Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘Yes. So what?’

‘He’s come back from Holland.’

‘From Holland?’

‘Yes, he lives and works in Holland. He’s giving a seminar in Lisbon and has come with his students. I told you about it.’

It was quite possible she had, but for some time now he hadn’t wanted to listen.

What was worrying him now had nothing to do with Chelo. It was the implementation of the newly created Tribunal of Public Order. Samos had been one of the advisers. Not the main one, but he’d made a contribution given his knowledge of political law. A state of emergency had just been declared for a period of two years. He’d written an article signed by Syllabus, in which he quoted Schmitt: ‘A state of emergency is to law what a miracle is for theology.’ As a result of the new tribunal, the state of emergency would no longer be a military matter, that burden on the regime that is a state of war, and instead would become a civil affair. Ricardo Samos had reason to believe that the creation of the tribunal would enable him to receive a promotion, finally to occupy a position of high authority. But he was concerned. The sentencing to death and execution of the rebel Julián Grimau for alleged crimes committed more than a quarter of a century earlier, in time of war, agreed by a military tribunal, had been accompanied by the irregularity of delaying the start of the new tribunal, which necessitated a legal artifice. Only a few knew about it, of course. And he was one of them. He wasn’t quite sure what to think. He aspired to be a great jurist, but all that manoeuvring on their part. . If only he could make it to the Supreme Court. Yes, the Supreme Court was where he should be.

The censor Dez arrived a little late and sat down next to him. Dez did know where he was going to be. After the summer, he’d finally make the move to Madrid. He was bored, he said laughingly, of his job as censor, of running after poets with a red pencil. Now he’d be on the front line. In the Ministry of Information. Instead of cutting bits out, he’d be adding them. There his publication was guaranteed.

‘Don’t say you’re going to stop writing poetry?’ asked Fasco the prosecutor. ‘That new collection you promised us, The Moment of Truth , what will happen to it?’

‘I’m going to let it sit for a while,’ said Dez, diverting the conversation. ‘Publish something different. A novel. You’ll be surprised, I’m sure.’ And he murmured enigmatically, ‘I myself was surprised when I pulled that out of me.’

The judge had also pulled something out. He wasn’t quite sure why or when or under what impulse the story had reared its head, but the fact is he again told the story of the tribute to Schmitt in Madrid a little over a year earlier, which he’d had the good fortune to attend as one of the jurist’s Spanish disciples.

They egged him on. Some had not heard the story before and were greatly interested in Don Carlos, a living myth for jurists and practising judges, such an influential and mysterious figure.

As had happened in the Crypt, the initial reaction to the end of the story — Don Carlos’ statement, ‘This is a sacred feast in the winter of my life,’ followed by the lights going out, a total blackout that immersed the headquarters of the National Movement in darkness — the initial reaction, Samos saw once again, was one of amazement, thoughtful silence. Despite the fact that, as Samos was fully aware, the ending invited spontaneous laughter. But his listeners hesitated between laughing, since the scene was particularly funny, and biding their time, since the people in it weren’t particularly funny. Samos, the only one who’d witnessed the event, then made use of all his eloquence to turn that blackout into a kind of apotheosis of Schmitt’s power of presence. A mystical ending.

He’d been there and counted it as one of the most memorable acts he’d been fortunate enough to attend. ‘The master of ceremonies was wonderful and I’m not just saying that because he’s now minister. What a minister he’ll be! A long-range cannon. Did you see how he devoured the international media? And something that’s important given the current situation. He’s a man of law. He has our training.’ He was sure the last bit would please his fellow guests. ‘It was a lesson in oratory. Going back to the roots. A man with fiery words, as Donoso was said to be.’

They were serving the first course after some appetisers. The judge looked at his watch. Chelo would be here soon. Fasco the prosecutor raised his glass and proposed a toast, ‘To next year!’ He then addressed the judge, ‘The lights going out must have been a pretty special moment. Weren’t you afraid?’

In the hotel’s main reception room, the lights did not go out, but Fasco the prosecutor and Samos the judge could not help feeling partially responsible for what happened next. A cloud of lampoons fell from the interior balcony, covering the chandeliers and causing momentary darkness. Rather than being a cloud, its form was of a flock of white birds gliding softly. On the one hand, the flock of lampoons silenced all the guests, who were astonished and raised their heads. On the other, their sound, that of the lampoons, had more in common with the idea of music than with noise, since their descent was in slow motion, autumnal.

Faces of shock, amazement, irritation. In short, blank lampoons.

‘Well, they’re not entirely blank,’ said Fasco in an intriguing voice, feeling and examining the pieces of paper. ‘They’re in Braille!’ He glanced at his fellow guests, stood up and went towards the top table, his annoyance at such an absurd event causing him to mutter, ‘In Braille!’

The others did the same. Fingered the pieces of paper. He was right, they had raised points, they had perforations.

The language of the blind. Blind, blind, blind. Wells, Wells, Wells. The judge drank some water. The taste of water. It could do with some sugar. Yes, the gorilla who’d urinated on the pyre was there somewhere, in full-dress uniform, an authority now. They hadn’t read Wells. They hadn’t read his story, The Country of the Blind , about a man who fell into a valley where the faculty of sight was considered abnormal. Blast it! Why did this scandal, this act of subversion, make him think of Wells? There were days he became angry with his memory, his mind’s insistence on going off alone.

After the initial commotion, pre-war posturing, the dinner guests of the National Movement returned to their ranks and were harangued by the governor. Meanwhile plain-clothes agents picked up every single blank lampoon.

Chelo ran as fast as she could down Tabernas Street. She knew she couldn’t keep going for long. But she also knew she had an option. A refuge. Santiago Church. She’d been there often as a guide. And had often exchanged messages in missals. There was a place, a hollow under the altar of Our Lady of Milk, which a restorer friend had shown her and even the priests didn’t know about. Long enough for the immediate danger to pass. She’d leave in the morning, as the first Mass was being said.

Shame about the shawl. She needed time. She had to think. An item of clothing could change everything. The situation struck her now as absurd, but absurdity is defined by bad luck. That bogey. When she entered the hotel through reception, where she was received with smiles, from the policemen as well, she’d seen the danger, that woman sitting alone at the bar. Reading a newspaper. A strong woman with lots up front, on the verge of bursting at the seams. She’d reminded her of the Feminine Section chief Sada always joked about because of the way she walked, ‘There goes the National Movement!’ But it wasn’t her. Chelo hadn’t seen her before. She carried on. Checked her watch. Soon it would be time for the governor and provincial chief’s speeches. The best moment. She headed towards the mezzanine, as if to enjoy the views of the port. She propped the pack of lampoons against the balustrade. There was a timing device which would set it off. But as she was preparing it, she felt the shadow behind her. Coming after her. It couldn’t catch her. But it grabbed her shawl.