The next day we were going to spend the day in
Oiteiro. I went to sleep with my head filled with thoughts of the journey. I
really used to enjoy these trips to neighbouring plantations.
Early in the morning we were ready to leave,
the oxen and cart waiting by the door. They spread herbs upon the cart floor
and spread out a blanket to make it softer. It creaked and groaned as it went
along, but it was safe. The carter was Miguel Targino, tall and strong as Saint
Christopher, well able to pull a cart on his own without the help of an ox. He
and his brothers were all master carters; Chico, Pedro and João Targino. But it
was Miguel who drove us from the main house. With him, the cart never got
stuck, and he didn't just sit there passively and let the cart take its course.
No cart that he was driving had never overturned. He would tap the oxen on
their legs, calling their attention to any obstacles, turning the wheels to
avoid any stones in the road.
"Eh, Labareda, eh Medalha!" he would
call out to his animals.
And so we left on the great journey, the
grown-ups sitting down, the children clambering up next to Miguel Targino, asking
him from time to time if they could take the stick and tap the animals on their
hides.
The oxen were ever attentive to the sound of Miguel's
voice. Medalha and Javanês were big beasts
harnessed for their strength, whereas Estrela and Labareda were smaller with
longer necks and were harnessed for their speed and agility. He used a prong on
the faster pair and a stick on the slower, heavier pair. When Miguel called out
'whoa' the stronger pair dug in their heels and the whole cart came to a halt,
and with a call of 'eh Labareda' the front two would pull off and off we would
go again.
It wasn't yet light when we set off, and the
morning mist hovered over the plum trees, as if covering them with a white
cotton blanket. In the cowshed the milking had begun and we could hear the boys
talking and larking about.
But soon we were on the road to São Miguel. There
were people in their carts on the way to market at Pilar to sell their sacks of
flour and their pots and pans. Now and again the sound of the cracking of a
whip would cut through the morning silence. We passed by houses still shut up
for the night. At some the men were up, stripped to the waist, looking out to
see what the day's weather had in store, their wives and children snuggled up
together, trying to keep warm in their cane beds. The birds and the beasts were
shaking the sleep from their eyes, and lazily making their way out into the
morning light.
The sun was beginning to get hotter, warming
the leaves on the cane that still dripped with the morning dew. Houses began to
be opened up, doors and windows thrown open, whole families standing in their
yards warming themselves with the sun's rays.
From time to time the cart would stop so that
my aunt could talk to the women who liked to share a few words with her. And
Aunt Maria would bless her little godchildren.
"God bless you!" she would say, and
they truly were blessed by God, because they would not die of hunger, and they
had the sun and the moon and the river and the rain and the stars, like toys
that would never break.
After the blessing we would set off again, the
whole family standing and watching us till we had turned the bend in the road.
Soap was put in the joints and on the wheels to
stop the creaking. Nobody sang in the cart. We travelled the roads in silence.
Then we drew up close to the gate at Maravalha,
the road passing close to the main house.
"It's the cart from Santa Rosa!" they
called out.
And Aunt Maria's female cousins ran out to
greet her.
"You must get down off that cart and have
some breakfast with us! You'll be arriving at Oiteiro very early.
They asked about everything. Skinny Aunt Nenen
asked after José Paulino and why
Sinhàzinha was not with
us. They all spoke at the same time. But Aunt Maria said that we would stop on
the way back for a chat.
And the cart moved off with the promise that we
would stop off that evening at Maravalha to have dinner with them.
Oiteiro was close by. We passed by the water
basin below the weir that was covered with lily pads. And we could see the
white painted boards of the porch. The boys opened the gates for us to go
through. The people of the house ran out to welcome us. It was all a party,
from the kitchen to the living room. They took Aunt Maria away so she could
change out of her travelling clothes. They offered her their own clothes to
wear. The children were given pies and sweets. Our maids from Santa Rosa were
dressed in their Sunday best, chatting away in the kitchen.
For us Oiteiro was quite a place. The master of
the plantation, a cousin of my grandfather's, Colonel Lola, had died leaving a
mansion to his children. It was the best house on the Paraíba. It had piped water
even in the garden. There was even a bath with running water for the servants.
The plantation was well looked after.
The day flew by.
We stuck our noses into every corner, with a
liberty that only guests can enjoy. My little cousins were kindness itself.
There was a music box, a mechanism of cylinders, wheels and cogs that played
tunes from Italy, and the sombre chants of the church. This sad music reminded
me of my mother. Her memory was forever with me as I was growing up.
No comments:
Post a Comment