The Violent Land by Jorge Amado

don’t have any big-town luxuries—no theatres, women, cafés, nothing of that sort. It’s work day and night, cutting timber and planting cacao.”
    Ferreirinha bore him out: “It’s hard work, all right.”
    â€œBut there’s a lot of money to be made,” put in the travelling salesman, wiping the wine from his lips.
    Once again Maneca Dantas smiled.
    â€œThat’s the truth,” he said, “there
is
money to be made. It’s good land, captain, worth the labour that it takes. The yield is good, you raise a lot of cacao, and you get a good price for it. There’s no complaint on that score. You always have enough to be able to offer a bite to your friends.”
    â€œI’m going to be in that neighbourhood on the 16th,” the salesman said, “on my way to Sequeiro Grande; I’m spending the night there.”
    â€œAt your service,” said Maneca. “And you, captain—will you come along?”
    João Magalhães said it was quite possible that he would. He was thinking of staying in the region for some little time. As a matter of fact, he wanted to see if it was worth his while to invest a little money in cacao land. He had heard of this country down in Rio and of the money that was to be made there, and he was tempted to invest a portion of his capital in cacao plantations. True, he likewise had no reason to complain; the greater part of his wealth was in Rio de Janeiro real estate and it gave him a good return; but he had a little left over in the bank, some dozens of contos, and he also had large holdings in government bonds. If it was worth while—
    â€œIndeed it is worth your while, captain.” Maneca Dantas’s tone was serious. “It is certainly worth while. Cacao is a new crop, but the land there is the best in the world for that purpose. Many experts have been down to look it over, and they are all agreed on that. There is no better land for cacao-raising. And the yield is all that anybody could ask; I wouldn’t trade it for coffee, nor even for sugar-cane. The only thing is, the folks down our way are a rough and ready lot, but a gentleman of your courage shouldn’t mind that. I am telling you, captain, in twenty years’ time Ilhéos will be a great city, a capital; and all the little towns of today—they will be big cities, too. Cacao is gold, captain.”
    Thus they went on talking, of the voyage and one thing and another. João Magalhães spoke of other places he had visited, of his journeys by rail and on great ocean liners. His prestige was growing moment by moment, and the circle of admirers was also increasing as story after story was told and the wine flowed freely. All the while, the captain was subtly endeavouring to steer the conversation to the subject of cards, and they ended by getting up a poker game. Colonel Totonho, proprietor of Riacho Seco, sat in, but the travelling salesman did not—the ante was too high for him, the game too fast. And so João and the three colonels made up the table, the others looking on.
    â€œI don’t know much about this game,” Maneca Dantas remarked as he took off his overcoat. Ferreirinha burst into another guffaw.
    â€œDon’t you believe that, captain. Maneca is a master hand at poker. I’ve never seen his match.”
    Maneca now stuck his revolver in the pocket of his overcoat, so that it would not be in plain sight there in his belt; and João Magalhães pondered the question as to whether it might not be a good thing for him to lose at first and not display his abilities all at once. The bar-boy brought a deck.
    â€œJoker wild?” Maneca inquired.
    â€œAs you like,” replied João Magalhães.
    â€œJoker wild is not poker,” said Totonho, speaking for the first time. “Don’t keep the joker, please.”
    â€œVery well, my friend,” and Maneca tossed it in the discard.
    Ferreirinha