Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘If you hurt me any more, I won’t be able to enter the radio competition and sing the cabaletta.’

There was an innocent, defenceless glint in Luís Terranova’s eyes. Dez watched the blood pouring out of his nostrils. It was the colour of lava.

‘I’ll take you to have that seen to,’ he said without letting go.

‘No, no. I’ll go on my own.’

‘On your own? You won’t go anywhere on your own. Do you think I’m crazy, Terranova?’

‘Don’t worry, Dez. I won’t talk to anyone. I’ll disappear into a hole and won’t come out until I’m healed. I promise. Let go of me, Dez.’

‘I like it when you’re meek and mild. Not another word. I’ll take you to a bonesetter, my little dove. Who’ll fix that cherub’s nose.’

Luís Terranova made one final attempt to escape when he saw the black car parked in the street and the stocky guy in an ashen hat and raincoat opening the back door. The two of them held on to him, laid him on the back seat and he stopped moving when he felt the barrel nuzzling under his ear. It was as if a bullet had gone into him without needing to be fired.

They beat him up on the far side of the lighthouse. The last thing he remembers hearing was a sound of his coming from outside. The crunching of teeth. Of his teeth. He then heard a voice from a state of unconsciousness, ‘You’ll never sing again, Terranova!’ And the first thing he heard when he woke up was actually a vision: the beams of light from the lighthouse.

‘Louder! Can’t hear you. Louder!’

TERROR WAS CRYSTALLISED on Luís Terranova’s face. The frost of night on top of the beating. Curtis ran to open the door when he heard the knocker’s Morse. He sat him in the middle of the room, under the lamp. This was his house on Atocha Baixa, a single room with a kitchen and bathroom, a kind of boxing ring which had grown walls and a roof. Even though he was sitting down, Luís carried on bending over under the lamp. His hands between his thighs, on his groin. The instinct to protect his private parts. He was barely able to speak. He gurgled words spattered with blood through the gaps of his broken teeth. But he didn’t stop. He knew Curtis understood every single trill of his. Could mend the onomatopoeias, the badly injured syllables. His face was swollen, the bald patches where they’d torn out his hair covered in scabs, his lips split open. They’d really given his mouth a hammering. Which is maybe why Luís Terranova didn’t stop trying to speak. He was checking to see if he was alive. He spluttered out a tango, a song he put together with disconnected bits from different pieces, scraps of ‘Downhill’, ‘Laugh Clown’ and ‘Chessman’ which began to make sense. He didn’t need to articulate them clearly. Curtis understood. He could see the words pushing through the clots, splashing in his saliva. He gave him a swig. Arturo da Silva was right. The terrestrial globe changes place, but there’s always one in Luís Terranova’s mouth.

‘Don’t drink it. It’s for rinsing and spitting out. Spit it out slowly.’

‘More champagne, if you please, boy. .’

He knew what to sing all right.

‘Now I really look like a boxer, don’t I, Curtis? If Arturo da Silva saw me, he’d give me a ticking-off. He’d say, “Your face is the colour of raw flesh. How could they beat you up like that? Why didn’t you keep your distance? Make a feint, open a side corridor?”

‘“There wasn’t time, Arturo.” That’s what I’d tell him if he came round here. “I was going to open a side corridor, Arturo, I just needed a fraction of time.”

‘“A fraction is everything,” Arturo would say. “A fraction is the difference between life and death.”’

Curtis had filled a zinc bathtub with warm water. He prepared the brazier and placed it next to him. He took off his shoes and helped him to undress. Cleaned his wounds. Applied iodine. Cut his hair so that he could cure his head better. Sewed up an eyebrow. Three stitches without anaesthetic. And while he did this, Curtis made plans. He knew Terranova was hard behind his fragile appearance. He was the one who’d taught him to let a sea urchin’s spines come out by themselves without carving deep flesh wounds.

Terranova recognised the wooden horse in a corner of the room, in the shadows. ‘There you are, Carirí!’ And the horse replied with the affection of inanimate things when they’re called by name. It made Terranova get rid of that crystallised fear and smile for a photo. He remembered another travelling photographer who was hit by a tram and fell to the ground with his wooden horse. ‘To hospital, to hospital!’ cried a witness who’d come to help the injured man. The photographer raised his head with difficulty and said, ‘Not hospital! To the horse factory!’

‘Take me to the workshop for horses,’ mumbled Luís Terranova. ‘A bonesetter with cardboard and paste.’ Curtis smiled. He knew the story. They’d often stopped in front of the horse factory between Troncoso and Our Lady of the Rosary. The horses came in all shapes and sizes. From a little horse for a keyring to a fairground or photographer’s horse. This also would make a good business card: Vicente Curtis ‘Hercules’, Boxer and Horse Manufacturer. He tried to straighten the fingers on his hands, but the right middle and index fingers wouldn’t respond. They’d bent them back until they snapped. ‘A horse repairer,’ he said. ‘Or even better one of those who dissect animals. A taxidermist. Can I sleep there, Curtis, next to the horse? Wait for all of this to be over. It’ll never be over, will it, Curtis? Now I really must look interesting. All the colours of raw flesh. A Cubist painting. I’ll make better use of the mirror now, Curtis.’

In the house on Atocha Baixa, there was only a small mirror, which Curtis used to shave. It was broken and was joined by a plaster, though the whole piece was big enough. The size of the blade of a cut-throat razor.

Manlle moved in little light. He smoked a Havana cigar and seemed not to be in a hurry, like the smoke, which gathered slowly, forming a pale bell on the mezzanine of the dockside warehouse. He had a philosophy. So he then took time to explain his philosophy. He wasn’t a man for whom business was just business. It was a personal matter. He’d never do business with someone if he couldn’t shake their hand. That’s what he was explaining to Curtis. He wasn’t in a hurry. Money: the more you run after it, the further away it gets.

‘See, Curtis? Course you do. A man’s a man. I respect people who’ve nothing but day and night. I know what it is not to have enough to make a blind man sing. I can’t stand people who fill their pockets just by lifting the receiver and dialling a number. That’s how money’s being made now, Curtis, in shedloads. There’s corruption all over the shop. You just got to have contacts. Doesn’t matter whether you put a building in front of Hercules Lighthouse. With contacts, you can do it and who gives a shit about the panoramic view, the perfect location, the city’s smile? Big business is like that, Curtis. Those who make money don’t touch a brick, don’t touch a fish, don’t touch anything. Contacts, information. That’s what counts. I got my contacts, I got my information. But I like to touch things, the merchandise. Touch what I’m selling. Whisky, tobacco. Women. I like to see it all. That’s my pleasure. See how it works, right? If there’s a shipment, be where it’s happening. Watch the movement, watch how the merchandise changes value each step of the way. Same with people, Curtis. I’m glad you came. You moved. I know you’re an honest man. We met in the wrong circumstances, what to do? It’s history. I was wanting to talk to someone about Arturo da Silva. A shame, Curtis. He was a champ in and out of the ring. I saw him that day, just before the war, when he unarmed that guy who’s now a judge in Pontevedra Square. He went straight up to him. Took the pistol out of his hands and threw it in the sea. Now he no longer exists. There’s no one to talk to about him. Just the guys who killed him. I met one or two of them. You know, you bump into all sorts of people in this life. And there I was, with one of his murderers, discussing Arturo da Silva’s style of boxing. He had to admit he was the best in the ring, another reason for taking him out. The things you have to hear. I could have ate him up right there and shat him in the toilet. But I can’t be St Clare, Curtis. I got to look after my interests. I can’t go walking about without shoes or clogs.