Part 2

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 difficulty.... 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”) finds 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....

THE PENITENT WAG

Francisco Teixeira de Souza Pontes, bastard scion of a Souza Pontes family, rich planters of Barreiros and owners of thirty thousand “arrobas”[4] of coffee, at thirty-two years of age began to take life seriously.

A wag by nature, up to that time he had lived off his comic strain and thereby reaped board, lodging, clothing and all else. His currency consisted of grimaces, jokes, anecdotes about Englishmen and everything that tickles the facial muscles of the animal that laughs, commonly called man, provoking hilarity or raising hearty guffaws.

He knew So-and-So’s “Encyclopedia of Laughter and Mirth” by heart--the most mirthless creature God ever made, but such was Pontes’ ability that he could turn the most feeble jokes into excellent witticisms, to the delight of his hearers.

He had a knack for imitating man and beast. The entire gamut of a dog’s voice, from the baying of the hound chasing the wild pig, to howling at the moon and all other sounds, growling or barking, were imitated by him to such perfection as to deceive both dogs and moon.

He also grunted like a pig, cackled like a hen, croaked like a toad, scolded like an old woman, whimpered like a baby, enjoined silence like a Representative or speechified like a patriot at a street meeting. What two-legged or four-legged hum of voices did he not mimic to perfection, as long as he had before him an audience well equipped with those “muscles of mirth” invented by our talented authoress Albertina Bertha?

On other occasions he reverted to prehistoric times. When his hearers were not over ignorant, drawing upon his own modicum of learning, he would reconstruct for their intellectual delectation the paleontological roars of extinct brutes, love-growls of mammoths to their mates or the yells of the _stegosaurus_ upon seeing hairy _homos_ perched upon tree-ferns, according to the laughable descriptive science of Barros Barreto.

If he ran across a group of friends talking on a street corner, he would come quietly up to them and slap the calf of the nearest leg. It was funny to see the frightened jump and hear the nervous “Get out!” of the unsuspecting victim, followed by the hilarious laughter of the others and also of Pontes who had his own mode of laughter, boisterous and musical--music after Offenbach. Pontes’ laugh was an imitation of the natural and spontaneous laughter of the human species, the only one that laughs, with exception of the drunken fox,--and passed abruptly without transition into a seriousness irresistibly comic.

In all his gestures and manner, in his way of walking, reading, eating; in the most trivial details of life, this man possessed of the devil, differed from the others in that he made prodigious fun of everything.

This reached such a point that it was only necessary for him to open his mouth or raise his hand, for humanity to writhe in laughter. The sight of him was enough. As soon as he appeared, all faces beamed; if he made a spontaneous gesture, laughter could be heard, if he opened his mouth some shrieked, others loosened their belts so as to laugh better. If he spoke, good Lord! one heard shrieks of laughter, yells, squeaks, chokes, sniffling and tremendous catching of breath.

“He beats the devil, this Pontes!”

“Hold on, man, you’ll make me gag!”

And when the wit tried to look innocent and idiotic, remarking:

“But what did I do? I never opened my mouth....”

“Ha, ha, ha!” everyone laughed, their jaws aching, weeping spasmodically with uncontrollable hilarity.

As time passed, the mere mention of his name was enough to provoke merriment. If anyone pronounced the word “Pontes,” the gun-cotton of risibles by which man raises himself above animals who do not laugh, would instantly ignite.

Thus he lived until the age of Christ in a smiling parable, laughing and provoking laughter, without a serious thought,--a vagabond life that exchanges grimaces for dinners and pays small bills with ponderous jokes. A merchant whom he had cheated once said to him, amidst bursts of spluttering laughter:

“You amuse me, at least, and are not like Major Carapuça who cheats with a face like a wooden Indian.”

That unstamped receipt troubled our wag not a little; but as the bill amounted to two dollars, it was well worth the trick. However, the memory of it remained, like a pin-prick to his self-respect. Following this came other pin-pricks, some shoved in with less force, others straight through.

One wearies of everything. Sick of such a life, the tireless joker began to dream of the joy of being taken seriously, of speaking and being listened to without the play of facial muscles, of gesticulating without disturbing human dignity, of crossing a street without hearing a chorus of “Here comes Pontes!” in the tone of those who check laughter or prepare themselves for a hearty guffaw.

Attempting reaction, Pontes tried to be serious--a disaster! Pontes solemnly changed his tactics and adopted English humorism. Formerly he was amusing as a clown, now he took the part of Tony.

The enormous success which everyone supposed to be a new phase of his comic strain, threw the penitent wag into despair. Was it possible that he could never follow any other path in life than that one, now so hateful to him? A clown then, everlastingly a clown against his will?

But the life of a grown man requires seriousness, gravity and even soberness, unnecessary in youth.

Even the most humble government employment, an office of alderman, requires that immobility of countenance, characteristic of laughterless idiocy. One cannot conceive a smiling alderman. Rabelais’ phrase is lacking in one exception: laughter is the prerogative of the human species,--aldermen excepted.

As the years passed, reflection matured, self-respect grew and the free dinners tasted bitter to him. The coining of joke currency became very difficult; it no longer was cast with the former light-heartedness; now it was done as a livelihood, not in thoughtless merriment of the days past. He mentally compared himself to a circus clown, old and ailing, obliged through poverty to transform rheumatism into comical faces required by the paying public.

He began to flee from mankind and spent months in the study of the transition necessary to obtain an honest employment for his activities. He thought of going into business, commerce, the administration of a plantation, the setting up of a bar--anything was preferable to the comic idiocy adopted up to the present.

One day, his plans fully matured, he decided to change his way of living. He looked up a friendly tradesman and frankly told him of his intentions to reform, finally asking him for a place in his business-house, if only that of sweeper. He hardly finished telling his plans when the Portuguese and all the cashiers who looked on at a distance awaiting the outcome, writhed in a hearty guffaw, highly delighted.

“What a good joke! First class! Ha! ha! ha! Then you ... ha! ha! ha! You’ll give me a pain, man! If it’s on account of that little bill for cigarettes, rest easy, I’m already paid for it! Ha! ha! ha! Pontes has.... Do you hear that one, Jose? Ha! ha! ha!”

And the clerks, customers, the loafers and even the passers-by stopped on the sidewalk to hear the joke, and their laughter sounded like policemen’s rattles as they shook until their sides ached.

The wretched creature, bewildered and perfectly serious, tried his best to dispel the misunderstanding:

“I am in earnest and you have no right to laugh. For God’s sake, don’t make fun of a poor unfortunate who asks for work and not laughter.”

The merchant loosened his belt.

“You mean it? Pshaw! Ha! ha! ha! Look here, Pontes, you....”

Pontes left him in the middle of his sentence and went forth with his soul tortured by despair and rage. It was too much. Then everyone spurned him?

He applied at other houses in the town, explained as best he could, implored. The case was judged unanimously as one of the best jokes of the “incorrigible” wag and many persons commented upon it with the usual observation:

“He is still the same! he’ll never behave, that devil of a fellow, and he is no longer young....”

Barred from trade, he turned his attention towards the farms. He looked up an old planter who had dismissed his overseer and stated his case. The Colonel, after listening attentively to his reasons, ending up with the offer to take on the job as overseer on the farm, exploded in a fit of laughter.

“Pontes overseer! He! he! he!”

“But....”

“Let me laugh, man, you don’t hear this sort of thing in the country very often. He! he! he! Splendid! I have always said there was no wit like Pontes! None!”

And shouting within doors:

“Maria, come and hear Pontes’ latest. He! he! he!”

That day the unfortunate wag wept. He understood that one cannot destroy overnight what has taken years to form. His reputation as a funny man, as a joker, as inimitable, as monumental, was built of far too good mortar and cement to crumble so soon.

However, it was necessary to change his mode of life and Pontes began to reflect on government employment, the most convenient and only possible master in this abstract case, because it neither knows how to laugh, nor does it know from close observation the cells whence laughter arises. This master, and this one alone, would take him seriously--the road to salvation, therefore, lay in that direction.

He studied the possibility of a post-office agency, notary office, collector’s office and others. Weighing well the pros and cons, trumps and suits, he decided upon the choice of a federal collector’s office, the occupant of which, a Major Bentes, being old and suffering from heart trouble, was not expected to last long. His aneurism was the talk of the town, the final break being expected at any moment.

Pontes’ trump card was a relative in Rio, a rich man on the way to influence in politics, should a change of government occur. Pontes chased after him and worked so hard to interest him in his claim that the man finally dismissed him with a sure promise.

“Go in peace, for when the affair breaks out here and your collector breaks down there, no one will laugh at you any more. Go, and advise me of the man’s death without waiting for the body to cool.”

Pontes returned radiant with hope and patiently waited for subsequent events, with one eye on politics and the other on the provident aneurism.

Finally the crisis came; ministries fell, others rose to power and among these a negotiating politician, partner of the relative. Half the battle was over, the other half still to be fought.

Unfortunately the Major’s health came to a standstill without any visible signs of a rapid decline. His aneurism was, according to the doctors who killed by allopathy, a serious thing, which could break with the slightest effort; but the cautious old man was in no hurry to leave a life of comfort, for a better world, so he fooled the illness with an ultra-methodical regime. If a violent effort would kill him then such an effort should not be made.

Pontes, already almost owner of the prize, became impatient with the swaying balance of his calculations. How could he clear the way of that obstacle? He consulted in Chernovitz’s medical manual on aneurisms; learned it by heart. He inquired here and there about all that had been said and written on the matter and became more familiar with the subject than ever Dr. Ioduret, a local doctor, who, we may truthfully say, knew nothing at all.

The apple of science thus eaten, he was led to the temptation of killing the man, obliging him to burst the aneurism. An effort would kill him? All right, Souza Pontes would lead him to make that effort.

“A hearty guffaw is an effort,” he satanically philosophized to himself, “so a guffaw can kill. Well, I know how to provoke laughter.”

Many days passed, lost to the world in a mental dialogue with Satan. Crime? No! in what code is to be found the provocation of laughter as a crime? If the man died of this the fault would be due to the bad condition of his great artery.

The rascal’s head turned into a field of combat where his “plan” fought a duel against all objections raised by conscience. His bitter ambition served as judge of the contest and heaven knows how often said judge prevaricated, led by scandalous partiality for one of the combatants.

As was expected, Satan won and Pontes reappeared before the world a little thinner, with dark rings under his eyes but with a strange light of victorious decision in his expression. Anyone observing him closely would note his nervous manner; however, close observation was not a prevailing virtue among his countrymen and furthermore, Pontes’ various states of mind were of no importance because Pontes....

“Well, Pontes was just Pontes!”

The future employe proceeded to plan a careful campaign. In the first place it was necessary to approach the Major, a reserved man and not fond of jests; to ingratiate himself into his home life, study his whims and pet habits until he could discover in what part of his body lay the weak spot.

He began to frequent the receiver’s office assiduously, under various pretexts, sometimes for stamps, sometimes for information regarding taxes; everything was an excuse for sly and clever prattle meant to undermine the old man’s severity.

He would also go on other people’s business for the paying of excise taxes, taking out permits and other little matters. He became of great use to the friends who had business with the exchequer.

The Major was surprised at such assiduity and said so, but Pontes evaded the question, turning it into a joke, and persevered in a well calculated conclusion to let time round off the sharp corners of the sick man.

Within two months Bentes had become used to that “chipmunk” as he called him, who on the whole seemed a good sort of fellow, sincere, eager to be of use and above all, harmless. From asking him a favor on a very busy day, then another and still a third, and finally considering him as a sort of adjunct to the department, was only a step.

For certain commissions there was no one like him. Such earnestness! Such subtleness! Such tact!

One day the Major, reprimanding the clerk, held up his diplomacy as an example.

“You great idiot! go learn with Pontes who has a knack for everything, and is amusing besides.”

That day he invited Pontes to Dinner.

Pontes’ soul was filled with joy: the fortress had opened its doors to him.

That dinner was the beginning of a series where the “chipmunk,” now an indispensable factotum, found a first-class field of action for his tactics.

Major Bentes, however, possessed one invulnerable point: he never laughed, he limited his hilarity to ironical smiles. A joke that would make the other guests rise from the table smothering their mouths in their table-napkins, would barely elicit a smile from him. And if the joke were not of the very best, the bored collector pitilessly guyed the story-teller.

“That’s old as the hills, Pontes, I remember reading it in Laemmert’s Almanack for 1850.”

Pontes would smile with a vanquished look; but would inwardly say,--if that one wasn’t appreciated another would be.

All his sagacity was focussed on the discovery of the Major’s weak point. Each man has a preference for a certain class of humor or wit. One delights in wanton jests of rotund friars. Another regales himself with the boisterous good-humoured German joke. Still another would give a year of his life for the Gaul’s spicy vulgarity. The Brazilian adores a joke which exposes the rank stupidity of the Portuguese--the most convenient way our people have found to demonstrate by contrast, their own intelligence.

But how about the Major? Why did he not laugh at the English, German, French or Brazilian jokes? Which did he prefer?