The War Of The End Of The World Part 5

It has become hotter and the nearsighted journalist's face is bathed in sweat. He mops it with the bedsheet that serves him as a handkerchief and then wipes his fogged eyegla.s.ses on his rumpled shirtfront.

"I'll take this to the compositors myself and stay while they set the type," he says, gathering together the sheets of paper scattered about on the desk top. "There won't be any printer's errors; don't worry. You may sleep in peace, sir."

"Are you happier working with me than on the baron's paper?" his boss asks him, point-blank. "I know that you earn more here than on the Diario da Bahia Diario da Bahia. But I'm referring to the work. Do you like it better here?"

"In all truth, yes." The journalist puts his eyegla.s.ses back on and stands there for a moment petrified, waiting for the sneeze with his eyes half closed, his mouth half open, and his nose twitching. But it is a false alarm. "Political reporting is more entertaining than writing about the damage wreaked by fishing with explosives in the Ribeira de Itapagipe or the fire in the Magalhaes Chocolate Factory."

"And, what's more, it's helping build the country, contributing to a worthwhile national cause," Epaminondas Goncalves says. "Because you're one of us, isn't that so?"

"I don't know what I am, sir," the journalist replies, in that voice that, at times piercingly high-pitched and at times deep and sonorous, is as undependable as the rest of his body. "I don't have any political convictions and politics don't interest me."

"I like your frankness." The owner of the newspaper laughs, rising to his feet and reaching for his briefcase. "I'm happy with you. Your feature articles are impeccable. They say precisely what needs to be said, in just the right words. I'm glad I turned the most ticklish section over to you."

He picks up the little desk lamp, blows the flame out, and leaves the office, followed by the journalist, who, on going through the door leading to the outer office, stumbles over a spittoon.

"Well then, I'm going to ask you a favor, sir," he blurts out. "If Colonel Moreira Cesar comes to put down the Canudos insurrection, I'd like to accompany him, as the correspondent of the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias."

Epaminondas Goncalves has turned around to look at him and scrutinizes him as he puts his hat on.

"I suppose it's possible," he says. "You see-you really are one of us, even though politics don't interest you. To admire Colonel Moreira Cesar, a person has to be a republican through and through."

"To be honest with you, I don't know if it's admiration exactly," the journalist confesses, fanning himself with the sheaf of paper. "Seeing a flesh-and-blood hero, being close to someone very famous is a very tempting prospect. It would be like seeing and touching a character in a novel."

"You'll have to watch your step. The colonel doesn't like journalists," Epaminondas Goncalves says. He is already heading toward the door. "He began his public life by shooting down a penpusher in the streets of Rio because he'd insulted the army."

"Good night," the journalist murmurs. He trots to the other end of the building, where a dark pa.s.sageway leads to the print shop. The compositors, who have stayed on the job till this late hour waiting for his article, will surely invite him to have a cup of coffee with them.

III.

[I].

The train whistles as it enters the Queimadas station, decorated with streamers welcoming Colonel Moreira Cesar. A huge crowd has congregated on the narrow red-tile platform, beneath a large white canvas banner wafting out over the tracks: "Queimadas Welcomes Heroic Colonel Moreira Cesar and His Glorious Regiment. Long Live Brazil!" A group of barefoot children wave little flags and there are half a dozen men dressed in their best Sunday suits, with the insignia of the Munic.i.p.al Council on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hats in hand, surrounded by a horde of miserable people in rags and tatters who are standing looking on with great curiosity as beggars asking for alms and vendors peddling raw brown sugar and fritters move among them.

The appearance of Colonel Moreira Cesar on the steps of the train-there are crowds of soldiers with rifles at all the windows-is greeted with shouts and applause. Dressed in a blue wool uniform with gold b.u.t.tons and red stripes and piping, a sword at his waist, and boots with gold spurs, the colonel leaps out onto the platform. He is a man of small build, almost rachitic, very agile. Everyone's face is flushed from the heat, but the colonel is not even sweating. His physical frailty contrasts sharply with the force that he appears to radiate round about him, due to the effervescent energy in his eyes or the sureness of his movements. He has the air of someone who is master of himself, knows what he wants, and is accustomed to being in command.

Applause and cheers fill the air all along the platform and the street, where the people gathered there are shielding themselves from the sun with pieces of cardboard. The children toss handfuls of confetti into the air and those carrying flags wave them. The town dignitaries step forward, but Colonel Moreira Cesar does not stop to shake hands. He has been surrounded by a group of army officers. He nods politely to the dignitaries and then, turning to the crowd, shouts: "Viva the Republic! the Republic! Viva Viva Marshal Floriano!" To the surprise of the munic.i.p.al councillors, who were no doubt expecting to hear speeches, to converse with him, to escort him, the colonel enters the station, accompanied by his officers. The councillors try to follow him, but are stopped by the guards at the door, which has just closed behind him. A whinny is heard. A beautiful white horse is stepping off the train, to the delight of the crowd of youngsters. The animal licks itself clean, shakes its mane, and gives a joyous neigh, sensing open countryside nearby. Lines of soldiers now climb down from the train, one by one, through the doors and windows, setting down bundles, valises, unloading boxes of ammunition, machine guns. A great cheer goes up as the cannons appear, gleaming in the sun. The soldiers are now bringing up teams of oxen to pull the heavy artillery pieces. With resigned expressions, the munic.i.p.al authorities proceed to join the curious who have piled up at the doors and windows to peep inside the station, trying to catch a glimpse of Moreira Cesar amid the group of officers, adjutants, orderlies who are milling about. Marshal Floriano!" To the surprise of the munic.i.p.al councillors, who were no doubt expecting to hear speeches, to converse with him, to escort him, the colonel enters the station, accompanied by his officers. The councillors try to follow him, but are stopped by the guards at the door, which has just closed behind him. A whinny is heard. A beautiful white horse is stepping off the train, to the delight of the crowd of youngsters. The animal licks itself clean, shakes its mane, and gives a joyous neigh, sensing open countryside nearby. Lines of soldiers now climb down from the train, one by one, through the doors and windows, setting down bundles, valises, unloading boxes of ammunition, machine guns. A great cheer goes up as the cannons appear, gleaming in the sun. The soldiers are now bringing up teams of oxen to pull the heavy artillery pieces. With resigned expressions, the munic.i.p.al authorities proceed to join the curious who have piled up at the doors and windows to peep inside the station, trying to catch a glimpse of Moreira Cesar amid the group of officers, adjutants, orderlies who are milling about.

The inside of the station is a single large room, divided by a part.i.tion, behind which the telegrapher is working. The side of the room opposite the train platform overlooks a three-story building with a sign that reads: Hotel Continental. There are soldiers everywhere along the treeless Avenida Itapicuru, which leads up to the main square. Behind the dozens of faces pressed against the gla.s.s, peering inside the station, the troops are eagerly proceeding to detrain. As the regimental flag appears, unfurled and waved with a flourish by a soldier before the eyes of the crowd, another round of applause is heard. On the esplanade between the station and the Hotel Continental, a soldier curries the white horse with the showy mane. In one corner of the station hall is a long table laden with pitchers, bottles, and platters of food, protected by pieces of cheesecloth from the myriad flies that n.o.body takes any notice of. Little flags and garlands are suspended from the ceiling, amid posters of the Progressivist Republican Party and the Bahia Autonomist Party, hailing Colonel Moreira Cesar, the Republic, and the Seventh Infantry Regiment of the Brazilian Army.

Amid all this bustling activity, Colonel Moreira Cesar changes out of woolen dress uniform into a field uniform. Two soldiers have strung up a blanket in front of the part.i.tion marking off the telegrapher's office, and the colonel tosses out from this improvised dressing room the various articles comprising his parade dress, which an adjutant gathers up and stores away in a trunk. As he dons his field dress, Moreira Cesar speaks with three officers standing at attention outside.

"Report on our effective strength, Cunha Matos."

With a slight click of his heels, the major announces: "Eighty-three men who have come down with smallpox and other illnesses," he says, consulting a sheet of paper. "One thousand two hundred thirty-five troops ready for combat. The fifteen million rifle rounds and the seventy artillery rounds are intact and ready to fire, sir."

"Have the order given for the vanguard to leave within two hours at the latest for Monte Santo." The colonel's voice is trenchant, toneless, impersonal. "You, Olimpio, present my apologies to the Munic.i.p.al Council. I will receive them in a while. Explain to them that we are unable to waste time attending ceremonies or banquets."

"Yes, sir."

When Captain Olimpio de Castro takes his leave, the third officer steps forward. He is wearing colonel's stripes and is a man advanced in years, a bit on the tubby side, with a calm look in his eye. "Lieutenant Pires Ferreira and Major Febronio de Brito are here. They have orders to join the regiment as advisers."

Moreira Cesar is lost in thought for a moment. "How fortunate for the regiment," he murmurs, in a voice that is almost inaudible. "Escort them here, Tamarindo."

An orderly, on his knees, helps the colonel don a pair of riding boots, without spurs. A moment later, preceded by Colonel Tamarindo, Febronio de Brito and Pires Ferreira arrive and stand at attention in front of the blanket. They click their heels, give their name and rank, and announce: "Reporting for duty, sir." The blanket falls to the floor. Moreira Cesar is wearing a pistol and sword at his side, his shirtsleeves are rolled up, and his arms are short, skinny, and hairless. He looks the newcomers over from head to foot without a word, with an icy look in his eyes.

"It is an honor for us to place our experience in this region at the service of the most prestigious military leader of Brazil, sir."

Colonel Moreira Cesar stares into the eyes of Febronio de Brito, until the latter looks away in confusion.

"Experience that was of no avail to you when you were confronted with a mere handful of bandits." The colonel has not raised his voice, yet the hall of the railway station seems to be electrified, paralyzed. Scrutinizing the major as he would an insect, Moreira Cesar points a finger at Pires Ferreira: "This officer was in command of no more than a company. But you had half a thousand men at your command and allowed yourself to be defeated like a tenderfoot. The two of you have cast discredit on the army and hence on the Republic. Your presence in the Seventh Regiment is not welcome. You are forbidden to enter combat. You will remain in the rear guard to take care of the sick and the animals. You are dismissed."

The two officers are deathly pale. Febronio de Brito is sweating heavily. His lips part, as though about to say something, but then he decides merely to salute and withdraw with tottering footsteps. The lieutenant stands rooted to the spot, his eyes suddenly red. Moreira Cesar walks by without looking at him, and the swarm of officers and orderlies go on with their duties. On a table maps and a pile of papers are laid out.

"Let the correspondents come in, Cunha Matos," the colonel orders.

The major shows them in. They have come on the same train as the Seventh Regiment and they are plainly worn out from all the b.u.mping and jolting. There are five of them, of different ages, dressed in leggings, caps, riding pants, and equipped with pencils and notebooks; one of them is carrying a bellows camera and a tripod. The one who most attracts people's notice is the nearsighted young correspondent from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias. The spa.r.s.e little goatee that he has grown is in keeping with his threadbare appearance, his extravagant portable writing desk, the inkwell tied to his sleeve, and the goose-quill pen that he nibbles on as the photographer sets up his camera. As he trips the shutter, there is a flash of powder in the pan that brings even louder screams of excitement from the youngsters crouching behind the windowpanes. Colonel Moreira Cesar acknowledges the correspondents' greeting with a slight nod.

"It surprised many people that I did not receive the people of note in Salvador," he says, without polite formulas or warmth, by way of salutation. "There is no mystery involved, sirs. It is a question of time. Every minute is precious, in view of the mission that has brought us to Bahia. We shall bring it to a successful conclusion. The Seventh Regiment is going to punish the rebels of Canudos, as it did the insurgents of the Fortress of Santa Cruz and of Laje, and the federalists of Santa Catarina. There will not be any further uprisings against the Republic."

The cl.u.s.ters of humanity behind the windowpanes have fallen silent, straining to hear what the colonel is saying; officers and orderlies are standing stock-still, listening; and the five journalists are gazing at him with mingled fascination and incredulity. Yes, it is he, he is here at last, in person, just as he appears in caricatures of him: thin, frail, vibrant, with little eyes that flash or drill straight through the person he is addressing, and a forward thrust of his hand as he speaks that resembles the lunge of a fencer. Two days previously, they had been waiting for him in Salvador, with the same curiosity as hundreds of other Bahians, and he had left everyone frustrated, for he did not attend either the banquets or the ball that had been arranged, or the official receptions and ceremonies in his honor, and except for a brief visit to the Military Club and to Governor Luiz Viana, he spoke with no one, devoting all his time to supervising personally the disembarkation of his troops at the port and the transportation of equipment and supplies to the Calcada Station, so as to leave the following day on this train that has brought the regiment to the backlands. He had pa.s.sed through the city of Salvador as though he were fleeing on the run, as though fearing that he would be infected by some dread disease, and it was only now that he was offering an explanation of his conduct: time. But the five journalists, who are closely watching his slightest gesture, are not thinking about what he is saying at this moment, but recalling what has been said and written about him, mentally comparing that mythical creature, both despised and deified, with the very small-statured, stern figure who is speaking to them as though they were not there. They are trying to imagine him, a youngster still, enrolling as a volunteer in the war against Paraguay, where he received wounds and medals in equal number, and his first years as an officer, in Rio de Janeiro, when his militant republicanism very nearly caused him to be thrown out of the army and sent to jail, or in the days when he was the leader of the conspiracies against the monarchy. Despite the energy transmitted by his eyes, his gestures, his voice, it is hard for them to imagine him killing that obscure journalist, in the Rua do Ouvidor in the capital, with five shots from his revolver, though it is not difficult, on the other hand, to imagine his voice declaring at his trial that he is proud to have done what he did and would do so again if he heard anyone insult the army. But above all they recall his public career, after his years of exile in the Mato Grosso and his return following the fall of the Empire. They remember how he turned into President Floriano Peixoto's righthand man, crushing with an iron fist all the uprisings that took place in the first years of the Republic, and defending in O Jacobino O Jacobino, that incendiary paper, his arguments in favor of a Dictatorial Republic, without a parliament, without political parties, in which the army, like the Church in the past, would be the nerve center of a secular society frantically pursuing henceforth the goal of scientific progress. They are wondering whether it is true that on the death of Marshal Floriano Peixoto he was so overwrought that he fainted as he was reading the eulogy at the cemetery. People have said that with the coming to power of a civilian president, Prudente de Moraes, the political fate of Colonel Moreira Cesar and the so-called Jacobins is sealed. But, they tell themselves, this must not be true, since, if it were, he would not be here in Queimadas, at the head of the most famous corps of the Brazilian Army, sent by the government itself to carry out a mission from which-who can possibly doubt it?-he will return to Rio with greatly enhanced prestige.

"I have not come to Bahia to intervene in local political struggles," he is saying, as without looking at them he points to the posters of the Republican Party and the Autonomist Party hanging from the ceiling. "The army is above factional quarrels, on the sidelines of political maneuvering. The Seventh Regiment is here to put down a monarchist conspiracy. For behind the brigands and fanatical madmen of Canudos is a plot against the Republic. Those poor devils are a mere tool of aristocrats who are unable to resign themselves to the loss of their privileges, who do not want Brazil to be a modern country. And of certain fanatical priests unable to resign themselves to the separation of Church and State because they do not want to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. And even of England, apparently, which wants to restore the corrupt Empire that allowed it to buy up the entire output of Brazilian sugar at ridiculously low prices. But they are mistaken. Neither aristocrats nor priests nor England will ever again lay down the law in Brazil. The army will not permit it."

He has raised his voice little by little and uttered the last sentences in an impa.s.sioned tone, with his right hand resting on the pistol suspended from his cartridge belt. As he falls silent there is a reverent hush of expectation in the station hall and the buzzing of insects can be heard as they circle round in mad frustration above the plates of food covered with cheesecloth. The most grizzled journalist, a man who, despite the stifling heat in the room, is still bundled up in a plaid jacket, timidly raises one hand to indicate that he wishes to make a comment or ask a question. But the colonel does not allow him to speak; he has just motioned with his hand to two of his orderlies. Coached beforehand, they lift a box off the floor, place it on the table, and open it: it is full of rifles.

Moreira Cesar begins slowly pacing back and forth in front of the five journalists, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Captured in the backlands of Bahia, gentlemen," he goes on to say in a sarcastic tone of voice, as though he were making mock of someone. "These rifles, at least, failed to reach Canudos. And where are they from? They didn't even bother to remove the manufacturer's label. Liverpool, no less! Rifles of this type have never turned up in Brazil before. Moreover, they're equipped with a special device for shooting expanding bullets. That explains the gaping bullet holes that so surprised the army surgeons: wounds ten, twelve centimeters in diameter. They looked more like shrapnel wounds than bullet wounds. Is it likely that simple jaguncos jaguncos, mere cattle rustlers, would know about such European refinements as expanding bullets? And furthermore, what is the meaning behind the sudden appearance of so many people whose origins are a mystery? The corpse discovered in Ipupiara. The individual who turns up in Capim Grosso with a pocket full of pounds sterling who confesses to having guided a party of English-speaking hors.e.m.e.n. Foreigners trying to take shipments of provisions and gunpowder to Canudos have even been discovered in Belo Horizonte. Too many apparent coincidences not to point to a plot against the Republic as the source behind them. The enemies of the Republic refuse to give up. But their machinations are of no avail. They failed in Rio, they failed in Rio Grande do Sul, and they will also fail in Bahia, gentlemen."

He has paced back and forth in front of the five journalists two, three times, taking short, rapid, nervous steps. He has now returned to the same place as before, alongside the table with the maps. As he addresses them once again, his tone of voice becomes imperious, threatening.

"I have agreed to allow you to accompany the Seventh Regiment, but you will be obliged to obey certain rules. The dispatches that you telegraph from here must first have been approved by Major Cunha Matos or by Colonel Tamarindo. The same is true of any reports you send via messengers during the campaign. I must warn you that if any one of you tries to send off an article that has not been approved by my aides, this will be regarded as a serious offense. I hope you understand the situation: any slip, error, imprudence risks serving the enemy's cause. Don't forget that we are at war. May your stay with the regiment be a pleasant one. That is all, gentlemen."

He turns to his staff officers, who surround him forthwith, and immediately, as though a magic spell had been broken, the hustle and bustle, the din, the milling back and forth begin again in the Queimadas station. But the five journalists stand there looking at each other, disconcerted, dazed, disappointed, unable to understand why Colonel Moreira Cesar is treating them as though they were his potential enemies, why he has not allowed them to ask a single question, why he has not shown them the slightest sign of warmth or at least politeness. The circle surrounding the colonel breaks up as each of his officers, obeying his instructions, clicks his heels and heads off in a different direction. Once he is alone, the colonel gazes all about him, and for a second the five journalists have the impression that he is about to approach them, but they are mistaken. He is looking, as though he had just become aware of them, at the dark, miserable, famished faces pressing against the doors and windows. He observes them with an expression impossible to define, scowling, his lower lip thrust forward. Suddenly he strides resolutely to the nearest door. He flings it wide open and opens his arms to welcome the swarm of men, women, children, oldsters dressed in almost nothing but rags, many of them barefoot, who gaze at him with respect, fear, or admiration. With imperious gestures, he motions to them to come inside, pulls them, drags them in, encourages them, pointing out to them the long table where, beneath clouds of greedy insects, the drinks and viands that the Munic.i.p.al Council of Queimadas has set out to honor him are sitting untouched.

"Come on in, come on in," he says, leading them to the table, pushing them, removing with his own hand the pieces of cheesecloth covering the viands. "You're the guests of the Seventh Regiment. Come on, don't be afraid. All this is for you. You need it more than we do. Drink, eat, and may you enjoy it."

And now there is no need to urge them on; they have fallen ecstatically, greedily, incredulously, on the plates, gla.s.ses, platters, pitchers, and are elbowing each other aside, crowding round, pushing and shoving, fighting with each other for the food and drink, before the colonel's saddened gaze. The journalists stand there, openmouthed. A little old woman, holding a morsel of food that she has grabbed and already bitten into, backs away from the table and stops alongside Moreira Cesar, her face beaming with grat.i.tude.

"May the Blessed Lady protect you, Colonel," she murmurs, making the sign of the cross in the air.

"This is the lady that protects me," the journalists hear him answer as he touches his sword.

In its better days, the Gypsy's Circus had included twenty persons, if one could call persons creatures such as the Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, the Spider Man, Pedrim the Giant, and Juliao, swallower of live toads. In those days the circus went about in a wagon painted red, with posters of trapeze artists on the side, drawn by the four horses on which the French Brothers did acrobatic tricks. It also had a small menagerie, a counterpart of the collection of human curiosities that the Gypsy had collected in his wanderings: a five-legged sheep, a little two-headed monkey, a cobra (a normal one) which had to be fed small birds, and a goat with three rows of teeth, which Pedrim displayed to the public by opening its mouth with his huge hands. They never had a tent. Performances were given in the main squares of towns, on holidays or the local patron saint's day.

There were feats of strength and balancing acts, magic tricks and mind reading, Solimao the Black swallowed swords, in nothing flat the Spider Man glided up to the top of the greased pole and then offered a fabulous milreis piece to anyone who could do the same, Pedrim the Giant broke chains, the Bearded Lady danced with the cobra and kissed it on the mouth, and all of them, made up as clowns with burnt cork and rice powder, bent the Idiot, who seemed to have no bones, in two, in four, in six. But the star performer was the Dwarf, who recounted tales, with great sensitivity, vehemence, tender feeling, and imagination: the story of Princess Maguelone, the daughter of the King of Naples, who is abducted by Sir Pierre the knight and whose jewels are found by a sailor in the belly of a fish; the story of the Beautiful Silvaninha, whose own father, no less, wished to marry her; the story of Charlemagne and the Twelve Peers of France; the story of the barren d.u.c.h.ess with whom the Devil fornicated, who then gave birth to Robert the Devil; the story of Olivier and Fierabras. His turn was last because it put the audience in a generous mood.

The Gypsy must have been in trouble with the police on the coast, for even in periods of drought he never went down there. He was a violent man; on the slightest pretext, his fists would shoot out and he would mercilessly beat up any creature who annoyed him, be it man, woman, or animal. Despite his mistreatment of them, however, none of the circus people would have dreamed of leaving him. He was the soul of the circus, he was the one who had created it, collecting from all over those beings who, in their towns and their families, were objects of derision, freaks whom others looked upon as punishments from G.o.d and mistakes of the species. All of them, the Dwarf, the Bearded Lady, the Giant, the Spider Man, even the Idiot (who could feel these things even though he wasn't able to understand them), had found in the traveling circus a more hospitable home than the one they had come from. In the caravan that went up and down and around the burning-hot backlands, they ceased to live a life filled with fear and shame and shared an abnormality that made them feel that they were normal.

Hence, none of them could understand the behavior of the youngster from Natuba with long tangled locks, lively dark eyes, and practically no legs at all, who trotted around on all fours. When they gave their show in his town, they noticed that he'd caught the Gypsy's eye, that he watched the boy all during the performance. Because there was no getting around the fact that freaks of nature-human or animal-fascinated him for some more profound reason than the money he could make by exhibiting them. Perhaps he felt more normal, more complete, more perfect in the society of misfits and oddities. In any event, when the show was over, he asked people where the youngster lived, found the house, introduced himself to his parents, and persuaded them to give the boy to him so as to make a circus performer of him. The thing the others found incomprehensible was that, a week later, this creature who got about on all fours escaped from the circus, just as the Gypsy had started teaching him a turn as an animal tamer.

Their bad luck began with the great drought, on account of the Gypsy's obdurate refusal to go down to the coast as the circus people begged him to do. They found deserted towns and haciendas that had turned into charnel houses; they realized that they might die of thirst. But the Gypsy was as stubborn as a mule, and one night he said to them: "I'm giving you your freedom. Clear out if you want to. But if you don't go, I don't want anybody ever to tell me again where the circus should head next." n.o.body took off, no doubt because all of them feared other people more than they feared catastrophe. In Caatinga do Moura, Dadiva, the Gypsy's wife, took sick with fevers that made her delirious, and they had to bury her in Taquarandi. They were forced to begin eating the circus animals. When the rains came again, a year and a half later, Juliao and his wife Sabina, Solimao the Black, Pedrim the Giant, the Spider Man, and the Little Star had died. They had lost the wagon with the posters of trapeze artists on the sides and were now hauling their belongings about in two carts that they pulled themselves, until people, water, life returned to the backlands and the Gypsy was able to buy two draft mules.

They began to put on shows again and once more they earned enough to put food in their mouths. But things weren't the same as before. The Gypsy, crazed with grief at the loss of his children, took no interest in the performances now. He had left the three children in the care of a family in Caldeirao Grande, and when he came back to get them after the drought, n.o.body in the town could tell him anything about the Campinas family or his children. He never gave up hope of finding them, and years later he was still questioning people in the towns as to whether they'd seen them or heard anything about them. The disappearance of his children-everyone else was sure they were dead-turned him from a man who had once been energy and high spirits personified into a creature filled with bitterness, who drank too much and flew into a fury over anything and everything. One afternoon they were putting on a show in the village of Santa Rosa and the Gypsy was doing the turn that Pedrim the Giant used to do in the old days: challenging any spectator to make his shoulders touch the ground. A robust man presented himself and knocked him clean over at the first shove. The Gypsy picked himself up, saying that he'd slipped and that the man would have to try again. The brawny man again sent him sprawling. Getting to his feet once more, the Gypsy, his eyes flashing, asked him if he'd be willing to repeat his feat with a knife in his hand. The man didn't really want to fight it out with him, but the Gypsy, having taken leave of his reason, egged him on in such an insulting way that finally there was nothing else the husky fellow could do but accept the challenge. As effortlessly as he'd knocked him down before, he left the Gypsy lying on the ground, with his throat slit and his eyes turning gla.s.sy. They learned later that the Gypsy had had the temerity to challenge Pedrao, the famous bandit.

Despite everything, surviving through simple inertia, as if to prove that nothing dies unless it's meant to (the phrase had come from the Bearded Lady), the circus did not disappear. It was admittedly a mere shadow of the old circus now, huddling round a wagon with a patched canvas top, drawn by a lone burro; folded up inside it was a much-mended tent, which the last remaining performers-the Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, the Idiot, and the cobra-set up and slept under each night. They still gave shows and the Dwarf's stories of love and adventure were still as great a success as in the old days. In order not to tire the burro, they traveled on foot and the only one of them to enjoy the use of the wagon was the cobra, which lived in a wicker basket. In their wanderings. .h.i.ther and yon, the last members of the Gypsy's Circus had met up with saints, bandits, pilgrims, migrants, people with the most startling faces dressed in the most improbable attire. But never, before that morning, had they come across a flaming-red mane of hair such as that of the man stretched out full-length on the ground that they caught sight of as they rounded a bend of the trail that leads to Riacho da Onca. He was lying there motionless, dressed in a black garment covered with patches of white dust. A few yards farther on were the rotting carca.s.s of a mule being devoured by black vultures and a fire that had gone out. And sitting alongside the ashes was a young woman, watching them approach with an expression on her face that did not seem to be a sad one. The burro, as though it had been given an order to do so, stopped in its tracks. The Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, the Idiot, took a close look at the man and spied the purplish wound in his shoulder half hidden by the fiery-red locks, and the dried blood on his beard, ear, and shirtfront.

"Is he dead?" the Bearded Lady asked.

"Not yet," Jurema answered.

"This place will be destroyed by fire," the Counselor said, sitting up on his pallet. They had rested only four hours, since the procession the evening before had ended after midnight, but the Lion of Natuba, whose ears p.r.i.c.ked up at the slightest sound, heard that unmistakable voice in his sleep and leapt up from the floor to grab pen and paper so as to note down these words which must not be lost. His eyes closed, totally absorbed in the vision, the Counselor added: "There will be four fires. I shall extinguish the first three, and the fourth I shall leave to the Blessed Jesus." This time his words awakened the women of the Sacred Choir in the next room as well, for, as he wrote, the Lion of Natuba heard the door open and saw Maria Quadrado, enveloped in her blue tunic, come into the Sanctuary-the only person save for himself and the Little Blessed One who ever entered, either by day or by night, without first asking the Counselor's permission. "Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ," the Superior of the Sacred Choir said, crossing herself. "Praised be He," the Counselor answered, opening his eyes. And with a note of sadness in his voice, he said, dreaming still: "They will kill me, but I shall not betray Our Lord."

As he wrote, not letting his mind wander for an instant, aware to the very roots of his hair of the transcendent importance of the mission that the Little Blessed One had entrusted him with, thereby allowing him to share the Counselor's every moment, the Lion of Natuba could hear the women of the Sacred Choir in the next room, anxiously awaiting Maria Quadrado's permission to enter the Sanctuary. There were eight of them, and like her, they were dressed in blue tunics with long sleeves and a high neck, tied at the waist with a white girdle. They went about barefoot, and kept their heads covered with kerchiefs that were also blue. Chosen by the Mother of Men because of their spirit of self-abnegation and their devotion, they had one mission, to serve the Counselor, and all eight of them had vowed to live a life of chast.i.ty and never return to their families. They slept on the floor, on the other side of the door, and accompanied the Counselor like an aureole as he supervised the construction of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, prayed in the little Church of Santo Antonio, led processions, presided at Rosaries and funerals, or visited the Health Houses. In view of the saint's frugal habits, their daily tasks were few: washing and mending his dark purple tunic, caring for the little white lamb, cleaning the floor and the walls of the Sanctuary, and vigorously beating his rush mattress. They were entering the Sanctuary now: Maria Quadrado had let them in and closed the door behind them. Alexandrinha Correa was leading the little white lamb. The eight of them made the sign of the cross as they intoned: "Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ."

"Praised be He," the Counselor replied, gently stroking the lamb. The Lion of Natuba remained squatting on his heels, his pen in hand and his paper on the little bench that served him as a writing desk, and his intelligent eyes-gleaming brightly amid the long filthy mane that fell all about over his face-fixed on the Counselor's lips. The latter was about to pray. He stretched out face downward on the floor, as Maria Quadrado and the eight pious women knelt round him to pray with him. But the Lion of Natuba did not stretch out on the floor or kneel: his mission exempted him even from joining in the devotions. The Little Blessed One had instructed him to remain on the alert, in case one of the prayers that the saint recited turned out to be a "revelation." But that morning the Counselor prayed silently in the dawn light, growing brighter by the second as it filtered into the Sanctuary through the c.h.i.n.ks in the roof and the walls and the door, strands of gold shot through with motes of dust. Little by little, Belo Monte was waking: roosters, dogs, human voices could be heard. Outside, doubtless, the usual small groups had already begun to gather: pilgrims and members of the community who wished to see the Counselor or ask his favor.

Once the Counselor rose to his feet, the women of the Sacred Choir offered him a bowlful of goat's milk, a bit of bread, a dish of boiled cornmeal, and a basketful of mangabas mangabas. But all he took was a few sips of the milk. Then the women brought a bucket of water so as to wash him. As they silently, diligently circled round his pallet, never once getting in each other's way, as though they had practiced their movements, sponging his hands and face and vigorously scrubbing his feet, the Counselor sat there without moving, lost in thought or in prayer. As they were placing on his feet his shepherd's sandals that he had removed to take his night's rest, the Little Blessed One and Abbot Joao entered the Sanctuary.

The outward appearance of those two was so different that the former always looked even frailer, more absorbed in his reflections, and the latter more corpulent, when the two of them were together. "Praised be the Blessed Jesus," one of them said, and the other: "Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ."

"Praised be He."

The Counselor extended his hand, and as they kissed it, he asked them in an anxious tone of voice: "Is there any news of Father Joaquim?"

The Little Blessed One replied that there was none. Although he was painfully thin, in delicate health, and old before his time, his face revealed that indomitable energy with which he organized all the worship services, took charge of receiving the pilgrims, planned the processions, saw to it that the altars were properly cared for, and found the time to compose hymns and litanies. His dark brown tunic was draped with scapulars and full of holes through which one could see the wire circling his waist, which, people said, he had never once removed since that day in his tender years when the Counselor had first knotted it round him. He stepped forward now to speak, as Abbot Joao, whom people had started calling Leader of the Town and Street Commander, stepped back.

"Joao has an idea that's inspired, Father," the Little Blessed One said in the shy, reverent tone of voice in which he always addressed the Counselor. "There's been a war, right here in Belo Monte. And while everybody was fighting, you were all alone in the tower. There was n.o.body protecting you."

"The Father protects me, Little Blessed One," the Counselor murmured. "As He protects you and all of those who believe."

"Though we may die, you must live," the Little Blessed One insisted. "Out of charity toward all mankind, Counselor."

"We want to organize a guard to watch over you, Father," Abbot Joao murmured. He spoke with lowered eyes, searching for words. "This guard will see to it that no harm comes to you. We will choose it the way Mother Maria Quadrado chose the Sacred Choir. It will be made up of the best and bravest men, those who are entirely trustworthy. They will devote themselves to serving you."

"As the archangels in heaven serve Our Lord Jesus," the Little Blessed One said. He pointed to the door, the mounting din. "Every day, every hour, there are more people. There are a hundred of them out there waiting. We can't be personally acquainted with each and every one of them. And what if the Can's men make their way inside to harm you? The corps of guards will be your shield. And if there's fighting, you'll never be alone."

The women of the Sacred Choir sat squatting on their heels, quietly listening, not saying a word. Only Maria Quadrado was standing, alongside the two men who had just arrived. The Lion of Natuba had dragged himself over to the Counselor as they talked, and, like a dog that is its master's favorite, laid his head on the saint's knee.

"Don't think of yourself, but of the others," Maria Quadrado said. "It's an inspired idea, Father. Accept it."

"It will be the Catholic Guard, the Company of the Blessed Jesus," the Little Blessed One said. "They will be crusaders, soldiers who believe in the Truth."

The Counselor made a gesture that was almost imperceptible, but all of them understood that he had given his consent. "Who is to lead it?" he asked.

"Big Joao, if you approve," the erstwhile cangaceiro cangaceiro answered. "The Little Blessed One also thinks he might be the right one." answered. "The Little Blessed One also thinks he might be the right one."

"He's a firm believer." The Counselor remained silent for a moment, and when he began to speak again his voice had become completely impersonal and his words did not appear to be addressed to any of them, but rather to a far greater number of listeners, a vast, imperishable audience. "He has suffered, both in body and in soul. And it is the suffering of the soul, above all, that makes good people truly good."

Before the Little Blessed One even looked his way, the Lion of Natuba had raised his head from the saint's knees and with feline swiftness had seized pen and paper and written down the words they had just heard. When he had finished, he crawled back on all fours to the Counselor and once more laid his ma.s.sive head with its tangled locks on his knee. Abbot Joao had meanwhile begun to recount what had taken place in the last few hours. Jaguncos Jaguncos had gone out to reconnoiter, others had come back with provisions and news, and still others had set fire to the haciendas of people who refused to help the Blessed Jesus. Was the Counselor listening to him? His eyes were closed, and he remained perfectly silent and motionless, as did the women of the Sacred Choir. His soul had seemingly taken wing to partic.i.p.ate in one of those celestial colloquies-as the Little Blessed One called them-following which he would bring back revelations and truths to the inhabitants of Belo Monte. Even though there were no signs that other soldiers were coming, Abbot Joao had posted men along the roads that led from Canudos to Jeremoabo, Uaua, O Cambaio, Rosario, Chorrocho, Curral dos Bois, and was digging trenches and erecting parapets along the banks of the Vaza-Barris. The Counselor did not ask him any questions, nor did he ask any when the Little Blessed One gave an account of the battles that he for his part was waging. As though reciting one of his litanies, he explained how the pilgrims had poured in the evening before and that morning-from Cabrobo, from Jacobina, from Bom Conselho, from Pombal-and were now in the Church of Santo Antonio, awaiting the Counselor. Would he receive them during the morning before going to see how the work was getting on at the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, or in the evening during the counsels? The Little Blessed One then gave him an account of how the work was going. They had run out of timber for the vaulting and were unable to start on the roof. Two carpenters had gone to Juazeiro to see about getting more. Since, happily, there was no lack of stones, the masons were going on with the bracing of the walls. had gone out to reconnoiter, others had come back with provisions and news, and still others had set fire to the haciendas of people who refused to help the Blessed Jesus. Was the Counselor listening to him? His eyes were closed, and he remained perfectly silent and motionless, as did the women of the Sacred Choir. His soul had seemingly taken wing to partic.i.p.ate in one of those celestial colloquies-as the Little Blessed One called them-following which he would bring back revelations and truths to the inhabitants of Belo Monte. Even though there were no signs that other soldiers were coming, Abbot Joao had posted men along the roads that led from Canudos to Jeremoabo, Uaua, O Cambaio, Rosario, Chorrocho, Curral dos Bois, and was digging trenches and erecting parapets along the banks of the Vaza-Barris. The Counselor did not ask him any questions, nor did he ask any when the Little Blessed One gave an account of the battles that he for his part was waging. As though reciting one of his litanies, he explained how the pilgrims had poured in the evening before and that morning-from Cabrobo, from Jacobina, from Bom Conselho, from Pombal-and were now in the Church of Santo Antonio, awaiting the Counselor. Would he receive them during the morning before going to see how the work was getting on at the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, or in the evening during the counsels? The Little Blessed One then gave him an account of how the work was going. They had run out of timber for the vaulting and were unable to start on the roof. Two carpenters had gone to Juazeiro to see about getting more. Since, happily, there was no lack of stones, the masons were going on with the bracing of the walls.

"The Temple of the Blessed Jesus must be finished as soon as possible," the Counselor murmured, opening his eyes. "That is what matters most."

"Indeed it is, Father," the Little Blessed One said. "Everyone is helping. What's lacking isn't willing hands but building materials. We're running out of everything. But we'll get the timber we need, and if we have to pay for it, we'll do so. People are prepared, one and all, to give whatever money they have."

"Father Joaquim hasn't come round for many days now," the Counselor said, with a note of anxiety in his voice. "There hasn't been a Ma.s.s in Belo Monte for quite some time now."

"It must be the fuses that are delaying him, Father," Abbot Joao said. "We have hardly any left, and he offered to go buy some at the mines in Cacabu. He's no doubt ordered them and is waiting for them to come. Do you want me to send someone out to look for him?"

"He'll be along. Father Joaquim won't let us down," the Counselor answered. And he looked around for Alexandrinha Correa, who had been sitting with her head hunched over between her shoulders, visibly embarra.s.sed, ever since the name of the parish priest of c.u.mbe had first been mentioned. "Come here to me. You mustn't feel ashamed, my daughter."

Alexandrinha Correa-with the years she had become thinner and her face grown more wrinkled, but she still had her turned-up nose and an intractable air about her that contrasted with her humble manner-crept over to the Counselor without daring to look at him.

Placing one hand on her head as he spoke, he said to her: "From that evil there came good, Alexandrinha. He was a bad shepherd, and because he had sinned, he suffered, repented, settled his accounts with heaven, and is now a good son of the Father. When all is said and done, you did him a service. And you did your brothers and sisters of Belo Monte one as well, for thanks to Dom Joaquim we are still able to hear Ma.s.s from time to time."

There was sadness in his voice as he spoke these last words, and perhaps he did not notice that the former water divineress bent her head to kiss his tunic before retreating to her corner. In the early days at Canudos, a number of priests used to come to say Ma.s.s, baptize babies, and marry couples. But after that Holy Mission of the Capuchin missionary priests from Salvador which ended so badly, the Archbishop of Bahia had forbidden parish priests to offer the sacraments at Canudos. Father Joaquim was the only one who had continued to come nonetheless. He brought not only religious solace but also paper and ink for the Lion of Natuba, candles and incense for the Little Blessed One, and all sorts of things that Abbot Joao and the Vilanova brothers had asked him to procure for them. What impelled him to defy first the Church and now the civil authorities? Alexandrinha Correa perhaps, the mother of his children, with whom, each time he visited Canudos, he had an austere conversation in the Sanctuary or in the Chapel of Santo Antonio. Or the Counselor perhaps, in whose presence he was always visibly perturbed and seemingly moved to the depths of his soul. Or the hope perhaps (as many people suspected) that by coming he was paying a long-standing debt owed heaven and the people of the backlands.

The Little Blessed One had started to speak again, about the Triduum of the Precious Blood that was to begin that afternoon, when they heard a gentle knock on the door amid all the uproar outside. Maria Quadrado went to open it. With the sun shining brightly behind him and a mult.i.tude of heads trying to peek over his shoulders, the parish priest of c.u.mbe appeared in the doorway.

"Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ," the Counselor said, rising to his feet so quickly that the Lion of Natuba was obliged to step aside. "We were just speaking of you, and suddenly you appear."

He walked to the door to meet Father Joaquim, whose ca.s.sock was covered with dust, as was his face. The saint bent down, took his hand, and kissed it. The humility and respect with which the Counselor always received him made the priest feel ill at ease, but today he was so perturbed that he did not appear to have even noticed.

"A telegram arrived," he said, as the Little Blessed One, Abbot Joao, the Mother of Men, and the women of the Sacred Choir kissed his hand. "A regiment of the Federal Army is on its way here, from Rio. Its commanding officer is a famous figure, a hero who has won every war he's ever led his troops in."

"Thus far, n.o.body has ever won a war against the Father," the Counselor said joyfully.

Crouching over his bench, the Lion of Natuba was writing swiftly.

Having finished the job in Itiuba that he had hired on for with the people from the railroad company in Jacobina, Rufino is now guiding a group of cowhands along the rugged back trails of the Serra de Bendengo, that mountain fastness where a stone from heaven once fell to earth. They are tracking cattle rustlers who have stolen half a hundred head from the Pedra Vermelha hacienda belonging to a "colonel" named Jose Bernardo Murau, but before they locate the cattle they learn of the defeat of Major Febronio de Brito's expedition at Monte Cambaio and decide to stop searching so as not to run into jaguncos jaguncos or retreating soldiers. Just after parting company with the cowhands, Rufino falls into the hands of a band of deserters, led by a sergeant from Pernambuco, in the spurs of the Serra Grande. They relieve him of his shotgun, his machete, his provisions, and the sack containing the reis that he has earned as a guide for the railway people. But they do not otherwise harm him and even warn him not to go by way of Monte Santo, since Major Brito's defeated troops are regrouping there and might well enlist his services. or retreating soldiers. Just after parting company with the cowhands, Rufino falls into the hands of a band of deserters, led by a sergeant from Pernambuco, in the spurs of the Serra Grande. They relieve him of his shotgun, his machete, his provisions, and the sack containing the reis that he has earned as a guide for the railway people. But they do not otherwise harm him and even warn him not to go by way of Monte Santo, since Major Brito's defeated troops are regrouping there and might well enlist his services.

The region is in a state of profound unrest because of the war. The following night, near the Rio Cariaca, the guide hears the sound of gunfire and early the next morning discovers that men who have come from Canudos have sacked and razed the Santa Rosa hacienda, which he knows very well. The house, vast and cool, with a wooden bal.u.s.trade and surrounded by palm trees, has been reduced to a pile of smoking ashes. He catches sight of the empty stables, the former slave quarters, and the peasants' huts, which have also been set on fire, and an old man living nearby tells him that everyone has gone off to Belo Monte, taking with them the animals and everything else that did not go up in flames.

Rufino takes a roundabout way so as to skirt Monte Santo, and the following day a family of pilgrims headed for Canudos warns him to be on his guard, for there are patrols from the Rural Guard scouring the countryside in search of young men to press into army service. At midday he arrives at a chapel half hidden amid the yellowish slopes of the Serra da Engorda, where, by long-standing tradition, men with blood on their hands come to repent of their crimes, and others come to make offerings. It is a very small building, standing all by itself, with no doors and with white walls teeming with lizards slithering up and down. The inside walls are completely covered with ex-votos: bowls containing petrified food, little wooden figurines, arms, legs, heads made of wax, weapons, articles of clothing, all manner of miniature objects. Rufino carefully examines knives, machetes, shotguns, and chooses a long, curved, sharp-honed knife recently left there. Then he goes to kneel before the altar, on which there is nothing but a cross, and explains to the Blessed Jesus that he is merely borrowing this knife. He tells Him how he has been robbed of everything he had on him, so that he needs the knife in order to get back home. He a.s.sures Him that it is not at all his intention to take something that belongs to Him, and promises to return it to Him, along with a brand-new knife that will be his offering to Him. He reminds Him that he is not a thief, that he has always kept his promises. He crosses himself and says: "I thank you, Blessed Jesus."

He then goes on his way at a steady pace that does not tire him, climbing up slopes or down ravines, traversing scrubland caatinga caatinga or stony ground. That afternoon he catches an armadillo that he roasts over a fire. The meat from it lasts him two days. The third day finds him not far from Nordestina. He heads for the hut of a farmer he knows, where he has often spent the night. The family receives him even more cordially than in the past, and the wife prepares a meal for him. He tells them how the deserters robbed him, and they talk about what is going to happen after the battle on O Cambaio, in which, so people are saying, a great many men lost their lives. As they talk, Rufino notes that the man and his wife exchange glances, as though there is something they want to tell him though they don't dare come out with it. Then the farmer, coughing nervously, asks him how long it has been since he has had news of his family. Nearly a month. Has his mother died? No. Jurema, then? The couple sit there looking at him. Finally the man speaks up: the news is going round that there has been a shootout and men killed at his house and that his wife has taken off with a redheaded stranger. Rufino thanks them for their hospitality and leaves immediately. or stony ground. That afternoon he catches an armadillo that he roasts over a fire. The meat from it lasts him two days. The third day finds him not far from Nordestina. He heads for the hut of a farmer he knows, where he has often spent the night. The family receives him even more cordially than in the past, and the wife prepares a meal for him. He tells them how the deserters robbed him, and they talk about what is going to happen after the battle on O Cambaio, in which, so people are saying, a great many men lost their lives. As they talk, Rufino notes that the man and his wife exchange glances, as though there is something they want to tell him though they don't dare come out with it. Then the farmer, coughing nervously, asks him how long it has been since he has had news of his family. Nearly a month. Has his mother died? No. Jurema, then? The couple sit there looking at him. Finally the man speaks up: the news is going round that there has been a shootout and men killed at his house and that his wife has taken off with a redheaded stranger. Rufino thanks them for their hospitality and leaves immediately.

At dawn the following morning the silhouette of the guide stands out against the light on a hill from which his cabin can be seen. He walks through the little copse dotted with boulders and bushes where he first met Galileo Gall and makes his way toward the rise on which his dwelling stands, at his usual pace, a quick trot halfway between walking and running. His face bears the traces of his long journey, of the troubles he has come up against, of the bad news he has had the night before: tense and rigid, the features stand out more sharply, the lines and hollows more deeply etched. The only thing he has with him is the knife that he has borrowed from the Blessed Jesus. Approaching within a few yards of his cabin, he gazes warily about. The gate of the animal pen is open, and it is empty. But what Rufino stands staring at with eyes at once grave, curious, and dumfounded is not the animal pen but the open s.p.a.ce in front of the house, where there are now two crosses that were not there before, propped up by two piles of little stones. On entering the cabin, he spies the oil lamp, the casks and jars, the pallet, the hammock, the trunk, the print of the Virgin of Lapa, the cooking pots and the bowls, and the pile of firewood. There doesn't seem to be anything missing, and what is more, the cabin appears to have been carefully tidied up, each thing in its proper place. Rufino looks around again, slowly, as though trying to wrench from these objects the secret of what has happened in his absence. He can hear the silence: no dog barking, no cackling hens, no sheep bells tinkling, no voice of his wife. He finally begins walking about the room, closely examining everything. By the time he finishes, his eyes are red. He leaves the cabin, closing the door gently behind him.