Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘You’d have made a good Holy Father, Francisco.’

‘Call me Polka. When I was young, everybody called me that. And I’ve already been Pope. During Carnival. It’s a miracle I wasn’t martyred.’

She’d been wanting to talk about that. The doctors were amazed by what they’d found in Polka’s heart. Nothing to do with an ecstatic recovery. His was slow, gradual. Rather they were amazed he’d lasted so long. He had other complications. Polka knew he had other complications. But the thing with his heart was surprising. A clinical case.

‘I don’t want to be a clinical case,’ he said mistrustfully. ‘What’s wrong with my heart?’

‘Your heart is a book,’ replied Aphrodite. ‘You had two heart attacks before this one. It’s obvious from the scars. The doctors can’t understand how you managed to survive without medical attention. Don’t you remember anything? You should have felt something like the thread of life being severed.’

‘Once or twice, I did forget to breathe, yes.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘I drew on my resources. Drew on my resources and tore death’s horseshoes off my face.’

So all that had been written in his heart? After that business with the books, his right arm had been numb for days. He had no memory of the pain. He felt lethargic, resistant. Remembered what Holando used to say, always playing with words. He said traballo — ‘travail’ or ‘work’ — came from tripalium , a tool used to restrain a horse while shoeing it. He’d felt he was being tortured. But who could distinguish between what was happening inside and outside the body? He never complained. As he was afraid of being afraid, so the possibility of complaining caused him such unease it made him laugh. He’d heard of the thyroid, a gland that made you grow. Perhaps his made him laugh. He’d certainly forgotten to breathe, but realised in time. His skin changed colour. Everything around him acquired a crimson glow, on the verge of going out. The other time he forgot to breathe was when he was invaded by ants. He had high fever. Was convinced he was underground. The ants came in through his bullet wounds and all his other orifices. He’d once had a nightmare that insects were invading his body. The first to arrive were death flies, which laid eggs out of which came larvae, etc. His body was there for the taking. But on this occasion the ants were burdened with seeds, tufts, breadcrumbs. One ant carried a drop of duck’s blood. Another, the head of a matchstick with red aniline. There were groups carrying even larger things. A cricket they insisted on introducing through his mouth. Fragments of The Invisible Man . His body was to be a deposit. Until, that is, he remembered to breathe. So all that had been written in his heart?

He didn’t stop. Polka let him speak.

‘Some people focus on his great genius as a comedian and tragedian, or the way he controls the passions, but I’m fascinated by the way he chronicles power in action. Each sentence is imbued with decisive power. I have to admit that, in questions of power, even my admired Machiavelli is like a pettifogger next to this friend’s royal musculature.’

‘I’ve buried more books than I’ve read,’ said Polka finally, without a hint of irony. He was being enigmatic.

‘Books? You’re a strange kind of gravedigger.’ There was now an obvious tremor in the voice of the man behind the curtain.

‘That’s right. It was the first time I dug graves. My apprenticeship, so to speak. I buried books. Most of them were dead. Reduced to cinders. They’d been burning for two days. But some were still alive. Still bubbling. You threw earth on top and, after a while, the tips of pages stuck out like thorns. A shame. Most of us were simple labourers with little or no education. This was the first time some of us had opened a book. Oh, it was terrible, sir, a drop of duck’s blood .’

He came out with this phrase whenever he felt uncomfortable, afraid of being afraid. It was his way of describing the indescribable.

‘Terrible, sir, a drop of duck’s blood .’

The hidden patient, the man behind the curtain, fell quiet, but wasn’t exactly silent. He made a noise with his body, an expression of malaise. It seemed he was trying to stand up. They’d both been through Emergency, where time became detached from bodies, to Intensive Care, where time floated about, clinical appliances emitting underwater sounds. Now time was saline, dripping back into their bodies. He spoke in a torrent. Kept talking about duck’s blood. May have wanted to use Shakespeare to make fun of him. But he acquitted himself well. He was not uneducated. Common, thought the judge, but not uneducated.

‘What books, what books did you say you buried?’

‘All kinds. It was at the start of the war. Right here, in the city. Lots of people find it strange. Some things I don’t talk about. So as not to be thought mad. He’s a screw loose, that’s what they say. Terrible, sir, a drop of duck’s blood . There was even a book on the city’s coat of arms. You know the city’s coat of arms is the lighthouse. Well, on top of the lighthouse was a book. This book was also removed, never made it back on to the shield. As if they were burning stone and bronze as well. You’re not young. You must have heard about it. The way they burnt books.’

‘No,’ lied the judge. ‘I wasn’t here then. Listen. I’m greatly interested in books, you’ve no idea how much. I swear few things in life interest me as much as books. Perhaps you can help me.’

‘I already said I’m not a man of books.’

‘Tell me about the ones you buried. You must recall the odd title. Try and remember.’

He remembers. Letters hovering over the ashes like samara wings. That piece. That wafer. A drop of duck’s blood . The horror. The nails, bones, entrails of books. An unmistakable stench that won’t go away.

‘There were loads of books. Whole libraries. The best. Those belonging to cultural associations. To Germinal. To Casares Quiroga. You’ve heard of Casares, haven’t you? He also was erased. They even wanted to tear his name out of the register of births. Lots of people suffered the same fate as that book on the city’s coat of arms and were erased.’

‘Listen to me. What books were those that stuck out when you were burying them? What books caught your attention?’

Polka could feel the stench of the smoke that day in his nostrils. Estremil was right. It was like being at the mouth of hell. The whole of Germinal’s library burnt. A good one, that. Because there were things that were extremely learned, but practical as well. He would have explained this to the man behind the curtain, but didn’t quite like the way he asked questions. His impatience. Polka sifted through time, raked time into piles. Remembered and felt. Didn’t want to lose direction. Germinal had books for trades, for getting up to date in a profession. Most of the people who went there were workers. Elegance and culture in this city were a popular fashion. On the whole, people with money were brutes. No, Olinda, don’t worry, I won’t say that to him. You’re right, it’s best to be prudent. You never know who you’re talking to.

‘Yes, sir, matter is neither created nor destroyed, it is simply transformed. I learnt this from a young boxer by the name of Arturo da Silva, who worked as a plumber. This idea did me good, did me a service. Such a simple thing and yet so true, don’t you think?

‘The first time I entered Germinal, Holando told me that to get a book I had to go to Minerva. “Minerva?” “Yes, the librarian.” He’d come out with these lyrical excesses to hide his shyness. “That’s Aphrodite and she’s Athene.” And they ended up making fun of me. Was I crazy? “Her name’s Minerva,” Holando kept telling me. So off I went with my scrap of paper. “Excuse me, Minerva. .” And I thought now she’s going to give me a sarcastic look with those large black eyes of hers and say in a hoarse voice, because her voice was a bit hoarse, “Are you also crazy?” But she didn’t say anything. She read the scrap of paper: Galvani and Animal Electricity . Holando and the others were crying with laughter. Very funny. So what? I could have chosen something else. But this caught my attention. Don’t know why. Or perhaps I do. Once, when I was little, I watched my mother cut a duck’s neck. She was brave enough to do this, to kill an animal with her bare hands. My father was as strong as an ox, but couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even kill a mouse. What’s more, he once bumped into a mouse on the staircase and shouted so loud the poor animal died of fright. So there’s my mother, with her sleeves rolled up, holding the duck, cutting its neck, when something happens and the duck pulls loose, flies over us without a head. My mother explained, “That’s because it had a lot of electricity stored up inside.” I told Minerva this story and she seemed very moved. “Animals shouldn’t be killed for eating,” she said. “I agree. We all agree. Just the other day, we were reading the ten commandments of naturism.” “Who read them?” “Holando. Holando’s the expert.” And Holando comes over. Starts chatting to Minerva, of course he’s pleased. She’s working on a new dictionary. “A dictionary of usage,” she said. “By word families.” That’s nice, I thought. Word families. Holando was one of the first to get killed. Together with the champ of Galicia. They went for the best of them.’