150 THE DEVIL TO PAY ones and with this Antenor agreed; thus I threw dust in his eyes. The truth is, he approved everything I had said. But he kept emphasizing the merits of Hermégenes, and of Ricardo, to0—those two would be first-rate leaders in peace as well as in war. This fellow Antenor knew how to scratch a snake's chin. A dangerous character in action, Garango warned me, with his shrewd instinct. Action? What I have always seen is that every act begins with a thought, a thought that persists, spoken or si- lent, and goes blazing its trail. Antenor had already sowed in me the shadow of an evil idea, an idea that went sliding down my back, as insidious as a drop of mist. How can I explain this to you? As for believing what he had said, I didn't. But in me, to me, all that was—well, it was like a rank-smelling spot in the country, some tree perhaps; a fetid place where a skunk had been brought to bay by the dogs. It was a clear warning I re- ceived that day, but less from what I had actually heard than from what I had already in some way divined. What good was it? A warning! I think that in nearly every case a warning is not to ward off punishment but merely to afford solace after the punishment has come and gone. To hell with it! I went and found Diadorim. I was feeling a certain uneasi- ness. I spoke about the present and the past; but I handled it badly: angrily—unreasonably—right from the start. I think that because of this, Diadorim did not attach due importance to my words. Indifferent, sort of. He only showed anger, for a moment, on hearing that anyone had dared to question Joca Ramiro’s conduct: Joca Ramiro was an emperor, head and shoulders above anyone else. Joca Ramiro knew what he was doing, how to rule; nor could his name be bandied about. As for those two, Hermégenes and Ricardo, without Joca Ramiro they would collapse In a second, disappear from the face of the earth—they were worth no more than a flea's hop. Hermégenes? Sure, a good jagungo, a troop leader, but with no political stand- ing, and no savvy or background, And Ricardo, rich, owner of ranches, lived only for gain, scheming how to make and put by money. Of the two, Diadorim liked Ricardo the least “He is a money grubbing brute,” he said, and snapped his mouth shut, as if about to spit. Then I said something like this IN THE BACKLANDS asi “That's all well and good, Diadorim, but to be on the safe side, why don't we get word quietly to Joca Ramizo, just In case?” kept talking, concealing my anger the while. Who knows but what Joca Ramiro, with the passage of time, had forgotten how to judge men, failing to sense the changes wrought in them by time? Were Joca Ramiro to come, he could cut out the rotten from the sound, take stock of his braves. He could, he should, get rid of that monster of a Hermégenes. If necessary—well, what of it—we could kill him! Diadorim looked hard at me; I savw in his disapproving astonishment that he did not believe me capable of such evil, even in Words, “Like a snake?” he asked. A snake is not malevolent either. What I am is very cautious ‘Then cooling off, more friendly toward me, Diadorim began to dissuade me: I hadn't yet had time to understand the cus- toms, I was distrustful of everything and everybody, and he did not know where in che world I got my moon-struck ideas. Sure, Hermégenes had his faults, but he was Joca Ramiro’s faithful supporter—he would fight and do battle for him. I should wait a few days longer, and I would see the sun rise. I didn’t under- stand about friendships among the jagungos. Strength and steel, those were the only friends. Was that what he was say- ing? Ah, no; a friend to me is something different, It is not an arrangement whereby one gives aid to another, and receives it, and the two go abroad the world, swapping help, even though it involves doing injustice to others. A friend, to me, is this: a per- son with whom you like to talk, as one equal to another, un- armed; someone it gives you pleasure to be near. That—plus any sacrifice. Or, a friend is simply what you are, without needing to define the how or the why of it. Diadorim was my friend; and so were Fafafa, Alaripe, Sesfrédo, But he didn't ‘want to listen to me. I got over my anger. Til tell you, sir: I did not let my thoughts linger even on Diadorim. In those days, then, did I not love him? Yes and no. I did and I didn’t. I know, I know that deep inside me I loved him, for always. But one’s nature is full of contradictions. ‘There is day and night, inconstaney, in the friendship of love. ‘What tormented me most of all—this I well recall——was the lack of meaning I found in that environment where I was152 THE DEVIL TO Pay trapped among people of that sort. Even after thinking over Diadorim’s words, all T ended up with was that all this was a life of falsity, of disloyalties. Treachery? ‘The treachery was mine, call it what you will. Isn't nearly everything one does or doesn't do, treachery in the end? It has to be, to someone or to something, It did not take me long to decide what I wanted: I wanted out. How had I come to this place, and for what rea- son, and why was I subjecting myself to all that? I would go away. [had to go away. Iwas risking my life, throwing away my youth, Drifting. AULT had was Diadorim. What was Diadorim to me? As I have said, he was not merely someone to be with, to talk with, to see, but I could not stand to go on living if sud- denly I had to be separated from him forever. And my revulsion for Hermégenes was equally strong. I was rowelled by hate, which always springs up quickly and sometimes discems aright, ike the premonition of love. Hermégenes—Beelzebub, ‘There he was poised in the shadows. I knew it. Never again, not even afterwards, did I experience this feeling so strongly as at that time, Hermégenes, a man who derived his pleasure from others’ fear, others’ suffering. By God, then was when I really began to believe that hell was possible. The Eyeless One is re- mote, Only what one sees in men, what men experience, is pos- sible, And that hell was close to me, it was enveloping me. T saw and dreamed many dreadful things in the limitless confines of dreams. T would leave, run away, at once. What about Diadorim? The ‘idea did not enter my mind that I could leave Diadorim there. He was my comrade, he had to go with me. Diadorim did not understand me. He withdrew into his shell blame myself a lot for this, for not having had the courage to speak frankly. But if I had said everything, Diadorim would have stopped me, and in doing so, would not have understood me. Undoubtedly he would have come out with the name of Joca Ramiro! Joca Ramiro. You could not form a clear image of him, he was nothing but a name, a name given him at birth, ‘with no visible shape or substance, moving in the distance, if he moved. There was a moment when I wavered. Was it on that oc- casion? Or some other? It was once; I remember, My body IN THE BACKLANDS 153 longed for Diadorim. I put out my hand to touch him; but as £ was about to do so, he looked at me—his eyes stopped me. Dia- dorim, grave, head held high. I felt a chill. Only his eyes de- nied me, Did I know what was happening to me? My body longed for his body. Terribly. Gloom surrounded us, as when a downpour threatens. I could bury my head in my arms, and stay that way, like a fool, without coming to any decision. What was it I wanted? I didn't want what was hanging over us, so T fetched an idea from afar. I spoke as in a dream: “Diadorim, haven't you, don't you have a sister, Diadorim?” Do I know if he laughed? Or what he said, what he answered? I know about sadness, sad waters, the grieving heart beside the bank. Neither sister nor brother did he have. “I have only God, Joca Ramiro—and you, Riobaldo,” he declared. Ah, fear makes the heart beat wildly in the breast, but with joy it throbs steady and hard against the ribs, it even hurts. “Diadorim, who was that young man, Leopoldo, your friend who died?” I blurted out, without knowing why: I was not even thinking about that. The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I wished them back. “Leopoldo? A friend of mine, Riobaldo, an honorable friendship,” and Diadorim let out a soft sigh. “So they have talked to you about him, too, Riobaldo? Leopoldo was Joca Ramito's youngest brother.” That Joca Ramiro's name, overrid- ing, ruling everything, would somehow be brought into this mat- ter, too, T already knew. But I held my tongue. “Let's go away from here, together, Diadorim? Let's go far away, to the landing on the Janeiro River, to the plains of the sertéo, to Curralim, Sao-Gregério, or to that place in the uplands, called Os-Porcos, where your uncle lived.” Eagerly, thirstily, the words tumbled out, But soon I began to lower my eyes, feeling Diadorim’s gaze riveted on me, in a silence cold and hard as iron. I was amazed at the bitterness of his scom, doubting my own reason. What I had said was crazy. Diadorim waited, He was unyielding. I left him, wanting to forget quickly what had happened. My face was burning up. I walked and fretted until I remembered—Garango. All right, Garango, he would go with me, follow me in everything; he was fa poor stick just waiting for any kindly order. He didn’t even154 THE DEVIL TO PAY eee ehccaer ea aeeaten erate ee ones friendship. There he wae, bent over, witha big head and short neck like a cicada. He was cooking sous mute in a cams “Wel, wel, here we ar,” he sad. T struck up a conversation, He listened to me, nodding his headin agreements snd eng took as if he understood, But he elds, really. A bie move Pecoenton ty pan al Cece patie tay eae ‘Atmos he might ask: “What about Relnaldo?” because he was ised fo seing Diadorim and me as a par, and he wad tebe tie Hie Tosa | would ener ira mc Garaget von Imow, a sere, les gol" and that Diadormy would com are Garango was different, something in his nature set hime sper from the other jogungos But I did't go oo far a5 co say what was in my mind Taide want to, dnt tll him anything, What was fying to do with thot sinploten on may head Genog suuthwand se wothvace ta the serio? AI he knew was to fellow where {led rlea by my wishes and my idea; a companion of tat srt did net ad te tay safety at al. Did Lanta shadow? Ain echo? A dog? No, T wouknt attempt it with him, beter to watt would sey va thle longer, whatever happened. Some day, perhape, Disdorne would change his mind. Garango Was regallg himelf ats the Sovari nuts, slowly grindmg thar rovetng®yallow meee be tween his teth, T refused his ofer of somes never coe shorn asentiinded that I am, I was alwaye afaid of the piekoe getting stuck in my tongue. “Wel, well, here we anes Garence Fepeated, highly pleased. My friendship overhelwed hin a ite, simplohearted creator that he wan TM tll you a that day I looked down a lonesome road. - ‘Ah, but I am not telling the truth, Do you sensei? Teling something is a very, very diet businese Not beease of the Years that have gore by, but Because carain things of he pon have a way of changing about, switching places: Was woe t have said true? Te was Bue did f happen? Now Tea eras sure. So many hours and people, so mony things at ee mace ties, all mixed up together. If I had heen a person of man action and less thought, T would have tlpped aesy qecaly daring tha aight, made non langues by mening, Bilge IN THE BACKLANDS 335 during the day, then ten more leagues, crossing the So Felipe, the slerras, the Vinte-e-Uma-Lagoas, come out on the Sio Francisco right opposite Januitria, crossed over into settled country, and I would be “home.” Suppose I was caught on the road by either Bebelo’s or Hermégenes’s men, and they killed me? I would have died with the bleat of a sheep or the howl of a hound; but it would have been a different fate and a greater courage, Wasn't it worth it? Anyway, I didn’t do it. Who can say if Leven thought seriously about Diadorim, or, if I did, that it wasn't by way of an excuse? An excuse for my scruples, per- haps. The lower one has fallen, the greater his need to respect himself. I believe all my own lies. Aren’t you the same? We all are, But I was always an evader. I ran away even from the need to run away. Why didn't I leave? What did I think about? About the ter- rible difficulties? Certainly, to some degree. How was I going to put distance between me and that Jaiba wilderness, with long detours and hard marches, in danger every minute? I don't think I was afraid of specific dangers; what held me back was the fear of making a mistake, of falling into danger through my own fault. Today I know: dwelling upon fear, that was it. Fear of making a mistake. I have always had it. Fear of making a mistake is my trouble. That’s bad. If we could get rid of that fear of making a mistake, we would be saved. Do you follow me, understand my figure of speech? From what I have told you, could it be that I was already falling in with the ways of the jaguncos? It could be, I know. Whether I liked it or not, is another story. A person is never entirely himself as long as he is a part of a whole. For instance, Paspe had big needles, thread and an awl: he repaized my sandals, Lindorifico let me have, for practically nothing, an amulet with great powers; and Elisiano’s specialty was cutting and peeling a straight guava branch, on which he roasted the most delicious meat, the edges brown, the fat sizzling. Fonfrédo sang carols you couldn't understand, Duvino made jokes about everything, Delfim played the guitar, Leocidio waltzed about with Diodélfo; and Geraldo Pedro and Yentarol wanted only to stretch out and sleep the whole time, with Ventarol snoring away. He had a double hammock, of156 THE DEVIL To Pay good cotton, with lacework fringes. Then there were Jenolim and Acrfsio, and Jodo Vaquelro, who had a special feeling to- ward me hecause we had traveled together from Rio das Velhas. “Hi, there, pardner,” they would greet me. We played cards on an oxhide. And the horse-play around the campfires, the con- fused noise of many voices as night closed in, There was a kind of joyousness. Joyousness, that is the word. Each told of fights, gunplay, dangers overcome, miraculous escapes, great feats of bravery. Those were men. There I was in thelr midst, involved in their affairs. There was no need to plan my Lfe—this was it. Were I to leave, I would have to make all my own decisions, with death hovering in the background. Was man made to go it lone? He was. But T did not know it then, Were I to leave there, I would have no fixed purpose. With so many others, all in the same boat, we were fulfilling the main objectives of a plan, and in the end there would be a gain; how could there fail to be a general solution? Why was it that they all stayed there, in peace and in war, and the band did not break up and they didn’t ‘want to go away? Think about that, sir; it is something which later became abundantly clear to me. Giving up Diadorim, was that what I was talking about? I say something, then I unsay it. Perhaps, because of my slipshod ‘way of narrating, you may be thinking that in the hubbub of camp life, I saw little of Diadorim and that our friendship suffered neglect or diminishment. That would be a mistake. On the contrary, Diadorim and I were always within range of each other's voice and eyes, never far from one other. From morning till night, our affection was of one color and of one Plece. Diadorim, always courteous, neat, well-behaved. So sure of himself, he never felt discouraged. Why, then, do I skip this part, as I should not, in this sketchy talk of mine? As you can plainly see, I am rambling, Were I telling you only about Diadorim and what he meant to me at that time, I would have ‘© go into endless detail to make my true situation clear to you. Why, then, do I omit it? It seems to me that a person's spirit is like a horse that picks its own road: when it is headed for sad- ness and death it goes along without seeing the beautiful and the good, Do you suppose so? And that Garango—listen: what IN THE BACKLANDS 157 I said about him, about his kindness and friendliness, was not entirely true. But at the time I did not know it. Tonly discovered and realized it when I recalled it many years afterwards, That poor devil of a Garango, he wanted to talk, to tell me things. “L was a muledriver in Serém. I had three children.” But what sort of jagunco recruit could he have been—boyish, rough, good-natured as he was? “Hot damn! And I'll bet you've killed your share of men, eh, Garango?” I asked him. He giggled and laughed. “Well, well, now. You think maybe Im a coward? Just you entrust any kind of job to the riffe in my hand, brother! ‘And don't worry, you won't regret it.” Garanco, I don’t believe he ever had doubts about anything, He just had his likes and dislikes I wonder if you will understand something that I don’t Hermégenes was always making up to me: damned if he didn’t like me. Always greeting me politely, indulging in pleasantries or kindly remarks, he did not even seem like the boss. Out of courtesy and by the rules, I had to respond. But I did so. grudgingly. It made me mad. He made me want to puke, as I have already told you. A deep-seated aversion. I could never look him in the eye. There was an invincible repugnance—an unbridgeable gulf. That man, to me, was net real. And, by God, he never suspected, he never caught on. Whenever he wanted to talk, he would send for me; I had to go—he was the chief. 1 turned sullen, Diadorim noticed it and counseled me: “Watch that temper of yours, Riobaldo. People aren't as low as you think.” “Tm not afraid of him!” I replied About then, Hermégenes offered me a present of a horse pistol, and boxes of bullets. I didn’t want to take them. I had my own revolver; what did I need a huge, long-barreled thing like that for? But he was so insistent that I accepted it. A gift I would never reciprocate! Why would I be wanting to hobneb: with the chiefs? What I always want is to keep as far away as 1 can from big shots, even from a lot of people I know well. I am a Jone wolf. When I like someone, it is for no specific reason, and it’s the same when I don't. Nobody can change me with gifts and blamey. That Hermégenes was a killer, a torturer of human beings, a monster. What he said to me went in one158 THE DEVIL TO PAY ear and out of the other. My hand had not been made to touch his. Ah, that Hermégenes—it made me suffer that he should be alive in this world. When he came to talk with me, in the silence of my hatred I would even ask the devil to come and stand between the two of us, to separate me from him. I could have loaded that very horse pistol and put a couple of bullets between his eyes. You must overlook and forgive these furious words of mine, but this was what I felt and suffered. ‘That's the way I was. [don't know if I still am, About hate: T think that sometimes hatred of one person serves to strengthen your love for another. The heart grows in all directions, The heart is like a brook winding through hills and lowlands, through woods and meadows. The heart com- bines loves. Everything fits in it. As when I first met Otacflia— like I told you—in the highlands, at Buzitis Altos, on the Santa Catarina ranch there. When I first glimpsed her, by the faint light of a lamp, framed in a window, her sweet little face, smiling mouth, and long hair. But then our party bedded down for the night in the cellar of the sugar boiler house. There was me and Diadorim, Alstipe, Joao Vaqueiro, Jesualdo, and Fafafa, There we found rest after a hard journey; everybody ‘was good and tired. But I slept with two guardian angels. My memories are what I have, I am beginning to recall by- gone Joys. The Santa Catarina ranch was close to heaven—a deep blue sky, motionless clouds. It was in May. I love those months of May, healthfully cool, with their bright sun, the wildflowers in the fields, and the brisk little May winds. The front of the ranch, on a hillside, stretched toward the moun. tain, toward the sky. Between the corrals and the sky there was only open grassland and a strip of woods, from which white butterfiies fluttered through the fence rails. There you are not aware of the passing of the hours. And the mourning dove is heard all day. To this very day, the call of the mourning dove evokes in me the scent of false nettle leaves. After so much fighting, I found real enjoyment in sane, everyday things: the milking of the cows, watching a double-chinned fellow carrying a big can of swill to the hogs, the guinea hens scratching furiously in the yellow-fiowered wild senna, and the field of IN THE BACKLANDS 159 sida plants nibbled down by the cattle and pigs. I imagine that on that occasion I had a brief longing for Si0 Gregério, and a vain wish to be the owner of a piece of land that was mine, mine by right of possession and of hard work, work that strengthens the soul and hardens the hands. I had imagined that these things were bygones, but there I was, once tnore, in the uplands. The air of the uplands, you know tt, sit. We drank a lot of milk. They brought us coffee in little cups. After a chat with the old man, the grandfather, we lazed about, doing noth- ing. I saw Otacilia again later that morning, She was smiling and pretty as a picture; but meeting her in broad daylight, as you will understand, sir, was not easy, and it made me shy to talk to her. My Otacilia, of exquisite charm, in the full bloom of her youth, as dainty as rosemary, her shining presence. I was the one who saw her first. I dipped my hand in honey and dripped it on my tongue! I spoke about the birds that were flying about before the day got hot. It was Diadorim who had taught me to see the birds. But now Diadorim was off somewhere, hufly, in a sulk. The first thing I pointed out was the tame pigeons. A flock of them, at the water trough. And the wild pigeons, flying high over the trees. “Ah, more than twenty of them have passed over,” said Otacflia, who was counting them. That started our conversation, with oc- casional intervals of laughter and silences. Every git] is gentle, white and dainty. Otacflia most of all. Beside the porch was a small fiower bed, with several kinds of flowers in it. There was one that stood out, a white one—a canna, I thought, or perhaps a lily, tall, very sweet-smelling. It is a flower that has a hidden meaning. Do you know what it is, sir? On a ranch or plantation where there are girls, they plant it beside the door of the big house. It is there for a pur- pose, to ask a question and demand an answer. But I didn't know that. 1 asked the name of the flower. “It is called “Will-You-Marry-me?”” Otacflia answered softly. ‘As she spoke, she looked away, but I caught the tiny tremor in her voice. The name of the flower was that, but only when sweethearts ask the question. Others, loose women, brazen ‘ones, say the name is “Will-you-sleep.with-me?” That is what160 THE DEVIL TO PAY that beautiful girl, Nhorinh4, daughter of Ana Duzuza, at the edge of the uplands, would have had to say to me; the one who liked me and whom T also liked. Ah, the flower of love has many names. Nhorinha, prostitute, white pepper, fragrant mouth, with the breath of a little boy. One's life is a muddle; like that Uruetiia River of mine winding its way to the sea. At that moment, impelled by a feeling that was almost distress, I turned to where Diadorim was standing, I called to him—it was a call with remorse in it—and he came over, ‘Then, to have something to say, I said that we had been talking about that flower. Diadorim looked at it and also asked what kind it was, what it was called, “It is called lily-lily,” Otacflia replied. From her stiff manner, I could see she did not like Diadorim, I tell you, it made me happy. She didn’t like Diadorim —and he such a handsome youth, so refined and attractive. ‘That, to me, was like a miracle. She didn’t like him? What 1 saw in her eyes was loathing and antipathy; their eyes never met. And Diadorim? It made me afraid. He was half angry. What is there about a dose of hatred, that it stirs up other hatreds? I remember, I remember him at that hour, on that day, that fateful day. How was it that I had no foreboding? Take yourself: could you have imagined that you would ever see the white, virgin body of a girl, knifed to death, covered with her own blood, her lips bled white, her glazed eyes half open, half closed? And that gitl one you had loved, who had been a destiny and blind hope in your life? And so many years have gone by. From that very first day, Diadorim harbored a hatred for Otactiia, And even I could see that it was the lash of jealousy. Please bear with my way of telling. Only by degrees does the obscure become cle [had known, for a long time, as a matter of fact, that where I was concerned Diadorim was jealous of any woman, Almost from the beginning, And during all those months of close living together, through ups and downs, hard- ships and dangers, he was not able to hide the gnawing in his heart, though he tried hard. One thing leading to another, he pressed an agreement upon me: that as long as we were on IN THE BACKLANDS 161 active duty with the band neither of us would touch a woman. ‘When I gave him my word, he said “Promise that we will fulfill this, Riobaldo, as though we were swearing it on the Holy Gospels! Lechery and loose living serve only to rob us of the power of courage. Do you cross yourself and swear?” I swore. If I didn’t always keep my promise, the exceptions were vagaries of the body, scapegrace acts. Diadorim cited as an example the iron-clad rule of Jodozinho Bem-Bers, who never took a woman but was as brave as they come. I promised. For a time I abstained from even looking at one. Really. It was hard. Do you know what that means? I held off from a brown girl, who begged for my caresses. And another, many others. One strumpet, one of the high-priced ones, who was passing through, served nearly all our comrades; she was perfumed and pretty, and talked politely about immoral practices. I didn’t believe in my oath nor in that story about Sto Jofiozinho Bem- Bem; but Diadorim was watching me. He repaid my sacrifices with his respect and with greater friendship. One day, when I could stand it no longer, he learned about it, he almost caught me at it: I had enjoyed an hour of love with a pretty young thing, a brown girl the color of buritinut candy. Diadorim learned what he learned, and wouldn't speak to me after that. Ina way, it was I who went several days without speaking, ina mood of unrepentant harshness. Diadorim did not reproach me, but he suffered. I became reconciled to it; I didn't care. ‘What right had a friend to expect such self-denial of me? At times Diadorim would look at me with scom, as if I were a lost soul, sunk in depravity. It made me mad, I let loose and told him a few things. ‘Tm no weakling and I'm not cold either. Tve gota man's needs!” I shouted this at him, like an insult. He left me and went off somewhere; I suspect it wouldn't have taken much to make him cry. And should I feel sorry on that account? A man doesn’t cry, I thought. What the hell, was I going to leave for the mouths of others that girl who took a fancy to me, the one the color of buritinut candy with her beautiful big breasts?