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even a man with a wife and two children. Why didn’t that harmonica stop playing? The music was so sad. And what was the meaning of that moon, that blood-red moon above the sea?

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    The song is a sad one, like an omen of trouble to come. The wind, scurrying over the sea, snatches up the musical notes and scatters them, until it seems they will never die. Sadness comes with the music and lays hold of the third-class passengers, among them the pregnant woman who clings to Filomeno’s arm. The strains of the harmonica serve as an accompaniment to the melody the young man is singing in a voice that is loud and strong. Antonio Victor draws his long legs closer still to his body as the picture of peaceful Estancia and of Ivone giving herself without a murmur mingles with the fresh images of a land as yet unconquered, a land of brawls and bullets and sudden death, of money and heaps of banknotes. One man who is travelling alone and who speaks to no one makes his way through the groups and stretches out on the deck. The moon leaves a reddish wake on the sea as the song tears at their hearts:
    My love, I am leaving you now,
    Nevermore to return.
    Comes now a vision of other, distant lands and of other peoples, of other seas and other shores, or of a rustic backland country flayed by drought; and many of those on this little boat are leaving a love behind them. Some are going by very reason of that love, to find the wherewithal with which to win the loved one, to look for the gold that purchases happiness. That gold which grows in the land of Ilhéos, on the cacao tree. The song says they will never come back, that in those lands death awaits them from behind every tree. And the moon, the moon is red as the ship heaves and tosses on the ruffled waters.
    The old man in the cape is bare-legged, with no shoes on his feet. His eyes are hard as he draws on the butt of a cigarette. Someone asks him for a light, and the old fellow gives a puff to revive the spark.
    â€œMuch obliged, Pop.”
    â€œDon’t mention it.”
    â€œLooks like a storm coming up.”
    â€œIt’s the season for the south wind. There are times when it blows so hard no boat can stand up against it.”
    â€œCeará is where they have the storms,” the woman puts in. “You’d think it was the end of the world.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard,” says the old man. “Yes, that’s what they tell me.”
    They had come up to a group that stood conversing about the men who were playing cards.
    â€œAre you from Ilhéos?”
    â€œI’ve been in Tabocas, going on five years now. I’m from the back-country.”
    â€œAnd what are you doing down there at your age?”
    â€œMy son, Joaquim, went down there first. He was doing well for himself, had a little grove. The old lady died, and he sent for me.”
    He fell silent then. It seemed that he was listening attentively to the music that the wind carried away to the city hidden in the night. The others waited expectantly, but only the murmur of voices from first-class and the song the Negro was singing came to break the silence.
    Nevermore to return,
    In those distant lands to die.
    The song continued as the men shuddered from the cold. A swift and violent wind was blowing up from the south, and the ship was bouncing over the waves. Many of those aboard had never been on a boat before. They had crossed the inhospitable scrub forests of the backlands in a train made up of carload after carload of immigrants. The old man with his hard eyes looked them over.
    â€œYou hear that song? ‘In those distant lands to die.’ That’s the truth, that is. Whoever goes to that country never comes back. It’s like a spell laid upon you; it’s like a trap. I’m telling you, that folks—”
    â€œBut there’s easy money there, ain’t that right?” The young lad faced him with kindling eyes.
    â€œMoney—that’s