About Vidas Secas (translation)
Called a “small masterpiece of formal sobriety” by Brazil´s foremost literary critic, Vidas Secas, published by Graciliano Ramos in 1938, is Brazil´s Grapes of Wrath, the story of a family pushed across an unforgiving landscape by drought. And like Grapes of Wrath, Vidas Secas is universally read in its home country, both as literature and as a window on national identity.
Sharing as much stylistically with Cormac McCarthy as with John Steinbeck, the opening scene is representative: “The idea of abandoning his son in that desolate place passed through the man’s troubled soul. He thought of the vultures, the bones...”
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The buckthorn trees cast two green stains across the reddened plain. The luckless family had been walking all day, they were tired and hungry. Normally, they walked little, but since they had rested a long time in the sand of the dry riverbed, the journey had progressed a good three leagues. They had been searching for shade for hours. The foliage of the buckthorns appeared in the distance, through the stark branches of the sparse scrub.
They dragged themselves slowly toward the trees, Vitoria with her younger son slung on her hip, and the basket on her head, Fabiano somber, hunched, his hunting sack slung across his back, the drinking gourd hanging by a strap from his belt, his flintlock on his shoulder. The older boy and the dog, Whale, came behind.
The buckthorns neared, receded, disappeared. The older boy began to cry, and sat down on the ground.
“Walk, you little devil,” yelled his father.
Getting no result, he hit the boy with the sheath of his knife. But the little one bucked defensively, then relaxed, laid down, closing his eyes. Fabiano hit him a few more times and waited for him to get up. Getting no response, he looked around, angry, muttering quietly.
The scrubland spread before them, an indistinct red littered with white stains that were bones. The black vultures circled high above the moribund creatures.
“Walk, God damn it.”
The brat didn’t move, and Fabiano wanted to kill him. He had a rough heart, and wanted to blame someone for his misfortune. The drought seemed to him like a necessary fact, and the child’s obstinacy annoyed him. Of course this tiny obstacle wasn’t to blame, but he made the trek more difficult, and the cowboy needed to arrive, he didn't know where.
They had left the paths, covered in spines and pebbles; they had been walking the river bank for hours, on the dry, cracked mud that burned their feet.
The idea of abandoning his son in that desolate place passed through the man’s troubled soul. He thought of the vultures, the bones, he scratched his dirty, red beard, irresolute, he examined his surroundings. Vitoria puckered her lips to indicate a vague direction, and made a few guttural noises to say they were close. Fabiano stuck his knife in its sheath, put it on his belt, squatted, grabbing the wrists of his boy, who pulled away, his knees resting against his belly, cold as a corpse. Then his wrath disappeared and Fabiano felt pity. Abandon the little angel to the wild animals, impossible. He handed the musket to Vitoria, laid his son across his shoulders, stood, held on to the tiny arms that fell across his chest, they were soft, thin as twigs. Vitoria approved the arrangement, uttering her guttural interjection again, pointed out the invisible buckthorns.
And the journey continued, more slowly, more haltingly, in a great silence.
Without her companion, Whale took the lead. Hunched, her ribs in view, she ran, panting, her tongue hanging out of her mouth. And now and then she paused, waiting for the people, who tarried.
Until the previous day, there had been six survivors, counting the parrot. Poor thing, it had died on the river sand where they had rested: hunger had pressed the refugees too hard, and there had been no sign of food. Whale had dined on the feet, the head, the bones of her friend, and had no memory of doing so. Now, as they stopped, her shining pupils rested on familiar objects and she found it strange to see no small cage in which the bird had barely kept its balance on top of the basket. Fabiano missed it too, sometimes, but then the memory returned. He had walked away, looking in vain for roots: the remaining flour had run out, there were no lost cattle to be heard in the brush. Vitoria, burning her rear on the ground, her crossed hands holding her bony knees, thought of old events that bore no relation to one another: wedding parties, cattle drives, novenas, all in a confusion. She was awakened by a harsh screech, caught a distinct glimpse of reality, as well as the parrot, which had been walking around furiously, with its stick legs and a ridiculous attitude. She suddenly decided to make the most of the bird, and justified it to herself, declaring it to be mute and useless. It couldn’t help but be mute. Normally, the family spoke little. And since the disaster had begun, they had been very quiet, rarely uttering a few short words. The parrot called out to nonexistent cattle, and barked in mockery of the dog.
The patches of buckthorn appeared again, Fabiano quickened his pace, forgot his hunger, his exhaustion and his injuries. His sandals were worn at the heels, and the straps had opened painful wounds between his toes. His soles, hard as hoofs, were torn and bleeding.
At a bend in the path, he sighted the corner of a fence and was filled with hope of finding food, he felt like singing. His voice came out hoarse, horrible. He kept quiet to save his strength.
They left the riverbank, following the fence, and climbed a rise, reaching the buckthorns. It had been a long time since they had seen shade.
Vitoria made her sons, who had collapsed into heaps, comfortable, covering them with rags. The older boy, past the vertigo that had knocked him out, resting on the dry leaves, his head laid on a root, slept, awoke. And when he opened his eyes, he vaguely perceived a nearby hill, a few stones, an oxcart. Whale tangled herself up at his side.
They were in the yard of a lifeless ranch. The corral was deserted, the ruined goat pen was deserted as well, the ranch house closed up, everything declared abandonment. The cattle had surely wasted away, and the residents had fled.
Fabiano sought the sound of cowbells in vain. He approached the house, knocked, tried to break through the door. The door held, he slipped through a little fence covered in dead plants, walked around the ruined house, reached the back yard, saw an empty catchment, a stand of wilted shrubs, a turk tree, and an extension of the corral fence. He climbed onto the corner post, examined the scrub, where he was surrounded by bones and the blackness of vultures. He got back down, pushed on the kitchen door. He returned disappointed, lingered for a moment on the porch, tempted to house the family there. But when he reached the buckthorns, he found the boys asleep and did not want to wake them. He went to gather kindling, brought to the goat pen an armload of wood, half-eaten by termites; he tore out bromelia stumps; he arranged everything for a fire.
At this point, Whale’s ears perked up, she flared her nostrils, she smelled a guinea pig, she sniffed for a moment, found it on the nearby hill, and ran off.
Fabiano followed her with his eyes and was startled to see a shadow pass over the hill. He touched his wife’s arm, pointing to the sky, they remained for some time, tolerating the bright sun. They wiped away tears, went to squat next to the boys, sighing, they remained drawn in on themselves, fearing the cloud had come undone, conquered by the terrible blue, that blue that stupefied people and drove them crazy.
Days came and went. Nights covered the land swiftly. The indigo lid descended, darkened, broken only by the reddening of sunset.
Tiny, lost in the burned desert, the fugitives held each other, gathering their misfortunes and their terrors. Fabiano’s heart beat together with Victoria’s, a tired embrace drew together the rags that covered them. They resisted their weakness, pulled apart embarrassed, without the will to face the hard light again, hesitant to lose the hope that comforted them.
They drowsed and were awoken by Whale, who carried a guinea pig in her teeth. They all got up yelling. The older boy rubbed his eyes, driving away bits of sleep. Vitoria kissed Whale on the muzzle, and because the muzzle was bloody, she licked the blood and took advantage of the kiss.
It was measly hunting, but it delayed death for the group. And Fabiano wanted to live. He looked resolutely at the sky. The cloud had grown, and now covered the entire hill. Fabiano walked securely, forgetting the cracks that ruined his toes and heels. Vitoria rummaged through the basket, the boys went and broke off a branch of rosemary to make a spit. Whale, her ears alert, her hind legs in repose, her front legs extended, watched, waiting for her share, probably the animal’s bones and perhaps its hide.
Fabiano picked up the water gourd, walked down the hill, went to the dry river, and found a bit of mud in a waterhole used by the animals. He dug in the sand with his fingernails, waited for the water to well up, and lying on the ground, drank deeply. Sated, he laid face up, looking at the stars, which had appeared. One, two, three, four, there were many stars, there were more than five stars in the sky. The setting sun was covered by cirrus clouds - and a wild joy filled Fabiano’s heart.
He thought of his family, he felt hungry. Walking, he moved like an object, to tell the truth, he was not that different from Tomas’s mill. Now, lying down, he squeezed his belly and gnashed his teeth. What could have become of Tomas’ mill?
He looked at the sky again. The cirrus clouds gathered, the moon, big and white. It would surely rain.
Tomas had fled as well, with the droughts, the mill was stopped. And he, Fabiano, was the mill. He didn’t know why, but he was. One, two, three, there were more than five stars in the sky. The moon was ringed by a milk-colored halo. It would rain. Good. The scrub would be resuscitated, the seed of the cattle would return to the corral, and he, Fabiano, would be the rancher on this dead ranch. Cowbells with bone clappers would enliven the solitude. The boys, fat, red, would play in the goat pen, Vitoria would wear showy skirts with leafy designs, cattle would inhabit the corral. And the scrub would become green.
He remembered his sons, his wife, and his dog, up above, under a buckthorn tree, thirsty. He remembered the dead guinea pig. He filled the gourd, stood, moved slowly to keep from spilling the brackish water. He climbed the hill. A warm breeze stirred in the cacti. A new palpitation. He felt a shiver run through the scrublands, a resurrection of twigs and dry leaves.
He arrived. He put the gourd on the ground, braced it with rocks, quenched his family’s thirst. Then he squatted down, rummaged in his hunting bag, took out his flint, lit the bromelia roots, blew on them, filling his hollow cheeks. A flame flickered, rose, lent color to his burned face, his red beard, his blue eyes. A few minutes later, the guinea pig rotated and sizzled on the spit of rosemary.
They were all happy. Vitoria would put on a long, leafy skirt. Vitoria’s wilted face would be rejuvenated, Vitoria’s deflated bottom would fill out, Vitoria’s clothing on her flesh would inspire the jealousy of other women.
The moon grew, the milky shadow grew, the stars faded in that white that filled the night. One, two, three, now there were few stars in the sky. Nearby, the cloud descended the hill.
The ranch would be reborn – and he, Fabiano, would be the rancher, which is to say he would be the owner of that world. Their few things laid together on the ground: the flintlock, the hunting sack, the water gourd and the chest of painted leaves. The fire crackled. The guinea pig sizzled over the coals.
A resurrection. The colors of health would return to Vitoria’s sad face. The boys would wrestle in the soft earth of the goat pen. Cowbells would ring out across the ranch. The scrubland would become green.
Whale wagged her tail, looking at the coals. And because she could not occupy herself with such things, she waited patiently to gnaw the bones. Then she would sleep.