In the house of the seven women


Those were convulsive times in Rio Grande do Sul. A people still in formation fighting for their land, their cattle, their women and their children. Men migrated to the open country, in a march without return. Idealists, bloodthirsties, freedom seekers, soldiers, ranch people, pawns, husbands, fathers. In the field they bled. In the field they suffered from cold and hunger.

Separated from ideals, sometimes reason. Hiding their fear in insanity. They lost their clothes, the horses, the battles. Rags.


In the home stayed the women. With them, young girls that watched childhood go by, waiting for their brothers, their fathers, a pretender that could cross the gate only to cross it again bound for death.


Those were times of waiting.


And the wait brought uncertainty, anguish, fear and loneliness, that disputed with insanity a place in the heart of the pampas. But in the house also rested life and tenacity. The hope that a wound would not meet death at nightfall. In the house the women laid their pains to bleach in the sun.

And they prayed, believers. They cooked the sweets and wove their clothes, in silence. And they loved, they loved with hunger and with faith, clinged to hopes that they shared with the darkness of the pampas.


In the house of general Bento Gonçalves da Silva, tenacious leader of an insurgent people, stayed Ana Joaquina, Maria, Manuela, Mariana, Rosário, Perpétua and Caetana - and why not say Beth Mendes, Nívea Maria, Camila Morgado, Samara Felippo, Mariana Ximenes, Daniela Escobar and Eliane Giardini.


Their records were lost in history. Nobody knows how many nights that these women stayed awake weeping for their men, or how many nights they spent gathered in the living room, around a glimering fire, waiting for a delivery, an announcement, of a sneaky encounter of forbidden loves.

But there is no doubt that those nights went by, in the hope of sunnier days, less rebellious.


As by a jest of memory, the story of the private life of that ranch emerges in the book The House of the Seven Women, by the native of Rio Grande do Sul Leticia Wierchowzki, is retold by Maria Adelaide Amaral and Walther Negrão and becomes reality through the eyes of Jayme Monjardim. Real, as real as the nights that dragged through the corridors and rooms and sheets of that house, in the long wait that begun in 1835 and expired in 1845.


This story is not only the story of the gaucho people.


It is not only about the women - their pains ant their loves - nor only about the men and their spilled blood.

It's human. It is born out of conflict, of disharmony, but also of the ideals and the dignity. Above all, it is a story of love, of that feeling that speaks to brave men, enraptured women, zealous mothers and to the heart of anyone that listens to it.


A passionate story that moved a team that was turned into a family headed by a demanding father, stubborn, determined and still sweet.


In the distant Cambará do Sul, on the fields of Cima da Serra, in the slopes of the Rio Grande, the cast recorded their first scenes on a Saturday of a muggy month of october. In a valley of little daisies, by the road that leads to Aparados National Park, one could hear the heartbeat of Camila Morgado, more Manuela than any other could have been, in her first televison scene.

There one could drink from the fantastic, surreal love of sweet Rosário, the character that pulsated beneath the pale skin of Mariana Ximenes. The eyes filled with tears of so much love for the fearless Estevão, forged for Thiago Fragoso. In the distance, outside the scene, Amanda Lee galloped free, feet loose of the stirrups, the big smile of the indian Luzia imprinted in her brunet face.


The end of the day brought tears to the eyes of many - an emotion that would repeat itself many times, in several other scenes conquered, not just recorded. Something happened in that valley of the seven women, in the seventh day that Jayme Monjardim set foot in Rio Grande do Sul: the assurance that everyone there breathed that love story, were seized by it, lived it. There, what was once the story of a people became reality.

At sunset, with a tired body and an enchanted soul, the family would assemble again, in the same climate that seasoned the set. At the door of Recanto das Gralhas Inn, Jayme and Marcos Schechtman, flanked by Mariana and Amanda, drank their tea as if they had been brought up outside, at the edge of a fireplace on the ground. They watched the sunset with the tranquility of one that knows that things were starting well. At night, it was time for celebration. The team took over a barbecue restaurant and, to the sound of harmonicas and guitars - including one of Thiago Fragoso -, celebrated the beginning of their work. Mariana, Amanda and Camila were a show apart, dancing like local young girls, cheerful.


In the neighbouring São Jose dos Ausentes the family grew, soldiers and whores, the other women of the house, their brothers and their loved ones. There disembarked Werner Schünemann,

bringing in his soul the legendary general Bento Gonçalves. There, also, the rain and fog caught the team by surprise, caused anguish and apprehension, the first moans. As any family, this one learned to unite in pain, and so was sure that, from then on, they could overcome, together, all difficulties.


And they were about to come.


Later, in Pelotas, the house was built, surrounded by whispers amongst the girls, unkept promises of love, conviction undone by the war that unfold.


There arrived, impressive, elegant, exact, Thiago Lacerda, bearing two eyes of ocean in which one could see the love of Giuseppe Garibaldi for Manuela, that felt the same, that nourished

hopes well-founded by the sailor. Guided closely by Jayme, the mild voice asking for the right tone of voice, Thiago and Camila were the portrait of a love anyone would like to feel. Pure and ravishing. Difficult was to resist the emotion, fed by the chords of Marcus Vianna's epic soundtrack, that spread through the garden.


- With Jayme it's always like that, this union, this involvement of everyone. And that will be felt on television - said Thiago, his eyes glowing with love for his Garibaldi, a character he had been studying for 4 years, without even imagining that one day he would be playing.


The soft and intimate light on the set created unique scenarios, images of dreams. The women alternating in the chores of the house and confession of passions, very pale and serene, looking

more like sylphs hiding from mothers and aunts to glimpse the love by the river mouth. In the shadows of these women , Jayme was always there, that all photographed, all saw, nothing escapes his gaze.


In the patio of the house, Daniela Escobar carries her Perpétua in an aura of sweetness amongst tubs and baskets of fruits. She approaches the bedroom window where Rosário weeps her love for Estevão. Their meeting is not a scene. It is a vision. In the dim light that falls upon the cousins, their deep eyes, the long hair spilled over their slender shoulders, creates a renaissance painting. And Jayme keeps photographing, directing, registering what he knows will be his work of art. In the background, playing under a rustic wooden table, with alert big dark eyes, his son, André, observes the work of father and mother.

Lastly, the "war of the seven women" caused a convulsion in the fields of Uruguaiana, frontier with Argentina. Whispers of love and nights of female distress gave way to the herculean task of drawing in the pampas the battles of the 19th century. Hundreds of men, pawns dealing with horses joined the cast in the struggle of the crossing of spears and swords.


In Uruguaiana, even the skies opened up for the director. In a moment that will never be erased in the memory of those who witnessed it, an afternoon of severe rain turned into a horizon of red tinted sunset. Promptly, Jayme improvised what would go into history as one of the most beautiful scenes in brazilian television. General Bento Gonçalves, hurt and as human as anyone that is about to lose a friend, carries in his arms his death wounded brother-in-law. What we see is only his shadow framed by the

fireball of the sunset.


It is these brief seconds offered by nature - and captured by the cameras - that conduct all to emotion. The team applauds. Jayme is beside himself in excitement. Werner cries.


Sunday November 17 ends in fascination.


The previous day, a Saturday of burning sun, a phone call came to reinforce the love that united that family. Gathered in Nivea Maria's home, in Rio de Janeiro, the seven women called Jayme just to tell him that they were together and thinking about them, "the men of the house", that battled in the pampas, in the distant castillian frontier. The family could not wait to be reunited again.

What the House of the Seven Women has of historical relevance, it has of magic. To recreate chapters of history and bring the memory of a country to television is a challenge.


To do it with poetry is a gift.

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