The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [164]
A great commotion outside interrupted him. He went to the window, and through the little squares of the metal grille he saw that it wasn’t Rufino who’d come back, but four men with carbines who had arrived and been surrounded by Aristarco and the capangas. “It’s Pajeú, from Canudos,” he heard Gall say—that man who was either his prisoner or his guest, though even he himself couldn’t say which. He looked closely at the newcomers. Three of them were standing there not saying a word, while the fourth was speaking with Aristarco. He was a caboclo, short, heavyset, no longer young, with skin like rawhide. He had a scar all the way across his face: yes, it might be Pajeú. Aristarco nodded several times, and the baron saw him head toward the house.
“This is an eventful day,” he murmured, puffing on his cigar.
Aristarco’s face had the same inscrutable expression as always, but the baron could nonetheless tell how alarmed he was.
“Pajeú,” he said laconically. “He wants to talk to you.”
Instead of answering, the baron turned to Gall. “I would like you to leave me now, if you will. I’ll see you at dinnertime. We eat early here in the country. At six.”
When Gall had left the room, the baron asked the overseer if only those four men had come. No, there were at least fifty jagunços round about outside the house. Was he certain that the caboclo was Pajeú? Yes.
“What will happen if they attack Calumbi?” the baron asked. “Can we hold out?”
“We may get ourselves killed,” the capanga replied, as though he had asked himself the same question and arrived at that answer. “There are lots of the men I don’t trust any more. They, too, may go off to Canudos at any moment.”
The baron sighed. “Bring him inside,” he said. “And I’d like you to be present at this meeting.”
Aristarco went outside and came back a moment later with the newcomer. The caboclo from Canudos halted a yard away from the master of the house, removing his hat as he did so. The baron tried to see some hint in those stubborn little eyes, in those weather-beaten features, of the crimes and terrible misdeeds he was said to have committed. The cruel scar, which might have been left by a bullet, a knife, or the claw of a great wild feline, was a reminder of the violent life he had led. Apart from that, he might easily be taken for a peon on his land. But when his peons raised their eyes to his, they always blinked and lowered them. Pajeú’s eyes stared straight into his, without humility.
“You’re Pajeú?” he finally asked.
“I am,” the man said.
Aristarco was standing behind him, as motionless as a statue.
“You’ve wreaked as much havoc in these parts as the drought,” the baron said, “with your robbing and killing and marauding.”
“Those days are past now,” Pajeú answered, without resentment, with heartfelt contrition. “There are sins I’ve committed in my life that I will one day be held accountable for. It’s not the Can I serve now but the Father.”
The baron recognized that tone of voice; it was that of the Capuchin Fathers of the Sacred Missions, that of the sanctimonious wandering sects who made pilgrimages to Monte Santo, that of Moreira César, that of Galileo Gall. The tone of absolute certainty, he thought, the tone of those who are never assailed by doubts. And suddenly, for the first time, he was curious to hear the Counselor, that individual capable of turning a ruffian into a fanatic.
“Why have you come here?”
“To burn Calumbi down,” the even voice replied.
“To burn Calumbi down?” Stupefaction changed the baron’s expression, voice, posture.
“To purify it. After so much hard labor, this earth deserves a rest,” the caboclo