Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

Samos felt bad and was about to say something. Pull him up. Why did he have to be so uncouth? He was going to ask him to be a little more polite. A bit of culture, please. You don’t have to bark. But he realised the absurdity of such an order at that time. They’d all burst out laughing. That’s a good one. Some of the older soldiers might recall the impresario Lino’s historic intervention in his Pavilion of Spectacles when, at a charity performance in the presence of some nuns, he attempted to subdue the top gallery, ‘Manners, gentlemen! Manners! There are ladies in the audience, some of whom are even decent. Ho, ho, ho. Your manners, please!’

But he didn’t say anything. The gripes were building like an inner storm. He had to suppress his body’s rebellion. The upset of some scruples. He addressed Parallelepiped in an energetic voice, ‘Throw them all in at once, for fuck’s sake. Without consideration. I’ve had it up to here with Wells!’

And then he seized the moment, sidled up to Parallelepiped, who had a good eye. A bit of culture and he’d make a good hunter of books. He said, ‘Don’t forget the New Testament.’ Went further, ‘It’s not any old book. It’s of great historical value, got it?’

‘How will I know which one it is, Comrade Samos? Scripture, there’s plenty. Even the Masons on Nakens Street had a stack of Bibles, more than in my parish.’

Samos suddenly hesitated whether or not to carry on giving information to that numskull. ‘You have to be discreet,’ he said to him. ‘Find the book, talk to me. Only to me. You’ll get your reward.’

‘Right, but how will I know which one it is?’

‘It’s easy. It’s the only one with. . a dedication.’

Samos bit his lips. There was no going back.

‘What’s the key, boss?’

‘It says: “For Antonio de la Trava, the valiente of Finisterra”.’

‘I like that,’ said Parallelepiped. ‘I’ve got relatives in Finisterre.’

‘Good then. But be discreet. Don’t start shouting. Bring it to me by hand. No noise, no fireworks.’

Parallelepiped was a bit annoyed by Samos’ superior tone. There was a coldness about him. But he replied seriously, ‘Not to worry. I also know how to get on in the world, comrade.’

Next to the first fire, Curtis took another step forwards.

To be more exact, the burning books smell of leather mashed with flesh. Of boxing gloves.

‘Hey you with the cap! You like books? Can’t take your eyes off them!’

‘He probably likes the fire. If he’s here, he must be one of us.’

Curtis pretended not to hear. He’d spotted a living book which the flames were just starting on. A Popular Guide to Electricity . Arturo da Silva wasn’t a professional boxer. You couldn’t live from boxing unless you made the jump to Madrid or Barcelona. And he hadn’t wanted to. He was a plumber by trade. His job, directing the forces of water, had something in common with the way he behaved inside the ring. He’d convinced Curtis his future was in electricity. More specifically, in air conditioning. So Curtis had gradually become the champ’s right hand. ‘You’ll succeed him. Hercules of Shining Light’, Abelenda in the gym had told him. He was sure of it. On the poster for his first fight, he could see the words ‘Hercules of Shining Light versus. .’ But there was no poster for his first fight. There wasn’t time. It would be on 17 July. His debut as an amateur boxer then would be with another youngster called Manlle. There’d been a cancellation and they’d agreed to include them. The typical warm-up fight while the spectators found their seats. But for Curtis it was the most important event of his life. He’d trained hard with Arturo. ‘On one condition.’ ‘What?’ ‘You’ll start as an apprentice in a workshop for climatic installations, soon to be opened by the Chavín factory, which makes Wayne refrigerators. I’ve a friend there. But to get in, you’ll have to know something about electricity. You’ll have to study. What do you think?’ He thought it was great. If he ever had a business card like the ones he’d seen travelling salesmen use at the Dance Academy, he could write: ‘Boxer and Climatic Electrician.’

Arturo da Silva had told him that sometimes the safest place was the middle of the ring. The harpooner had talked to him of the calm at the centre of a hurricane. Maybe it was that instinct which had brought him here, to the city centre, after thirty days in hiding. A whole month stuck in the attic of the Dance Academy, also known as Un-deux-trois, his only company a mannequin the harpooner Mr Lens had given his mother. A headless mannequin. A very tall woman, the mannequin, which the sea had thrown up unharmed among a multitude of cripples, maimed figures, loose heads, broken busts and odd extremities. The ship that lost them when it listed violently in a storm off Rostro wouldn’t come back for castaways like these. Mr Lens scoured the beach, slung the tall woman, the only one who was complete, over his shoulder and also picked up three wooden female legs. These were gratefully received by hosiers across the city. They were long, very slim, and were soon on display in the windows of Crisálida, Gran Corsetería Francesa and Botón de Oro. But he couldn’t place the mannequin. The ebony woman was simply too tall. ‘If the country progresses, if we advance, there may yet be room for such tall women,’ said the clothes manager in the Espuma department store on San Andrés Street, who was considerate enough to offer Mr Lens a blanket to wrap her up a bit since, while it was a liberal city, people had their own views and susceptibilities and Mr Lens didn’t want to run into the procession coming from St Nicholas’, bearing Our Lady of Sorrow, being in possession of this tall, black woman.

‘It must be heavy,’ said the clothes manager. ‘Though beauty weighs less.’

For the first time, Mr Lens took a close look at his discovery. When he’d found it, it had been half buried in the sand. What the sea had made with the scattered bodies and mangled limbs was a horrifying pastiche. He thought that now, not before. On the beach, he’d gone in search of useful items. The sea wasn’t going to surprise him. The tall woman’s head was like a highly polished large wooden egg. As he turned it around, he observed there were no eyes, mouth or nose. So what was there to look at? And yet now, in the shop, before he slung it over his shoulder, he examined the head carefully and noticed some very delicate features, the beginnings of a face. First of all, he saw some cheekbones and then, below the cheeks, the melancholy protrusion of some lips. He stroked the head and decided it wasn’t quite smooth. He could feel a few invisible hairs pushing through. This woman was coming into being. He took a fancy to it. He’d take it to the Dance Academy to see if Milagres would keep it for him. He wouldn’t say anything about the life in the wood. They might think he was bringing them a monster. She’d already been scared the last time, when he showed her a small but ferocious-looking revolver. A Bulldog.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘It arrived in a whale.’

‘You find everything inside a whale.’

‘Almost everything.’

‘Bring it here,’ said Samantha. She gripped the revolver. The madame had turned up unexpectedly, without them realising. She had a cigarette holder in one hand and the revolver in the other. ‘It’s about my size. Today’s my birthday. Will you give it to me? I need a friend I can trust.’

On 20 July, Curtis was with Arturo da Silva and others from Shining Light, helping to erect one of the barricades protecting the Civil Government by the Rosalía de Castro Theatre on the side of the docks. They’d carried sacks of sand from Orzán. As on Saturday and Sunday, to the sound of ships’ sirens and horns, thousands of people had occupied the city centre in support of the Republic. Early in the afternoon, the insurgent troops placed pieces of artillery on Parrote. Curtis recalled where he’d seen a weapon. A small revolver, but at least it was something. He rushed to Papagaio. Pombo only opened the door when he recognised his voice. He was on a mission, to find the Bulldog revolver, and ignored what they were trying to tell him. He started rummaging in Samantha’s room until he heard, ‘Your mother’s ill. The least you could do is go and see her.’