Captains of the Sands (36 page)

Pedro Bala goes along through the streets with Big João and Outrigger. He says:

“It’s nice…”

Big João also smiles, little black Outrigger speaks:

“There’s going to be a wing-ding today.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a motorman or a conductor. They don’t get a pig’s wages. They did the right thing…” Big João says.

“Shall we go have a look?” Pedro Bala proposes.

They go to the door of the union hall. Men are going in, blacks, mulattoes, Spaniards, and Portuguese. They watch while João de Adão and the other stevedores come out to the cheers of the streetcar workers. They cheer too. Big João and Outrigger because they like the dockworker João de Adão. Pedro Bala not only for that reason, but also because he finds the spectacle of the strike nice, it’s like one of the nicest adventures of the Captains of the Sands.

A group of well-dressed men enters the union hall. From the door they hear a voice discoursing, one that interrupts: “Sellout,” “scab.”

“It’s nice…” Pedro Bala repeats.

He has the urge to go in, mingle with the strikers, shout and fight alongside them.

The city goes to sleep early. The moon lights the sky, the voice of a black man comes from the sea opposite. He’s singing about the bitterness of his life since his loved one left. In the warehouse the children are asleep already. Even black Big João is snoring, stretched out by the door, his knife within reach. Only Pedro Bala is awake, lying on the sand, looking at the moon, listening to the black man sing of his yearning for the mulatto girl who’s gone away. The wind brings snatches of the song and it makes Pedro Bala look for Dora among the stars in the sky. She, too, had turned into a star, a strange star with long, blond hair. Brave men have a star in place of their hearts. But no one had ever heard tell of a woman who wore a star on her breast like a flower. The bravest women on the land and sea of Bahia, when they died, became saints for the blacks, the same as drifters who were also very brave. Rosa Palmeirão became a saint in a halfbreed
candomblé
, they pray to her in Yoruba. Maria Cabaçu is a saint in the
candomblés
of Itabuna, because it was in that town that she first showed her courage.
They were two great, strong women. With muscular arms like men, like strikers. Rosa Palmeirão was pretty, she had a sailor’s swaying walk, she was a woman of the sea, at one time she owned a sloop, cut the waves at the entrance to the breakwater. The men on the waterfront loved her not only for her courage but for her body too. Maria Cabaçu was ugly, a dark-skinned mulatto, the daughter of a black man and an Indian woman, fat and hot-tempered. She attacked men who said she was ugly. But she gave herself over completely to a weak and sallow man from Ceará, who loved her as though she were a pretty woman with a beautiful body and sensuous eyes. They’d been brave, they’d become saints in halfbreed
candomblés
, which are
candomblés
that invent new saints from time to time, that don’t have the purity of the Yoruba
candomblés
of blacks. They’re mulatto
candomblés
. But Dora was braver than they. She was only a girl, she’d lived just like one of the Captains of the Sands and everybody knows that a Captain of the Sands is the equal of a brave man. Dora had lived with them, had been a mother to all of them. But she’d also been a sister, had run through the streets with them, raided houses, picked pockets, fought with Ezequiel’s gang. Then for Pedro Bala, she’d been sweetheart and wife, wife when the fever was devouring her, when death was already stalking her that night of so much peace. A peace that came out of her eyes for all the night around. She’d been in the Orphanage, had run away from it, the same as Pedro Bala had run away from the Reformatory. She had the courage to die consoling her children, brothers, sweethearts, and husband, who were the Captains of the Sands. The
mãe-de-santo
Don’Aninha had wrapped her in a white shawl, embroidered as if for a saint. God’s-Love had taken her out in his sloop to be with Iemanjá. Father José Pedro had prayed. They all loved her. But only Pedro Bala had wanted to go with her. Professor ran away from the warehouse because he could no longer stand the big house after she’d left. But only Pedro Bala had jumped into the water to follow Dora’s destiny, take that marvelous journey with her, the one that brave men take with Iemanjá in the green depths of the sea. That’s why only he saw when she became a star and
crossed the sky. She came only for him, with her long, blond hair. She shined over his head of a near suicide by drowning. She gave him new strength, God’s-Love’s sloop was able to pick him up on the way back. Now he looks at the sky, seeking Dora’s star. It’s a star with long, blond hair, a star like no other in existence. Because no woman like Dora, who was just a girl, ever existed. The night is full of stars reflected on the calm sea. The black man’s voice seems directed at the stars, as there is wailing in his full voice. He, too, is looking for his beloved, who’d fled in the Bahia night. Pedro Bala thinks that the star that’s Dora may be running above the streets, alleys, and hillsides of the city now, looking for him. Maybe she thinks he’s on some adventure on the slopes. But today it isn’t the Captains of the Sands who are involved in a beautiful adventure. It’s the motormen, strong black men, smiling mulattoes, Spaniards, and Portuguese who came from distant lands. They’re the ones who are lifting their arms and shouting, the same as the Captains of the Sands. The strike is loose in the city. It’s a nice thing, the strike is, nicer than adventures. Pedro Bala has an urge to join the strike, shout with all the strength of his chest, heckle speeches. His father made speeches in a strike, a bullet cut him down. He has the blood of a striker in him. Also, that life in the streets had taught him to love freedom. The song of those prisoners that said freedom is like sunlight: the greatest thing in the world. He knows that the strikers are fighting for freedom, for a little more to eat, for a little more freedom. The fight is like a festival.

The shapes approaching make him get up mistrustfully. But then he recognizes the enormous figure of the stevedore João de Adão. Along with him comes a well-dressed young man with unruly hair. Pedro Bala takes off his cap, speaks to João de Adão:

“You got a lot of cheers today, eh?”

João de Adão laughs. He stretches his muscles, his face opens into a smile for the leader of the Captains of the Sands:

“Captain Pedro, I’d like to introduce you to Comrade Alberto.”

The young man holds out his hand to Pedro Bala. The leader of the
Captains of the Sands first wipes his hand on his ragged jacket, then he shakes the student’s. João de Adão is explaining:

“He’s a student at the University, but he’s our comrade.”

Pedro Bala looks at him without any mistrust. The student smiles:

“I’ve heard a lot about you and your gang. You’re really something…”

“We’re tough, that’s for sure,” Pedro Bala answers.

João de Adão comes closer:

“Captain, we’ve got to talk to you. We’ve got business with you. Something serious. Comrade Alberto here…”

“Shall we go inside?” Pedro Bala asks.

They awaken Big João as they pass. The black boy looks mistrustfully at the student, thinks he’s from the police, moves his knife under his arm a little. Only Pedro Bala notices and says:

“He’s a friend of João de Adão. Come with us, Big Boy.”

The four of them go in. They sit down in a corner. Some of the Captains of the Sands wake up and watch the group. The student looks the warehouse over, the children sleeping. He shivers as if a cold wind had passed over his body:

“How awful!”

But Pedro Bala is telling João de Adão:

“What a great thing the strike is! I never saw anything so nice. It’s like a big festival…”

“The strike is the poor people’s festival…” the student says.

Alberto’s voice is soft and kind. Pedro Bala listens to him, carried away as if it were the voice of a black man singing a sea chanty.

“My father died in a strike, did you know that? Ask João de Adão if you don’t believe me…”

“It was a beautiful death,” the student says. “He was a champion of his class. Wasn’t he the Blond?”

The student knows his father’s name. His father was a champion…They all know him. He had a beautiful death, he died in a strike, a strike is the poor people’s festival…He listens to the student’s friendly voice:

“Do you find the strike nice, Pedro?”

“Comrade, this fellow is a great one,” João de Adão says. “You don’t know the Captains of the Sands or Captain Pedro…He’s a comrade…”

Comrade…Comrade…Pedro Bala thinks it’s the nicest word in the world. The student says it the way Dora used to say the word brother.

“Well, Comrade Pedro, we need you and your gang.”

“What for?” Big João asks curiously.

Pedro Bala introduces him:

“This black man here is Big João, a good man. Anyone good may be the equal of Big João, there isn’t anyone better…”

Alberto shakes the black boy’s hand. Big João is undecided for a moment, he’s not used to handshakes. But then he shakes that hand, half-bashful. The student says again:

“You people are great…”

Suddenly he asks with interest:

“Is it true that Dry Gulch was one of you?”

“We’ll get him out of jail someday…” is the Bullet’s reply.

The student is half-startled. He takes a look around the warehouse, João de Adão makes a gesture as if reminding him, “Didn’t I tell you?”

Pedro Bala wants to talk about the strike, find out what they want of him:

“Is it for the strike that you need us?”

“And if it is?” the student asks.

“If it’s for helping the strikers my mind’s already made up. You can count on us…” He gets up, he looks like a young man, his face ready for the fight.

“You don’t see…” João de Adão begins to explain.

But he falls silent because the student is speaking:

“The strike is proceeding in a very orderly way. We want to do things in orderly fashion because that way we’ll win and the workers will get their raises. We don’t want to start any trouble, we want to show that the workers are capable of discipline.” (“Too bad,” thinks Pedro Bala, who likes disturbances.) “But it so happens that the directors of the Company are hiring strike-breakers to go to work tomorrow. If the workers
break up the groups of strike-breakers, they’ll give the police an excuse to intervene and everything will be lost…Then Comrade João de Adão thought about you people…”

“Break up the strike-breakers? Such a thing,” Bullet says happily.

The student thinks about the argument that evening at the organization. When João de Adão proposed calling in the Captains of the Sands, a lot of comrades declared themselves against it. They smiled at the idea. João de Adão only said:

“You people don’t know the Captains of the Sands.”

That statement, that confidence had impressed Alberto and a few others. Finally the idea won out, nothing would be lost in trying. Now he was glad he’d come. And in his head he was already planning how to make use of the Captains of the Sands. In all the things those hungry and poorly dressed boys could be of use. He remembered other examples, the anti-Fascist struggle in Italy, Lusso’s boys. He smiled at Pedro Bala. He explained the plan: the strike-breakers would come to the three large trolley yards before dawn to take over the cars. The Captains of the Sands had to split up into three groups, guard the entrances to the three yards. And, no matter what, prevent the strike-breakers from getting the streetcars moving. Pedro Bala nodded. He turned to João de Adão:

“If Legless was alive, if Cat was only here…”

Then he remembered the Professor:

“Professor would have thought up a good plan in a minute…Then he would have sketched a picture of the fight. He’s in Rio now.”

“Who’s he?” the student asks.

“Somebody called João José, who we used to call Professor. He’s painting pictures in Rio now.”

“He’s the painter João José?”

“The very same,” Bullet says.

“I’d always thought that story was made up. Do you know that he’s a good comrade?”

“He always was a good comrade,” Pedro says forcefully.

The student was making plans for the Captains of the Sands. Now Pedro Bala was waking them all up and telling them
what they had to do. The student was enthusiastic over the urchin’s words. When he finished explaining, Bullet summed it all up in these words:

“The strike is a festival for the poor. The poor people are all comrades, our comrades.”

“You’re terrific,” the student said.

“You’ll see how we’ll take care of those traitors.”

He explained to Alberto:

“I’ll go with one group to the main yard. Big João will take another. Outrigger will take a third one to the smaller yard. Nobody gets in. We know what to do. You’ll see…”

“I’ll be there to see,” the student said. “So, at four in the morning?”

“That’s right.”

The student makes a gesture:

“See you later, Comrades…”

Comrades…A nice word, Pedro Bala thinks. Nobody sleeps at the warehouse anymore that night. They’re preparing the most diverse weaponry.