Cut From The Earth

Chapter 7

“Padre Pêro, you know I have every right to sell him to whomever I choose. You’ve broken our agreement.” Senhor de Sousa stood tall and commanding, the fine lace of his shirt billowing forth at the neck and wrists. He looked Pêro squarely in the eye.

The waiting buyer sneered at Pêro, c****d his Northerner’s wide-brimmed hat, flung his cape over his shoulder, and recounted his coins.

“Yes, but you promised him first to me and you already have a substantial sum,” Pêro said. “Do you not?” Pêro looked over Senhor de Sousa’s shoulder at Bagamba slumped against the wall of a converted horse stall among manure and soiled straw.

The buyer dropped his coins, one by one back into a velvet sack. “Let us proceed.” He locked eyes with Senhor de Sousa.

“No. I’ll have the payments to you shortly. Please, I just need a little more time,” Pêro said. “I’ll make good on the past due payments and pay you in full soon. I promise…in the name of Our Lord.”

Senhor de Sousa drew his bejeweled hand to his chin and glanced pensively out the stable doors at the cork orchards and road lined with fragrant fuchsia oleander, both tended for years by Bagamba.

“We’ve already come to an agreement.” The buyer snapped at Pêro. “Here’s the payment.” The man offered forth the bag of coins, regaining Sehnor de Sousa’s attention. The full sack swung back and forth like a hypnotist’s pendulum.

Senhor de Sousa reached for it.

Pêro placed his marred hand upon Senhor de Sousa’s. “Please, I beg of you.”

The buyer dragged the toe of his boot through the dirt. “Christ!” He glared at Pêro and pointed at Bagamba with his gold-capped cane. “Why do you want this cork orchard mule? He’s not worth anything to anyone without trees.”

“Senhor, careful. Do not defile the Lord’s name, nor this decent man’s.” Pêro matched the rival and swept his robed arm toward Bagamba. “His son works in my tile factory. I’ve vowed to the Almighty to free the enslaved and keep families together, whatever the cost.” Pêro displayed his stumped fingers to Senhor de Sousa. “I’ve already sacrificed these for another man’s welfare. I warn you; I’ll seek recourse.”

Senhor de Sousa stiffened and lowered his hand.

The buyer huffed. “But here are the coins.” He shoved them forward.

Senhor de Sousa held up his open palm. “Padre, you have until All Saints Day. Otherwise, I’ll go ahead with this sale, withholding your down payment as we agreed.” He turned to the guard at the gate of the stall. “Let him go.”

Bagamba stopped walking at the base of the Mocambo hillside and bowed his head. “Thank you, Padre.”

“It’s what the Lord wanted. Thank him tonight in your prayers.” Pêro smiled at the weathered man. He prayed Bagamba could not sense his pounding heart. “Now, let’s get back quickly. The evening mist is already settling in.”

Pêro tried to enjoy the cool autumn air blanketing them and the lowland Lapa region to appease his worry. Before them stretched the magnificent valley, home to farms and estates like Senhor de Sousa’s and the streambeds that supplied the abutting Mocambo neighborhood and its tile factories with fine-toothed clay.

Bagamba hesitated.

Pêro paused. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you really believe they won’t come for me in the middle of the night?” He fingered the “S” brand on his neck. “I can’t bear another branding, not at this age. My skin will never heal. I’ve seen younger men die from infection.”

Pêro embraced Bagamba’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Senhor de Sousa has given me his word.” Tightness crept into Pêro’s shoulders.

“But he gave you his word before…And...”

“Yes, but are we not now heading home?” Pêro encouraged him forward, his stomach knotting.

Back in the Mocambo, they joined the flood of workers returning home. Here Pêro noted, the faces were every color of the earth’s soils, a visible contrast to the land-owning cream and olive-skinned residents of the Lapa. Pêro and Bagamba ducked to avoid fishermen with their catches dangling from sticks and side-stepped so as not to collide with two laundresses, full baskets balanced atop their heads. In front of them, a vendor carried net bags full of mussels. Servants and cooks of the upper classes bustled by. People, both bound and free, swarmed the street.

“See you tomorrow, if God wills it,” Bagamba said.

Pêro’s eyes were drawn to the unease etched on his wrinkled face. It pained him to see the man’s discomfort and feel his own in his stomach.

“Please, try not to worry, believe and have faith in God’s will,” Pêro said, as much for himself as he watched Bagamba go.

Pêro looked up to the open countryside backing the hilltop neighborhood and its single, two and three-story homes, all in need of fresh whitewashing, reminding him that when the tile factory smokestacks churned out plumes of soot, it settled over the predominately African quarter and its gardens, coating everything in a light ash dusting. What a vicious circle to be caught in! Like my situation with those who continue to default on their payments to me! Sometimes the smoke caught an onshore breeze and traveled up to the palace of the Countess of Sarmento poised high above on the hillside. The Countess would send a man on horseback to the offending shop. But who could control God’s winds? Or the choices of wealthy men like Senhor de Sousa?

What a vicious circle to be caught in! Like my situation with those who continue to default on their payments to me! But who could control God’s winds? Or the choices of wealthy men like Senhor de Sousa?