The Violent Land by Jorge Amado Page A

certain that she would die before he did. He disposed of land, of money, and of men. He was made of iron, was never ill; it seemed as though bullets knew and feared him. For this reason she did not lull herself with the dream that was at once so wicked and so marvellous. There was no hope for her; she could not even lift a hand. Her life was what it was; this was her destiny. And to think that in Ilhéos many a young girl doubtless envied her! She was Dona Ester, wife of the richest man in the Tabocas region, the political leader, master of so many cacao plantations and so much virgin forest land.
    She barely had time to dry her tears as Horacio came up to the hammock. In his hand was a small cacao pod, the first from the new grove.
    â€œThe grove is bearing already,” he said, half smiling.
    He stood there, unable to understand why she had been weeping.
    â€œWhat the devil are you crying for?” he said angrily. “Is that all you do? What’s the matter, don’t you have everything you want? Is there anything you lack?”
    â€œIt’s nothing,” said Ester, stifling a sob. “I’m silly.”
    She took the cacao fruit because she knew this would please her husband. Horacio was smiling jovially now; he was happy in the possession of his wife as his eyes ran down her body. They were the only things in the world that he loved: Ester and cacao.
    â€œWhy are you crying, foolish girl?” he asked, seating himself beside her in the hammock.
    â€œI’m not crying now.”
    Horacio was thoughtful for a moment; then he spoke, his eyes wandering in the direction of the groves as he held the cacao pod in his calloused hand.
    â€œWhen the little fellow grows up”—he always referred to the child as “the little fellow”—“he’s going to find all this full of groves, all under cultivation.” He was silent for some time; then he added: “My son’s not going to have to live stuck off here in the backwoods like us. I’m going to put him into politics; he’s going to be deputy and Governor. That’s why I make money.”
    He smiled at Ester and let his hand run over her body.
    â€œDry those eyes, and go tell them to see that they have a first-rate dinner, for Lawyer Virgilio, the new attorney in Tabocas, is coming here today. And see that you put on your best clothes, too. We want to show that young fellow that we’re not backwoodsmen.”
    He laughed that short laugh of his, and leaving Ester with the cacao pod, he went out to give orders to the workmen. She sat there thinking of the dinner they would have that night, with this what’s-his-name of an attorney. Naturally, he would be like Lawyer Ruy, who got drunk and then stayed on after dessert to spit all over the floor and tell dirty stories. And from Paris Lucia had written letters telling of parties and theatres, gowns, and banquets.

5
    The two men stood in the doorway; it was the black man who spoke.
    â€œYou sent for us, colonel?”
    Juca Badaró was about to tell them to come in, but his brother made a gesture with his hand to indicate that they should wait outside. The men obeyed and sat down on one of the wooden benches that stood on the broad veranda. Juca was pacing up and down the room, from one end to the other, puffing on his cigarette. He was waiting for his brother to speak. Sinhô Badaró, the head of the family, was taking his ease in a high-backed chair of Austrian make, which contrasted strangely not only with the rest of the furniture, the wooden benches, the cane chairs, the hammocks in the corner, but also with the rustic simplicity of the whitewashed walls. Sinhô Badaró was thinking, his eyes half-shut, his black beard resting on his bosom. Raising his eyes, he glanced at Juca, pacing nervously with his riding-whip in one hand and the puffing cigarette in his mouth. Then he took his eyes away and let them rest on the single