of the man's shoulder from the recoil of his rifle that he has fired the shot. Despite the blowing dust, the smoke, he sees the man's beady little eyes as he aims at him again, the gleam in them at the thought that he has him at his mercy, his savage joy at knowing that this time he will hit him. But someone roughly jerks him away from where he is and forces him to leap along, to run, his arm almost torn from its socket by the iron grip of the hand that is holding him up. It is Big Joao, naked to the waist, who shouts to him, pointing to Campo Grande: "That way, that way, to Menino Jesus, Santo Eloi, Sao Pedro. Those barricades are still standing. Clear out, go there."

He lets go and disappears into the maze around the churches and the Sanctuary. Without the hand that was holding him up, the Lion of Natuba falls to the ground in a heap. But he lies there for only a few brief moments, getting back into place those bones that seem to have been dislocated in the mad dash. It is as though the yank given him by the leader of the Catholic Guard had started up a secret motor inside him, for the Lion of Natuba begins trotting along again amid the filth and debris of what was once Campo Grande, the only pa.s.sage between dwellings wide enough and straight enough to merit the name of street and now, like the others, nothing but an open s.p.a.ce strewn with sh.e.l.l holes, rubble, and corpses. He sees nothing of what he is leaving behind, what he is dodging around, hugging the ground, not feeling the cuts and bruises from the shards of gla.s.s and the stones, for he is entirely absorbed in the task of getting to where he has been told to go, the little alleyways of Menino Jesus, Santo Eloi, and Sao Pedro Martir, that slender snake that zigzags up to Madre Igreja. He will be safe there, he will stay alive, he will endure. But on turning the third corner of Campo Grande, along what was once Menino Jesus and is now a crowded tunnel, he hears bursts of rifle fire and sees reddish-yellow flames and gray spirals rising in the sky. He stops and squats down next to an overturned cart and a picket fence that is all that is left of a dwelling. He hesitates. Does it make sense to go on toward those flames, those bullets? Isn't it better to go back the way he came? Up ahead, where Menino Jesus leads into Madre Igreja, he can make out silhouettes, knots of people walking back and forth slowly, unhurriedly. So that must be where the barricade is. It's best to make it up there, best to die where there are other people around.

But he is not as completely alone as he thinks he is, for as he goes up the steep incline of Menino Jesus, in little leaps, his name comes up out of the ground, shouted, cried out, to right and left: "Lion! Lion! Come here! Take cover, Lion! Hide, Lion!" Where, where? He can see no one and goes on toward the top, climbing over piles of dirt, ruins, debris, and dead bodies, some of them with their guts spilling out or gobs of flesh torn away by the shrapnel, left lying there for many hours, perhaps days now, to judge by the terrible stench all round him, which, together with the smoke blowing into his face, suffocates him and makes his eyes water. And then, all of a sudden, the soldiers are there. Six of them, three with torches that they keep dipping into a can, no doubt full of kerosene, which another is carrying, for after dipping them into it they light them and hurl them at the dwellings, as the others fire point-blank at these same houses. He is less than ten paces away from them, rooted to the spot where he has first caught sight of them, looking at them in a daze, half blinded, when shooting breaks out all around him. He falls flat on the ground, though he does not close those great eyes of his, which watch in fascination as the soldiers, hit by the hail of bullets, collapse, writhe in agony, roar with pain, drop their rifles. Where, where have the shots come from? One of the atheists rolls toward him, clutching his face. He sees him go suddenly limp and motionless, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

Where have the shots come from, where are the jaguncos? jaguncos? He remains on the alert, watching the fallen dogs intently, his eyes leaping from one to the other, expecting any one of the corpses to stand up and come finish him off. He remains on the alert, watching the fallen dogs intently, his eyes leaping from one to the other, expecting any one of the corpses to stand up and come finish him off.

But what he sees is something crawling swiftly out of a house and wriggling along the ground like a worm, and by the time he thinks to himself: "A 'youngster'!" there is not just one lad but three, the other two having come wriggling along the ground, too. The three of them paw and tug at the dead soldiers. They are not stripping them, as the Lion of Natuba thinks at first; they are removing their bullet pouches and their canteens. And one of the "youngsters" lingers long enough to plunge a knife as long as his arm into the soldier closest to the Lion-one he had thought was dead, though evidently there was still a little bit of life in him-struggling with all his might to lift the heavy weapon.

"Lion, Lion!" It is another "youngster," signaling to him to follow him. The Lion of Natuba sees him disappear through a door standing ajar in one of the dwellings, as the other two make off in opposite directions, trailing their booty along after them. Only then does his little body, frozen in panic, finally obey him, and he is able to drag himself over to the door. Energetic hands just inside the doorway reach out for him. He feels himself lifted off his feet, pa.s.sed to other hands, set down again, and hears a woman's voice say: "Pa.s.s him the canteen." They place it in his bleeding hands, and he raises it to his lips. He takes a long swallow, closing his eyes, deeply grateful, moved by the miracle of this liquid that he can feel extinguishing what seem like red-hot coals inside him.

As he answers questions from the six or seven armed persons who are in the open pit that has been dug inside the house-faces covered with soot, sweaty, some of them bandaged, unrecognizable-and tells them, panting for breath, what he has been able to see on the church square and on his way up here, he realizes that the pit opens downward onto a tunnel. A "youngster" suddenly pops up between his legs, saying: "More dogs setting fires, Sal.u.s.tiano." Those who were listening to him go into action immediately, pushing the Lion aside, and at that moment he realizes that two of them are women. They, too, have rifles; they, too, aim them, with one eye closed, toward the street. Through the cracks between the stakes of the wall, like a recurrent image, the Lion of Natuba sees once again the silhouettes of soldiers in profile coming past with lighted torches that they are hurling inside the houses. "Shoot!" a jagunco jagunco shouts, and the room fills with gunsmoke. The Lion hears the deafening report and hears other shots from close by. When the smoke clears away a little, two "youngsters" leap out of the pit and crawl out into the street to gather up ammunition pouches and canteens. shouts, and the room fills with gunsmoke. The Lion hears the deafening report and hears other shots from close by. When the smoke clears away a little, two "youngsters" leap out of the pit and crawl out into the street to gather up ammunition pouches and canteens.

"We let them get good and close before we shoot. That way they don't get away," one of the jaguncos jaguncos says as he swabs out his rifle. says as he swabs out his rifle.

"They've set fire to your house, Sal.u.s.tiano," a woman says.

"And Abbot Joao's," the same man adds.

These are the houses opposite; they have caught fire together, and beneath the crackling of the flames the sound of people running back and forth, voices, shouts reach them, along with thick clouds of smoke that make them scarcely able to breathe.

"They're trying to fry us to death, Lion," another of the jaguncos jaguncos in the pit says. "All the Freemasons come into the city with torches." in the pit says. "All the Freemasons come into the city with torches."

The smoke is so thick that the Lion of Natuba begins to cough, as at the same time that active, creative, efficient mind of his remembers something that the Counselor once said, which he wrote down and which, like everything else in the Sanctuary notebooks, is doubtless being reduced to ashes at this moment: "There will be three fires. I shall extinguish the first three and the fourth I shall offer to the Blessed Jesus." He says in a loud voice, gasping for breath: "Is this the fourth fire, is this the last fire?" Someone asks timidly: "What about the Counselor, Lion?" He has been waiting for that; ever since he entered this house he has known that someone would dare to ask him this question. He sees, amid the tongues of smoke, seven, eight solemn, hopeful faces.

"He went up..." The Lion of Natuba coughs. "The angels bore him away."

Another fit of coughing makes him close his eyes and double over. In the desperation that overcomes a person when he lacks for air, feeling his lungs expand, gasp, fail to receive what they need so badly, he thinks that this is really the end, that no doubt he will not go to heaven since even at this moment he is unable to believe that there is such a thing as heaven, and he hears, as if in a dream, the jaguncos jaguncos coughing, arguing, and finally deciding that they can't stay here because the fire is going to spread to this house. "We're leaving, Lion," he hears, and "Keep your head down, Lion," and unable to open his eyes, he holds out his hands and feels them grab hold of him, pull him, drag him along. How long does this blind journey last: gasping for air, b.u.mping into walls, beams, people blocking his path, bouncing him back and forth and on through the narrow, curving tunnel through the dirt, with hands pulling him up inside a dwelling through a hole only to shove him back underground and drag him along again? Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, but all the way along, his intelligence never ceases for a second to go over a thousand things once more, to call up a thousand images, concentrating, ordering his little body to hold out, to bear up at least to the end of the tunnel, and being amazed when his body obeys and does not fall to pieces as it seems to be about to do from one moment to the next. coughing, arguing, and finally deciding that they can't stay here because the fire is going to spread to this house. "We're leaving, Lion," he hears, and "Keep your head down, Lion," and unable to open his eyes, he holds out his hands and feels them grab hold of him, pull him, drag him along. How long does this blind journey last: gasping for air, b.u.mping into walls, beams, people blocking his path, bouncing him back and forth and on through the narrow, curving tunnel through the dirt, with hands pulling him up inside a dwelling through a hole only to shove him back underground and drag him along again? Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, but all the way along, his intelligence never ceases for a second to go over a thousand things once more, to call up a thousand images, concentrating, ordering his little body to hold out, to bear up at least to the end of the tunnel, and being amazed when his body obeys and does not fall to pieces as it seems to be about to do from one moment to the next.

Suddenly the hand that was holding him lets go and he falls down and down. His head is going to be smashed to bits, his heart is going to burst, the blood in his veins is going to come spilling out, his bruised little body is going to fly all to pieces. But none of that happens and little by little he calms down, quiets down, as he feels a less contaminated air bring him gradually back to life. He hears voices, shots, a vast hubbub. He rubs his eyes, wipes the dirt from his eyelids, and sees that he is in a house, not in the shaft of a tunnel but on the surface, surrounded by jaguncos jaguncos, by women sitting on the floor with children in their laps, and he recognizes the man who makes skyrockets and set pieces: Antonio the Pyrotechnist.

"Antonio, Antonio, what's happening in Canudos?" the Lion of Natuba says. But not a sound comes out of his mouth. There are no flames here, only a cloud of dust that makes everything a blur. The jaguncos jaguncos are not talking among themselves, they are swabbing out their rifles, reloading their shotguns, and taking turns watching outside. Why isn't he able to speak, why won't his voice come out? are not talking among themselves, they are swabbing out their rifles, reloading their shotguns, and taking turns watching outside. Why isn't he able to speak, why won't his voice come out?

He makes his way over to the Pyrotechnist on his elbows and knees and clutches his legs. Antonio squats down beside him as he primes his gun. "We've stopped them here. But they've gotten through at Madre Igreja, the cemetery, and Santa Ines. They're everywhere. Abbot Joao wants to erect a barrier at Menino Jesus and another at Santo Eloi so they don't attack us from the rear," he explains in a soft, completely untroubled voice.

The Lion of Natuba can readily picture in his mind this one last circle that Belo Monte has become, bounded by the little winding alleyways of Sao Pedro Martir, Santo Eloi, and Menino Jesus: not a tenth of what it once was.

"Do you mean to say they've taken the Temple of the Blessed Jesus?" he says, and this time his voice comes out.

"They brought it down while you were asleep," the Pyrotechnist answers in the same calm voice, as though he were speaking of the weather. "The tower collapsed and the roof caved in. The roar must have been heard as far as Trabubu, as Bendengo. But it didn't wake you up, Lion."

"Is it true that the Counselor went up to heaven?" a woman interrupts him, neither her mouth nor her eyes moving as she speaks.

The Lion of Natuba does not answer: he is hearing, seeing the mountain of stones collapsing, the men with blue armbands and headcloths falling like a solid rain upon the mult.i.tude of sick, wounded, elderly, mothers in childbirth, newborn babies; he is seeing the women of the Sacred Choir crushed to death, Maria Quadrado reduced to a heap of flesh and broken bones.

"The Mother of Men has been looking for you everywhere, Lion," someone says, as though reading his thoughts.

It is an emaciated "youngster," a mere string of bones with skin stretched tight over them, wearing a pair of trousers in rags, who has just come in the door. The jaguncos jaguncos unload the canteens and ammunition pouches he has brought in on his back. unload the canteens and ammunition pouches he has brought in on his back.

The Lion of Natuba grabs him by one of his thin arms. "Maria Quadrado? You've seen her?"

"She's in Santo Eloi, at the barricade," the "youngster" answers. "She's been asking everyone about you."

"Take me to where she is," the Lion of Natuba says in an anxious, pleading voice.

"The Little Blessed One went out to the dogs with a flag," the "youngster" says to the Pyrotechnist, suddenly remembering.

"Take me to where Maria Quadrado is, I beg you," the Lion of Natuba cries, clinging to him and leaping up and down. Not knowing what to do, the lad looks toward the Pyrotechnist.

"Take him with you," the latter says. "Tell Abbot Joao that it's quiet here now. And come back as quickly as you can, because I need you." He has been handing out canteens to people and hands the Lion the one he is keeping for himself. "Have a swallow before you go."

The Lion of Natuba drinks from it and murmurs: "Praised be Blessed Jesus the Counselor." He follows the boy out the door of the shack. Outside, he sees fires everywhere and men and women trying to put them out with bucketfuls of dirt. Sao Pedro Martir has less rubble in it and the houses along it are full of people. Some of them call out to him and motion to him and several times they ask him if he saw the angels, if he was there when the Counselor went up to heaven. He does not answer, he does not stop. He has great difficulty making his way along, he hurts all over and can hardly bear to touch his hands to the ground. He shouts to the "youngster" not to go so fast, that he can't keep up with him, and all at once-without crying out, without a word-the boy falls to the ground. The Lion of Natuba drags himself over to him but does not touch him, for where his eyes were there is now only blood, with something white in the middle of it, a bone perhaps, some other substance perhaps. Without trying to find out where the shot has come from, he begins to trot along more determinedly, thinking: "Mother Maria Quadrado, I want to see you, I want to die with you." As he goes on, he encounters more and more smoke and flames and then all at once he is certain that he will not be able to go any farther: Sao Pedro Martir ends in a wall of crackling flames that completely blocks the street. He stops, panting for breath, feeling the heat of the fire in his face.

"Lion, Lion."

He turns round. He sees the shadow of a woman, a ghost with protruding bones and wrinkled skin, whose gaze is as sad as her voice. "You throw him into the fire, Lion," she begs him. "I can't, but you can. So they don't devour him, the way they're going to devour me." The Lion of Natuba follows the dying woman's gaze, and sees, almost at her side, a corpse that is bright red in the light of the fire, and a feast going on: many rats, dozens perhaps, running back and forth over the face and belly of someone no longer identifiable as either man or woman, young or old. "They're coming out from everywhere because of the fires, or because the Devil has won the war now," the woman says, speaking so slowly that each word seems to be her last. "Don't let them eat him. He's still an angel. Throw him on the fire, Little Lion. In the name of the Blessed Jesus." The Lion of Natuba observes the feast: they have consumed the face and are hard at work on the belly, the thighs.

"Yes, Mother," he says, approaching on his four paws. Rising up on his hind limbs, he reaches over and gathers up the little wrapped bundle that the woman is holding in her lap and clasps it to his chest. And standing on his hind paws, his back hunched, he pants eagerly: "I'm taking him, I'm going with him. This fire has been awaiting me for twenty years now, Mother."

As he walks toward the flames, the woman hears him chanting with his last remaining strength a prayer that she has never heard, in which there is repeated several times the name of a saint she does not recognize either: Almudia.

"A truce?" Antonio Vilanova said.

"That's what that means," the Pyrotechnist answered. "That's what a white cloth on a stick means. I didn't see him when he left, but many other people did. I saw it when he came back. He was still carrying that piece of white cloth."

"And why did the Little Blessed One do that?" Honorio Vilanova asked.

"He took pity on innocent people when he saw so many being burned to death," the Pyrotechnist answered. "Children, old people, pregnant women. He went to ask the atheists to let them leave Belo Monte. He didn't consult Abbot Joao or Pedrao or Big Joao, who were all at Santo Eloi and at Sao Pedro Martir. He made his flag and set out by way of Madre Igreja. The atheists let him through. We thought they'd killed him and were going to give him back to us the way they did Pajeu: with no eyes, tongue, or ears. But he came back, carrying his white cloth. And we had already barricaded Santo Eloi and Menino Jesus and Madre Igreja. And put out lots of fires. He came back in two or three hours and during that time the atheists didn't attack. That's what a truce is. Father Joaquim explained it."

The Dwarf curled up next to Jurema. He was shivering from the cold. They were in a cave, where in the past goatherds used to spend the night, not far from the place where, before it burned down, the tiny village of Cacabu had stood, at a turnoff in the trail between Mirandela and Quijingue. They had been hiding out there for twelve days now. They made quick trips outside to bring back gra.s.s, roots, anything that could be chewed on, and water from a nearby spring. As the whole region round about was swarming with troops that were withdrawing, in small sections or in large battalions, toward Queimadas, they had decided to remain in hiding there for a while. The temperature went down very low at night, and since the Vilanovas did not allow a fire to be lit for fear that the light would attract a patrol, the Dwarf was dying of cold. Of the three of them, he was the one most sensitive to the cold because he was the smallest and the one who had grown thinne