The Violent Land by Jorge Amado Read Free Book Online Page B

well.
    â€œI own many houses—stocks and bonds, too.”
    He rapidly made up a yarn of an inheritance that he had received from a millionaire aunt who had no children of her own. He spoke of the prominent politicians of the day, his friends—so he said—whom he called by their first names, and with whom he drank and gambled. He had retired from the army and was now travelling around, seeing the country. He had come from Rio Grande do Sul and expected to go as far as Amazonas. He believed in seeing Brazil first before visiting other lands; he was not one of those who, when they had made a little money, went to spend it with the French in Paris. The colonel approved of this; he thought it very patriotic; and then he wanted to know if it was true about the “French houses” in Rio, if they really did “everything,” or if that was just a lot of dirty talk. For he had heard there were women there who did things like that. João Magalhães confirmed the fact, and went on to elaborate, giving all the lurid details, being supported by the travelling salesman, who also wished to show that he knew all about such things (he had been in Rio once, and this trip was the most important event in his life). The colonel was delighted.
    â€œBut what’s this you’re telling me, captain? Why, that’s downright filthy.”
    With this, the captain proceeded to lay it on. He did not spend much time on these descriptions, however, but returned to the subject of the fortune that he possessed and the good connections that he had. Was there nothing he could do for the colonel in Rio? Was there, perhaps, some important politician with whom he could put in a word? If so, the colonel had but to let him know. That was what he was there for, to be of service to his friends. He only wished they had known each other before; they would have got along splendidly together, and he would have been only too happy to do anything he could. The colonel, as it happened, stood in need of nothing in Rio, but he was much obliged all the same.
    At this moment Maneca Dantas passed. He was a heavy-set man, inclined to corpulence; his shirt was covered with perspiration and his hands were clammy. The colonel called him over and made the introductions.
    â€œThis is Colonel Maneca Dantas, a big landowner from down our way. He’s got more money than he knows what to do with.”
    João Magalhães rose; his manner was extremely courteous.
    â€œCaptain João Magalhães, military engineer, at your service.” Taking out one of his visiting-cards, he presented it to Colonel Maneca. Then he offered him a chair, pretending not to have heard the salesman’s remark to Colonel Ferreirinha:
    â€œA distinguished chap.”
    â€œWell educated, you can see that.”
    Colonel Maneca accepted some wine. He was not subject to seasickness.
    â€œI’m as comfortable here as I would be in my bed at Auricidia. Auricidia is the name of my little plantation, captain. If you would care to spend a few days down there—that is, if you can put up with dried beef—”
    Ferreirinha laughed derisively.
    â€œDried beef! Why, captain, at Auricidia every luncheon is a banquet and every dinner a baptismal feast. Dona Auricidia has some Negro women in her kitchen who can cook angelically,” and Colonel Ferreirinha ran his tongue over his lips like a gourmet, as if he could see before him the dishes he was describing. “They make a blood pudding that will give a Christian visions of paradise.”
    Maneca Dantas smiled, vastly pleased with these eulogies of his cuisine.
    â€œThat’s about all you get out of life, captain,” he explained. “You live down there in the wilderness, felling the timber so that you can plant cacao, slaving like any back-country clodhopper, dodging snake-bites and bullets fired from behind a tree—and if you don’t eat well, what are you going to do? We