The War Of The End Of The World (60 page)

When he falls to the ground, because he stumbles or because his legs give way from fatigue, he has a curious feeling of relief. He leans his head on his arms, tries to force air into his lungs, listens to his heart beat. Better to die than keep on running. Little by little he recovers, feels the pounding in his temples slow down. He is sick to his stomach and retches, but does not vomit. He takes his glasses off and cleans them. He puts them back on. He is surrounded by people. He is not afraid, and nothing really matters. His exhaustion has freed him from fears, uncertainties, chimeras. Moreover, no one appears to be paying any attention to him. Men are gathering up the rifles, the ammunition, the bayonets, but his eyes are not deceived and from the first moment he knows that the groups of
jagunços
here, there, everywhere, are also beheading the corpses with their machetes, with the same diligence with which they decapitate oxen and goats, and throwing the heads in burlap bags, threading them on pikes and on the same bayonets that the dead were carrying to run
jagunços
through, or carrying them off by the hair, while others light fires where the headless corpses are already beginning to sizzle, crackle, curl up, burst open, char. One fire is very close by and he sees that men with blue headcloths are throwing other remains on top of the two bodies already roasting on it. “It’s my turn now,” he thinks. “They’ll come, cut my head off, carry it away on a pole, and toss my body in that fire.” He goes on drowsing, immunized against everything by his utter exhaustion. Even though the
jagunços
are talking, he doesn’t understand a word they are saying.

At that moment he spies Father Joaquim. He is not going but coming, he is not running but walking, in long strides, emerging from that cloud of wind-blown dirt that has already begun to produce that tickling in the journalist’s nostrils that precedes a sneezing fit, still making gestures, grimaces, signs, to anybody and everybody, including the dead that are roasting. He is spattered with mud, his clothes are in tatters, his hair disheveled. The nearsighted journalist rises up as the priest walks by him and says: “Don’t go, take me with you, don’t let them chop my head off, don’t let them burn me…” Does the curé of Cumbe hear him? He is talking to himself or with ghosts, repeating incomprehensible things, unrecognizable names, making sweeping gestures. He walks along at his side, very close to him, feeling his proximity revive him. He notes that the barefoot woman and the Dwarf are walking along with them on the right. Pale and wan, covered with dirt, worn out, they look to him like sleepwalkers.

Nothing of what he is seeing and hearing surprises him or frightens him or interests him. Is this what ecstasy is? He thinks: “Not even opium, in Salvador…” He sees as he passes by that
jagunços
are hanging kepis, tunics, canteens, capes, blankets, cartridge belts, boots on the thornbushes dotting both sides of the path, as though they were decorating Christmas trees, but the sight leaves him completely indifferent. And when, as they descend toward the sea of rooftops and rubble that is Canudos, he sees heads of dead soldiers lined up on either side of the trail, looking across at each other, being riddled by insects, his heart does not pound wildly, nor his fear return, nor his imagination race madly. Even when an absurd figure, one of those scarecrows that farmers place in sowed fields, blocks their path and he recognizes the naked, corpulent form impaled on a dry branch as the body and face of Colonel Tamarindo, he does not turn a hair. But a moment later he stops short, and with the serenity that he has attained, he takes a close look at one of the heads crawling with flies. There is no possible doubt: it is the head of Moreira César.

The fit of sneezing overtakes him so completely that he does not have time to raise his hands to his face, to hold his glasses on: they fly off, and as one burst of sneezes follows another and he doubles over, he is sure he hears them hit the pebbles underfoot. As soon as he is able to, he squats down and fumbles about. He finds them immediately. Now, yes, on running his fingers over them and feeling that the lenses are smashed to smithereens, the nightmare of last night, of this morning at dawn, of a few moments ago returns.

“Stop! Stop!” he shouts, putting the glasses on, looking out at a shattered, cracked, crazed world. “I can’t see anything. Please, I beg you.”

He feels in his right hand a hand that—from its size, from its pressure—can only be that of the barefoot woman. She pulls him along, without a word, guiding him in this world suddenly become inapprehensible, blind.

The first thing that surprised Epaminondas Gonçalves on entering the town house of the Baron de Canabrava, in which he had never before set foot, was the odor of vinegar and aromatic herbs that filled the rooms through which a black servant led him, lighting his way with an oil lamp. He showed him into a study with shelves full of books, illuminated by a lamp with green glass panels that lent a sylvan appearance to the oval writing desk, the easy chairs, and the little tables with bibelots. He was examining an old map, on which he managed to read the name Calumbi in ornate Gothic letters, when the baron entered the room. They shook hands without warmth, like two persons who scarcely know each other.

“I thank you for coming,” the baron said, offering him a chair. “Perhaps it would have been better to hold this meeting in a neutral place, but I took the liberty of proposing my house to you because my wife is not feeling well and I prefer not to go out.”

“I wish her a prompt recovery,” Epaminondas Gonçalves said, refusing a cigar from the box the baron held out to him. “All of Bahia hopes to see her very soon in as radiant health and as beautiful as ever.”

The baron looked much thinner and older, and the owner-publisher of the
Jornal de Notícias
wondered whether those wrinkles and that dejection were due to the ravages of time or of recent events.

“As a matter of fact, Estela is physically well; her body has recovered,” the baron said sharply. “It’s her mind that is still affected. The fire that destroyed Calumbi was a great shock to her.”

“A disaster that concerns all us Bahians,” Epaminondas murmured. He raised his eyes to follow the baron, who had risen to his feet and was pouring them two glasses of cognac. “I said as much in the Assembly and in the
Jornal de Notícias
. The destruction of property is a crime that affects all of us, allies and adversaries alike.”

The baron nodded. He handed Epaminondas his cognac and they clinked glasses in silence before drinking. Epaminondas set his glass down on the little table and the baron held his between his palms, warming the reddish liquid and swirling it about the glass. “I thought it would be a good idea for us to talk together,” he said slowly. “The success of the negotiations between the Republican Party and the Autonomist Party depends on the two of us reaching an agreement.”

“I must warn you that I have not been authorized by my political friends to negotiate anything tonight,” Epaminondas interrupted him.

“You don’t need their authorization,” the baron replied with an ironic smile. “My dear Epaminondas, let’s not put on a Chinese shadow play. There isn’t time. The situation is extremely serious and you know it. In Rio, in São Paulo, monarchist papers are being attacked and their owners being lynched. The ladies of Brazil are raffling off their jewels and locks of their hair to raise money for the army that’s coming to Bahia. Let us put our cards on the table. There’s nothing else for us to do—except commit suicide.” He took another sip of cognac.

“Since you’re asking me to speak frankly, I’ll confess to you that were it not for what happened to Moreira César in Canudos, I wouldn’t be here, nor would there be any conversations between our two parties,” Epaminondas conceded.

“We’re agreed on that point, then,” the baron said. “I presume that we also agree on what this military mobilization on a grand scale that is being carried out by the federal government throughout the country means for Bahia politically.”

“I don’t know if we see eye to eye on that subject.” Epaminondas picked up his glass, took a sip, savored the aftertaste, and added coldly: “For you and your friends, it’s the end, naturally.”

“It’s the end for you and yours above all, Epaminondas,” the baron replied amiably. “Haven’t you realized? With Moreira César’s death, the Jacobins have suffered a mortal blow. They’ve lost the only prestigious figure they could count on. Yes, my friend, the
jagunços
have done President Prudente de Moraes and the parliament—that government of ‘pedants’ and ‘cosmopolites’ that you people wanted to overthrow in order to set up your Dictatorial Republic—a favor. Moraes and the politicians in São Paulo are going to take advantage of this crisis to clear all the Jacobins out of the army and the administration. There were always very few of them and now they’re without a head. You, too, will be swept out in this purge. That’s why I sent for you. What with the huge army that’s coming to Bahia, we’re going to find ourselves in trouble. The federal government will name a military and political leader to take over this state, someone whom Prudente de Moraes trusts, and the Assembly will lose all its power, or even be closed down, since it will no longer serve any purpose. Every form of local power will disappear from Bahia and we’ll be a mere appendix of Rio. However strong a supporter of centralism you may be, I imagine that you’re not a strong enough one to be willing to see yourself eliminated from political life.”

“That’s one way of looking at things,” Epaminondas murmured imperturbably. “Can you tell me how this common front that you’re proposing would avert this danger?”

“The union of our two parties will force Moraes to negotiate and come to terms with us and will save Bahia from being tied hand and foot beneath the control of a military viceroy,” the baron answered. “And, moreover, it will give you the possibility of reaching power.”

“Along with…” Epaminondas Gonçalves said.

“Alone,” the baron corrected him. “The governorship of the state is yours. Luiz Viana will not run again and you will be our candidate. We will present joint lists of candidates for the Assembly and the Municipal Councils. Isn’t that what you’ve been fighting for all this time?”

Epaminondas Gonçalves’s face flushed. Was this sudden glow produced by the cognac, the heat, what he had just heard, or what he was thinking? He remained silent for a few seconds, lost in thought. “Are your supporters in agreement with all this?” he finally asked in a low voice.

“They will be when they realize what it is they’re obliged to do,” the baron answered. “I’ll persuade them—I give you my word. Are you satisfied?”

“I need to know what you’re going to ask of me in return,” Epaminondas Gonçalves replied.

“That landed property and urban businesses not be touched,” the Baron de Canabrava replied immediately. “Our people and your people will fight any attempt to confiscate, expropriate, interfere with, or impose immoderate taxes on landed property or businesses. That is the only condition.”

Epaminondas Gonçalves took a deep breath, as though he needed air. He drank the rest of his cognac in one swallow. “And you, Baron?”

“Me?” the baron murmured, as though he were speaking of a ghost. “I am about to retire from political life. I shall not trouble you in any way. Moreover, as you know, I am leaving for Europe next week. I shall remain there for an indefinite time. Does that ease your mind?”

Instead of answering, Epaminondas Gonçalves rose to his feet and paced about the room with his hands clasped behind his back. The baron affected indifference. The owner-publisher of the
Jornal de Notícias
did not try to conceal the indefinable feeling that had taken possession of him. He was both gravely thoughtful and excited, and in his eyes, along with his usual restless energy, there was also uneasiness, curiosity. “Though I may not have your experience, at this point I’m not a greenhorn either,” he said defiantly, looking the baron square in the eye. “I know you’re putting one over on me, that there’s a trap somewhere in what you’re proposing.”

His host nodded, without showing the least sign of irritation. He rose from his chair to pour another finger of cognac in their empty glasses. “I understand your misgivings,” he said, glass in hand, starting on a tour around the room that ended at the window overlooking the garden. He opened it: a breath of pleasantly warm air entered the study along with the loud chirping of crickets and the sound of a distant guitar. “That’s only natural. But there isn’t any sort of trap, I assure you. The truth is that, given the way things are going, I’ve become convinced that the person best suited to be the political leader of Bahia is you.”

“Ought I to take that as a compliment?” Epaminondas Gonçalves asked in a sarcastic tone of voice.

“I believe that we’ve seen the end of a style, of a certain way of conducting politics,” the baron went on, as though he had not heard him. “I admit that I’ve become obsolete. I functioned better in the old system, when it was a question of getting people to follow established customs and practices, of negotiating, persuading, using diplomacy and politesse. That’s all over and done with today, of course. The hour has come for action, daring, violence, even crimes. What is needed now is a total dissociation of politics from morality. Since this is how things stand at present, the person best suited to maintain order in this state is you.”