Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘He may or may not become a judge,’ said Chelo, ‘but don’t talk to me about a curse ever again.’

This time, Ricardo Samos took notice. No, he wouldn’t use that word again. Besides, Gabriel’s difficulty with speech soon entered a new phase. Of rapid improvement, it seemed.

During a visit to Madrid, Grandpa Samos, who was then a high-ranking Navy legal officer, had tried to convince the judge that Gabriel’s problem was, in fact, the faltering expression of a sensitive and extremely gifted young boy. Ricardo didn’t pay much attention. He didn’t think his father an expert in such matters and, most of all, he couldn’t marry the idea of being extremely gifted with tripping over your tongue, being unable to express yourself, having such a terrible fear of words.

But when he heard the same thing from others he held in high esteem, such as Gueldo the judge, Fasco the prosecutor, Professor Sulfe and even Father Munio, his old fears gave way to this new idea that sooner or later there would be a change in Gabriel when all his aptitude came to the fore.

What worried Chelo, who’d assumed the task of seeking out and consulting specialists, was how little was known about speech impediments. The pedagogical vacuum. The lack of treatments. And, what shocked her more than anything, the little importance they were given compared to the suffering they caused those who experienced them.

During this search that lasted years, she reached the conclusion that her idea of painting souvenirs on Gabriel’s hands and making him practise his handwriting and drawing hadn’t been so wide of the mark. It was also important he should enjoy words. She’d cried with laughter the day she arrived home and Gabriel came running up to her from the grandfather clock, shouting the formula for aspirin, ‘Acetylsalicylic acid!’

Gabriel was getting better. He had periods of silence, when he withdrew into his shell, in a state of watchfulness, and appeared to be chewing over the whole of language.

He liked to read, would write things on his own initiative and put all his effort into practising his speech. This was beyond doubt. This was the best sign. His marks at school were excellent. He could spend days in almost total silence. This way, he avoided being laughed at and made fun of. The teachers knew this and didn’t try to force him to talk. A few attempts had been successful. Others had ended in disaster. Gabriel stuck on a syllable for minutes. His face red. With an absent look.

Until there was a sudden change. A miraculous U-turn. It was when he started writing compulsively. The same summer he asked to attend typing classes. He was amazed by the skill of a student a little older than him, who was dockside reporter for the evening Expreso . He could type very fast, without looking, using all his fingers. And, even more amazingly, he was learning shorthand. Gabriel also could take this step. Acquire a technique that allowed you to transcribe speech at a natural rhythm.

‘That’s magnificent, Gabriel,’ said Chelo. She was enthusiastic. ‘It’s a fantastic idea. Like drawing words.’

‘How was it you became friends?’ asked his father.

In the docks. Stringer is always down in the docks. Everyone calls him that, Stringer. He notes down the names of ships, where they’re coming from, their next destination, the cargo on board. He sometimes conducts interviews. The other day, a ship arrived from the Great Sole, carrying a smaller boat inside, a sailing boat they’d found drifting without a crew. On board were the papers of a Dutchman who lived in the States. He was a photographer and artist.

‘How do you know he was an artist?’

‘Because it said so on his documents. He had the same name as Uncle. Bastian. It’s a strange story. I was looking at his papers with Stringer, which said the voyage, the voyage he was making, was an art performance called In Search of the Miraculous .’

‘You’re talking very well, son,’ said Samos, beaming.

Chelo, with a look, warned her husband to be prudent. Changed subject.

‘You’ll go to that academy, Gabriel. It’s a fantastic idea. And we’ll get out the immortal machine that hasn’t been touched yet. Your father’s dormant Hispano-Olivetti, on which he was going to continue Cicero’s work.’

‘I’ve decided to do it by hand,’ said Samos, playing along. ‘The way classical authors did. What’s the name of that academy, Gabriel?’

‘The Tachygraphic Rose. There’s only one teacher.’

‘Only one teacher?’

‘Yes. I had a go with Stringer. And she positioned my fingers on the keys to teach me how to start. Her name’s Catia. Catia’s the one who positions your fingers on the keys so you can start. Each finger has its own keys. And the thumbs are for using the space-bar.’

He could hear Catia whispering instructions from behind him, close to his neck, like a breeze, ‘Head and back straight. Elbows next to your body, like this. Try and keep your arms at right angles.’

‘I’ve been practising,’ he said, smiling, his eyes closed, his fingers pressing down on imaginary keys. ‘I can find all the letters in the air from memory.’

The iron Hispano-Olivetti on its trolley occupied a central position in the alcove. The typewriter, its actions and constructive sound, implicated the whole area. It was the closest thing to making books. Now was not the time for calligraphy, imitating styles, English or Italian, decorating capital letters in the green light of the lamp, though, when his father had visitors and Gabriel couldn’t move, he’d go back to handwriting. Almost always, he’d write a postcard dated 1913 to Santiago Casares c/o Durtol Sanatorium, telling him how he was solving his problems using an infallible technique, that of combining writing and speech.

His cabinet of curiosities, however, was relegated to a second level. Now, despite their value and meaning, they were more archaeological remains than anything. The typewriter was too big, too out of scale, and pulled him away from childhood, quickly through adolescence, to the doors of another age. That of secret, personal writing.

Eventually Neves, who was worried, decided to bring it up with Chelo. Gabriel had balls of paper in the pockets of his coat, jacket, trousers. He used to keep his notebooks tidy. Now he filled notebooks not only from school, but of different sizes. This may not have mattered. But sometimes, in the morning, his room would be full of loose sheets of paper covered in strange signs, as well as balls of paper, spherical forms that overflowed the wastepaper basket. Gabriel would rush out in the morning. If she’d come to have a word with Chelo, it wasn’t to stick her nose into other people’s business. She wasn’t a meddler. Besides, she wouldn’t have been able to understand anything even if she’d wanted to. They were scrawls. Unintelligible. She’d come because it seemed to her that Gabriel often didn’t sleep at night. When she got up early, she noticed a crack of light under his door. All night with scrawls, shorthand or whatever they called it, couldn’t be good.

‘What are you writing?’ his mother asked him that evening. With a smile, as if by chance. Without wanting to disturb him, without a hint of suspicion. (He’s little; the door opens and it’s her in a black felt hat with a white tulle veil almost covering her eyes; she bends down with open arms and he doesn’t know whether to stay still or run towards her, crouching down with open arms: doucement, doucement ; now he’s the one wearing an invisible veil.)

He’s momentarily taken aback. Why’s she asking him this now precisely? He can’t read her what he’s writing.

My father entered the house in a rage. As he arrived, Medusa was leaving through the front door with a large fish, a bluefin tuna, on top of her head.