Books Burn Badly

by Unknown

  ‘Let go of my hair, will you, Dez? It hurts more than my nose.’

  He pulled harder. A tuft of hair in his hand.

  ‘That really hurts,’ stuttered Terranova.

  ‘“I fell in love with a thorn . . .” What was that song, Terranova? Sing it again. “The flower that was”. No. That wasn’t it. Do you remember? You were full of yourself. “A Pontevedran Alalá!”’

  ‘You shouldn’t set your heart . . .’

  ‘That’s it, that’s it.’

  ‘on things that belong to the wind’.

  ‘Good, good. That’s our sublime farewell. Now I can really smash your face in.’

  ‘If you hurt me any more, I won’t be able to enter the radio competition and sing the cabaletta.’

  There was an innocent, defenceless glint in Luís Terranova’s eyes. Dez watched the blood pouring out of his nostrils. It was the colour of lava.

  ‘I’ll take you to have that seen to,’ he said without letting go.

  ‘No, no. I’ll go on my own.’

  ‘On your own? You won’t go anywhere on your own. Do you think I’m crazy, Terranova?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dez. I won’t talk to anyone. I’ll disappear into a hole and won’t come out until I’m healed. I promise. Let go of me, Dez.’

  ‘I like it when you’re meek and mild. Not another word. I’ll take you to a bonesetter, my little dove. Who’ll fix that cherub’s nose.’

  Luís Terranova made one final attempt to escape when he saw the black car parked in the street and the stocky guy in an ashen hat and raincoat opening the back door. The two of them held on to him, laid him on the back seat and he stopped moving when he felt the barrel nuzzling under his ear. It was as if a bullet had gone into him without needing to be fired.

  They beat him up on the far side of the lighthouse. The last thing he remembers hearing was a sound of his coming from outside. The crunching of teeth. Of his teeth. He then heard a voice from a state of unconsciousness, ‘You’ll never sing again, Terranova!’ And the first thing he heard when he woke up was actually a vision: the beams of light from the lighthouse.

  ‘Louder! Can’t hear you. Louder!’

  Curtis’ Second Fight

  Terror was crystallised on Luís Terranova’s face. The frost of night on top of the beating. Curtis ran to open the door when he heard the knocker’s Morse. He sat him in the middle of the room, under the lamp. This was his house on Atocha Baixa, a single room with a kitchen and bathroom, a kind of boxing ring which had grown walls and a roof. Even though he was sitting down, Luís carried on bending over under the lamp. His hands between his thighs, on his groin. The instinct to protect his private parts. He was barely able to speak. He gurgled words spattered with blood through the gaps of his broken teeth. But he didn’t stop. He knew Curtis understood every single trill of his. Could mend the onomatopoeias, the badly injured syllables. His face was swollen, the bald patches where they’d torn out his hair covered in scabs, his lips split open. They’d really given his mouth a hammering. Which is maybe why Luís Terranova didn’t stop trying to speak. He was checking to see if he was alive. He spluttered out a tango, a song he put together with disconnected bits from different pieces, scraps of ‘Downhill’, ‘Laugh Clown’ and ‘Chessman’ which began to make sense. He didn’t need to articulate them clearly. Curtis understood. He could see the words pushing through the clots, splashing in his saliva. He gave him a swig. Arturo da Silva was right. The terrestrial globe changes place, but there’s always one in Luís Terranova’s mouth.

  ‘Don’t drink it. It’s for rinsing and spitting out. Spit it out slowly.’

  ‘More champagne, if you please, boy . . .’

  He knew what to sing all right.

  ‘Now I really look like a boxer, don’t I, Curtis? If Arturo da Silva saw me, he’d give me a ticking-off. He’d say, “Your face is the colour of raw flesh. How could they beat you up like that? Why didn’t you keep your distance? Make a feint, open a side corridor?”

  ‘“There wasn’t time, Arturo.” That’s what I’d tell him if he came round here. “I was going to open a side corridor, Arturo, I just needed a fraction of time.”

  ‘“A fraction is everything,” Arturo would say. “A fraction is the difference between life and death.”’

  Curtis had filled a zinc bathtub with warm water. He prepared the brazier and placed it next to him. He took off his shoes and helped him to undress. Cleaned his wounds. Applied iodine. Cut his hair so that he could cure his head better. Sewed up an eyebrow. Three stitches without anaesthetic. And while he did this, Curtis made plans. He knew Terranova was hard behind his fragile appearance. He was the one who’d taught him to let a sea urchin’s spines come out by themselves without carving deep flesh wounds.

  Terranova recognised the wooden horse in a corner of the room, in the shadows. ‘There you are, Carirí!’ And the horse replied with the affection of inanimate things when they’re called by name. It made Terranova get rid of that crystallised fear and smile for a photo. He remembered another travelling photographer who was hit by a tram and fell to the ground with his wooden horse. ‘To hospital, to hospital!’ cried a witness who’d come to help the injured man. The photographer raised his head with difficulty and said, ‘Not hospital! To the horse factory!’

  ‘Take me to the workshop for horses,’ mumbled Luís Terranova. ‘A bonesetter with cardboard and paste.’ Curtis smiled. He knew the story. They’d often stopped in front of the horse factory between Troncoso and Our Lady of the Rosary. The horses came in all shapes and sizes. From a little horse for a keyring to a fairground or photographer’s horse. This also would make a good business card: Vicente Curtis ‘Hercules’, Boxer and Horse Manufacturer. He tried to straighten the fingers on his hands, but the right middle and index fingers wouldn’t respond. They’d bent them back until they snapped. ‘A horse repairer,’ he said. ‘Or even better one of those who dissect animals. A taxidermist. Can I sleep there, Curtis, next to the horse? Wait for all of this to be over. It’ll never be over, will it, Curtis? Now I really must look interesting. All the colours of raw flesh. A Cubist painting. I’ll make better use of the mirror now, Curtis.’

  In the house on Atocha Baixa, there was only a small mirror, which Curtis used to shave. It was broken and was joined by a plaster, though the whole piece was big enough. The size of the blade of a cut-throat razor.

  Manlle moved in little light. He smoked a Havana cigar and seemed not to be in a hurry, like the smoke, which gathered slowly, forming a pale bell on the mezzanine of the dockside warehouse. He had a philosophy. So he then took time to explain his philosophy. He wasn’t a man for whom business was just business. It was a personal matter. He’d never do business with someone if he couldn’t shake their hand. That’s what he was explaining to Curtis. He wasn’t in a hurry. Money: the more you run after it, the further away it gets.

  ‘See, Curtis? Course you do. A man’s a man. I respect people who’ve nothing but day and night. I know what it is not to have enough to make a blind man sing. I can’t stand people who fill their pockets just by lifting the receiver and dialling a number. That’s how money’s being made now, Curtis, in shedloads. There’s corruption all over the shop. You just got to have contacts. Doesn’t matter whether you put a building in front of Hercules Lighthouse. With contacts, you can do it and who gives a shit about the panoramic view, the perfect location, the city’s smile? Big business is like that, Curtis. Those who make money don’t touch a brick, don’t touch a fish, don’t touch anything. Contacts, information. That’s what counts. I got my contacts, I got my information. But I like to touch things, the merchandise. Touch what I’m selling. Whisky, tobacco. Women. I like to see it all. That’s my pleasure. See how it works, right? If there’s a shipment, be where it’s happening. Watch the movement, watch how the merchandise changes value each step of the way. Same with people, Curtis. I’m glad you came. You moved. I know you’re an honest man. We met in the wrong circumstances, what to
do? It’s history. I was wanting to talk to someone about Arturo da Silva. A shame, Curtis. He was a champ in and out of the ring. I saw him that day, just before the war, when he unarmed that guy who’s now a judge in Pontevedra Square. He went straight up to him. Took the pistol out of his hands and threw it in the sea. Now he no longer exists. There’s no one to talk to about him. Just the guys who killed him. I met one or two of them. You know, you bump into all sorts of people in this life. And there I was, with one of his murderers, discussing Arturo da Silva’s style of boxing. He had to admit he was the best in the ring, another reason for taking him out. The things you have to hear. I could have ate him up right there and shat him in the toilet. But I can’t be St Clare, Curtis. I got to look after my interests. I can’t go walking about without shoes or clogs.

  ‘Arturo da Silva, that’s right. You were lucky enough to train with the best. Do you know what I liked about him? The way he took up all the space. You have to feel well in the place you move in. The ring was his country and the other had to conquer it. That’s it. I know he used to visit the ring beforehand.’

  ‘Yep, he always liked to be the first to arrive,’ said Curtis.

  He could see him now. When there was no one about, he’d walk around the ring. Still in his clothes. His hands in his pockets. He’d stand there for a while, deep in thought, and complete a circuit.

  ‘He always had that idea about the globe.’

  ‘The globe?’

  ‘The terrestrial globe is on the move. You have to try to know all the time where its point of support is.’

  That’s right, he thought, the globe’s support.

  Manlle blew a cloud of smoke through the left side of his mouth as if making space for what he listened to carefully. He was a sponge. And proud of it.

  ‘Everyone,’ he said sententiously, ‘has at least one brilliant idea in their life. Maybe no more. But they have one.’

  The phone rang. Three times. He didn’t answer. It rang again, twice. He waited. The third time, he picked up the receiver. Said, ‘You’re not feeling well? No problem.’ He hung up and then dialled a number. ‘Falcón? Tell Mother we won’t be coming to dinner tonight.’

  He looked at his watch and then at Curtis. ‘My ideas never reached my fists. I could hit hard. But it’s one thing to hit hard and another to hit with ideas. You had ideas, Curtis. You belonged to Arturo’s school. Your left was a cobra. That one-two, a killer. You see, Curtis, I never forgot that fight. You didn’t give me time to breathe. I hit hard, but my idea didn’t make it to my fist. You didn’t give me time.’

  ‘I was in a hurry,’ said Curtis. ‘It was a special day.’

  ‘Unbelievable, eh, Curtis? We made our debut the day a war started. You would have been champion. You know, I’m glad you knocked me out. I soon learnt my place in boxing wasn’t inside the ring. My brilliant idea was something else. So I lost a tooth and discovered a mine. What I had was good eyesight, but I didn’t know it yet.’

  He opened his mouth and pointed to a gold canine. ‘They could at least have given us a gumshield! Here it is. Pure gold. But I kept the other. I’m glad you gave it back to me. It was a fine trophy. Stuck in your glove like that. Man, you could hit hard. I’m sorry they didn’t let you compete again.’

  He scratched his throat as if he’d found a bitter-tasting vein. Stamped his cigarette out in the ashtray. Curtis knew what had happened. The guy was a wheeler-dealer. There was no one else.

  ‘I’m in a hurry right now, champ. Some urgent business to attend to. I’ll do what I can. What is it you want, Curtis?’

  ‘A passport and passage to Argentina.’

  ‘You’re finally leaving, are you, Curtis? You do well. I always said walking about with a photographer’s horse was no job for a champ.’

  ‘It’s for someone else. A friend.’

  ‘A mighty good friend.’

  ‘That’s right, a good friend.’

  ‘Makes no difference. If you don’t escape, you leave. It’s what our country does. Export people. I said to a local boss, “At this rate, we won’t have any clients left. You, the priests and me.” He said, “If they’re not happy, better that they leave. One less to deal with.” Unbelievable! They don’t care if they’re put in charge of a cemetery. Exporting’s easy. It’s importing that’s difficult. You don’t smoke, right?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Curtis.

  ‘Here you go. Genuine Sport A. Passage and passport with visa? Done. You know what you have to do, right?’

  ‘I brought everything with me,’ said Curtis, handing over Luís Terranova’s photograph and documents.

  ‘Sure. You know what you have to do, right?’

  A slaggish smoke rose from the ashtray.

  ‘Fight without gloves for an unlimited number of rounds. Few people, but with lots of money. Bets taken along the way. This Saturday night. There’s no address. Someone’ll pick you up and give you the agreed after the fight. Trust me. And I’ll trust you.’

  Curtis looked at his hands. He was rubbing them slowly.

  ‘But none of your Hercules, right? No fateful one-two. You got to keep back the cobra, Curtis, understand? You got to lose. That’s all there is. You fight as if you were going to win, but you got to lose. It’s up to you when you go down, but make it look convincing. Lots of them will be betting for you. We need to see some raw flesh. And if it’s in a pool of blood, so much the better.’

  There was a knock at the door of the house on Atocha Baixa. Terranova got up with great difficulty and swore. Someone had locked it from the outside, he couldn’t open.

  He heard a voice, ‘Pay attention to what’s coming under the door.’

  He then saw an envelope.

  ‘That’s your ticket,’ said Curtis outside the door.

  ‘What’s up, Curtis? Why don’t you come in?’

  ‘It couldn’t be Buenos Aires. It’s for La Guaira. The next ship, got it? I suppose they’ll sing tangos there too.’

  ‘Where’ve you been, Curtis?’

  ‘Listen. When you go through customs in Venezuela and they ask you your profession, you have to say you’re an electrical engineer, got it?’

  ‘Got it, Curtis.’

  ‘Go on, repeat it.’

  ‘Electrical engineer, electrical engineer, electrical engineer.’

  He went over to the window. It was reinforced. He removed the bar and slid open the bolt. Stuck his head out. There was no one there.

  The White Roses

  The wild, white roses on the road from Castro to Elviña are small and seem to be putting all their effort not into growth, but into their fragrance. You can miss them, hidden, shy as they are against a backdrop of myrtle, but then they lift their heads and fill the place. Polka says the most envied bees visit those rosebushes.

  ‘Some bees go in front to look for the flower and then keep quiet about it back in the hive.’

  ‘That means they’re selfish, not envied.’

  ‘No. When you and Olinda stop looking for wild roses, there won’t be any.’

  In the bundle of clothes and the basket, she’d put white roses, everlastings, fennel, marjoram, rosemary, aromatic herbs for the house of the painter. The knowledge she’d inherited from Olinda. And on her return, Neves, the maid, would hide fashion magazines she liked to read sitting on the toilet.

  The Prickles of Words

  He didn’t remember when he started getting tongue-tied, but he remembered the day his father noticed. It was the first time he’d received the warning, something inside him had said here comes a word with problems. A word dragging its own skeleton. A spicule without a sponge. A mushroom in the shade. A wounded crab. This warning, this alert, caught him by surprise in front of his father. He couldn’t let the word out, he felt its traction, its attempt to climb, its prickles, but couldn’t let it out because it was crippled, maimed, trembling and possibly beside itself.

  ‘What is it, Gabriel?’

  The way he asked. The way he looked. A cat
astrophe. Everything was happening not inside him, but on his father’s face. He knew the fear he had of trembling or precipitate words was as nothing compared to the fear his father’s fear gave him. And he sensed his father’s fear was fear of what they’d say in the city. Occasionally, very rarely, he’d heard him say this. ‘What’ll they say, what’ll they think in the city?’ But when he referred to the city, he wasn’t talking about the whole city. Gabriel knew by now what his father meant when he referred to the city.

  ‘What were you going to say, Gabriel?’

  He shook his head.

  His father insisted. Rationalised what had happened. His ears tried to remember. Not one, not two, but more. Gabriel was stammering. His son. A child who was . . . perfect. That was the word. In short. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t a nightmare.

  ‘You were going to say something, Gabriel. Go on. What is it? Are you not well? Say something. Speak. Tell me about the trolleybus.’ His imaginary journeys with Chelo, his mother. Every Tuesday, they’d depart from Porta Real. The red, double-decker buses had been brought from London, second-hand. What fun it was to go upstairs, to sit in the first row, the large front window like a screen in the city’s real cinema. ‘Where did you go yesterday? To Montevideo. Come on, say Montevideo. You sometimes go to Lisbon, don’t you? Lisbon’s easy to say. Say Lisbon.’

  ‘Lisbon.’

  ‘That’s good, Gabriel. Another city you go to is Paris. Let’s see if you can say Montevideo, Lisbon, Paris, Berlin, Barcelona. It’s just a joke. A game. I know you can say all of this. But say it to me now.’

  ‘Montevideo, Lisbon, Paris . . .’

  Things always happened somewhere. On the beach this summer, he’d learnt to dive. A little. But for him these first experiences were like underwater journeys. He couldn’t believe it when he opened his eyes and saw Chelo’s feet, enormous under the water, the toes like rock creatures with pearly shells. Now he’d like to dive and go between his father’s legs. He felt the presence of Grand Mother Circa, the grandfather clock, behind him. It had come from Cuba, like the wooden horse Carirí, and been a wedding present from Chelo’s father. He’d always end up there when he started to walk. He’d use it as a support, watch the pendulum. It was a fantastic creature, alive, with its own way of speaking day and night. He used to dream something was happening and this is where he’d hide. The grandfather clock leant against the room’s central pillar. The sunlight coming in from the balcony – it was a winter’s day, but there was a magnificent sun, a ‘Catholic sun’, someone at court had said – drew a dividing line with the pillar’s shadow. So Grand Mother Circa was also, in its own way, a light mechanism. He listened to it up close. He listened to it inside. It calmed the words and ordered them for him. This time, they’d gone on a boat to the Xubias. They’d gone up and down the beach, from the jetty to the estuary channel. On the sandbank, from a neighbouring dune, they could see the two waters fighting it out. Blue and green. They then climbed some rocks to reach a chalet. He tripped several times. Chelo took his hand and helped him up that steep shortcut. The house was closed, except for one of the shutters. How strange. Look. It was a house full of books. Inhabited by books. A house without books must be sad. Even sadder a house of books without people. Brambles and roses intertwined on the pergola. He protested, ‘What are we doing? Why did we come here?’