The Violent Land by Jorge Amado Page B

picture that hung on the wall, a chromolithograph depicting a European rural scene.
    Sheep were feeding against a soothing dark blue background. There were shepherds playing a kind of flute, and a pretty, fair-haired country girl dancing among the ewes. An indescribable peace emanated from that chromo. Sinhô Badaró remembered how he had come to buy it. He had casually entered a shop kept by Syrians in Bahia to get a price on a gold watch. He had caught sight of the picture, and had recalled Don’ Ana’s saying to him not long before that the drawing-room walls needed something to brighten them up a bit. For this reason he had bought it, but only now for the first time did he study it attentively. A peaceful country scene, with those sheep and their flute-playing shepherds and the dancing maiden with the golden hair. Blue, dark blue, almost sky-blue. Quite different from the fields around here, in this land of cacao. Why could not they be like this European one? But Juca Badaró was still striding up and down impatiently, waiting for his elder brother’s decision. Sinhô Badaró hated to see blood flow. None the less, he had many times had to make a decision such as that which Juca expected of him this afternoon. It was not the first time that he had sent one or two of his men to take up their places in “ambush” and wait for someone to come along the road.
    He gazed at the picture. A pretty young woman—rosy cheeks, heavenly eyes. Prettier even than Don’ Ana. And the shepherds, they were quite different from the donkey-drivers here on the plantation, no doubt of that. Sinhô Badaró liked the land, liked planting the land. He liked breeding animals—big, gentle oxen, high-strung horses, and mild-bleating sheep. The thing he loathed was sending men to their death. For this reason he withheld his decision as long as possible and only gave it when there was no other way out. He was the head of the family, it was he who was engaged in building the Badaró fortune, he had to get over what Juca called his “weakness.” He had never before studied that picture closely. That was a very pretty blue—even prettier than some of the calendars they sent out at the end of the year, and there were some very nice calendars.
    Juca Badaró paused in front of his brother.
    â€œI am telling you, Sinhô,” he said, “there’s nothing else to do. The fellow is stubborn as a mule. He won’t sell the grove; it’s not a matter of money, says he doesn’t need money. And you know, Firmo always did have the reputation of being bullheaded. There’s nothing else to be done.”
    Sadly Sinhô Badaró took his eyes off the chromo.
    â€œIt’s too bad that he’s a man who never did anyone any harm. If it weren’t that this is the only way of extending the plantation on the Sequeiro Grande side—otherwise, it will fall into Horacio’s hands.” His voice altered slightly as he uttered the hateful name. Juca nodded approvingly.
    â€œIf we don’t do something about it, Horacio certainly will. And whoever gets Firmo’s grove holds the key to the forest of Sequeiro Grande.”
    Sinhô Badaró was once more lost in contemplation of the picture.
    â€œI don’t need to remind you, Sinhô,” Juca continued, “that no one knows cacao land better than I do. You came from outside, but I was born here, and ever since I was a child I’ve learned to know land that is good for planting. Why, I tell you, all I need to do is walk over it and I’ll know what it’s worth. It’s something I have in the soles of my feet. And I can further tell you that there’s no better land for cacao-raising than that of Sequeiro Grande. You know how many nights I’ve spent inside that jungle, looking it over. And if we don’t get there pretty quick, Horacio will be there before us. He has a good scent,