The War Of The End Of The World Part 9

"Only my enemies look at me like that," the leader of the cangaco cangaco said in a harsh voice. "Stop staring at me; it bothers me." said in a harsh voice. "Stop staring at me; it bothers me."

Because, even as he was vomiting, Gall's eyes had never left him. They all turned toward him. Still scrutinizing the man, Galileo took a few steps forward, thus bringing himself within reach of him. "The only thing that interests me is your head," he said very slowly. "Allow me to touch it."

The bandit reached for his knife, as though he were about to attack him. Gall calmed him down by giving him a friendly smile.

"Let him touch you," the Bearded Lady muttered. "He'll tell you your secrets."

His curiosity aroused, the outlaw looked Gall over from head to foot. He had a piece of meat in his mouth, but he had stopped chewing. "Are you a magician?" he asked, the cruelty in his eyes suddenly evaporating.

Gall smiled at him again and took another step forward. He was so close now that his body lightly brushed the bandit's. He was taller than the cangaceiro cangaceiro, whose bushy head of hair barely came up to his shoulder. Circus people and bandits alike stared at the two of them, intrigued. Still holding the knife in his hand, Toughbeard seemed wary, but also curious. Galileo raised his two hands, placed them on Toughbeard's head, and began to palpate it.

"At one time I set out to be one," he answered, p.r.o.nouncing each syllable carefully as his fingers moved slowly, parting the locks of hair, skillfully exploring the bandit's scalp. "The police didn't give me time."

"The flying brigades?" Toughbeard said understandingly.

"We have one thing in common at least," Gall said. "We have the same enemy."

Toughbeard's beady eyes were suddenly full of anxiety, as though he were helplessly trapped. "I want to know how I'm going to die," he said in a half whisper, forcing himself to reveal what was preying most on his mind.

Gall's fingers poked about in the outlaw's mane, lingering for an especially long while above and behind his ears. His face was very serious, and his eyes had the same feverish gleam as in his moments of euphoria. Science was not wrong: his fingertips could clearly feel the organ of Combativeness, the organ of those inclined to attack, of those who enjoy fighting, of those who are rash and unruly; it was right there beneath his fingers, a round, contumelious b.u.mp, in both hemispheres. But, above all, it was the organ of Destructiveness, the organ of those who are vengeful, given to extremes, cruel, the organ that makes for bloodthirsty monsters when its effects are not counteracted by moral and intellectual powers, that was abnormally prominent: two hard, hot swellings, above the ears. "The predatory man," he thought.

"Didn't you hear?" Toughbeard roared, moving his head away from the touch of Gall's fingers with such a violent jerk that it made the latter stagger. "How am I going to die?"

Gall shook his head apologetically. "I don't know," he said. "It's not written in your bones."

The band of cangaceiros cangaceiros standing watching dispersed, returning to the fire in search of more roast meat. But the circus people stayed where they were, next to Gall and Toughbeard. standing watching dispersed, returning to the fire in search of more roast meat. But the circus people stayed where they were, next to Gall and Toughbeard.

The bandit looked pensive. "There's nothing I'm afraid of," he said gravely. "When I'm awake. At night it's different. I see my skeleton sometimes. As though it was there waiting for me, do you follow me?"

He gestured in annoyance, rubbed his hand across his mouth, spat. He was visibly upset, and everyone stood there in silence for a time, listening to the flies, the wasps, the bluebottles buzzing about the remains of the burro.

"It's not a dream I've just had recently," the brigand added. "I used to have it as a child back in Cariri, long before I came to Bahia. And also when I was with Pajeu. Sometimes years go by and I don't have that dream. And then, all of a sudden, I start having it again, every night."

"Pajeu?" Gall said, looking at Toughbeard with a gleam in his eye. "The one with the scar? The one who...?"

"That's right. Pajeu." The cangaceiro cangaceiro nodded. "I was with him for five years, without our ever having words. He was the best when it came to fighting. The angel's wing brushed him and he got converted. He's now one of the elect of G.o.d, up there in Canudos." nodded. "I was with him for five years, without our ever having words. He was the best when it came to fighting. The angel's wing brushed him and he got converted. He's now one of the elect of G.o.d, up there in Canudos."

He shrugged, as though he found this difficult to understand, or as though it were a matter of complete indifference to him.

"Have you been to Canudos?" Gall asked. "Tell me about it. What's happening up there? What's it like?"

"You hear lots of things," Toughbeard said, spitting. "That they killed a whole bunch of soldiers who'd come with some man named Febronio. They strung them up on the trees. If a corpse isn't buried, the Can takes off with it, people say."

"Are they well armed?" Gall went on insistently. "Will they be able to hold out against another attack?"

"Yes, they will," Toughbeard growled. "Pajeu's not the only one up there. There's also Abbot Joao, Taramela, Joaquim Macambira and his sons, Pedrao. The most fearful outlaws in these parts. They used to hate each other and kill each other. But now they're brothers and fight for the Counselor. They're going to go to heaven, despite their evil deeds. The Counselor pardoned them."

The Bearded Lady, the Idiot, the Dwarf, and Jurema had sat down on the ground and were listening spellbound.

"The Counselor gives the pilgrims a kiss on the forehead," Toughbeard added. "The Little Blessed One has them kneel and the Counselor lifts them to their feet and kisses them. That's called the kiss of the elect. People weep for joy. Because once you're an elect, you know that you're going to go to heaven. What does death matter after that?"

"You should be in Canudos too," Gall said. "They're your brothers too. They're fighting so that heaven will descend on earth. So that the h.e.l.l that you're so afraid of will disappear."

"I'm not afraid of h.e.l.l but of death," Toughbeard corrected him, with no sign of anger in his voice. "Or to put it a better way, I'm afraid of the nightmare, the dream of death. That's something different, don't you see what I mean?"

He spat again, with a tortured look on his face. Suddenly he said to Jurema, pointing at Gall: "Doesn't your husband ever dream of his skeleton?"

"He's not my husband," Jurema answered.

Big Joao entered Canudos at a run, his head in a whirl at the responsibility that had just been conferred upon him and that with each pa.s.sing second seemed to him to be an honor not deserved by a poor sinner such as he, a person who sometimes believed himself to be possessed by the Dog (it was a fear that kept returning, like the seasons). But he had accepted, and he couldn't back down now. He stopped as he reached the first houses, not knowing what to do. He had intended to go to Antonio Vilanova's, to find out from him how to organize the Catholic Guard. But now his bewildered heart told him that what he needed most at this moment was not practical help but spiritual aid. It was dusk; the Counselor would soon be mounting to the tower; if he hurried, perhaps he could still find him in the Sanctuary. He began running again, through narrow winding streets crowded with men, women, and children who were leaving their houses, shanties, caves, holes, and flocking, as they did every evening, to the Temple of the Blessed Jesus to listen to the counsels. As he went by the Vilanovas' store, he saw that Pajeu and some twenty men, equipped for a long journey, were bidding groups of their relatives goodbye. He had great difficulty making his way through the great throng overflowing the open ground adjoining the churches. Darkness was falling and here and there little lamps were already twinkling.

The Counselor was not in the Sanctuary. He had accompanied Father Joaquim as far as the exit on the road to c.u.mbe so as to say goodbye to the priest as he left town, and then, cradling the little white lamb with one hand and holding his shepherd's crook in the other, he had stopped by the Health Houses to comfort the sick and the aged. Because of the great crowds that dogged his every footstep, these tours of Belo Monte were becoming more and more difficult for the Counselor with each pa.s.sing day. This time the Lion of Natuba and the women of the Sacred Choir had gone with him to escort him, but the Little Blessed One and Maria Quadrado were there in the Sanctuary.

"I'm not worthy, Little Blessed One," the former slave said from the doorway, his voice choking. "Praised be the Blessed Jesus."

"I've prepared an oath for the Catholic Guard," the Little Blessed One answered softly. "More solemn than the one taken by those who come to be saved. The Lion has written it out." He handed Big Joao a piece of paper, which disappeared in his huge dark hands. "You are to learn it by heart and have each man you choose swear to obey it. Then, when the Catholic Guard is formed, they will all take it publicly in the Temple and we'll have a procession."

Maria Quadrado, who had been standing in one corner of the room, came over to them with a cloth and a vessel full of water. "Sit down, Joao," she said tenderly. "Have a drink first, and then let me wash you."

The black obeyed her. He was so tall that even sitting down he was the same height as the Mother Superior of the Sacred Choir. He drank thirstily. He was perturbed and drenched with sweat, and he closed his eyes as Maria Quadrado pa.s.sed the cool damp cloth over his face, his neck, his kinky locks sprinkled with gray.

Suddenly he reached out an arm and clung to her. "Help me, Mother Maria Quadrado," he implored, transfixed with fear. "I'm not worthy of this honor."

"You've been the slave of one man," she said, caressing him as though he were a child. "Will you not accept being the slave of the Blessed Jesus? He will help you, Big Joao."

"I swear that I have not been a republican, that I do not accept the expulsion of the Emperor or his replacement by the Antichrist," the Little Blessed One recited with intense devotion. "That I do not accept civil marriage or the separation of Church and State or the metric system. That I will not answer the census questions. That I will never again steal or smoke or drink or make wagers or fornicate out of vice. And that I will give my life for my religion and the Blessed Jesus."

"I'll learn it, Little Blessed One," Big Joao stammered.

At that moment the Counselor arrived, preceded by a great din. Once the tall, dark, gaunt figure entered the Sanctuary, followed by the little lamb, the Lion of Natuba-a vague four-footed shape that seemed to be leaping about-and the Sacred Choir, the impatient clamor of voices continued on the other side of the door. The little lamb came over and licked Maria Quadrado's ankles. The women of the Choir squatted down, their backs against the wall. The Counselor walked over to Big Joao, who was on his knees with his eyes fixed on the floor. He appeared to be trembling from head to foot; he had been with the Counselor for fifteen years now, and yet each time he was in his presence he still suddenly felt like a worthless creature, a worthless thing almost.

The Counselor took Big Joao's two hands and obliged him to lift his head. The saint's incandescent pupils stared into the depths of the ex-slave's tear-filled eyes. "You are still suffering, Big Joao," he said softly.

"I'm not worthy to watch over you," the black sobbed. "Order me to do anything else you like. Kill me, if need be. I don't want anything to happen to you through any fault of mine. Remember, Father, I've had the Dog in my flesh."

"You will form the Catholic Guard," the Counselor answered. "You will be in command of it. You have suffered a great deal, and you are suffering now. That is why you are worthy. The Father has said that the just man will wash his hands in the blood of the sinner. You are a just man now, Big Joao."

He allowed him to kiss his hand and with an absent look in his eyes waited till the black had left off weeping. A moment later, followed by all of them, he left the Sanctuary to mount to the tower once more to counsel the people of Belo Monte. Joining the mult.i.tude, Big Joao heard him offer a prayer and then tell of the miracle of the bronze serpent that, by order of the Father, Moses built in order that anyone who looked upon it might be cured should he be bitten by the snakes that were attacking the Jews, and then prophesy a new invasion of vipers that would come to Belo Monte to exterminate those who believed in G.o.d. But, he heard him say, those who kept the faith would survive the serpents' bite. As people began to wend their way home, Big Joao's heart was at peace. He remembered that years before, during the drought, the Counselor had told of this miracle for the first time, thereby bringing about another miracle in the sertao sertao overrun by snakes. The memory rea.s.sured him. overrun by snakes. The memory rea.s.sured him.

He was another person when he knocked on Antonio Vilanova's door. a.s.suncao Sardelinha, Honorio's wife, let him in, and Joao found the storekeeper, his wife, and various children and helpers of the two brothers sitting at the counter eating. They made room for him, and handed him a steaming plateful of food that he downed without even noticing what it was that he was eating, with the feeling that he was wasting precious time. He barely listened as Antonio told him that, rather than taking gunpowder with him, Pajeu had chosen to go off with cane whistles and crossbows and poisoned arrows, his idea being that that would be a better way of hara.s.sing the soldiers who were coming. The black chewed and swallowed, paying no attention, his mind entirely occupied by his mission.

Once the meal was over, the others went off to bed in the adjoining rooms or trundled off to their hammocks, pallets, or blankets laid down amid the crates and shelves around them. Then, by the light of an oil lamp, Joao and Antonio talked. They talked for a long time, in low voices at times and much louder ones at others, in perfect accord at times and at others furious with each other. Meanwhile, little by little, fireflies invaded the store, glowing in all the corners. From time to time Antonio opened one of the large ledgers in which he was in the habit of recording the arrivals of pilgrims, births, and deaths, and mentioned certain names. But still Joao did not allow the storekeeper to go off for his night's rest. After carefully smoothing out a crumpled bit of paper that he had been clutching in his hand, he held it out to him and had him read it over several times until he had memorized the words written on it. As sleep overcame the ex-slave, who had bedded down in a vacant s.p.a.ce underneath the counter, so tired he hadn't even taken off his boots, Antonio Vilanova heard him repeating the oath composed by the Little Blessed One for the Catholic Guard.

The next morning, the Vilanova brothers' children and helpers went all about Belo Monte, announcing, whenever they came upon a group of people, that any person not afraid to give his or her life for the Counselor might aspire to become a member of the Catholic Guard. Soon so many candidates gathered in front of the former steward's house of the hacienda that they blocked Campo Grande, the only straight street in Canudos. Sitting on a crate of merchandise, Big Joao and Antonio received them one by one. The storekeeper checked the name and date of arrival of each one against his ledger, and Joao asked them one by one if they were willing to give away everything they possessed and abandon their families as Christ's apostles had done for His sake, and subject themselves to a baptism by resistance. All of them fervently consented.

Those who had fought at Uaua and O Cambaio were given preference, and those incapable of reaming out a rifle, loading a blunderbuss, or cooling an overheated musket were eliminated. The very old and very young were also eliminated, as were those unfit for combat; lunatics and pregnant women, for instance. No one who had ever been a guide for the police flying brigades or a tax collector or a census taker was accepted. Every so often, Big Joao would take those who had pa.s.sed all these tests to a vacant lot and order them to attack him as though he were an enemy. Those who hesitated were turned down. He had the rest fight hand to hand with each other to test their bravery. By nightfall, the Catholic Guard had eighteen members, one of whom was a woman who had belonged to Pedrao's band. Big Joao administered the oath to them in the store, then told them to return to their homes to bid their families farewell, for from the following day on they had only one obligation: to protect the Counselor.

The second day the selection was more rapid, for those already chosen helped Big Joao test those who presented themselves as candidates and kept order amid all the chaos that ensued. The Sardelinha sisters had meanwhile hunted about and found enough blue cloth to make armbands or kerchiefs for all those chosen. Joao swore in thirty more on the second day, fifty on the third day, and at the end of the week he had nearly four hundred guards to rely on.

The following Sunday, the Catholic Guard marched through the streets of Canudos, lined on either side by people who applauded them and envied them. The procession began at midday, and as in all the great celebrations, statues from the Church of Santo Antonio and the Temple under construction were carried through the streets, the townspeople brought out those in their houses, skyrockets were shot off, and the air was filled with incense and prayers. As night was falling, in the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, still without a roof, beneath a sky thick with stars that seemed to have come out early so as to witness the joyous ceremony, the members of the Catholic Guard repeated in chorus the oath composed by the Little Blessed One.

And at dawn the following morning a messenger sent by Pajeu came to tell Abbot Joao that the Can's army numbered one thousand two hundred men, that it had several cannons, and that the colonel in command was known as Throat-Slitter.

With rapid, spare gestures, Rufino makes the final preparations for yet another journey, its outcome more uncertain this time. He has changed out of the pants and shirt he had worn to go see the baron at the Pedra Vermelha hacienda, into identical ones, and he is taking with him a machete, a carbine, two knives, and a knapsack. He takes a look around the cabin: the bowls, the hammock, the benches, the image of Our Lady of Lapa. His features are drawn and his eyes blink continuously. But after a moment his angular face is again set in an inscrutable expression. With precise movements, he makes a few last preparations. When he has finished, he takes the lighted wick of the oil lamp and sets fire to objects that he has set in different places about the room. The shack begins to go up in flames. He walks unhurriedly to the door, taking with him only the weapons and the knapsack. Once outside, he squats down next to the empty animal pen and from there watches a gentle breeze fan the flames that are devouring his home. The cloud of smoke drifts his way and makes him cough. He rises to his feet. He slings the carbine over his shoulder, tucks the machete into his belt next to the knives, and hoists the knapsack onto his back. He turns around and walks off, knowing that he will never return to Queimadas. As he goes past the station, he does not even notice that people are putting up banners and posters to welcome the Seventh Regiment and Colonel Moreira Cesar.

Five days later, as night is falling, his lean, supple, dusty silhouette can be seen entering Ipupiara. He has made a detour to return the knife that he borrowed from the Blessed Jesus and has walked an average of ten hours a day, taking time out to rest during those moments when it is hottest and darkest. Except for just one day, when he paid for his food, he has trapped or shot everything that he has eaten. Sitting at the door of the general store are a handful of old men who look exactly alike, puffing on identical pipes. The tracker walks over to them, removes his sombrero, greets them. They must know him, for they ask him about Queimadas and all of them want to know if he has seen soldiers and what news he has of the war. Sitting down beside them, he tells them everything he knows, and asks about people in Ipupiara. Some of them have died, others have left for the South to make their fortune, and two families have just gone off to Canudos. When darkness has fallen, Rufino and the old men go into the store to have a little gla.s.s of cachaca cachaca. The stifling heat has now died down to a pleasant warmth. With the appropriate circ.u.mlocutions, Rufino now broaches the subject that they all knew the conversation would lead to sooner or later. He employs the most impersonal turns of speech to question them. The old men listen to him without feigning surprise. They all nod their heads and speak in turn. Yes, it has pa.s.sed this way, more a ghost of a circus than a real one, so wretched-looking it was hard to believe that once upon a time it had been that sumptuous caravan led by the Gypsy. Rufino listens respectfully as they recall the circus shows of the old days. Finally, when there is a pause, he leads the conversation back round to where it began, and this time, as though they had decided that the proprieties had now been observed, they tell him what he has come to learn or confirm: how long it camped just outside the town, how the Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, and the Idiot earned their daily bread by telling fortunes, reciting stories, and putting on clown acts, how the stranger went around asking wild questions about the jaguncos jaguncos, how a band of capangas capangas had come to cut off his red hair and steal the corpse of the father who had killed his children. He does not ask, nor do they mention the other person who was neither a circus performer nor a stranger. But this eminently present absent person haunts the conversation each time someone touches on the subject of how the wounded stranger was cared for and fed. Are they aware that this specter is Rufino's wife? They surely know or sense this, as they know or sense what can be said and what must be left unsaid. At the end of the conversation, almost by chance, Rufino finds out which direction the circus people were headed when they left. He sleeps in the store that night, on a pallet that the owner offers him, and leaves at dawn at his steady trot. had come to cut off his red hair and steal the corpse of the father who had killed his children. He does not ask, nor do they mention the other person who was neither a circus performer nor a stranger. But this eminently present absent person haunts the conversation each time someone touches on the subject of how the wounded stranger was cared for and fed. Are they aware that this specter is Rufino's wife? They surely know or sense this, as they know or sense what can be said and what must be left unsaid. At the end of the conversation, almost by chance, Rufino finds out which direction the circus people were headed when they left. He sleeps in the store that night, on a pallet that the owner offers him, and leaves at dawn at his steady trot.

Neither picking up nor slowing his pace, Rufino traverses a landscape where the only shadow is that of his body, following him at first and then preceding him. With a set expression on his face and half-closed eyes, he makes his way along without hesitating, despite the fact that drifting sand has covered the trail over in places. Night is falling as he arrives at a hut overlooking a sowed field. The tenant farmer, his wife and half-naked kids welcome him as though he were an old friend. He eats and drinks with them, giving them news of Queimadas, Ipupiara, and other places. They talk of the war and the fears it arouses, of the pilgrims who pa.s.s by on their way to Canudos, and speculate on the possibility that the world is coming to an end. Only then does Rufino ask them about the circus and the stranger with all his hair lopped off. Yes, they pa.s.sed by there and headed on toward the Serra de Olhos D'Agua on their way to Monte Santo. The wife remembers best of all the skinny man with no hair and yellowish eyes, who moved like an animal without bones and kept bursting out laughing for no reason at all. The couple find Rufino a hammock to sleep in and the next morning they fill his knapsack, refusing to accept payment.

For a good part of the day, Rufino trots along without seeing anyone, in a landscape cooled by thickets full of flocks of jabbering parrots. That afternoon he begins to come across goatherds, with whom he stops to talk from time to time. A little beyond the Sitio das Flores-the Flower Place, a name that strikes him as a joke since there is nothing to be found there but stones and sun-baked earth-he turns off and heads for a wayside cross fashioned from tree trunks that is surrounded by ex-votos in the form of little carved wooden figurines. A legless woman is keeping vigil at the foot of the cross, lying stretched out on the ground like a snake. Rufino kneels and the woman blesses him. The tracker gives her something to eat and they talk. She hasn't heard of them; she hasn't seen them. Before continuing on his way, Rufino lights a candle and bows his head before the cross.

For three days he loses their trail. He questions peasants and cowherds and concludes that instead of going on to Monte Santo the circus has turned off somewhere or gone back the way it came. Looking for a market being held, perhaps, so as to take in enough to eat? He goes all about the countryside round Sitio das Flores, in ever-widening circles, asking questions about each one of the people with the circus. Has anyone seen a woman with hair on her face? A dwarf three feet tall? An idiot with a body like rubber? A stranger with reddish fuzz on his skull who speaks in a language that's hard to understand? The answer is always no. Lying in shelters that he has chanced upon, he makes conjectures. Can they have already killed him? Could he have died of his wounds? He goes down to Tanquinho and comes up-country again, without picking up their trail. One afternoon when he has stretched out on the ground exhausted, to sleep for a while, a band of armed men creep up on him, as silent as ghosts. A rope sandal planted on his chest awakens him. He sees that, in addition to carbines, the men are equipped with machetes, cane whistles, bandoleers, and are not bandits, or at any rate no longer bandits. He has difficulty convincing them that he is not a guide who has hired on with the army, that he hasn't seen a single soldier since leaving Queimadas. He shows such a lack of interest in the war that they think he's lying, and at one point one of them puts his knife to his throat. Finally the interrogation turns into a friendly conversation. Rufino spends the night in their company, listening to them talk of the Antichrist, the Blessed Jesus, the Counselor, Belo Monte. He gathers that they have kidnapped, murdered, stolen, and lived on the run from the law, but that now they are saints. They explain to him that an army is advancing like a plague, confiscating people's arms, conscripting men, and plunging knives in the throats of all those who refuse to spit on a crucifix and curse Christ. When they ask him if he wants to join them, Rufino answers no. He explains why and they understand.

The following morning, he arrives in Cansancao at almost the same time as the soldiers. Rufino goes round to see the blacksmith, whom he knows. Standing next to the forge that is throwing out red-hot sparks, drenched in sweat, the man advises him to get out of town as fast as he can because the devils are conscripting all guides. When Rufino explains to him, he, too, understands. Yes, he can help him. Toughbeard has pa.s.sed that way just a short time before; he'd run into the people Rufino was asking about, and had talked about meeting up with the stranger who reads heads. Where did he run into them? The blacksmith explains and the tracker stays there in the shop chatting with him until nightfall. Then he leaves the village without the sentinels spying him, and two hours later he is back with the apostles from Belo Monte. He tells them that, sure enough, the war has reached Cansancao.

Dr. Souza Ferreiro dipped the cupping gla.s.ses in alcohol and handed them one by one to Baroness Estela, who had placed a handkerchief over her head as a coif. She set each gla.s.s aflame and skillfully applied it to the colonel's back. The latter was lying so quietly that the sheets were scarcely wrinkled.

"I've had to act as doctor and midwife many a time here in Calumbi," the baroness said in her lilting voice, addressing the doctor perhaps, or perhaps the patient. "But, to tell you the truth, it's been years since I've applied cupping gla.s.ses. Am I hurting you, Colonel?"

"Not at all, Baroness." Moreira Cesar did his best to conceal his pain, but did not succeed. "Please accept my apologies for this invasion, and kindly convey them to your husband as well. It was not my idea."

"We're delighted to have you." The baroness had finished applying the cupping gla.s.ses and straightened the pillows. "I was very eager to meet a hero in person. Though, naturally, I would rather it had not been an illness that brought you to Calumbi..."

Her voice was friendly, charming, superficial. Next to the bed was a table with pitchers and porcelain basins decorated with royal peac.o.c.ks, bandages, b.a.l.l.s of cotton, a jar full of leeches, cupping gla.s.ses, and many vials. The dawn light was filtering into the cool, clean room through the white curtains. Sebastiana, the baroness's personal maid, was standing at the door, motionless. Dr. Souza Ferreiro examined the patient's back, broken out with a rash of cupping gla.s.ses, with eyes that showed that he had gone without sleep all night.

"Well, we'll wait half an hour and then it's a bath and ma.s.sages for you. You won't deny me the fact that you're feeling better, sir: your color has come back."

"The bath is ready, and I'll be here if you need me," Sebastiana said.

"I'm at your service, too," the baroness chimed in. "I'll leave you two now. Oh, I almost forgot. I asked Dr. Souza's permission for you to have tea with us, Colonel. My husband wants to pay his respects to you. You're invited too, Doctor. And Captain de Castro, and that very odd young man, what's his name again?"

The colonel did his best to smile at her, but the moment the wife of Baron de Canabrava, followed by Sebastiana, had left the room, he exploded: "I ought to have you shot, Doctor, for having gotten me caught in this trap."

"If you fall into a fit of temper, I'll bleed you and you'll be obliged to stay in bed for another day." Dr. Souza Ferreiro collapsed in a rocking chair, drunk with exhaustion. "And now allow me to rest too, for half an hour. Kindly don't move."

In precisely half an hour, he opened his eyes, rubbed them hard, and began to remove the cupping gla.s.ses. They came off easily, leaving purplish circles where they had gripped the patient's skin. The colonel lay there face downward, with his head buried in his crossed arms, and barely opened his mouth when Captain Olimpio de Castro entered to give him news of the column. Souza Ferreiro accompanied Moreira Cesar to the bathroom, where Sebastiana had readied everything according to his instructions. The colonel undressed-unlike his deeply tanned face and arms, his little body was very white-climbed straight into the bathtub without a word, and remained in it for a long time, clenching his teeth. Then the doctor ma.s.saged him vigorously with alcohol, applied a mustard poultice, and made him inhale the vapor from herbs boiling on a brazier. The entire treatment took place in silence, but once the inhalations were over, the colonel, attempting to relieve the tension in the air, remarked that he had the sensation that he had been subjected to practices of witchcraft. Souza Ferreiro remarked that the borderline separating science from magic was invisible. They had made their peace. Back in the bedroom, a tray with fruit, fresh milk, rolls, ham, and coffee awaited them. Moreira Cesar ate dutifully and then dropped off to sleep. When he awoke, it was midday and the reporter from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias was standing at his bedside with a pack of cards in his hand, offering to teach him how to play ombre, a game that was all the rage in bohemian circles in Bahia. They played for some time without exchanging a word, until Souza Ferreiro, bathed and freshly shaved, came to tell the colonel that he could get up. When the latter entered the drawing room to have tea with his host and hostess, he found the baron and his wife, the doctor, Captain de Castro, and the journalist, the only one of their number who had not made his toilet since the night before, already gathered there. was standing at his bedside with a pack of cards in his hand, offering to teach him how to play ombre, a game that was all the rage in bohemian circles in Bahia. They played for some time without exchanging a word, until Souza Ferreiro, bathed and freshly shaved, came to tell the colonel that he could get up. When the latter entered the drawing room to have tea with his host and hostess, he found the baron and his wife, the doctor, Captain de Castro, and the journalist, the only one of their number who had not made his toilet since the night before, already gathered there.

Baron de Canabrava came over to shake hands with the colonel. The vast room with a red-and-white-tiled floor was furnished in matching jacaranda pieces, straight-backed wooden chairs with woven straw seats that went by the name of "Austrian chairs," little tables with kerosene lamps and photographs, gla.s.s cabinets with crystalware and porcelain, and b.u.t.terflies mounted in velvet-lined cases. The walls were decorated with watercolors showing country scenes. The baron asked how his guest was feeling, and the two of them exchanged the usual polite remarks, a game that the baron was more skilled at than the army officer. The windows, flung open to the twilight, afforded a view of the stone columns at the entrance, a well, and on either side of the esplanade opposite, lined with tamarinds and royal palms, what had once been the slave quarter and was now that of the peons who worked on the hacienda. Sebastiana and a maidservant in a checkered ap.r.o.n busied themselves setting out teapots, cups, sweet biscuits, and cakes. As the baroness recounted to the doctor, the journalist, and Olimpio de Castro how difficult it had been down through the years to transport all the materials and furnishings of this house to Calumbi, the baron showed Moreira Cesar an herbarium, remarking that as a young man he had dreamed of science and of spending his life in laboratories and dissecting rooms. But man proposes and G.o.d disposes; in the end he had devoted his life to agriculture, diplomacy, and politics, things which never interested him when he was growing up. And what about the colonel? Had he always wanted to be in the military? Yes, an army career had been his ambition ever since he had reached the age of reason, and perhaps even before, back in the little town in the state of Sao Paulo where he was born: Pindamonhangaba. The reporter had left the other group and was now standing next to them, brazenly listening in on their conversation. "It came as a surprise to me to see this young man arriving with you." The baron smiled, pointing to the nearsighted journalist. "Has he told you that he once worked for me? At the time he admired Victor Hugo and wanted to be a dramatist. He had a very low opinion of journalism in those days."

"I still do," the high-pitched, unpleasant voice said.

"That's an outright lie!" the baron exclaimed. "The truth is that he has a vocation for gossip, treachery, calumny, the cunning attack. He was my protege, and when he went over to my adversary's paper, he turned into my most contemptible critic. Be on your guard, Colonel. This man is dangerous."

The nearsighted journalist was radiant, as though he were being showered with praise.

"All intellectuals are dangerous," Moreira Cesar replied. "Weak, sentimental, capable of making use of the best of ideas to justify the worst mischief. The country needs them, but they must be handled like animals that can't be trusted."

The journalist burst into such delighted laughter that the baroness, the doctor, and the captain looked over at him. Sebastiana was serving the tea.

The baron took Moreira Cesar by the arm and led him to a cabinet. "I have a present for you. It's the custom here in the sertao sertao to offer a present to a guest." He took out a dusty bottle of cognac and with a sly wink showed him the label. "I know that you are eager to root out all European influences in Brazil, but I presume that your hatred of all things foreign does not extend to cognac." to offer a present to a guest." He took out a dusty bottle of cognac and with a sly wink showed him the label. "I know that you are eager to root out all European influences in Brazil, but I presume that your hatred of all things foreign does not extend to cognac."

Once they were seated, the baroness handed the colonel a cup of tea and slipped two lumps of sugar into it.

"My rifles are French and my cannons German," Moreira Cesar said in such a solemn tone of voice that the others broke off their conversation. "I do not hate Europe, nor do I hate cognac. But since I do not take alcohol, it's best not to waste such a gift on someone who is unable to appreciate it."

"Keep it as a souvenir, then," the baroness interjected.

"I hate the local landowners and the English merchants who kept this region in the dark ages," the colonel went on in an icy voice. "I hate those to whom sugar meant more than the people of Brazil."

The baroness went on serving her guests, her face not changing expression.

The master of the house, on the other hand, had stopped smiling. His voice, nonetheless, remained cordial. "Are the Yankee traders that the South is receiving with open arms interested in the people or only in coffee?" he asked.

Moreira Cesar had a ready answer. "They bring with them the machines, the technology, and the money that Brazil needs in order to progress. Because progress means industry, work, capital, as the United States has demonstrated." His cold little eyes blinked as he added: "That is something that slaveowners will never understand, Baron."

In the silence that fell after these words, spoons were heard stirring cups, and sips that sounded like gargles as the journalist downed his tea.

"It wasn't the Republic that abolished slavery. It was the monarchy," the baroness recalled, smiling as though the remark were charmingly witty repartee as she offered her guest sweet biscuits. "By the way, did you know that on my husband's haciendas the slaves were freed five years before the emanc.i.p.ation decree?"

"No, I didn't know that," the colonel replied. "A praiseworthy act, certainly."

He gave a forced smile and took a sip of tea. The atmosphere was tense now, despite the baroness's smiles and Dr. Souza Ferreiro's sudden interest in the b.u.t.terfly collection and Captain Olimpio de Castro's story of a Rio barrister who had been murdered by his wife.

The tension mounted further as Souza Ferreiro offered the baron a polite compliment. "The landowners in these parts are abandoning their estates because the jaguncos jaguncos are setting fire to them," he said. "You, however, are setting an example by returning to Calumbi." are setting fire to them," he said. "You, however, are setting an example by returning to Calumbi."

"I returned so as to place the hacienda at the disposal of the Seventh Regiment," the baron replied. "I regret that my aid has not been accepted."

"Seeing the peace that reigns here, no one would ever suspect that a war is being waged so close at hand," Colonel Moreira Cesar murmured. "The jaguncos jaguncos haven't touched you. You're a lucky man." haven't touched you. You're a lucky man."

"Appearances are deceiving," the baron answered, his tone of voice still calm. "Many families at Calumbi have left and the land under cultivation has been reduced by half. Moreover, Canudos is land that belongs to me, is that not so? I've had my share of sacrifices forced upon me-more than anyone else in the region."

The baron was managing to hide the wrath that the colonel's words no doubt aroused in him, but the baroness had turned into another person when she spoke up again. "I trust you don't believe all that slander about my husband's having supposedly handed Canudos over to the jaguncos jaguncos," she said, her eyes narrowing in indignation.

The colonel took another sip of tea, neither confirming nor denying her statement.

"So they've persuaded you that that infamous lie is true," the baron murmured. "Do you really believe I help mad heretics, arsonists, and thieves who steal haciendas?"

Moreira Cesar sat his cup down on the table. He looked at the baron with an icy gaze and ran his tongue rapidly over his lips. "Those madmen kill soldiers with explosive bullets," he said very slowly and deliberately, as though fearing that someone might miss a syllable. "Those arsonists have very modern rifles. Those thieves receive aid from English agents. Who besides the monarchists would be conspiring to stir up an insurrection against the Republic?" He had turned pale and the little cup began to tremble in his hands. Everyone except the journalist looked down at the floor.

"Those people don't steal or murder or set fires when they feel that order reigns, when they see that the world is organized, because n.o.body has more respect for hierarchy than they," the baron said in a firm voice. "But the Republic destroyed our system through unrealistic laws, subst.i.tuting unwarranted enthusiasms for the principle of obedience. An error of Marshal Floriano's, Colonel, for the social ideal is rooted in tranquillity, not enthusiasm."

"Are you feeling ill, sir?" Dr. Souza Ferreiro interrupted him, rising to his feet.