Books Burn Badly

by Unknown

‘Aphrodite, what time does one eat around here?

  ‘That’s not the best part, girl. Do you know what happened next? He seemed to calm down when the nurse came in. Lunch was served soon after. Hake with potatoes and peas. Followed by yoghurt. You know what I think of yoghurt, but still I ate it. He didn’t eat a thing. Carried on deliberating. I could hear him deliberating. I swear the conspiracy in his head was as loud as the sounds emitted by clinical machines. I know that sound. It’s the beep of troublemakers. Up to him if he didn’t eat. I can be at death’s door, I still won’t leave peas on my plate. “Bon appétit,” I said and fell into a doze. It was a way of bringing the matter to a close. But when I woke up, he was there. Not in bed. He was standing. Clinging to the end of my bed. Staring at me. Tall and strong. In a cloak.’

  ‘A cloak?’

  ‘OK. A very smart dressing-gown with a velvet collar over his shoulders, on top of his pyjamas. My God! He looked like General Primo de Rivera. A light in his eyes like that of the one who played Dracula, set the screen in Hercules Cinema on fire, left two holes like cigarette burns. First thing I did was close my eyes. To slow my heart more than anything. What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over. I had to think. And I thought I knew that man from somewhere. He belonged to another class. The skin on his face, his hands, hadn’t weathered. And off he went again.

  ‘“I can offer you a fortune for that book.”

  ‘I swear he had the same light in his eyes as the actor Bela Lugosi. He was turning into a nightmare.

  ‘“You don’t have to worry about a thing. Nobody will know. I’ll make you an exact copy, a facsimile. It’ll be like having the original. And a mass of money. You can name your price.”

  ‘“Let me think,” I said, hoping this would calm him down. But it had the opposite effect. That man was like a horse. We’d obviously not been treated by the same doctor. He came up to me with emotion, took my hands. His look was – how shall I say? – Eucharistic.

  ‘“So you do have the book dedicated to the valiente of Finisterra?”

  ‘I said, “Yes, sir, I have it.”

  ‘“Borrow’s New Testament?”

  ‘“The very same.”

  ‘“You have to sell it to me!”

  ‘“We’ll talk about that later.”

  ‘“Later?”

  ‘“Yes, now I need to sleep.”

  ‘What was I supposed to say, O? The guy was crazy. It hurt me to look at him. He was boring a hole in my head.’

  ‘The truth,’ said O. ‘You could have told him the truth. That you had another book, Elisha’s book, as you like to call it.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Why not, Papa?’

  ‘That’s my business. I still have to return it.’

  O had already discussed this with him. She’d been the repository of a secret, but couldn’t believe he was still feeling guilty.

  ‘Who are you going to return it to, Papa? That book’s yours. It belongs to you more than anyone.’

  ‘There’ll be somebody. Somebody’ll have the key. Maybe even Minerva. Women live longer than men. And they’re more careful about keeping things.’

  ‘If that guy’s so crazy, he’ll bring it up again. You should have told him about The Invisible Man. Told him the truth.’

  ‘What for? He didn’t want to listen. He could have killed me then and there. I could see he was capable of such a barbarous act for the sake of a book. Capable of killing for a copy of Scripture.’

  Bigarreaus

  As he sits on the terrace of the Dársena Café, things move in and out of his glass of amber and ice cubes. For example, he’s convinced the cloud of starlings drawing a protective bird in the sky, a bird composed of dots like a pop cartoon, wasn’t there before. He decides to count them. A hundred thousand, give or take. Nor was the puppet there before, standing in front of him, in front of his eyes.

  Leica stirs in his chair. This is a man who doesn’t want to know anything about anybody except those moving in and out of his glass. He no longer argues with customers. Today he was even polite. A woman came to his studio. The doorbell made him nervous, particularly edgy, to start with he’d fidget about. Who can it be? Why are people still interested in having their portrait done?

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve come to have my portrait done.’

  ‘Why?’

  Yes, why? Were they not able to spot impending disaster? Were they not aware of the world’s structural ugliness? No. They were optimistic! Sufficiently optimistic to want an immortal portrait.

  But Leica had changed. He’d had some terrible years trying to get rid of himself. He used to say he was afraid of his own body, which is why he didn’t dare destroy it. Who knows how that brute will respond? he used to think. He hated it so much, was so bored of it, this carcass holding on to him, so afraid, he couldn’t even pluck a hair from his nose. He imagined it spewing a jet of blood. What a ridiculous way to die, to empty like a barrel. The nightmare of stepping in his own blood and wandering off, like a ghost, leaving acrylic footprints on the pavements. He longed not to be. From time to time, a student of local culture would refer to a Coruñan brand of existentialism. Coruña, despite the persecutions, kept up an international beat, the systole-diastole of new tendencies, etc., etc., and when existentialism was needed, well, there it was. Among them, Leica the photographer, our own Robert Doisneau, our own Henri Cartier-Bresson. What a shame! They hadn’t even bothered to find out if he was still alive, had ever really existed. Only the selfishness of cells, the irrational tenacity of organs, the stubborn functionality of the respiratory system, explained his inopportune presence in this world.

  ‘Why what?’ asked the woman. Her tone of voice matched her eyes, which darted about a little.

  ‘Why do you want a portrait?’

  Leica almost always achieved his goal. To make the person who’d come for a portrait take in the studio, suddenly aware they may have fallen into a murderous psychopath’s lair. The old curtain at the back showing the lighthouse had acquired sombre tones, filled with black clouds. A storm was trapped inside it. Then there was the wooden aeroplane. The seat looked every bit as if it wasn’t for sitting in, but for denouncing the absence of children who’d sat there previously. And all the tools. The cameras.

  ‘I’ve got a cold. My nose must be like a beetroot. That can be arranged, right?’

  ‘There’s no need. Your nose is extremely . . .’

  He looked at her, afraid something was happening in his mouth.

  ‘Greek,’ he said finally. ‘Classical.’

  ‘Like one of those statues missing a nose?’

  They laughed. And he breathed in. On any other occasion, he’d have been enraged by the suggestion he might retouch a photo. He was quite direct with customers about it. ‘If you want to look pretty,’ he’d shout at them, ‘go visit a surgeon . . . or Mago Photos!’ But now there really was something happening in his mouth.

  ‘Excuse me. We’d better get on with it right away,’ he said with sudden urgency. ‘I have to go out. Photograph a wedding.’

  ‘A wedding?’

  Why was she laughing? Everything struck her as funny. She must have been about fifty years old, though it was difficult to be sure. Curly hair, swimmer’s body. What Sada the painter called a nautical age. Against the current. You advance in time, not time in you.

  ‘A wedding so late?’

  ‘Nowadays people get married at night.’

  ‘With malice aforethought.’

  He laughed at the woman’s comment. His mouth. What was going on in his mouth? He swallowed. His saliva had a strange taste, of grass. He realised he hadn’t spoken in ages.

  He asked her to stand on the stage, with Hercules Lighthouse in the background. There was a small table with a plant, a begonia that miraculously also advanced in time and not the other way round. She instinctively drew near the plant. He was now concerned about her face. The light on her face. H
e ignored her swimmer’s body. Forgot about asking her if she was the Sea Club’s Esther Williams. Saw her face out of the water. Her curls intertwined with seaweed.

  Her beauty was intolerable. When and where had he read this? He thought alcohol acted like bleach on the memory. Ended up erasing everything. The imagination. Dreams. Culture. All that nonsense.

  His mouth. That was it. Something in his mouth tasted of seaweed. Never mind!

  ‘Are you sure you want one of my portraits? I don’t do colour, you know. I paint the photo. So don’t tell me afterwards you’re not happy.’

  She gazed at him in silence for a minute. The sitter now studying the lack of light on the artist’s face.

  ‘I’ve been walking past here for years. I always wanted to have my portrait done. A painted portrait. Then today something strange happened. I thought the studio would be closed. You no longer existed.’

  ‘You say you come past here every day?’

  ‘Every day. I’m the fruitseller. You used to buy bigarreaus. At the start of summer, you’d always buy a cone of bigarreaus.’

  ‘They’re a little harder than cherries. That’s why I like them. Because they’re just that little bit harder than cherries.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And they don’t have a stalk.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why don’t bigarreaus have a stalk?’

  ‘I already told you that a thousand times.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes, whenever you bought a cone. Bigarreaus don’t have a stalk because they let go of it when they’re gathered from the tree. Like lizard tails.’

  He fidgeted about, glancing in all directions, seeking a memory, but without taking his eyes off her.

  A memory! My memory, like a bigarreau, has lost its stalk. One moment if you please!

  There was just enough light. There, on the hat-stand, was the body that contained it, had kept it until now.

  ‘Put this on if you would.’

  She draped the night-blue shawl over her shoulders. Positioned her arms as if holding and protecting it. Behind her, the trapped storm gathered momentum.

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘I used to. Almost every day.’

  He sits on the terrace of the Dársena Café. Looks at the camera. Can’t bear the camera’s look because it tells him the truth. Is aware the best photographs were its decision. To hear it better, he has to take it in his hands and look through the viewfinder. He seems to be taking photos of boats, but he isn’t. He’s listening to the camera. To see what it has to say.

  ‘How could you let go of those photos?’

  ‘Don’t start that again. What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Photos of dead friends. You had to protect that film like a roadside shrine.’

  ‘You know what happened. They were after the other photos, but they were all mixed up. The photos of friends the day we went to Ara Solis together with the photos of burning books. They were on the same film. Too much pressure. Having them was like putting a bullet in your head.’

  His eyes are on the glass. He sees the puppet’s reflection.

  ‘Shall I tell you a joke, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  He was about to say he didn’t like jokes or jokers. I despise jokers even more than jokes. He kept quiet. He could have spoken, but he’d renounced the art of conversation. It didn’t seem reasonable to have to explain himself to a puppet. On the other hand, he didn’t have the energy to lift his head and observe the puppeteer. If he had to speak, he preferred to speak to the puppet.

  ‘Have you seen a boomerang go past, sir?’

  ‘No, not today.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the puppet. ‘Did you know you’re flying low? The weight of the silent dagger.’

  He looked at his flies. It was true. They were open.

  ‘Thank you. Much obliged.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, sir. Manolo Pinzón at your service.’

  It left. He was sorry now. Really a very interesting puppet. Sharp-witted. And not at all boring. He went back to his glass. Who knows? Perhaps, if he followed it, he’d come to a city beyond the sea. They’d go down street after street until suddenly the puppet started moving him. He’d be the one hanging on strings. They’d stop in front of a building with a shop sign on which was written Invisible Remedy. The puppet would say, ‘Now, Leica, raise your head. Look up there, at that window on the third floor. It’s her.’

  ‘Impossible! I can’t see anything.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Leica. It’s her!’

  He sits on the terrace of the Dársena Café, his eyes sunk in a glass of amber. Liquid photos. Curtis goes by with the horse Carirí. Leica recognises them, but is not sure why. They must be coming from the lighthouse, Hercules Lighthouse. He sometimes thinks people coming down from Mount Alto are amphibian and also aerial creatures. They stop. The travelling photographer greets him with affection. He likes creatures that give you a wave and then carry on. They leave a wake in the amber and that’s all. Farewell, friend. Farewell, horse. Farewell.

  You I Can

  Today he won’t listen to an extract from The Invisible Man, as he usually does. Today he’ll be late. Who knows what time he’ll turn up? After funerals, the men invite him for a drink. And he has to go. Says it’s part of his duty to toast the souls. Give them one last push.

  He has his very own toast for bars: ‘Matter is neither created nor destroyed, it is simply transformed.’ He always says this, with feeling, and the deceased’s relatives are grateful because it sounds convincing. Scientific. Like a commandment. ‘Another round?’

  It’s what he says when Olinda tells him off for drinking too much.

  ‘A fine state you’re in!’

  ‘Matter is neither created nor destroyed, sweetheart, it is simply transformed.’

  When Polka drinks too much after a funeral, he sings hymns to everything. You can tell he’s drunk by the way he opens the door. Today scientific proof, as he’d say, because when he opens the double door, the upper leaf bangs against the wall. He’s always telling us to open the door slowly so the upper leaf doesn’t bang against the wall and spoil the paintwork. Pinche makes him suffer every time he bangs the door when he comes in. So whenever he opens the door and there’s a slam, Olinda and I know that Polka, in an attempt to dissemble, is going to shout out some vivas – long live electricity, long live Carballo bread, long live fillets of cod and cauliflower, long live the Umbrella Maker’s whistle – and then sing ‘The moth alights in a very pretty way’. He pops into our bedroom in the hope that Olinda will go back to sleep and forget about her invisible man. Sits next to my bed and murmurs the refrain: ‘Till it finds a flower, it never wants to alight’.

  He sings the one about autumn leaves.

  ‘This is no time for singing!’ shouts Olinda from bed.

  He likes that song a lot. I like it when he sings it. ‘We’re two autumn leaves’.

  ‘We’re out of time, girl.’ Then he asks me one of his scientific questions, ‘Why do leaves change colour?’

  ‘To save light.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To live longer. There’s less light in autumn and the leaves change colour to make the most of it.’

  What he wanted was for us to be knowledgeable. What I wanted was for him to carry on talking. Because of what he said and to watch the way his Adam’s apple moved.

  He hasn’t shaved for days. Darkness has gone to sleep, so the light of the table lamp concentrates on his face. You can see him better than during the day. Polka’s so skinny, instead of a double chin, he has a hollow that arches the roof of the grotto where his amazing Adam’s apple holds stage. His beard’s a bit ancient. Roots sticking out through cracks in the stone. A laborious renaissance of thickets among crags, stalks with colourful spikes you couldn’t see before his beard went grey.

  He was tired that night.

  ‘I dug the grave and saw myself on top of a palm tree. Felt dizzy again. Th
e body’s memory is such a strange thing.’

  ‘What were you doing on top of a palm?’

  ‘Pruning and climbing. It’s the only place in the world you cut and climb.’

  ‘You used to prune palm trees?’

  ‘I did. I pruned the palms in Recheo Gardens.’

  ‘Were they very tall?’

  ‘They were of a certain height. And I made them taller.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘That’s right. You have to make palm trees. Like building a staircase in the sky.’

  I stayed silent because there was a wounded note in Polka’s response as if the pruning had affected his body. I imagined him clambering up the palm tree’s old cuts to reach the branches he still had to saw.

  ‘Pruning a tall palm is very different from pruning any other tree. It’s like cutting wings. The whole leaf shakes as you’re sawing. Though they’re not really leaves. More like spines. Skeletons.’

  His glistening eyes also lived in holes. Polka’s face was an inhabited rock. Not round, a succession of stone slabs with caves where shiny-skinned, expressive creatures darted about. I watched him with my face on the pillow, Pinche having been rocked to sleep by his flowing tones, and it seemed to me his apple was a pendulum moving his lips and the scent of words brought his eyes out, his eyes and his memories, since they illustrated the story he was telling. Polka’s mechanism, set in motion, went in the other direction to night. He was able to resist it. Olinda knew this and called him to bed.

  ‘Skeletons?’

  ‘Spines of big fish. Swordfish.’

  With my face lying on the pillow, in the mist of sleepiness, I could see him up there, on top of a palm, sawing the skeletons of swordfish. Polka is shaped like a spine. Never had much flesh. He had a friend, Celeiro, whose skeleton alone weighed a hundred and twenty kilos. At death’s door, he said to him, ‘Polka, death doesn’t want you, you’ve nothing to gnaw on.’

  Now Polka’s lying down and O is standing next to his bed. Polka’s feet are cold, the rest of him is warm. His ribs are becoming more and more visible, even under the sheet. A body assembled on a palm leaf. The creatures living under the stone slabs of his face seem to be quiet tonight. Except for his eyes. His eyes are wide open and look at her in surprise. Suddenly he blinks as if trying to clear a mist. O doesn’t want to stop talking, maintains the flow of her voice. She may be watching him on top of a palm tree, sawing swordfish spines. Sawing and climbing.