BRAZILIAN SHORT STORIES
MODERN TORTURE
All the barbarity practiced by the Holy Inquisition to subjugate heretics, the clever tortures of the medieval rack, Ottoman impalement, the torture of the thousand pieces, the red-hot molten lead, poured down the throat through a funnel—all the old science of martyrdom still exists to this day, cloaked under clever disguises. Humanity is ever the same cruel destroyer of itself, either in centuries before or after Christ. The form of things changes; but the substance remains the same.
As proof I here adduce the avatar of the ancient tortures: the postman's job.
This torture is qual to the wheel, the bonfire, strangulation, the strappado, the bronze bull, impalement, the cat-o'-nine-tails, the pillory, the hydraulic whipping-post; the difference being that these machines killed with relative rapidity, while the postman's job prolongs the agony of the victim for years.
A man goes into the service of postman in the following manner: the Government, at the hateful suggestion of some political "boss,"—the modern substitute of the "servant" of the inquisition,—appoints a citizen mail-carrier between two neighboring towns not served by a railroad.
The innocent man sees both honor and business in the case: it is an honor to become one of the crowded phalanx of budget-devouring parasites who patiently digest the country; it is a good business to taste at the end of each month a fixed salary and to have, nicely prepared for the future, the soft bed of a pension.
Here we see the difference between the ominous medieval times and the super-excellency of the democracy of the present day.
Absolutism brutally seized the victims and without warning or "habeas-corpus," murdered them; democracy works with the cunning of a hypocrite, sets traps, sticks a slice of orange inside and treacherously waits for the famished bird to fall into the noose, of his own free will. It wants chance victims and does not choose. This is called art, artfully done.
The man having been appointed, at first does not perceive his misfortune. Only at the end of a month or two he begins to have his doubts; doubts that gradually become a certainty, a horrible certainty that he has been impaled on the hard back of the worst plug in the neighborhood, with five, six, seven leagues of torture before him to consume per day, with the mail-bag behind him on the horse's back. These leagues are the pricks of the instrument of torture. For ordinary mortals a league is a league; the measure of a distance beginning here and ending there. The traveler, having covered the distance, arrives and is satisfied. The leagues of the postman, hardly are they over, return again "da capo" as in music. Having gone over six (suppose the route to be one of six leagues), he sees them rise up again in front of him on his return. He must do them and undo them. Penelope's web, rock of Sisyphus, and between the going and coming, the bad digestion of a warmed-up dinner and a bad night; and thus it continues for a month, a year, two, three, five, as long as he still has buttocks and his horse has loins.
When he meets a traveler on his way he becomes green with envy: that one will soon "arrive," whereas, for the postman, this verb is an ironical derision. He dismounts with difficulty, worn out, his flesh on fire at the end of the thirty-six thousand metres of the weary way. He eats a plate of badly cooked beans, and takes a wretched little nap. The dawn of the next day stretches out before him and by way of good-morning, the same accursed thirty-six thousand meters of the evening before, now lengthened out the other way. …
Soon the sore animal weakens and gives out. Now the rider must climb the hills on foot. He has no means with which to buy another nag. His salary is spent for corn and a closely cropped pasture for the horse, and brine for the baths and other remedies for the bruises of both rider and ridden. There is nothing left for clothes.
The State awards—the same State that maintains fat bureaucratic caterpillars at a conto and Congressional parrots at a hundred mil reis per day,—awards him, this generous and wealthy State . . . . one hundred mil reis per month. That is, one real for every nine yards of torment. Twenty reis they pay him for three hundred and thirty meters of torture. That is, one kilometer of martyrdom for sixty reis. Cheaper pain would be impossible. …
The post-made-man begins to shrink from fatigue and hunger. He gets thin, his cheeks sink in, his legs become brackets within which dwells the belly of the wretched horse.
Besides the physiological, economical and social calamities, he is also showered with meteorological woes. The inclement weather does not spare him. In summer the sun roasts him pitilessly, as nuts are roasted in an oven; if it rains, be misses not a drop; by the end of May, when the cold weather begins, benumbed like a subject of the Czar in Siberia, he devours the infernal leagues. On Saint Bartholomew's day,[1] as he hangs like grim death to the mane of the lean mare, it is a miracle that the devilish wind does not tumble them both over a precipice.
His patrons, the Government, take it for granted that he is made of iron and his buttocks of chromate of steel; that the roads are asphalted streets lined with plush; that the weather is a permanent blue sky with balmy breezes bent upon blowing the sweet perfume of flowering balsam over the travelers.
It still takes it for granted that the hundred mil réis[2] of salary is a regal remuneration, to make one smack one's lips. And, in these angelical suppositions, when financial crises come and economy must be considered, it cuts down five or ten mil réis from his meagre salary so that there may be some margin by which some brother-in-law, graduated in medicine, can go to Europe on a commission to study the "zygomatic influence of the solar perihelion on the Zarathustrian system of Latin democracies."
And thus the army of postmen, more and more emaciated every day, head over heels in debt, covered with bruises, at the mercy of the December sun or the benumbing June drizzles, trots, trots, unceasingly, up hill and down dale, through mud-holes and sand-banks, whirlpools and slippery slopes, shaken up by the miserable mount that from so much suffering, poor thing, has lost all semblance of a horse. Its loins are but an open wound; the ribs a lath-work. This sorry caricature of the noble Equus, finally one day falls exhausted and famished in the midst of the journey. ' The postman throws the harness and the mail-bag over his shoulders and finishes the journey on foot. However, as on that day he arrives late, the post-office agent reports to headquarters regarding his "non-compliance with the rules." Headquarters get moving; a paper circulates about several rooms, where, comfortably sprawled out in expensive arm-chairs, the stout bureaucracy converses about German spies. After a long voyage the documets reach an office where a well-filled out-fellow, with good color, is seated at a mahogany desk smoking a confiscated cigar.
This one earns eight hundred mil réis per month, is son of someone, brother-in-law, father-in-law or son-in-law of someone else, begins work at eleven in the morning and leaves at three with an interval in between to take a cup of chocolate at the café on the corner. The fatted pig glances over the paper with lazy, listless eyes and grunts:
"These postmen! What vagabonds they are!"
And signs the dismissal of the culprit for the good of the public service.
The poor tortured man, turned out, without health, without a horse, without flesh, full of debts, his insides dislocated by the shaking up on horseback, finds himself surrounded by creditors, hungry as vultures around a slaughter-house. As he is completely cleaned out, he is unable to pay any of them and, therefore, becomes known as a swindler.
"He seemed an honest man and nevertheless robbed me of five measures of corn," says the grocer, a fat man from Calabria, who became rich circulating bogus money.
"He borrowed one hundred mil réis from me for a horse, at a small friendly interest (three per cent per month) five years ago, and all he could pay me was the little premium and the harness as part payment. What a thief!" said the money-lender, partner of the other in the circulation of bogus money.
The dry-goods shop lamented the loss of a pair of cotton trousers sold on credit to the postman some time ago. The drug-store bewailed two pounds of adulterated Epsom salts. And the martyr, steeped in insults, only sees one way out of it: to take to his feet and run . . . . run to any country where he is unknown and can die in peace.
Thus the modern torture of the post service, besides drying up the flesh of a human creature free from crime, gives him a beautiful moral death.
And all this so that no news will be lacking to the learned people of the little towns, unserved by railroads; for they must get the daily paper and learn about the knifings between Spread-foot and Black Shirt, the cheese stolen by Little Bahiano from Manoel of the grocery-store, the novel translated from Georges Ohnet, the country's rescue from national thieving, the spouting of Leagues for this and that, the discovery of spies where there is nothing to spy, polyculture, zebu oxen, illiteracy, the falsehoods of the International News Agency and all the nonsense that sprouts from the soil of this wonderful country.
******
Colonel Evandro's policy in Itaóca fell through when, at a certain election, the rival candidate Fidencio, also Colonel, hoisted the quotation of votes of those who wore neck-ties, to five hundred mil réis and of those who went bare-foot to two suits of clothes and a hat besides. The first act of the winner was to turn out everyone turnoutable connected with public employment. Among those dismissed were the post-office employes, including the postman, who was replaced at the suggestion of the Government, by Izé Biriba.
Said Biriba was a human snail, slow in movement and obtuse in ideas, with two tremendous preoccupations in life: politics and his forelock. The forelock was a stubborn tangled lock of hair always falling over his forehead, and so obstinate that he spent half the day raising his left hand to his forehead in an automatic movement to push back the rebellious lock. It is needless to say what the politics consisted of.
Forelock and politics, both combined, took up all of his time so that Biriba found no spare moment in which to work his farm, which finally, gnawed by the mortgage-bug, fell into the hands of a wily Italian.
Then he started a bar that failed. While he pushed back his forelock, the customers stole the tips from him; and during the political talks, the men of his party drank cooling drinks and ate fish-cakes in celebration of the future victory while they spouted sarcastic remarks against those in power.
Besides brushing back his forelock, Biriba had the habit of saying, "Yes, sir," used as a comma, semicolon, colon and period in reply to all the nonsensical remarks of his companions; and sometimes, through habit, when the customer ceased talking and began to eat, Biriba would utter a series of "Yes, Sirs," in accompaniment to the chewing of the stolen cake.
At the time of the other man's fall and the ascent of his own faction, he was reduced to the conspicuous position of an electoral pawn.
He worked like a nigger at the election. The bosses gave him the hardest jobs: to hunt out country voters hidden away in mountain fastnesses, to do commerce with their consciences, to bargain prices of votes, exchange them for mangy mares and prove to the unbelieving, by arguments whispered in their ears, that "the Government is on your side."
After the victory Biriba felt for the first time in his life entire joy of heart, head and stomach.
To win! Oh, nectar! Oh incomparable ambrosia!
Our friend Biriba fully enjoyed the gifts of the gods. At last the darkness of his life of misery was dispelled by the happy dawn! eat plentifully, to have the upper hand . . . . delights of victory!
What would the boss give him?
In anticipation of the prize in prospect he spent his time dreaming rosy dreams until his appointment as postman was announced. With no inclination for that work he tried to resist, to ask for more; however, in a conference with his chief, the objections which rose to his lips were transmuted into the habitual "Yes, Sir," so that the Colonel was convinced that his ideal had been realized.
"You see, Biriba, what loyalty is worth. You get a fine job! Regino is to be agent and you postman."
The most he could complain of was that he had no horse.
"That can be managed," said the Colonel promptly; "I have an Arab mare, single-footer, thoroughbred, worth two hundred mil réis; but since it is for you, you can have her at half price. The money? That's a minor matter. Borrow it from friend Lendaro. All can be arranged, man!"
The arrangement was that Biriba bought the trotting mare for double the price she was worth, with money raised at three per cent per month from said Leandro, who was merely the creature of Fidencio.
Thus, by a master stroke, the sly boss won interest on the worst nag on his farm, besides holding the poor idiot, made postman, the halter of gratitude.
Biriba began his work: six leagues to do today and undo tomorrow, without any rest except the thirty-first day of every other month.
If only he had simply to devour the leagues in company of the limp mail-bags. His work, however, did not turn out so easy. As Itaóca was only a little place perched on a ridge of the mountain range and lacking everything, his political friends were always looking him up to order something from the city. When it was already time to leave, the unscrupulous people would appear with lists of notions or messages sent by little darkies.
"Missus says will you buy three spools of number 50 thread, a paper of needles, a roll of white tape, five packages of fine hairpins and if there is a penny left over will you bring a candy for Master Juquinha?"
Very often all these articles could be found in Itaóca; a trifle dearer, however, and therefore the object in ordering them elsewhere was to save the penny for the candy.
"Yes, sir, yes, sir! . . ."
No other words left his lips, although the continued abuse exasperated him. Besides the small and less troublesome orders there were other large ones, such as leading a harnessed horse to Mr. So-and-so who was to arrive on such and such a day to accompany Mr. Etcetera's wife, and other missions of like nature. Whenever Tiburcia, the collector's black cook, went on a holiday rest to the city, Biriba was detailed to take her.
It was so I met him, protecting the Amazon. On the way to Itaóca, half way there, I met a man mounted on the most dilapidated mare that ever I saw; behind him he carried mail bags and several smaller bags, besides a new broom stuck into the harness with the straw part up. He had stopped in a stupid attitude, holding by the bridle a little horse carrying a side-saddle. I approached him asking for a light. Having lit the cigarette, I inquired who was riding the other horse.
"I am accompanying Dona Engracia who is mid-wife in Itaóca; she dismounted for a moment and . . . ."
I heard a rustle behind me: out of the woods came a large ruddy woman, her skirts stiffly starched and on her head a little cap of the time of His Most Faithful Majesty. … Not to embarrass her I went on my way, but not without looking out of the corners of my eyes to enjoy the postman's difficulty in placing on the little horse the mid-wife's generous avoirdupois.
And the scoldings. …
"Mr. Biriba, it wasn't number 40 thread I ordered. You are stupid!”
When the material was not right:
"Couldn't you see that the calico would fade, you ass?"
What hurt him above all was to carry for the execrable people of the opposition. The Colonel of the opposite party, neutral or secret opponent, did not hesitate to take advantage, through the influence of a third party, of the martyr's good faith.
Biriba recalled painfully a thoroughbred goat that gave him great trouble on the way, and several butts besides; finally upon his arrival he discovered that the animal was destined for the enemy. Everybody received news of the incident with laughter and jest.
"This Biriba is an idiot! To think of his bringing the opposite party's goat! Ha! ha! ha!"
This and other happenings embittered him. He became thin and yellow.
The poor mare lost all shape of a horse. Her loins became sway-back so that the rider's feet nearly touched the ground. Biriba sank when he mounted. His head nearly came on a level with the mare's haunches and ears. Horribly sore, the miserable animal's eyes were always filled with tears of pain. All this suffering, however, instead of moving the hard hearts of the people of Itaóca, amused them and was the cause of endless ridicule and idiotic jokes about the "postman of the Sorry Aspect and his Bucephalus," as they were nicknamed by a town wag. …
Scrofulous as they, only one other creature, Cunegundes. Cunegundes was a dog without owner, covered with mange, that strayed about the town avoiding flies and kicks. What should they do but change Cunegundes' name to Biriba! The scoundrels!
And soon the Government contributed to the torture by deciding to cut down the salaries of the postmen in order to save itself on a certain occasion from financial difficuity. … And it did so.
Clothes threadbare. At the beginning of the rainy season a charitable soul presented Biriba with an old rain-coat; however, the first downpour showed the recipient that the coat leaked like a sieve, thus increasing his difficulty with an overweight of cloth that absorbed several quarts of water.
Biriba lost his patience and grumbled.
Alas! The boss soon heard of it and called him to account.
"Is it true that you are complaining of the job we gave you? Perhaps you would rather be elected senator or Vice-President? A shabby thing that went about nearly dying of hunger, due to our generosity obtains a Federal post, with a right to a pension, a fairly good salary … (here Biriba coughed out a "Yes, Sir") ſinds everything easy, receives a good animal and still complains? What does Your Excellency desire, then?"
Biriba took his courage in his hands and declared that he only desired one thing: his dismissal. He was ill, worn out, threatened with the loss of the mare and his haunches at any moment. He wanted to change his mode of living.
"So one's mode of life can be changed offhand like that? You want to abandon your friends: And partisan discipline, what of that, my dear idiot?"
Biriba's dismissal would suit no one.
Who could be of greater service? They recalled the former postmen, rude fellows, unwilling even to bring a paper of needles to anyone. He must not leave. He must sacrifice himself for Itaóca.
However the daily torture of having his insides shaken up along seven leagues ended by loosening the cement of his political loyalty. The martyr's eyes were opened. He remembered with longing the ominous days of Colonel Evandro, the delights of the bar and even the degrading cat's paw service of electioneering days. Things had grown worse undoubtedly after the victory.
This free examination of conscience, believe me, was the beginning of the downfall of Colonel Fidencio. Biriba, the staunch support, was rotting at the base. He would fall and with him the roof of that political shanty. In his harassed soul the viper of treason made its nest . . . .
As the new election was approaching, new victory only meant a new three years of martyrdom for the postman. Biriba confabulated with his mare and decided that the salvation of both lay in defeat. He would be dismissed and, veteran and martyr of Fidencio's party, he would continue to warrant the support of the party without suffering through his bruised haunches the hateful contact of the seven daily hours of shake-up.
He decided to betray.
On the eve of the election, Fidencio commissioned him to bring an important paper from the city for the counting up of votes. Don't know what it was. A paper. The word "paper," said in a mysterious tone, means "something." . . . .
I know nothing of elections. I couldn't say positively if a "paper" that isn't just paper has the power to decide, these social ills. All I know is that everything depended on the "paper," so much so that Biriba's mission was a secret one. Fidencio emphasized the importance of the commission—the greatest proof of confidence ever given by him to any electoral pawn.
"Take care! Our fate is in your hands. There's confidence for you, hey?"
Biriba set out; he received the paper and started to return. Half way he took a side path which led to an old negro's hut. He loosened the mare and began to talk with the gorilla. Night fell and Biriba remained where he was. The next day dawned and Biriba still kept quiet. Ten days passed thus. At the end of the ten days he harnessed the mare, mounted and went off to Itaóca as though nothing had happened.
His appearance caused astonishment. All efforts to find him during the day of the election and those following had been in vain; they had given him up as lost, eaten by the panthers, he, mare, mail-bag and "paper.” Now to see him appear alone and calm, made mouths open and the whole village gape. What had happened?
Biriba met all questions with an idiotic expression. He explained nothing. Knew nothing. Cataleptic sleep? Witchery? He did not understand what had happened. To him he seemed to have left the day before and to have come back today.
Everyone was astonished and looked foolish. Fidencio was in bed with brain-fever and delirious. He had lost the election completely. "Out and out defeat," said Evandro's followers, setting off whistling fire-works.
In consequence of the inexplicable eclipse of the postman, the exominous Evandro assumed leadership. The slaughter began. Everything savouring of Fidencio was turned out.
However the new broom of dismissals spared Biriba! The new chief approached him and said:
"I threw out all the trash, Biriba, except you. You are the only saving grace of the Fidencio tribe. Rest easy, your little place will not be taken from you, even though the heavens fall! . . . ."
Biriba, for the last time in Itaóca murmured his, “Yes, Sir." That night he kissed his mare's nozzle and went forth on his tip-toes. He reached the high-road, disappeared, and no one ever saw him again…