FEGSESER THE DEVIL TO PAY IN THE BACKLANDSmeans Tie DEVIL TO PAY IN THE BACKLANDS "The Devil in the Street, in the Middle of the Whirlwind” sy JOAO GUIMARAES ROSA Translated from the Portuguese by JAMES L. TAYLOR and HARRIET DE ONS Noret LAS New York Alfred -A-KnopfK pe LC, catalog card number: 6512564 arorrorarer sormeroray Copyright © 1963 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. [AM rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in ‘iting from the publisher, except by a reviewer, ‘rho may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper. Manufac- fured in the United States of America, and dis- taibuted by Random House, Inc, Published simul- taneously in Toronto, Canada, by Random House of Canada, Limited. viginally published in Portuguese by Livraria José Olymplo Fditéra as ‘Grande Sertdo: Veredas in 1958. Aracy, my wife, Ara, THIS BOOK BELONGSThe Place of Guimaraes Rosa in Brazilian Literature Tean nxcaLt only one instance of a greater impact on contem- porary Brazilian literature than that produced by the books of Guimaries Rosa: the publication of Gilberto Freyre's Casa Grande e Senzala (The Masters and the Slaves) in 1993. The repercussion of the Pernambucan sociologist’s book was felt throughout Brazil. Moreover, it became the point of departure for a group of novelists who found their inspiration in the drama of the people and the land of Brazil: José Lins do Rego, Graci- liano Ramos, Erico Verissimo, Rachel de Queiroz, José Americo de Almeida, Lucio Cardoso, Otavio de Faria, José Geraldo Vieira, to mention only the most outstanding. Guimardes Rosa mado his appearance on the literary scene ten years Tater with a book of short stories, Sagarana. He and bis fellow trail-blazers represent the second generation, whose ‘themes reflect that upsurge in their country’s development set off by the Revolution of 1930, an upsurge which has been in the nature of an ascending spiral. These are novelists and short-story writers such as Dalcidio Jurandir, Herberto Sales, James Amado, Josué Montello, Hernani-Donato, Adonias Filho, José Conde. The movement was characterized by a determined and highly controversial effort to give new forms to the literary languageviii THE DEVIL TO PAY (still unpolished and rough in the first generation of writers, who were engaged in the task of transforming the vernacular of Brazil into an instrument of artistic creation), The new litera ture divided critics and public; some became enthusiastfe sup- porters, others violent opponents. ‘The critics were more divided than the public, as though they ‘were exclusively concerned with and saw only the formal, stylistic aspect of Guimardes Rosa’s work through which he was attempting to create, in keeping with the subject matter, a new narrative instrument. The outward cloak of this formal aspect ‘seemed to conceal and hide from certain critics that heaving ‘universe, brutal and tender, violent and gentle, of landscapes, beings, dramas, battles, wild backlands, the cruel, at times Iudi- ccrous sorrows which comprise the vast, unique world of Gui- maries Rosa, Brazilian and universal at one and the same time. “What the public saw, over and above everything else, was the material out of which the work had been created, its content; that is to say, the lived and living flesh-and-blood life that so powerfully imbued it, at times came gushing from it. The pub- lie read and applauded the writer despite the fact that for many the formal expression was often more of a barrier to understand- ing than an avenue of approach. While the critics were arguing the validity of the experiment, quoting Joyce and showing off their erudition, the public realized that a unique figure, a creator of exceptional gifts had emerged on the Brazilian literary scene, whose revealed and revealing world was the sort that helps to build a nation and the awareness of a nation. Tt is odd that Guimarfes Rosa should be a Mineiro. In the cautious and, for the most part, conservative state of Minas Gerais, landlocked and astute, literature is as a rule well- mannered, fiction even mere so than poetry (the poets Carlos Drummond de Andrade and Murilo Mendes are the opposite of wellmannered). Its fiction has not yet freed itself from the apron strings of Machado de Assis, and goes on recreating the unimaginative, mediocre life of the middle class, eschewing startling innovations, experiments with language, a veritable model of polite phrasing. Nothing could be further removed from this than Corpo de Baile or Grande Sertdo: Veredas (The IN THE BACKLANDS ix Devil to Pay in the Backlands). For me, Guimaraes Rosa is a novelist of Bahfa rather than Minas Gerais, and I think my po- sition in this matter is perfectly tenable. There is a part of Minas Gerais, that which forms the setting ef The Devil to Pay in the Backlands, which is a prolongation of the backlands of Bahia in its customs, its language, the make-up and character of its people. And this backland of Bahia—that of the great bandits, the leaders of outlaws, the indomitable backlanders— is Guimaraes Rosa territory, the clay with which he works, into which he plunges his hands in the act of creation. All this he bears within himself, as though this distinguished diplomat —nobody could be a greater gentleman or more refined—went invisibly shod in rope sandals, wearing the leather jerkin of the backlander over his soul, and armed with blunderbuss and vio- ence. He carries this within himself, and returns it to his peo- plein a work of dimensions rarely achieved in literature (I have ‘deliberately said “literature” and not “Brazilian literature”). Thelieve L was among the first to grasp and call attention to the importance of Guimaraes Rosa's achievement as a novelist and to foresee the rapid universalization of his work. Not so much or even because of its formal aspect, more limited to our national frontiers, as because of the world revealed, re-created, and given enduring life through the extraordinarily achieved beings, through the Brazil that breathes in its every page. Guimaraes Rosa’s case is, in my opinion, completely different from that of Mario de Andrade, the Mario of Macunaima, and other Brazilian “modernistas.” Mario drew mainly on books for his material, saw Brazil through a veil of erudition, and for that reason failed to reach the people, Guimaraes Rosa had so much to narrate, to reveal, to bring forth that he had to create an in- strument of control—his language—to keep the spate, the flood within bounds, and bring order to his creation. But what will insure his greatness in the judgment of foreign readers, and ‘equate his name with those of the great contemporary writers of fiction, is his creative power, the Brazilian authenticity of his characters, the pulsating life that animates his every page. ‘On the occasion of the publication in English of The Devil to Pay in the Backlands by Alfred A. Knopf, a friend of literatureX «THE DEVIL TO PAY IN THE BACKLANDS and a friend of Brazil, thus bringing our master novelist to the knowledge of a new public, and adding new readers to those Guimaraes Rosa already has abroad, it makes me happy to have this opportunity to pay tribute to the great writer to whose for- mation my generation, which immediately preceded his, con- tributed and for whom we cleared the way. The English-reading public will make the acquaintance of one of the greatest books our literature has produced, brutal, tender, cordial, savage, vast as Brazil itself, the image of Brazil drawn by a writer with a consummate mastery of his craft. Led by the hand of Guimaraes Rosa, the turbulent men and women from the heart of the back- lands enter upon that immortality which art alone can give them. The Devil to Pay in the Backlands bears witness—cer- tainly as much as the great industrial establishments of Sio Panlo—to the maturity Brazil and its people have reached, JORGE AMADO Rio de Janeiro, September 1962 BREESE QR THE DEVIL TO PAY IN THE BACKLANDSQQQ BREESE eogoneees T’S NOTHING. ‘Those shots you heard were not men fighting, God be praised. It was just me there in the back yard, target-shooting down by the creek, to keep in practice. I do it every day, because I enjoy it; have ever since I was a boy. Aitenwards, they came to me about a calf, a stray white one, with the queerest eyes, and a muzzle like a dog. They told me aboat it but I didn’t want to see it, On account of the deformity it was born with, with lips drawn back, it looked like somebody laughing. Man-face or dog- face: that scttled it for them; it was the devil. Foolish folk, They killed it, Don’t know who it belonged to, They came to borrow my gun and I let them have it ‘You are smiling, amusedlike. Listen, when it is a real gun- fight, all the dogs start barking, immediately—then when it's over you go to see if anyhody got killed. You will have to excuse it, sir, but this is the sertdo.” Some say it’s not—that the real * A glossary of Brazilian terms will be found at the end of the book.4 THE DEVIL TO PAY sertdo is way out yonder, on the high plains, beyond the Uructiia River. Nonsense, For those of Corinto and Curvelo, then, isn’t sight here the sertio? Ab, but there's more to it than that! The sertdo describes itself: it is where the grazing lands have no fences; where you can keep going ten, fifteen leagues without coming upon a single house; where a criminal can safely hide out, beyond the reach of the authorities. The Urucéla rises in the mountains to the west. But today, on its banks, you find everything: huge ranches bordering rich lowlands, the flood plains; farms that stretch from woods to woods; thick trees in virgin forests—some are still standing, The surrounding lands are the gerais, These gerais are endless. Anyway, the gentleman knows how it Is: each one believes what he likes: hog, pig, or swine, is as you opine. The sertao is everywhere. ‘About the devil? Thave nothing to say. Ask the others around here. Like fools, theyre afraid even to mention his name; in- stead they say the Que-Diga, the What-You-May-Call-tim. Bab! Not me, Over-avoiding a thing is a way of living with It. Take ‘Aristides, who lives in that palm grove there on the right, on the creck called Vereda-da-Vaca-Mansade-Santa-Rita. Every- body believes what he says: that there are certain places, three of them, that he can't go near without hearing a faint crying behind him, and litle voice saying: “Im coming! I'm coming!” It’s the Whoosis, the What-You-May-CallHim. And then take Jisé Simplicio. Anybody here will swear to you that he keeps 2 ‘captive demon in his house—a little imp who is obliged to help hhim in his shady dealings, which is why Simplicio 1s on his way to getting rich. They say this is also the reason Simplicio’s horse shivers and shies when Simplicio tries to mount, Superstition, Jisé Simplicio and Aristides are prospering, imp or no imp. Now listen to this: there are people who insist that the devil himself stopped off at Andrequicé while passing through there recently. It seems that a certain young man, a stranger, showed up and boasted that he could get from there here in only twenty min- utes —it takes a full day and a half on horscback—because he ‘would go around the headwaters of the Rio do Chico.* Perhaps, Who knows—no offense intended—it could have been you your- A nickname for the Sio Francisco River. IN THE BACKLANDS 5 self when you passed through there, just joking for the fun of it? Don’t hold it against me—I know you didn’t. I meant no harm, It 1s just that sometimes a question at the right time clears the air. But, you understand, sir, if there was such a young man, he just wanted to pull somebody's leg. Because, to circle the headwaters he would have to go deep into this state of ‘ours and then double back, a trip of some three months. Well, then? The Whoosis? Nonsense. Imagination. And then this business of politely calling the devil by other names—that’s practically inviting him to appear in person, in the flesh!_Me, 1 have just about lost all my belief in him, thanks to God; and that’s the honest truth I'm telling you, though I know he is taken for a fact and the Holy Gospels are full of him. Once 1 was talking with a young seminarian, very amiable he was, turning the pages and reading in his prayer book. He had on his, vestments and bore a wand of chaste-tree in his hand. He said he was going to help the priest drive the Whoosis out of an old woman of Cachoeira-dosBois, I don't believe a word of it, My ‘compadre Quelemém claims that its the lower spirits that cause these manifestations, the third-class ones, milling about in the pitch darkness, secking contact with the living, and that some- times they will give a man real support. My compadre Quelemém 4s the one who eases my mind—Quelemém de Géis is his full rname. But he lives so far from here—at Jijujé, on the Vereda do Buritf Pardo. But tell me, when it comes to being possessed of a devil, or helped by one, you too must have known of cases— men—women? Isn't that so? As for me, I've seen so many that T leamed to spot them: Rincha-Mae, Sanguedoutro, Muitos- Beicos, Rasga-em Baixo, Faca-Fria, Fancho-Bode, a certain Tre- ciiano, Azinhavre, Hermégenes—a whole herd of them. If I could only forget so many names . . . I'm not a horse wrangler, ‘And besides, anyone who fools around with the notion of be- coming a jagunco, as I did, is already opening the door to the devil. Yes? No? In my early days, I tried my hand at this and that, but as for thinking, I just didn't. Didn’t have time. I was like a live fish on. 8 griddle—when you're hard-pressed you waste no tims in day- dreams, But now, with time on my hands and no special wor-6 THE DEVIL TO PAY les, T ean lie in my hammock and speculate, Does the devil exist, or doesn’t he? That's what I'd like to know. I give up. Look: there is such a thing as a waterfall, isn't there? Yes, but 1a waterfall is only a high bank with water tumbling over the edge. Take away the water, or level the bank—what becomes of the waterfall? Livingis a very dangerous business . . « Let me wy to explain: when the devil is inside a man, in his guts, the man is either evil or suffers bad luck, But, on his own, a man as such has no devil in him. Not one! Do you agree? Tell me frankly—youll be doing me a great favor, and T ask it of you from my heart. This matter, however foolish it may seem, js important to me. I wish it wasn’t, But don’t tell me that a ‘wise and learned person like you, sir, believes in the devil! You don't? I thank you. Your opinion reassures me. I knew you felt that way—I expected you would—I give you credit for it, Ah! when a man is old he needs to rest easy. I thank you again. All right, then, there is no devil. And no spirits. I never saw any. And if anybody was to see one, it should be me, your humble servant. If I was to tell you . . . So, the devil rules hnis black kingdom, in animals, in men, in women, Even in children, I say. For isn’t there a saying: “A child-—spawn of the devil?” And in things, in plants, in waters, in the earth, in the wind . . . “The devil in the street, in the middle of the whicl- wind.” What? Ah, yes. Just an idea of mine, memories of things worse than bad. It’s not that it hurts me to talk about them. It's Deiter, it relieves me. Look here: in the same ground, and with branches and leaves of the same shape, doesn't the sweet cassava, which we eat, grow and the bitter cassava, which lulls? Now the strange thing is that the sweet cassava can turn ‘poisonous—why, I don't know. Some say it is from being re- planted over and over in the same soil, from cuttings—it ‘grows more and more bitter and then poisonous. But the other, the bitter cassava, sometimes changes t00, and for no reason tums sweet and edible. How do you account for that? And hhave you ever seen the ugliness of glaring hate in the eyes of a rattlesnake? Or a fat hog, happier every day in its brutishness, that would gladly swallow the whole world if it could, for its IN THE BAGKLANDS 7 filthy satisfaction? And some hawks and crows—just the look of them shows their need to slash and tear with that beak honed sharp by evil desire. There are even breeds of twisted, horrible, rocks, that poison the water in a well, if they lie at the bottom of it. The devil sleeps in them. Did you know that? And the devil—which is the only way you can call a malign spirit— by whose orders and by what right does he go around doing as he damn well pleases? Mixed up in everything, he is. ‘What wears him out, little by litle, the devil inside folks, is suffering wisely. Also the joy of love—so says my compadre Quelemém. The family. Is that the thing? It is and it isn‘. Everything is and isn’t, ‘The most ferocious criminal, of the ‘worst lind, is often a good husband, a good son, a good father, a good friend of his friends. Ive known some like that, Only, there is the hereafter—and God too. Many’s the cloud I've seen, But, truly, children do soften one. Listen to this: a certain Aleixo, who lives a league from Passo do Pubo, on the Areia River, used to be one of the most cold-blooded villains you ever heard of. Near his house he had a little pond among the palm trees, and in it he kept some fierce trafras, immense ones, famous for their size. Aleixo used to feed them every day at the same hour, and soon they learned to come out of thetr hiding places to be fed, just as if they were trained. Well, one day, just for the hell of it, Aleixo killed a litle old man who had ‘come around begging. Don’t you doubt it, sir, there are people {in this hateful world who kill others just to see the faces they make as they die. You can foresee the rest: comes the bat, ‘comes the rat, comes the cat, comes the trap. This Aleixo was a family man, with young children, whom he loved beyond all reason. Now listen to this: less than a year after killing the old ‘man, Aleixo's children took sick. A mild epidemic of measles, it ‘was said, but complications set in; it seemed as though the children would never get well. Finally they got over it. But their eyes became red, terribly inflamed, and nothing seemed to do any good. Then—I don't know whether all at the same time or one by one—they all went blind, Blind, without a glim- ‘mer of light. Just think of it—stairsteps, three little boys and a little girl—all blind. Hopelessly blind.8 THE DEVIL TO PAY Aleixo did not lose his mind, but he changed; ah, how he changed! Now he lives on God's side, sweating to be good and kind every hour of the day and night. It even seems that he has become happy which he wasn't before—considers himself lucky, he says, because God chose to take pity on him, chang- ing the direction of his soul in that way. When I heard that it made my blood boll! Because of the children. If Aleixo had to be punished, how were the little ones to blame for his sins? My compadre Quelemém reproved me for my doubts. Said that surely in a former existence the children had been wicked, t00, chips off the old block, imps of the same hell that bred him. What do you think, sir? And what about the little old man who was murdered? I know what you are going to say: that he too ‘may have had some hidden crime to atone for. If, as Quelemém says, folks ate reincarnated, I suppose a dead enemy could return as the child of his enemy. Listen to this one: there is a fellow, Pedro Pind6, who lives six leagues from here, a good ‘man in every way, he and his wife both good people, well thought of. They have a son about ten years old, called Valtéi —one of those fancy names that folks around here go in for nowadays. Well, this litle shaver, from the moment he had a glimmer of intelligence, began to show his real nature—mean and cruel as all gotout, fond of evil to the depth of his soul. Every litle creature or insect that he could catch he would slowly torture to death. Once he saw a colored woman lying dead drunk, and took a piece of broken bottle and slashed her leg in three places. What made that kid drool with pleasure was to sce a chicken bled or a hog butchered. “I like to kill.” this little monster said to me once. It gave me a tum, for when a fledgling leans out of the nest itis getting ready to fy Now the father, Pedro Pind6, to correct this, and the mother too, have been beating the boy half to death; they deny hhim food; they tie him to a tree, naked as the day he was born, even in the cold of June; they work his little body over with strap and thong until the blood runs, then they wash off the blood with a gourdful of brine. Folks know about it and watch, horrified. The boy has grown thinnet and thinner, hhollow-eyed, his bony little face like a death'shead, and he IN THE BACKLANDS 5 hhas got consumption—coughs all the time—the kind of dry cough that tears the lungs. It is plain to see that beating the boy has now grown to be a habit with Pindé and his wife, and little by little they have come to find an ugly pleasure in it setting the beatings at contenient times, and even calling people in to witness the good example. I don't think the boy will last much Ionger, not even till next Lent; he is teetering on the brink now. Well? If what my compadre Quelemén says isn't true, how do you explain a situation like that? At one time that boy must have been a man—one with a debit of terrible deeds, and a soul black as pitch. It showed. Now he is paying. Ab, but it so happens that when he is eying and moaning, he is suffering just as though he were a good child. Lord, what haven't I seen in this world! I've even seen a horse with the hiccups—and that's a rare sight, Well and good, but, you will probably say, in the beginning —the sins and evil-doing of people—how did it all get so balled up at the start? That's what stumps everyone, My compadre Quelemém included. I am only a backlander, and T lose my bearings among such notions. My greatest envy is of men like yourself, sir, full of reading and learning. Not that I can't read and write. I learned to read in a year and a half, by dint of primer, memory, and the ferule. 1 had a teacher: Master Lucas, at Curralinho. T memorized grammar, the mul liplication tables, the ruleof-three, even geography and our nation’s history. On large sheets of paper I drew pretty maps with careful strokes. Ah, not meaning to brag, but right from the start they found me very quick-witted, And thought I ought to be sent to study Latin at the Royal School—they said that, too. The good old days! Even now I enjoy a good book, taking it easy. At LimAozinho, the ranch that belongs to my friend Vito Sozlano, they subscribe to a fat yearly almanac, full of Puzzles, riddles, all sorts of different things. I give first place to more worthwhile reading—the lives of saints, their virtues and example—shrewd missionaries outwitting the Indians, or Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Anthony, Saint Gerald. I am very fond of morality. To reason with others, exhort them to followi THE DEVIL TO PAY the tight path, to give wise counsel. My wife, as you know, watches out for me: she prays a lot. She is a saint. My com- padre Quelemém always says chat I have nothing t wory Bhout, that with my good backing, powerful spirits protect me Yeosit! ‘That suits me fine! And I help out with wanting to helieve. But I am not always able to. I want you to know: all ry life I have thought for myself. T was born different. T am ‘what am, I know almost nothing—but I have my doubts about jnany things. At ranging far afield, 1 am like a well-trained hnunting dog, You turn loose any idea in my head and Til track it down in the deepest woods. Look: what we ought to have is a meeting of scholars, statesmen, high authorities, to seule the ‘atter, proclaim once for all, in joint assembly, that there is hho devil, he doesn't exist, he can't. Give it the force of law! Only thus would people have peace of mind. Why doesn’t the government do something about it? “Ab, I know it’s not possible. Don't take me for a fool. Is one thing to put forth good ideas, and another to deal with a country cof people, of flesh and blood, and their thousand and one problems. So many people—it's frightening to think of—and Fone satisfied, all being born, growing up, getting married, ‘wanting a job, food, health, wealth, recognition, rain, good husiness. So you have to choose: either to join in the rat race, or give yourself up to religion and nothing else. I could have been a priest or a jagunco chief: T was born for one or the other, But I missed out on both counts. Now old age has caught up with me, And theumatista. As one might say, III soon be cating grass by the roots. ‘What I firmly believe, declare, and set forth, is this: the schole world is crazy. You, sir, I, we, everybody. That's the main Toason we need religion: to become unmaddened, regain our Sanity. Praying is what cures madness. Usually. Tt is the falvation of the soul. Lots of religion, young man. As for me, I dhever mise a chance. I take advantage of all of them. I drink ‘water from any river. In my opinion just one religion isn't Cnough. I pray the Christian, Catholic prayers, and I take efuge in what 1s certain, I also accept the prayers of my compadre Quelemém, according to his doctrine, that of Kardec, IN THE BACKLANDS n But when I can I go to Mindubim, where there is one Mathias, a Protestant, a Methodist: they reproach themselves for their sins, read the Bible out loud, and pray, and sing their beautiful hymns, It all calms me down, allays my worries. Any shade refreshes me. But only for the time being. I would like to pray—all the time. Many persons do not agree with me; they say that the true religion is only one—exclusive, That's an idea Tdetest. ‘There is a colored Woman, Maria Le6ncia, who lives not far from here, whose prayers are famous for their potency. I pay her, every month, to say a chaplet for me every blessed day, and a rosary on Sundays. It is worth it, it really is. My wife sees no harm in it. And I've already sent word to another one to come to see me, a certain Isma Calanga, of Vau-Vau, whose prayers too, it is sald, are of great merit and profit. I'm going to make the same kind of deal with her. I want to have several sich om my se defending me before God. By the wounds of ist Living is a dangerous business. Longing too ardently for something good can be in some ways like wishing for some- thing bad. Those men! All were grabbing at the world for themselves, to set it aright. But each saw and understood things only in his own way. At the top of the list, ahead of all the others, the one of greatest integrity, was Medeiro Vaz. What a ‘man, like those of old! Jodozinho Bem-Bem, the fiercest of all, nobody could ever figure out what he was really like inside. Joca Ramiro—a prince of a man—was a politico. Zé Bebelo ‘wanted to be a politico, but he was both lucky and unlucky—a fox that dilly-dallied, $6 Candelério turned mean as the devil because he thought he had an incurable disease. Titio Passos depended on his friends for everything: only through them, through their friendship, was it that he rose so high among the Jagungos. Anténio Dé—a mean bandit. But only one half of him, albeit the greater half. Andalécio, at bottom a man of ‘good will, but a madman in dealing out punishment. Ricardio even—all he wanted was to be rich and at peace; that was what be was fighting for. Hermégenes was the only one who was born a tiger and a murderer. And Urutd-Branco, the White12 THE DEVIL TO PAY Rattler? Ab, don't speak to me of him. That unhappy, unruly ‘one—that poor ill-fated boy ‘So far, So good. You heard what I was saying: evil against evil, they end up breaking each other's back. God waits for this to happen. Man! God is patience itself! Just the opposite of the devil, You whet two knives together and they wear one an- ‘other down, Even the stones in a river bed, rubbing against ach other, grow smooth and rounded as the water rolls them along, Now, what I think is that everything in the world is there because it deserves to be and needs to be, Let me make myself cleat. God doesn't appear with a policeman’s sabre in his hand; he doesn't impose the letter of the law. Why should hhe? He Ieaves them alone: one fool against another; one day one of them cracks and learns his lesson, gets smart, Though, at times, to help things along, God will scatter @ pinch of pepper between them. Tent it so? Well, for example: some time ago I went by train to SeteLagoas to see a doctor who had been recommended to me. To avoid being spotted as a former jagunco, I went well- fdressed and first-class. As luck would have it, there came and ‘sat facing me, in the opposite seat, a chap called Jazevedio, a police deputy, returning from the wild North. He was accom panied by one of his henchmen, a secret agent, and one was as prean as the other. To tell the truth, my first impulse was to igot away, to change seats, But my better judgment told me to stay where I was, So I stayed and I watched. And, TT tell you, I wnever saw a man's face stamped with greater brutality and meanness, He was short and heavy-set, with a cruel glint in his piggish eyes. His jaw jutted out like a stone, and his brows vere drawn in a heavy frown; he did not make any sign of greeting, He didn't smile, not even once, but whether talking ot Silent, you could always see one of his eye teeth, long and sharp like the fang of a wild dog. Muttering and puffing, he talked in ow, short grunts, in angry half-words. He was looking over some papers, studying case histories, one by one, sheets with picwures and black fingerprints of outlaws, thieves, and killers. His zeal for work of that nature stirred my anger. The secret ‘agent, a bootlicker, seated close beside him, was being eagerly IN THE BACKLANDS 13 helpful, and as ingratiating as a dog, It gave me a feeling of dread, but only in the foolish part of my body, not in my guts. [At a given moment, one of those reports fell to the floor and T quickly picked it up and banded it to him. I don't know why T did it—I certainly didn't want to, just wasn't thinking—I still feel ashamed when I recall it. I tell you, it made me furious to have done that, but it was done. ‘The fellow didn’t even glance at me, didn’t utter a word of thanks, Even the soles of his shoes—if you could have seen them—double thick, hard soles, enormous, looking as if they were made of cast iron, One thing I knew already: that this Jazevedio, when he went to arrest anyone, the first thing he did as he came in, without saying a word, pretending to be in a great hurry, was to step on the poor devil's bare toes. And when this happened he would let out a guilaw, yes he would, How I loathed him! I handed him the paper and got up and left, to keep myself from shooting him to death there and then. That gross flesh. And he had the makings of a big belly around his navel that made me feel like |. . In my own gentle way, I could gladly have killed him. ‘Your heart isn’t calloused enough to listen to me tell the horrors that this police officer committed. He drew tears of blood from many a man and woman in this simple little world of ours here, The sertéo. You know, sir, the sertio is where the strong and the shrewd call the tune. God himself, when he ‘comes here, had better come armed! ‘What I'm trying to say: Jazevedo—is there any need for the likes of him? Yes, there is. Tough hides call for a sharp goad. ‘And besides in this world or the next, each Jazevedio, when he hhas finished what he has to do, stumbles into his ume of penance until he has paid in full what he owes—my compadre Quelemém will bear me out, You know, sir, what a risky thing living is. But only in that way, through an ugly instru- ment like him, were the jagunco bands broken up. Do you think for a moment that Anténio Dé or Olivine Oliviano would ever turn good of their own accord, or be moved by their victims’ pleas far mercy, or converted by listening to priests’ sermons? ‘Not a chance! Honest-to-God jagungos who repented in the midst of their4 THE DEVIL TO PAY banditry, I know of only one: his name was Joé Cazuzo. It hap- pened in the thick of a gunfight, above a place called Serra. Nova, in the district of Rio-Pardo, along the Tracadal creck. We were Ladly outnumbered, and were being hard-pressed by the men of a certain Colonel Adalvino, a big-shot politico, with many uniformed soldiers under the command of Lieutenant Reis Leme who was later made captain. We stood our ground hour after hour, until we were almost surrounded. Then all of a sudden, that Joé Cazuzo—a very brave man—flopped down on hhis knees, and lifting his arms like the limbs of a dry locust tree, started shouting, hoarsely at times, Ioud and clear at others: “I saw Our Virgin, in the glory of Heaven, surrounded by her children the Angels!” He kept on shouting without @ lctup: “I saw the Virgin!” We started to scatter. I made a dash for my horse, I managed to find him, jumped clumsily on his back, and, madly fumbling, I don't know how, undid the halter rope fastened to a tree. I flew out of there, Bullets whizzing past. The place was in an uproar. In the woods, a person's fear ‘comes out in full force, a fear with purpose behind it. I kicked my horse with my heels, like a wild mule—thud, thud. Two or three bullets buried themselves in the cantle of my saddle, tearing out much of the floss padding. My horse shivered even as he galloped; I know, he is afraid for his master, I thought. 1 could not have made myself smaller. The leather bag on my back, with my few things in it, was hit too. And another bullet from a rifie, rlcocheted off my thigh, searing it without wound- {ing me and, would you believe it, buried itself between me and the saddle flap! My horse stumbled and fell—killed perhaps— and I was thrown over his head, grabbing at the thick foliage, branches and vines, that held and stung me, and for a moment it was like hanging in a big spider web. Where to now? I kept going. Throughly scared, i drove my body through those woods, not knowing where I was headed—and suddenly I started fall- ing and rolling down a steep incline into a hollow place covered over with thick vegetation, which I grabbed at but Kept on roll- ing just the same. Then—later—when T looked at my hands, the parts that weren’t blood-coverod, were smeared green from the leaves that I had clutched and crushed on my way down. I IN THE BACKLANDS a5 landed on some grass at the ‘bottom, and a dark animal jumped out, with a snort, crazy with fear, too, It was a weasel ‘that I barely caught a glimpse of, because when it comes to flight he has no match. I let my weariness overpower me and stretched out full length. The thought flashed through my mind that if that weasel had lain here, there were no snakes about, So T took its place. There was no snake. I could relax. I was utterly limp but the pounding in my heart didn’t stop. I was panting, I kept thinking that they were coming, that they would kill me. It didn’t matter, I didn't care. For a few minutes, anyway, I had a respite in which to rest. I began to think of Diadorim. All I thought about was him. A jodo-congo was singing, I wanted to die thinking about my friend Diadorim, brother, my brother, who was on the Serra do Pau-’Arco, almost on the frontier of Bahia, with the other half of S6 Candelario’s men, 1 clasped my friend Diadorim to my heart, my thoughts flow straight to him. But 'm not keeping to any kind of order. I am rambling, telling things all mixed up. Don’t I trust you? Of course I do, of course. By my guardian angel. But, to get back to my story: we earned afterwards that even the Lieutenant's soldiers and Colonel Adalvino’s ruffians had been moved to respect the apocalyptic crying out of that Joé Cazuzo, who wound up as the most peaceable man in the world, a presser of palm oil and a ‘sacristan to boot, at S40 Domingos Branco. What times! T keep thinking about all this. I enjoy it. The best way for thoughts to unfold themselves is when one is traveling by train. If T could, that’s all I would do, ride up and down, What Td like to know: even in Heaven, when it’s all over, how does sonl manage to forget so much suffering and evil, both given and received? How? You know, sir, there are some things just too awful, yes there are, Suffering of the body and suffering of the mind leave their imprint as strongly as all-out love and the anger of hatred. Take, for example, the case of Firmiano, nicknamed Piolho-de-Cobra. He contracted elephantiasis—his Jeg swollen monstrous thick and shapeless—the kind for which there is no cure; and besides, he was almost blind, his eyes whitened over with cataracts. Years before he had had to give up the jagungo business, Well, on one occasion, a fellow visited16 THE DEVIL TO PAY him at his place at Alto Jequitai—told about it afterwards; they got to talking, first of one thing and then another, and Firmiano sald: “What I long for is to catch me a soldier or someone, and skin him alive with a dull knife. But first, to geld him.” Can you imagine such a thing? The ones who have the biggest dose of devil in them are the Indians, any kind. You see tribes of them, deep in the gerais of Goids, where there are great slow rivers, of water that is always clear, flowing over beds of pink quartz. Piolho-de-Cobra prided himself on his Indian blood, You'll say to me: he was shooting off his mouth—it was his way of making out that he wasn’t a broken-down old man— talking big, wanting to be respected. They all put on the same act: they brag about how mean they are to keep up their prestige, because those around them are as hard as rocks. But the worst of it is that there comes a day when for that very reason they have to make good their boasts. The cruelty I have seen! It doesn't pay to talk about suffering—if I get started I won't stop. All that makes me sick, nauseates me. What makes me glad is that nowadays men are good-hearted. In small mat- ters, that is. Evil madness and perverseness, there 1s always some, but less. In my own generation it hadn't yet become so. Ab, there will come a time when men no longer kill each other. ‘Me, I'm already old, Well, as I was saying, the thing that preys on my mind ‘Ah, I put that question to my compadre Quelemém. He an- swered me that as we near Heaven, we become cleansed and all our ugly past fades into nothingness, like the misbehaviour of childhood, the naughtiness. Like there is no need to feel remorse for what we may have divulged during the turmoil of a nightmare, So—we become clean and bright! Maybe that is why they say getting to Heaven is so slow. I check these matters, you understand, with my compadre Quelemém, be- cause of the belief he holds: that one day we pay to the last penny for every evil deed we have committed. A fellow who believes that would rather get up before daybreak three days in a row than make the slightest misstep. Compadre Quelemém never talks for the sake of talking, he means what he says. Only, IN THE BACKLANDS Tm not going to tell him this: one must never swallow whole everything others tell us—that is an unbreakable rule! Lock; the most important and nicest thing in the world is, this: that people aren't always the same, they are not all of a piece and finished but keep on changing. They are in tune or out of tune. This is a great truth. It is what life has taught me. Kc makes me mighty happy. And another thing: the devil is all hammer-and-tongs, but God is wily! Ah, beautifully wily. His power, when he wants to use it—man! It scares me to think about it. God moves in—nobody sees anything, He does things softly and quietly—that's the miracle of it. And God attacks smoothly, amusing himself, sparing himself. For example, one day, at a tannery, a little knife that I had with me fell into a tank full of tanbark liquid. “Tomorrow I'l get it out,” I said to myself, Because it was night, and I wasn’t going to try in the dark. Next day, early, the knife, the blade of it, had been eaten halfway through by that dark, quict water. I left the knife there, just to see what would happen. And by cracky! You know what? ‘That same afternoon, all that was left of the knife was the han- dle, The handle, because it was not made of cold metal but of deer horn, There you have it. God . . . Well, sir, you heard me, what you heard you know, what you know you understand. Only, don't think that religion makes a man weak. On the contrary. To be sure, in those days, I used to raise hell. I sowed my wild oats. Youth! But to undo what one does in his youth is a task for later on, Besides, if 1 had indulged in too much speculation on such matters, I could not have kept up my end with the others when things got hot. And even now, thoush I have reasoned at Jongth and thought things out, I don’t mis. prize what I could do in a clash of fire and steel. Just let them start warring against me, with evil schemings, with different laws, or prying into things that don’t concern them, and I'll still go out and set this zone on fire—ho, ho, will I! With guns blazing and banging away. And don't think I'd be alone, I should say not. Just in case, I have my people settled all around here. Take a look, sir: right next to me, downstream, is Paspe—my sharecropper—who is one of mine, A league38 THE DEVIL TO PAY farther on, if that, there is Acaud, and my compadre Cisil, he and his three boys, I know they could be counted on. Over on this side, Alaripe: if you only knew how that fellow from Ceard hhandles a gun or a knife in a fight! Farther on: Joio Nonato, (Quipes, and Pacamé-de-Présas. And then there is Fafafa—he got {in some mighty blows alongside me, in the old fight at Taman- ‘euéc-tio, where we vid the air of those who had no right to breathe it, Fafata keeps a herd of brood mares. He raises good horses. A litle beyond, in the foothills, some former members of my out- fit: Sesfrédo, Jesualdo, Nelson, and Joao Concliz. And some oth- ers, Like Triol. I share my land with them, what's mine is theirs too, we are as close as brothers. Why should T want to accumulate wealth? There they are, their weapons ready for action. If an enemy shows up, we pass the word along and gather together then we put on a mock gunfight—Iet them see what a real one would be like. I tell you this in confidence, Furthermore, don't get us wrong. What we want is to work, to live in peace. Me, I live for my wife—who deserves nothing but the best—and for religion. My wife's affection is what helped me, and her prayers. Love inspires love, [tell you it’s so. I think of Diadorim, oo—but Diadorim is like a soft haze. ‘Well now, I didn’t want to get on the subject again—about Old Nick—that’s enough of that. But, there is just one more point. I ask you, do you believe—do you find a shred of truth in this talk—that you can make a pact with the devil? You don't, do you? I know there Is nothing to it. I was talking nonsense. But I like to be reassured. To sell one’s soul—a cockand-bull business! And the soul, what is it? The soul must be a supreme something within us, deeper than we realize: ob, supreme soul! The decision to sell one’s soul is a piece of bravado, a spurofithe-moment gesture, not legally binding, ‘Can I sell those good lands there, inside the Veredas-Quatro, that belong to a Senhor Almirante, who lives in the federal capital? 1 certainly cannot! And, if a ebild is a child, and for that reason not permitted to make a deal... And, this I know, at times we are nothing but children. The evil that T ‘opened the door to in my life was during a kind of dream child- hhood—everything happens s0 fast. Does one really have a sense IN THE BAGKLANDS 19 of responsibility? One dreams, and it is done. So, If there is a soul, and there is, it belongs to God, whether one 50 likes it fr not. Tt is not subject to sale. Don't you agree? Answer me frankly, please. Ah, I thank you. It is plain, six, that you have much natural wisdom, besides your learning. I thank you. ‘Your company gives me great pleasure. ‘As a matter of fact, I wish you lived here, or near here; it ‘would be a help. Here we have no one from whom we can learn, Sertéo. You know, sir, it is in the sertio that one’s thoughts have to rise above the power of the place. Living is a dangerous business. Eh, you are leaving? Right now? Oh, no. Not today. Nor tomorrow, I won't let you. Forgive me, sir, and take it as a pledge of my friendship: you must stay. Then, on Thursday ‘moming early, if you want to leave, leave, even though I will ‘miss you afterwards. But, today or tomorrow, no. A visit here, in my house, with me, lasts three days! But, are you seriously planning to lamch out on this sea of territory, to find out what it contains? You must have your reasons. But you have come late. The old days are gone, habits hhave changed. Of the real things of the past, few or none are loft, The bands of bad men have been broken up; many a former jagungo is having a tough time of it, goes about begging. The herdsmen nowadays are reluctant to come to market in their leather garments—they think a leather Jacket is ugly and countrified. Even the cattle in the serubland are becoming less wild, better behaved. Crossed now with zebu, they look strange beside what is Ieft of the old domestic breeds. So, to discover out-of the-ordinary things, I advise you to undertake a more extensive journey. If it wasn't for my ailments, my stomach ‘upsets and rheumatism, I would go with you. I would show you everything. Twould show you the bright heights of the Almas range: the river pouring down, all eagerness, foaming and boiling: every waterfall a cataract. The black jaguar female in heat in the Serra do Tatti—have you ever heard the rutting scream of a jungle cat? The bright fog over Serra dos Contins, in the early morning when the sky grows light—a kind of fine mist they