Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

The weight of this sad time we must obey;

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.

The oldest hath borne most: we that are young

Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

María can see the faces in the audience, faces determined to believe in the truth of the legend, convinced that what’s been said has something to do with the times they live in.

The audience? She always chooses a face. Her mark, she calls it.

Gabriel’s convinced she’s looking at him. Some actors use this method. Seek out a reference point, a face they can address in the audience. But why him of all people? He’s sitting in the third row. Is tempted to look away. Perhaps it’s a false impression. Perhaps María Casares’ look deliberately has this vague precision. Is able to take in each and every face in the audience. That must be it. But no. She’s looking at him. He’s sure of it. He can feel the parcel on his thighs, under his folded coat. A small package containing three books and the report written in 1955 by the Inspector of Archives for the Northwest, a civil servant who seems punctilious, but omits his name. All he needs is for the contents to move, to give off smoke. In the hotel, he went over everything. In preparation for the symbolic return.

She, Lear, stares at him:

Thou art the thing itself:

unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor bare,

forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings!

come unbutton here.

That night, as she left Gennevilliers National Theatre, María Casares was handed several letters and notes from spectators. And a parcel. It could be said she had a premonition, but not enough time to give it shape. The first thing she saw, in large letters, was the return address: ‘12 Panadeiras Street’. And, by way of stamp, a drawing of a ladybird.

‘YOU’VE A VISITOR, Francisco!’ shouted Aphrodite from the door. She and the porter wheeled a bed into the other half of the room. Polka saw everything in large blots verging on diffused clarity, exactly the opposite of what he’d always imagined blindness to be, a progressive and definitive sinking into darkness. What he perceived of his new hospital companion was a white head and nothing else. Then Aphrodite, as he called the nurse, that woman who had the grace to be cheerful and pleasant, drew a curtain between the two beds, creating two compartments.

‘He’s a bigwig,’ the nurse whispered to Polka, ‘a judge. Had a heart attack too. Has just come out of Intensive Care. Will soon get his own room. He has influence. He’s a chosen one.’

Polka fell silent after hearing this but, when the nurse made to leave, said in a loud voice, ‘If you need a gravedigger, here I am, girl! Working for eternity.’

He wasn’t sure if the gesture the nurse made from the door was one of farewell or another kind of message. He did think she smiled, though.

‘Why’d you say that?’

Polka was surprised the man behind the curtain spoke so soon. He’d just fallen into a mid-afternoon stupor as he tried to sew together the rags of white and grey blots. Put them in order for when his daughter arrived. She still didn’t know he’d lost his sight. Couldn’t read. Couldn’t even dig graves. At least, he wasn’t the one who shovelled earth or sealed niches. He could still play the bagpipes, though, when asked to do so. A march. Mother , or Ancient Kingdom of Galicia , or St Benedict , or Laíño , the one he liked so much, it always sounded good, from cradle to grave. At night, he’d listen to the radio. He enjoyed moving the dial, listening to stations broadcasting in foreign languages. Words sound wonderful when you can’t understand them. Animal electricity. He could barely read, but occasionally he’d open the pouch and hold the books in his hands. Feel their electricity. He recalled Jaume Fontanella, Joan Sert , his fellow prisoner, the Catalan architect who fled on a Portuguese passport and studied Braille so he could read at night. Polka copied that movement. He didn’t know Braille, but he could imagine. His fingers ran over the paper’s geography, relief. He felt the excitement, the way the words bristled under his touch. He could rattle off the whole of The Invisible Man .

‘Say what?’

‘That you work for eternity.’

‘I make graves, sir, houses that last till doomsday.’

‘Anyone knows that’s Shakespeare!’ declared the judge.

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

‘Nonsense!’

His reaction was a way of decreeing silence and Polka was only too happy to obey. He had too much to do, was far too busy to worry about calming down an angry man. On the way back, reviewing his life, he’d got into a discussion with the priest. As far as he could remember, it was the only time in his life he’d come out on top. He had to persuade him he could be the new gravedigger, he’d be good at it. He wasn’t wanted on site or at the Dairy or at Coca-Cola. A lame, old man bearing antecedents. The sun had surely gone past his door by now. The ants climbed his legs, occupied his body, especially in winter. Olinda carrying bundles of clothes. He had to bring in some money. He was lame, he’d been a victim. But he wasn’t considered as such. Ex-combatants were the victors. He’d only been imprisoned, so he must have done something. Those who accused him of having done something had no idea what he’d really done. The secret he shared with Olinda. Couldn’t even imagine how the two of them had helped to derail trains loaded with wolfram, sink boats transporting the mineral to Nazi munition factories. He must have done something. Of course he had. More than they realised. Now he had to convince the priest he’d make a good gravedigger. He was going over that part of his memory. The priest apologising, a historic step, for having forced O to count up to 666 chestnuts, the number of the devil. He may have been bad-tempered and a bit bald, said the priest, but not like that vindictive prophet in the Bible. They then moved on to discuss the wedding in Cana. The first of Christ’s miracles. With the wine. He knew the Gospel from memory, word for word, as he did the Latin Mass. And he’d always been greatly intrigued by this chapter. There was something enticing, mysterious, about it. He found what was left unsaid as charming as what was mentioned. Christ didn’t want to perform his first miracle. He may never have wanted to perform miracles. But he had to make a compromise. It was a question of family honour, of Mary’s insistence. What difference does it make? said Jesus’ mother. Get us out of this fix. Whoever heard of a wedding without wine? What’ll people think? This stingy lot count their beans, won’t give bones to the dog. Mary was right. She knew the score. But Polka suspected Christ was always a little resentful of his mother for making him turn water into wine.

A grunt came from behind the curtain. The hidden man was breaking the silence. The grunt was a conciliatory one.

‘What you said before was obviously a tribute to Shakespeare. I’m glad. We need culture. I wondered where I might find it and here it is. In a ward in hospital.’

His heart was pumping again. Aphrodite had told him you get this ecstatic reaction in people who’ve suffered a heart attack. A false sense of power. Life coursing back into their body. Reserved people who suddenly loosen their tongue. Yes, misery guts had suddenly become chatty. Extremely polite. ‘How wonderful,’ said the hidden man, ‘to find someone who really knows their Scripture.’

‘His tongue loosened, mine got stuck,’ Polka told the nurse. ‘You should have seen me in the good times. Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis. . ’