The War Of The End Of The World (43 page)

“He slit their throats,” the baroness said. She spoke English without the baron’s easy command of the language, slowly, pronouncing each syllable cautiously. “Do you know what the peasants call him? Throat-Slitter.”

The baron gave a little laugh; he was looking down at the plate that had just been served him without seeing it. “Just think what’s going to happen when that idealist has the monarchist, Anglophile insurgents of Canudos at his mercy,” he said in a gloomy voice. “He knows that they’re really neither one, but it’s useful to the Jacobin cause if that’s what they are, which amounts to the same thing. And why is he doing what he’s doing? For the good of Brazil, naturally. And he believes with all his heart and soul that that’s so.”

He swallowed with difficulty and thought of the flames that would destroy Calumbi. He could see them devouring everything, could hear them crackling.

“I know those poor devils in Canudos very well,” he said, feeling his palms grow moist. “They’re ignorant and superstitious, and a charlatan can convince them that the end of the world has come. But they’re also courageous, long-suffering people, with an unfailing, instinctive dignity. Isn’t it an absurd situation? They’re going to be put to death for being monarchists and Anglophiles, when the truth of the matter is that they confuse the Emperor Pedro II with one of the apostles, have no idea where England is, and are waiting for King Dom Sebastião to emerge from the bottom of the sea to defend them.”

He raised the fork to his lips again and swallowed a mouthful of food that seemed to him to taste of soot. “Moreira César said that one must be mistrustful of intellectuals,” he added. “Even more than of idealists, Mr. Gall.”

The latter’s voice reached his ears as though it were coming from very far away. “Let me leave for Canudos.” A rapt expression had come over his face, his eyes were gleaming, and he appeared to be deeply moved. “I want to die for what is best in me, for what I believe in, for what I’ve fought for. I don’t want to end my days a stupid idiot. Those poor devils represent the most worthy thing there is on this earth, suffering that rises up in rebellion. Despite the abyss that separates us, you can understand me.”

The baroness gestured to the servant to clear the table and leave the room.

“I’m of no use to you at all,” Gall added. “I’m naïve perhaps, but I’m not a braggart. What I’m saying isn’t blackmail but a fact. It won’t get you anywhere to hand me over to the authorities, to the army. I won’t say one word. And I’ll lie if I have to; I’ll swear that I’ve been paid by you to accuse Epaminondas Gonçalves of something he didn’t do. Because, even though he’s a rat and you’re a gentleman, I’ll always prefer a Jacobin to a monarchist. We’re enemies, Baron, and you’d best not forget it.”

The baroness made a move to leave the table.

“You needn’t go.” The baron stopped her. He was listening to Gall, but all he could think about was the fire that would burn down Calumbi. How was he going to tell Estela?

“Let me leave for Canudos,” Gall repeated.

“But whatever for?” the baroness exclaimed. “The
jagunços
will take you for an enemy and kill you. Haven’t you said that you’re an atheist, an anarchist? What does all that have to do with Canudos?”

“The
jagunços
and I have many things in common, Baroness, even though they don’t know it,” Gall answered. He fell silent for a moment and then asked: “May I leave?”

Without realizing it, the baron switched to Portuguese as he addressed his wife. “We must leave here, Estela. They’re going to burn Calumbi down. There’s nothing else we can do. I don’t have the men to put up a fight and it’s not worth committing suicide over losing it.” He saw his wife sitting there stock-still, becoming paler and paler, biting her lips. He thought that she was about to faint. He turned to Gall. “As you can see, Estela and I have a very serious matter that we must discuss. I’ll come up to your room later.”

Gall went upstairs immediately. The master and mistress of Calumbi remained in the dining room, in silence. The baroness waited, not opening her mouth. The baron told her of his conversation with Pajeú. He noted that she was trying her best to appear calm, but was not succeeding very well: she was deathly pale, and trembling. He had always loved her very deeply, and what was more, in moments of crisis he had admired her. He had never seen her lose her courage; behind that delicate appearance of a porcelain doll was a strong woman. The thought came to him that this time, too, she would be his best defense against adversity. He explained to her that they could take almost nothing with them, that they must put all their most precious things in trunks and bury them, that it was best to divide everything else among the house servants and the peons.

“Is there nothing that can be done, then?” the baroness said very softly, as though some enemy might overhear.

The baron shook his head: nothing. “In reality they’re not out to do us harm but to kill the Devil and give the land a rest. There’s no reasoning with them.” He shrugged, and as he felt that he was about to be overcome with emotion, he put an end to the conversation. “We’ll leave tomorrow, at noon. That’s the time limit they’ve given me.”

The baroness nodded. Her face was drawn now, her forehead furrowed in a worried frown, her teeth chattering. “Well then, we shall have to work all night long,” she said, rising to her feet.

The baron saw her leave the room and knew that before doing anything else she had gone off to tell Sebastiana everything. He sent for Aristarco and discussed the preparations for the journey with him. Then he shut himself up in his study and spent a long time destroying notebooks, papers, letters. The things that he would take with him filled no more than two small valises. As he went up to Gall’s room, he saw that Sebastiana and Estela had already gone to work. The house was caught up in feverish activity, with maids and menservants rushing all about, carrying things here and there, taking things down from walls, filling baskets, boxes, trunks, and whispering together with panicked expressions on their faces. He entered Gall’s room without bothering to knock, and found him sitting writing at the bedside table; on hearing him come into the room, Gall looked up, pen still in hand, and gazed at him with questioning eyes.

“I know it’s madness to allow you to leave,” the baron said with a half smile that was really a grimace. “What I should do is parade you through the streets of Salvador, of Rio, the way they paraded your hair, your fake corpse, the fake English rifles…” Too dispirited to go on, he did not finish the sentence.

“Make no mistake about it,” Galileo said. He and the baron were so close now their knees were touching. “I’m not going to help you solve your problems; I’ll never collaborate with you. We’re at war, and every weapon counts.”

There was no hostility in his voice, and the baron looked at him as though he were already far away: a tiny figure, picturesque, harmless, absurd.

“Every weapon counts,” he repeated softly. “That is a precise definition of the times we’re living in, of the twentieth century that will soon be upon us, Mr. Gall. I’m not surprised that those madmen think that the end of the world has come.”

He saw so much anguish in the Scotsman’s face that he suddenly felt pity for him. He thought: “The one thing he really wants to do is go die like a dog among people who don’t understand him and whom he doesn’t understand. He thinks that he’s going to die like a hero, and the truth is that he’s going to die exactly as he fears he will: like an idiot.” The whole world suddenly seemed to him to be the victim of an irremediable misunderstanding.

“You may leave,” he said to him. “I’ll provide you with a guide to take you there. Though I doubt that you’ll get as far as Canudos.”

He saw Gall’s face light up and heard him stammer his thanks.

“I don’t know why I’m letting you go,” he added. “I’m fascinated by idealists, even though I don’t share their feelings in the slightest. But, even so, perhaps I do feel a certain sympathy for you, inasmuch as you’re a man who is irredeemably lost, and your end will be the result of an error.”

But he realized that Gall was not listening to him. He was gathering together the pages filled with his handwriting that lay on the bedside table, and held them out to him. “They’re a summary of what I am, of what I think.” The look in his eyes, his hands, his very skin seemed to quiver with excitement. “You may not be the best person to leave it with, but there’s nobody else around. Read it, and when you’ve finished, I’d be grateful to you if you’d send it on to this address in Lyons. It’s a review, published by friends of mine. I don’t know if it’s going to continue to come out…” He fell silent, as though overcome with shame for some reason or other. “When may I leave?” he asked.

“This very minute,” the baron answered. “I needn’t warn you of the risk you’re taking, I presume. It’s more than likely that you’ll fall into the army’s hands. And in any event, the colonel will kill you.”

“One can’t kill dead men, sir, as you yourself said,” Gall answered. “I’ve already been killed in Ipupiará, remember…”

The group of men advance across the stretch of sand, their eyes riveted on the brush. There is hope in their faces, though not in that of the nearsighted journalist who has been thinking ever since they left camp: “This is going to be useless.” He has not said a word that would reveal the feeling of defeatism against which he has been fighting ever since their water was rationed. The meager food is not a hardship for him, since he never feels hungry. Thirst, on the other hand, is difficult for him to endure. Every so often he finds himself counting the time he must wait till he takes the next sip of water, in accordance with the rigid schedule he has set for himself. Perhaps that is why he has chosen to go out with Captain Olímpio de Castro’s patrol. The sensible thing to do would have been to take advantage of the hours in camp and rest. This scouting excursion is certain to tire him, poor horseman that he is, and naturally it is going to make him thirstier. But if he stayed behind there in the camp, he’d be overcome with anxiety, filled with gloomy thoughts. Here at least he is obliged to concentrate on his arduous struggle not to fall off his horse. He knows that among themselves the soldiers poke fun at his eyeglasses, his dress, his appearance, his portable writing desk, his inkwell. But this does not bother him.

The guide who is leading the patrol points to the water well. The expression on the man’s face suffices for the journalist to realize that this well, too, has been filled in by the
jagunços
. The soldiers hurry over to it with their canteens, pushing and shoving; he hears the sound of the tin hitting the stones at the bottom and sees how disappointed, how bitter the men are. What is he doing here? Why isn’t he back in his untidy little house in Salvador, surrounded by his books, smoking a pipeful of opium, feeling its great peace steal over him?

“Well, this was only to be expected,” Captain Olímpio de Castro murmurs. “How many other wells are there in the vicinity?”

“Only two that we haven’t been to yet.” The guide gestures skeptically. “I don’t think it’s worth the trouble seeing if there’s water in them.”

“Go take a look anyway,” the captain interrupts him. “And the patrol is to be back before dark, Sergeant.”

The officer and the journalist accompany the patrol for a time, and once they have left the thicket far behind and are again out on the bare sun-baked mesa they hear the guide murmur that the Counselor’s prophecy is coming true: the Blessed Jesus will trace a circle round about Canudos, beyond which all animal, vegetable, and, finally, human life will disappear.

“If you believe that, what are you doing here with us?” Olímpio de Castro asks him.

The guide raises his hand to his throat. “I’m more afraid of the Throat-Slitter than I am of the Can.”

Some of the soldiers laugh. The captain and the journalist part company with the patrol. They gallop along for a while, until the officer, taking pity on his companion, slows his horse to a walk. Feeling relieved, the journalist takes a sip of water from his canteen despite his timetable. Three-quarters of an hour later they catch sight of the camp.

They have just passed the first sentinel when the dust raised by another patrol coming from the north overtakes them. The lieutenant in command, a very young man, covered with dust from head to foot, has a happy look on his face.

“Well, then?” Olímpio de Castro greets him. “Did you find him?”

The lieutenant points to him with his chin. The nearsighted journalist spies the prisoner. His hands are bound together, he has a terrified expression on his face, and the long, tattered garment he is dressed in must have been his cassock. He is a short-statured, robust little man with a potbelly and white locks at his temples. His eyes gaze about in all directions. The patrol proceeds on its way, followed by the captain and the journalist. When it reaches the tent of the commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment, two soldiers shake the prisoner down. His arrival causes a great commotion and many soldiers approach to have a better look at him. The little man’s teeth chatter and he looks about in panic, as though fearing that he will be beaten. The lieutenant pushes him inside the tent and the journalist slips in behind the others.

“Mission accomplished, sir,” the young officer says, clicking his heels.

Moreira César rises to his feet from behind a folding table, where he is sitting between Colonel Tamarindo and Major Cunha Matos. He walks over to the prisoner and his cold little eyes look him over from head to foot. His face betrays no emotion, but the nearsighted journalist notices that he is biting his lower lip, as is his habit whenever he is taken by surprise.

“Good show, Lieutenant,” he says, extending his hand. “Go take a rest now.”

The nearsighted journalist sees the colonel’s eyes meet his for the space of an instant and fears that he will order him to leave. But he does not do so.

Moreira César slowly studies the prisoner. They are very nearly the same height, though the colonel is much thinner. “You’re half dead with fear.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” the prisoner stammers. He is trembling so badly he can scarcely speak. “I’ve been badly mistreated. My office as a priest…”

“Has not prevented you from placing yourself in the service of the enemies of your country,” the colonel silences him, pacing back and forth in front of the curé of Cumbe, who has lowered his head.

“I am a peace-loving man, sir,” he moans.

“No, you’re an enemy of the Republic, in the service of a monarchist insurrection and a foreign power.”

“A foreign power?” Father Joaquim stammers, so stupefied that he forgets how terrified he is.

“In your case, I shall not allow you to use superstition as an excuse,” Moreira César adds in a soft voice, his hands behind his back. “All that foolishness about the end of the world, about God and the Devil.”

Those present watch, without a word, as the colonel paces back and forth. The nearsighted journalist feels the itch at the end of his nose that precedes a sneeze, and for some reason this alarms him.

“Your fear tells me that you know what’s going on, my good man,” Moreira César says in a harsh tone of voice. “And it so happens that we have ways of making the bravest
jagunços
talk. So don’t make us waste time.”

“I have nothing to hide,” the parish priest stammers, beginning to tremble once more. “I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing or the wrong thing, I’m all confused…”

“In particular, the relations with conspirators outside,” the colonel interrupts him, and the nearsighted journalist notes that the officer is nervously twining and untwining his fingers behind his back. “Landowners, politicians, military advisers, either native or English.”

“English?” the priest exclaims, completely taken aback. “I never saw a foreigner in Canudos, only the poorest and humblest people. What landowner or politician would ever set foot amid all that wretchedness? I assure you, sir. There are people who have come from a long way away, I grant you. From Pernambuco, from O Piauí. That’s one of the things that amazes me. How so many people have been able…”

“How many?” the colonel interrupts him, and the little parish priest gives a start.

“Thousands,” he murmurs. “Five thousand, eight thousand, I couldn’t say. The poorest of the poor, the most helpless. And I know whereof I speak, for I’ve seen endless misery hereabouts, what with the drought, the epidemics. But it’s as though those worst off had agreed to congregate up there, as though God had gathered them together. The sick, the infirm, all the people with no hope left, living up there, one on top of the other. Wasn’t it my obligation as a priest to be there with them?”

“It has always been the policy of the Catholic Church to be where it believes it to be to its advantage to be,” Moreira César answers. “Was it your bishop who ordered you to aid the rebels?”

“And yet, despite their misery, those people are happy,” Father Joaquim stammers, as though he hadn’t heard the question. His eyes fly back and forth between Moreira César, Tamarindo, and Cunha Matos. “The happiest people I’ve ever seen, sir. It’s difficult to grant that, even for me. But it’s true, absolutely true. He’s given them a peace of mind, a resigned acceptance of privations, of suffering, that is simply miraculous.”

“Let’s discuss the explosive bullets,” Moreira César says. “They penetrate the body and then burst like a grenade, making wounds like craters. The army doctors had never seen wounds like that in Brazil. Where do those bullets come from? Are they some sort of miracle, too?”

“I don’t know anything about arms,” Father Joaquim stammers. “You don’t believe it, but it’s true, sir. I swear it, by the habit I wear. Something extraordinary is happening up there. Those people are living in the grace of God.”

The colonel gives him a sarcastic look. But there in his corner, the nearsighted journalist has forgotten how thirsty he is and is hanging on the parish priest’s every word, as though what he is saying is a matter of life and death to him.

“Saints, the just, people straight out of the Bible, the elect of God? Is that what you’re expecting me to swallow?” the colonel says. “Those people who burn down haciendas, murder people, and call the Republic the Antichrist?”

“I haven’t made myself clear, sir,” the prisoner says in a shrill voice. “They’ve committed terrible deeds, certainly. But…”

“But you’re their accomplice,” the colonel mutters. “What other priests are helping them?”

“It’s difficult to explain.” The curé of Cumbe hangs his head. “In the beginning, I went up there to say Mass for them, and I had never seen such fervor, such participation. The faith of those people is incredible, sir. Wouldn’t it have been a sin for me to turn my back on them? That’s why I continued to go up there, even though the archbishop had forbidden it. Wouldn’t it have been a sin to deprive the most wholehearted believers I’ve ever seen of the sacraments? Religion is everything in life to them. I’m baring my conscience to you. I know that I am not worthy of being a priest, sir.”

The nearsighted journalist suddenly wishes he had his portable writing desk, his pen, his inkwell, his paper with him.

“I had a woman who cohabited with me,” the parish priest of Cumbe stammers. “I lived like a married man for many years. I have children, sir.”

He stands there with his head hanging down, trembling, and undoubtedly, the nearsighted journalist thinks to himself, he does not notice Major Cunha Matos’s little snicker. And undoubtedly, he also thinks to himself, his face is beet-red with shame beneath the crust of dirt on it.

“The fact that a priest has children isn’t going to keep me awake nights,” Moreira César says. “On the other hand, the fact that the Catholic Church is with the insurgents may cause me a good many sleepless nights. What other priests are helping Canudos?”

“And he taught me a lesson,” Father Joaquim says. “When I saw how he was able to give up everything, to devote his entire life to the spirit, to what is most important. Shouldn’t God, the soul, be what comes first?”

“The Counselor?” Moreira César asks sarcastically. “A saint, no doubt?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the prisoner says. “I’ve been asking myself that every day of my life, since the very first moment I saw him come into Cumbe, many years ago now. A madman, I thought at the beginning—just as the Church hierarchy did. The archbishop sent some Capuchin friars to look into the matter. They didn’t understand at all, they were frightened, they, too, said he was crazy. But then how do you explain what’s happened, sir? All those conversions, that peace of mind, the happiness of so many wretched people?”

“And how do you explain the crimes, the destruction of property, the attacks on the army?” the colonel interrupts him.

“I agree, I agree, there’s no excuse for them,” Father Joaquim concedes. “But they don’t realize what they’re doing. That is to say, they’re crimes that they commit in good faith. For the love of God, sir. It’s admittedly all very confused in their minds.”

He looks all around in terror, as though he has just said something that may lead to tragedy.

“Who put the idea into those wretches’ heads that the Republic is the Antichrist? Who turned all that wild religious nonsense into a military movement against the regime? that’s what I’d like to know, padre.” Moreira César’s voice is sharp and shrill now. “Who enlisted those people in the service of the politicians whose aim is to restore the monarchy in Brazil?”

“They aren’t politicians. They don’t know anything at all about politics,” Father Joaquim squeaks. “They’re against civil marriage; that’s what the talk about the Antichrist is about. They’re pure Christians, sir. They can’t understand why there should be such a thing as civil marriage when a sacrament created by God already exists…”

But at that point he gives a little groan and suddenly falls silent, for Moreira César has taken his pistol out of its holster. He calmly releases the safety catch and points the gun at the prisoner’s temple. The nearsighted journalist’s heart is pounding like a bass drum and he is trying so hard not to sneeze that his temples ache.

“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me, in the name of what you hold dearest, sir, Colonel, Your Excellency!” He has dropped to his knees.

“Despite my warning, you’re wasting our time, padre,” the colonel says.

“It’s true: I brought them medicines, supplies, things they’d asked me to bring up to them,” Father Joaquim whimpers. “And explosives, gunpowder, sticks of dynamite, too. I bought them for them at the mines in Caçabu. It was doubtless a mistake. I don’t know, sir, I wasn’t thinking. They cause me such uneasiness, such envy, on account of that faith, that peace of mind that I’ve never known. Don’t kill me.”

“Who are the people who are helping them?” the colonel asks. “Who’s giving them arms, supplies, money?”

“I don’t know who they are, I don’t know,” the priest moans. “I do know, that is to say, that it’s lots of landowners. It’s the custom, sir—like with the bandits. To give them something so they won’t attack, so they move on to other people’s land.”

“Do they also receive help from the Baron de Canabrava’s hacienda?” Moreira César interrupts him.