moment, with the stupid face of a man who is thinking, with the
patience of the shoemakers in the picture, he was practicing a
way to open up his path. Certain then that she would finally get
her tranquilizing answer, with the assurance a mother uses to
establish domains where she can fit in with her children, Ermelinda asked him, "How long are you going to stay?"
"I don't know," he replied.
Ermelinda was startled again. And as if her shudder had
been impalpably communicated to Vit6ria, both of them, more
active, began to act as if the time were coming to a close; Vit6ria
grew impatient about the ditches with which he was not making
much headway, she watched over him on horseback. And a new
rhythm could be felt on the place.
And Martim? Martim worked. He looked and he worked,
making a fair copy of the world. His rudimentary thoughts were
meanwhile still stubbornly anchored in what he considered most
basic-from where he would gradually go on to an understanding of everything, from a woman who for years had asked him
"what time is it" to the sun that rose every day and people
would get out of bed then, to an understanding of the patience
of other people, understanding why a child is our investment
and the arrow we shoot off in the air. Could that be what he
wanted? it was really hard to say. In the meantime he was
molding himself, and that always takes time; he was giving
shape to what he was. Life in the making is difficult, like art in
the making.
It was becoming difficult to see all of that. The most easily
( 1 4 9 )
T H E A P P L E
I N T H E D A R K
recognizable truth was that the man was confused. As has been
pointed out, it was only persistent ambition that kept him from
seeing any obstacles in his path, and thanks to his stupidity it
was easy. His grandiloquence, in the meantime, had taken on
some humility. Because he had already come to accept the fact
that each moment had no strength in itself he had begun to rely
on the cumulative strength of time-"the passage of many
moments would take him to where he wanted to go." And so his
humility became an instrument of patience. He worked without
cease; the trenches were getting deep.
The small group on the place would look up at the sky,
scrutinize, and keep on working. Everything was quivering in a
heat that was gradually growing without anyone's feeling the
transitions. The branches trembled; the heat was duplicating
everything in a refracted glow. From the depths of his own
mystery Martim looked at the plants in their innocent lushness
that still did not seem to feel the menace being sparkled out by
the red sun; drought. He looked. Now that he had courage
everything belonged to him, which was not at all easy. He
looked, for example, at the fields which had become his field of
battle, and there was no breach through which anything could
invade what belonged to him. What was all that he saw? That
everything was a soft prolongation of everything; what existed
joined with what existed; the curves became full, harmonious;
the wind devoured the sands, beat uselessly against the stones. It
was quite true that in some strange way, when something was
not understood, everything became obvious and harmonious; the
thing was rather explicit. In the meantime, looking, he had
trouble understanding that evidence of meaning, as if he were
trying to observe a light within another light.
And that was how from time to time Martim would lose
sight of his objectives. Had there really been a planned finality,
or was he only following an uncertain necessity? Up to what
point was he determining things? Martim was probably quite
capable of arriving at a conclusion quite quickly, but when you
have been purified, the road is longer. And if the road is long,
( l 5 0 )
the person can forget where he was going and stand in the
middle of the road and look amazed at a stone or lick with pity
the feet that have been wounded by the walking or sit down for
just an instant to wait a little while. The road was hard and
beautiful; beauty was the temptation.
And the meaning of it is that in that interval something had
happened.
Something insidious had begun to gnaw away at the master
beam. And it was something that Martim had not counted on.
He was beginning to love what he saw.
Free, free for the first time, what did Martim do? He did
what imprisoned people do : he loved the harsh wind; he loved
his work on the trenches, like a man who had marked out the
great meeting point of his life and never arrived because he was
injured and had become distracted examining green leaves. That
was how he loved and lost himself. And the worst was that he
loved without having any concrete reason to. Just because a
person who was born would love and not know why. Now that
he had created with his own hands the opportunity not to be a
victim or a torturer any more, to be outside of the world and not
have to worry himself any more with pity or love, not to have to
punish or be punished any more love for the world was suddenly
being born. And the danger in it was that if he was not careful,
he would stop advancing.
Because something else had also happened just as important
and serious and real as sadness or pain or anger: he was content.
Martim was content. He had not foreseen this additional
obstacle, the struggle against pleasure. He was enjoying the petty
chores in the cowshed too much. To his surprise, he was becoming satisfied with so little, doing jobs . . . It was more than enough for him to be simply a person who wakes up in the
morning. The not quite dark sky was enough for him-and the
mist-covered earth and the fresh trees, and he had learned how
to milk the cows, who lowed apathetically in the dawn. So it
was. "I am a man who milks cows." The flow of grace was strong
in the morning, and it was enough to possess a living body. If he
( l 5 l )
T H E A P P L E
I N T H E D A R K
was not careful he would feel that he was the owner of it all. If
he was not careful a tree taller than the others might make him
feel complete; and when he was hungry he would be bought by a
plate of food, and he would join his enemies who had been
bought by food and beauty. Restless, he would feel guilty if he
did not transform, in his mind at least, the world in which he
lived. Martim was losing himself. "Could there really be a
finality?" He was starting to have an astonishing and benevolent
vanity about his "escapades," and he would see himself as a
great horse we have at home, who would sometimes take wild
runs about the place, free with impunity, guided by the beauty
of his restraining spirit, the same as the way our bodies do not
come to pieces. Exercises in living. Martim was finding pleasure
in hin1self. Miserably, nothing more than that. As
is evident, he
could not have been happier.
It was with superhuman effort that every day Martim tried
to overcome the sense of vanity of belonging to a countryside so
vast that it grew without sense; it was with austerity that he
overcame the pleasure he found in the empty harmony. With
effort he reached beyond himself obliging himself, in the face of
the current that was dragging him along in all its grace, not to
betray his crime. As if by means of contentment, he was plunging a knife into his own revolt. Then he would get the strength to force himself not to forget his compromise. And once again
he would assume a spiritual state of work, a kind of trance into
which he had learned to fall when necessary.
His state of work consisted in taking an animal-like attitude
of purity and vulnerability. He had learned the technique of how
to be vulnerable and alert with the face of an idiot. It was
nothing easy, in fact it was quite difficult. Until-until he could
reach that certain imbecility he needed. As a starting point he
would create an attitude of astonishment for himself, he would
become defenseless, without any weapon in his hand; he did not
want to use any instruments at all; he wanted to be his own
instrument, and with empty hands. Because after all he had
committed a crime just so that he could be openly exposed.
( l 5 2 )
The Birth of the Hero
But if that attempt at innocence made him reach objectivity,
it was the objectivity of a cow: no words. And he was a man who
needed words. Then he would patiently correct the exaggerations in his imbecility. "It is also necessary not to make myself any more of a jackass than I already am." Because there were not
so many advantages in being an imbecile either, it was necessary
not to forget too that the world did not belong only to imbeciles. Then he would take on a new way of working, the opposite direction, and a resolute attitude that made one think of a
challenge. That attitude was not difficult to take on. But he
could not get beyond it, and with everything in readiness, like a ·
man preparing for a mile race who finds out that h e only has to
run six feet, he deflated in disappointment. It became obvious
that the pose of letting himself go into imbecility had been a
task beyond his real capacity to let it be what it was.
It was true that when it occurred to him that the end was
not far off he no longer needed to harass himself or create
techniques to get on with his monstrous task. When it occurred
to him that he suddenly had to have everything, and "revelation" as well his haste would once again become perfect, tranquil, and concentrated, like that of the two shoemakers underneath the cauldron. And his own contentment seemed to be a necessary part of the slow work of craftsmen.
Oh, he was quite unprotected. He simply did not know how
to approach what he wanted. He had lost that stage in which he
had taken on the dimensions of an animal and in which comprehension was silent, like a hand that grabs something. And he had also lost that moment up on the hill when all that he had
needed was the use of words. All had been so perfect and so
almost human that he had said to himself, "Speak! " and all that
had been lacking was the words. What point had he reached
now? The point at which he had been before the crime. As
before, now he was something that might perhaps have meaning
if seen from a distance that would give it the proportions of a
leaf on a tree. Seen too closely, he would either be too big or
people would stop looking. He was nothing, basically, and it
( l 5 3 )
T H E A P P L E
I N T H E D A R K
took some effort for him to assume a bit of importance. Because
he really was quite important : he was only alive once.
And the fact was that now it was too late. Despite his
contentment he would have to continue on. Not only because of
the obligation to preserve his crime. Because even in retreat he
felt that he was going forward.
He felt that-that's it-that he was almost beginning to
understand. It was true that by a mistake in calculation he had
started too close to the beginning; it was true that the green of
the weeds was so strong that his eyes could not translate it; it
was true that it occurred to the man that he had destroyed the
world so completely that he would never receive it whole again,
not even for one single moment, as one receives extreme unction. All of that was true, yes. But the fact was that sometimes the resistance seemed ready to give way . . .
There was a peaceful resistance in everything. An immaterial
resistance, like trying to remember and not managing to. But
just as the memory would be on the tip of one's tongue so the
resistance was ready to give way. So it was that on the following
morning, as he opened the door of the woodshed to the coolness
of the morning, he felt the resistance giving way. The clean air
of the morning trembled among the bushes, the coffee in the
cracked cup joined him to the mistless morning, the leaves of
the palm trees showed darkly; peoples' faces were red from the
wind, as if a new race was walking through the countryside;
everybody working without haste and without cease; the yellow
smoke rising up from the bottom of the wall. And, in God's
name, that had to be more than great beauty. That had to be
being. Then as his resistance began to give way, even with some
scruples, he almost understood. With scruples, as if he did not
have the right to use certain processes, as if he had been
understanding something entirely incomprehensible like the
Holy Trinity. And he hesitated, hesitated because he knew that
after understanding all would be irremediable in some way.
Understanding could become a pact with solitude.
But how to escape the temptation to understand? Without
( l 5 4 )
The Birth of the Hero
managing to overcome a certain feeling of sensuality he understood. Not to become completely compromised, he turned enigmatic, so that he would be able to retreat as soon as it became more dangerous. Then, careful and crafty, he understood it in
this way : "How can one fail to understand, if a person knows so
well when a thing is there ! " and the thing was there. He knew it;
the thing was there. "Yes, that's how it was, and there was the
future." The long future that had started with the beginning of
the centuries and from which it is useless to flee, for we are part
of it, and "it is useless to flee because it will be something," the
man thought, rather confused. "And when it is" -oh, how could
he explain it to himself in such an innocent morning?-"and
when it is, then it will be," he said, humiliated by the little he
was saying. And when it is, the man who is born will be
astounded that before . . . "But who knows if it isn't already?"
-it occurred to Martim with great acumen. "I think maybe it
already is," he concluded with the dignity of a thought. Then,
satisfied in some way, he took on an official pose of meditation.
He meditated as he looked out at the morning in the country.
And who will e
ver have to explain why butterflies in a field can
stretch out a man's sight into an obscure comprehension?
In this way, by means of half-excuses, Martim finally reached
a state, jumping over himself like a hero. And in this way, by
means impossible to retell, he finally freed himself of the beginning of beginnings where by ineptness he had been trapped for so long. A phase had come to a close, the most difficult one.
Chapter 6
THERE WERE SILENCE AND INTENSITY beneath the sun on the
farm.
There was probably no way for Martim's mute vigilance to
be communicated to the others because he kept on working
calmly with the same face that did not speak and in his eyes
there was an expression that eyes take on when the mouth is
gagged. However, a date beyond which everything would be
impossible seemed to have been established. Maybe his intensity
had been communicated by his strongest hammer-blow, or
maybe by his thick-booted walk, or by his sudden disappearances. They would look for him and not find him, but before his absence would upset them he would appear peacefully, as if out
of nowhere.
"And where have you been?" Vit6ria would ask inconsiderately.
The man's answer gave her no sense of relief. The man's
stability did not fool her; that was all going to end, she knew it.
Vit6ria gave him new jobs, she invented petty chores, and she
never let him out of her sight. Since the time was limited the
woman had assumed a wisdom that was instinctive, and she did
so much that in it all that one essential thing might have
escaped her grasp without her wanting it to.
But if Vit6ria did not seem to know what she wanted,
Ermelinda knew. And she kept circling the man closer and
closer. "Look at that fern ! " she said one afternoon. "Look how
uselessly it grows ! It's so pretty it's becoming drab."
But the man did not understand what she was hinting at; he
was too foggy. And nothing was happening. If the emotion
brought on by his feelings had given him a pretty little ignorance
it was not very efficient. And if Ermelinda bathed herselt in the
( l 5 6)
The Birth of the Hero
surf of what she was attempting and became entranced with the
beauty of her plans no one understood. And why should they?
When she had been a girl, out of a pure tendency toward