The Violent Land by Jorge Amado Page B

that even the women are killers. Want some advice? Don’t get mixed up with him.”
    Margot stuck out her lip disdainfully.
    â€œAnd who told you that I was interested in him? He’s just an old rooster who runs after every young pullet that he sees. I want nothing to do with him. I’m not out for money.”
    The travelling salesman gave an incredulous smile and shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that her opinion mattered little to him.
    â€œThere was one young girl,” he said, “who was friendly with him, and Juca’s wife had her done in.”
    â€œBut whatever put it in your head that it’s any concern of mine? He can have as many women as he pleases; he’s not going to have this one.” And she struck her hand to her bosom. Once again she seemed on the verge of speaking, and then apparently made up her mind.
    â€œYou saw me dancing with Virgilio, didn’t you? Well, he’s in Ilhéos, and I’m going to him.”
    â€œThat’s right—I’d forgotten. He
is
down there, sure enough. Practising law—lad with a future, eh? They tell me Colonel Horacio sent for him to come down and take over the leadership of the party.” The salesman nodded his head as if convinced. “If that’s how it is, I’ve nothing more to say. My only advice is: watch out for Juca Badaró.”
    He walked away. It was not worth while talking to her, for a girl in love is worse than a virgin. But what would Juca Badaró have to say to it?
    Margot undid the kerchief and let the wind lift her hair.

10
    A shadowy figure glided up the stairs and, before setting foot in first-class, glanced around furtively to see if anyone was about. The man smoothed down his hair, adjusted the scarf that was tied about his throat. His hands were still swollen from the treatment he had received at the police station. The big ring with the false stone was no longer on his finger. The sergeant had said there was nothing to do but to crack the fellow’s hands, so that they would not go into another person’s pockets. Fernando climbed the last step and made for the side of the boat opposite where Margot was standing. Catching sight of a member of the crew, he went up to the rail, as if he were a first-class passenger taking the night air; after which he stole slowly over to the deck-chair where a man was snoring. His deft hands slipped under the blanket, under the overcoat, touched the cold steel of a revolver, and drew out from his victim’s pocket a fat bill-fold. The man did not stir.
    The thief returned to third-class. Tossing the bill-fold into the sea, he stuck the money into his own pocket. Then he tiptoed along among the sleeping passengers looking for someone. In one corner, stretched out as if he were lying on the ground, the old man who was going back to avenge his son’s death was snoring away sonorously. Taking out a few of the banknotes, Fernando, with all the dexterity of which his hands were capable, crammed them into the old man’s pocket. Holding his breath as he did so, he hid the remaining ones in the lining of his overcoat and then went over to the far-distant corner where Antonio Victor lay dreaming of Estancia and of Ivone’s warm body beside him.

11
    It was cold in the late hours of night, and the deck-passengers huddled under their blankets. Margot caught the sound of voices at a distance.
    â€œIf cacao brings fourteen milreis this year, I’m going to take the family to Rio.”
    â€œI’d like to build a house in Ilhéos.”
    The speakers were drawing nearer, talking as they came.
    â€œThat was a nasty business, having Zequinha shot in the back.”
    â€œBut there will be a trial this time, I’ll guarantee you that.”
    â€œLet’s hope so.”
    They came to a stop in front of Margot and stood looking her over without the least ceremony. The short man smiled beneath an enormous moustache,