Books Burn Badly

by Unknown

  Then there were books and leaflets, ordered not as in a library, but as in the display of confiscated goods. In gaps between the books, there were emblems, badges, slugs cast by a Linotype machine, typographical devices including a set of borders. In the light of the torch, they were like archaeological remains alternating with ancient parchments.

  One leaflet caught the torch’s attention. On the cover was a group of naked men and women bathers, wearing seaweed as a kind of natural dress. He opened it in the middle and read with the torch. There was a question. ‘Is Man a carnivore? No.’ Followed by thirty-five vegetarian dishes for the seven days of the week. He picked one at random. ‘Thursday: rice with apple’. Closed his eyes. Acquired the two flavours on his palate. Thought of a pippin, cinnamon apple. He needed it. He’d been there long enough to hear things speak, the terrible murmur of imprisoned things, and he hankered after fruit. The booty of war, on display, which included a gold tooth. There it was. The size of a grain of maize, it seemed to have broken off a brilliant sentence arrested in mid-air. All the same, the wedding rings were the most impressive. They formed a fraternity of circles, of varying diameter and thickness, but with the natural complementary function of circular figures when placed or drawn together. One of them, which from the size must have belonged to a woman, was labelled with a date. In Ren’s museum, ‘18 August 1936’ was often repeated. The first 18th after 18 July. Santos knew the importance of dates in the history of crime. Dates that can be identified as the mark of a calibre on a missile. The imitation effect. The echo of a date resounding in mental cavities. But he’d never applied this basic criterion of criminology to the calendar. Seasons were important. Abrupt climatic vicissitudes. A leaden sky. He’d just been investigating a series of suicides in the district. The same week, the same early hour, people hanging from the same species of tree, the apple tree. Yes, the sky’s weight. But from now on he needed also to study the history of days.

  The stubborn torch persevered like another circle among circles. Awoke things. Unearthed them like a shovel of light. Over the years, how many eyes would have seen this, guided there by the Collector? He suddenly felt something he never allowed himself. Fear. He’d decided to forbid himself fear as others forbid themselves tobacco or alcohol. But now he felt fear. A fear with no exact location in his body. That affected neither his respiratory system nor his sweat glands nor his locomotion. That didn’t belong to him, but alighted on him. A fear that sounded like a whisper. That issued from the intimacy of things. The experience of things. An exhibit’s fear of being erased. Fear of disappearing. The torch took the initiative. Here, on a file like those used in a notary’s office for keeping title deeds, a terse message: ‘Castellana Bridge, River Mandeo’. As he took it, the cover gave way and out fell photographs that seemed to float on the table. That river. It could be said that river was the merriest in the whole of Galicia. It took the sea to the mountains. In the direction of the Caneiros festivities. Santos knew this. He’d gone there once with a group of Law students from Betanzos. He was so impressed he went to tell Catherine Laboure about it. She enjoyed music. That river was like a gramophone. The sailing of the boats, a stream of song. Of course this was no place for her. ‘A nun in Caneiros?’ she mused. ‘Nuns bring bad luck to boats.’ She liked these stories, to hear how people had fun. Listening to them, she’d smoke like a chimney. Not long before, as summer approached, Santos had thought about Catia and Caneiros. Upriver, rays of sunlight among alders. At dusk, the sun like a charred log in the water. Contact between boats, bodies carrying the day’s enjoyment on rippling skirts and blazing shirts. What Santos saw now were corpses. Bodies thrown into the river from the Castile road. Among the photos he saw bobbing on the table, a woman’s face. A small portrait, the edge of which matched the smile and teeth. An inscription on the back in well-rounded handwriting: ‘Monelos Schoolmistress’. He’d never felt so confused. He thought of an unending debate, one of few possible, in the Law Faculty. That of the Plank of Carneades. Two shipwrecked sailors with a single plank. Not helping the other wasn’t a crime if there was only one plank to save yourself. He’d vehemently taken the opposite side. It was a crime. It wasn’t a question of codes. It was a question of conscience. The line between humanity and inhumanity.

  ‘The thing about Carneades’ Plank is that there’ll always be someone to support, in theory, what you’re saying,’ the Professor with the Pimpled Nose remarked ironically. ‘I’d like to see what you’d do with the plank if you were shipwrecked.’

  He couldn’t see himself abandoning or getting rid of the other sailor. So he failed to understand his own actions when he put down the photo of the Woman with Curls, stuffed the photos back into the file and returned it to the shadows.

  His mind sought out an alibi. He wasn’t at sea with a plank and another sailor. It’d already happened. They’d already drowned. This was something else. His attention was drawn to a bookshelf with various Bibles, different editions, most of them old and in several volumes. He leafed through one of the books the torchlight fell on, perhaps because of the golden letters on its spine. It was Bernard Lamy’s Apparatus Biblicus, containing beautiful illustrations of animals and plants. There was another book on that shelf, Ulysses, a foreigner taken in by Holy Scripture. It was the book’s foreignness that made him pick it up. Open it at random. There was an ex-libris with a geometrical design: ‘This book belongs to Huici’. It was written in English. He turned the pages. Tried to translate something easy, but his eyes landed on a sort of medley:

  Diddlediddle dumdum

  Diddlediddle . . .

  The torch headed urgently for the desk. Went straight to an artistic paperweight. A polished, oval shape. A black woman’s head in ebony. Very pretty. Where’d it come from? He had to go. He’d been here too long. On the desk was a blue cardboard folder with a white label and a name: ‘Judith’. He opened it, though he knew it wasn’t necessary. From the weight, he could tell it was empty.

  Blue Mist

  ‘Here it is.’

  A car driving slowly along Aduanas Esplanade. Just now, with the aid of two tugs, the cargo boat Chemin Creux started weighing anchor. The mist colours the night and makes land and sea machines act with animal caution.

  Manlle gets out of his vehicle and comes over to the half-open window of the Opel where Ren, Mancorvo, Santos and Samos the judge are waiting. Deliberately seeks out the gaze of the new kid on the block in Crime, Paúl Santos is his name, sitting in the back with the judge, but talks to the chief of the Political Brigade. An old acquaintance. ‘Here it is. She’s in that car. I’ll be off now, gentlemen. I’ve done my bit.’ He doffs his hat in a mocking gesture. ‘Lots to do tonight.’

  Two women emerge. One of them is Chelo. The other is taller, walks stiffly. In a hat with veil.

  ‘There they are,’ says Ren. ‘Chelo and the Portuguese architect.’

  The judge is amazed. ‘What architect? That’s a woman!’

  Mancorvo reacts fast, ‘Not under her skirts she isn’t!’

  ‘Stay calm, your honour. Don’t move. Don’t rush into anything.’

  They were arm in arm, two girlfriends out for a walk, but now they’ve separated. The two of them quicken their pace over the flagstones. There’s an uneasiness, a bewilderment in their movements when they realise the Chemin Creux is being towed away from the jetty. The lights of the tugs are on, their powerful engines snort loudly in the night. But the cargo boat is like a phantom ship being dragged along in slow motion. The two women reach the edge of the jetty. Suddenly a shadow appears astern and emits flashes with a small torch.

  The couple look at each other. Turn around. Head back towards the car. The driver is expecting this and has kept the engine running, though the lights are switched off. He turns and goes to meet them.

  ‘Come on!’ says Santos.

  The judge grabs at the door. Trips and falls out, shouting, ‘Chelo!’

  The woman’s name is the first cry to break out in the night. A c
ommanding and yet anxious call. But no one replies. His intervention speeds up every movement. Only he stays still, petrified on the flagstones. The tragic balance of an intoxicated man.

  ‘Stop!’ shouts Santos. ‘Police!’

  Ren gets out of the car, but his behaviour is unusual. He gestures towards the dark, in the direction of the yacht club and House of Pilots, from where ambushed guards emerge. He gestures for calm, for them not to intervene.

  Santos again tells them to stop. Measures the distance. If they don’t heed him, and it looks as if they’re not going to, he won’t be able to reach them before they get in the car. He looks back. Come on, Santos, what’s happening? You’re the only one running after the fugitives. You should stop and think. This is what he does. He stops. His heavy breathing has more to do with the sudden agitation in his mind than with physical effort. As Chelo Vidal and the other fugitive get in the car, Paúl Santos turns around. Mancorvo hasn’t moved. He’s still at the wheel. The judge is on the ground, petrified, a white cravat around his neck like a luminous noose. Ren stares at him, at Paúl Santos, and nods mockingly when he gestures for the car to start, to follow him. Ren climbs in. The fugitives’ car has already gone through the gears and is moving swiftly away, with a screech of tyres as it twists between the cranes, heading for the eastern exit.

  The chase is on.

  The car with Ren and Mancorvo, which has left the judge behind, approaches. Santos puts his weapon away and prepares to climb in. He won’t be able. As they’re passing, Mancorvo lowers the window. Says, ‘It’s our turn now, Mr Scientist!’ Accelerates. He’s grounded. Surrounded by blue mist.

  His office is open. He’s dozing with his head on the table. The night’s dozing as well, on the blinds, the indirect sea, the collage of shadows in the city on the other side of the window. Finally he hears them arrive. They’re greeted by the duty officers. Ask for a cigarette. It’s as if he can hear everything. Including the sound of the smoke. Which is why, when Mancorvo starts typing and discussing the terms of the report with Ren, their voices and the sound of the keys reverberate inside his head.

  So it was he learnt:

  The driver of the vehicle being pursued performed a reckless manoeuvre on Hervés Hill, the car overturned on a bend and fell down the side. As a result of the accident, two occupants died: a woman identified as Consuelo Vidal Míguez and a man, the driver, as yet to be identified. A third person, also unknown, managed to escape, no doubt badly injured, judging by traces remaining on the scene.

  And then:

  The orders are, until further notice, not to provide any public information about these events, to avoid them being disseminated in the media, orders that will be duly passed on to the censor’s office.

  He could hear everything. Drying sweat, Mancorvo’s handkerchief sounded like a paper blade, Ren’s like the crackling of elytra in a light trap for insects.

  ‘Where’s Mr Scientist?’

  ‘He’ll be here somewhere. His door’s open.’

  ‘Give him time,’ said Ren. ‘He’ll soon find out birds don’t suck and pigs don’t fly.’

  The Arrest

  It’s a hot morning. Santos, the policeman, heads for the Tachygraphic Rose academy and finds it closed. A few pupils are standing around in confusion. It’s the first time this has happened. ‘Closed Owing to Bereavement’. They expect some such sign. But suddenly the door opens and Dr Montevideo comes out. It was he who opened. The one who was bedridden. Something extraordinary must have happened, something terrible or supernatural. The man exiled in his own room since he returned from his other exile ten or so years previously. They gaze at the ghost. Perhaps it’s only a shell, empty on the inside. They’ll soon find out when he turns around to lock the door. But no. On the contrary, he’s very robust, not astral at all. A body, the memory of a body, wearing a coat and the coat’s memory. When he entered the house, intending not to reappear, it was winter. This helped him. He entered like a shepherd driving a flock of dry leaves. Now the sea-blue coat gives him the air of a sailor emerging from a boat-house in another hemisphere, another season. He looks at the plaque: ‘The Tachygraphic Rose, 2nd Floor’. Wipes the brass with his sleeve. ‘The best polish for cleaning metals is and always will be Love. Love Polish.’ An advertisement he remembers from his childhood. Another one, important for a reason that’s become obscured, is the definition of Portland cement. The relationship between poetry and publicity is paradoxical. A verse quickly grows old when it takes the form of an advert, but a slogan that’s presented as a poem lives on. For example . . . No, now is not the time to institute such proceedings. He wipes the plaque with his sleeve, a sea cloth. Says, ‘Go back to the jungle, children. Classes are suspended.’

  ‘Why, Mr Montevideo?’

  The doctor looks back. His eyes rest on the policeman Paúl Santos. Speechless, shocked, suddenly fully aware of the outcome.

  ‘What is it, Mr Montevideo?’ asks Stringer.

  ‘Nothing you can publish,’ replies Héctor Ríos. ‘A man descended into hell.’

  Having said this, he heads quickly towards the pedestrian crossing. The road is flat, but he views each step as if it’s an uphill climb.

  ‘Has something happened to Miss Catia?’ Stringer manages to ask out loud. He’s conscious by now that the fact of asking could not only reveal a truth, but worsen it.

  ‘She was arrested last night. They’ve taken her, Balboa.’

  Stringer reiterates a long forgotten question, ‘Why?’

  ‘They say they arrested someone who had a photo of her. They searched his house and apparently found a photo of Catia with the name ‘Judith’ on the back. Nonsense. They then came here and turned everything upside down. They even tore my mattress and confiscated my papers. A Dramatic History of Culture. To see what it said. I told them I’d written it. They wouldn’t listen. I was of no interest. They didn’t want to arrest me, I think they thought I was too old. One kept looking at my teeth. I told him I had a new set which I’d lent to a friend working as a second-hand car salesman.’

  He points across the road. ‘For further information, ask the . . . lawyer.’ Stringer turns to look at Paúl Santos, who’s typing inside, has a problem, he’s hit two different keys and the bars are entangled.

  Popsy’s Delivery

  Pinche was watching TV. The owners had gone on holiday, so he was living like a king. All he had to do was keep the house warm. Those were his orders. He’d light the fires and then sit back to watch TV. That horse that could speak. Black Beauty. He understood everything after a few months. Spoke perfect English, like the horse. Who wouldn’t? But as for me, I had to do the rest. The dogs. Look after the dogs. Besides watching that horse on TV, he could have taken care of the dogs. He said he would but, when it comes to dogs, who’d believe him? The only animal deserving of his attention was Black Beauty. So better to forget about Pinche. I like animals. When I told the lady of the house my mother had a donkey to carry the clothes called Grumpy, she almost cried with emotion.

  ‘Grumpy!’

  ‘That’s right, madam. Grumpy.’

  What I wanted was for her to talk to me in English, since I wasn’t around for Black Beauty to teach me, but what she wanted was for me to talk to her in Spanish. She was an actress and had always dreamed of one day speaking Spanish. Sometimes, when Pinche and I spoke Galician, she’d listen in to our conversation. She obviously thought something funny was going on and we were trying to wind her up with a secret language we’d invented. She didn’t know this language existed. She knew about Catalan and Basque. I explained it was a poor person’s language, how could she know? But it wasn’t something we’d come up with to annoy her. Thing is I couldn’t talk Spanish to Pinche, it made me laugh. What, Spanish? No, Spanish didn’t make me laugh, what made me laugh was talking it to Pinche and Pinche talking it to me. To her? No. Talking it to her didn’t make me laugh. Why should it? ‘All right, madam, you talk English to me in the mornings and in the afternoons I’ll talk
Spanish.’ It seemed a good deal. She was almost always out in the afternoons. But, after that, she stopped going out. When the weather was good, we’d sit outside, chatting away. If I got paid for talking, I’d be rich by now. In the mornings, however, when she was due to speak to me in English, she’d fall silent. I’m not saying she wanted to save her words, keep them to herself. Though it would have been better for her if I spoke English well, then we wouldn’t have had a problem when she asked me to ‘clean the corner’ and I understood cona or ‘fanny’, went all red, somehow managed to stop myself saying, ‘Clean your own!’ And she came up to me, what was wrong, was I offended? We laughed a lot after that, when I explained. Same thing happened when she asked me to ‘collect the gateau’. What did she mean, collect the gato, the ‘cat’? Ah, nonsense. After a while, you joke about it. Words like to play with us. The more serious we look to them, the more they play. I knew very well if she didn’t speak much, it wasn’t to save her words. No doubt she was outgoing enough in her time. She’d been an actress. They once showed a film on TV she’d worked on. A film a dozen or so years old. There we were, the four of us – her husband and her, Pinche and me – and it was all very funny to start with. She was good. But it faded after a while, as if the light on the screen had dwindled. No, she wouldn’t talk much in the mornings. She’d hang anxiously around the phones and, if one rang, it was as if the cuckoo had sung after a long winter. She could be on the phone for hours.