Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘Now what you have to say is “acetylsalicylic acid”.’

Gabriel repeated it swiftly, perfectly.

‘Good, that’s good. Did you notice how the words contained what was spoken?’

Gabriel looked at Neves and O. They had large, wide open, beautiful eyes. He thought he’d like to be an ophthalmologist when he was older, as well as an underwater archaeologist. Be able to look into those eyes.

‘Ophthalmologist,’ he whispered, surprised that fear hadn’t climbed the walls of his throat.

‘What was that?’ asked Polka.

‘Ophthalmologist.’

‘That’s also valid,’ said Polka with satisfaction, seeing an improvement in Gabriel’s initiative. ‘It’s also scientific. Now let’s re-turn a few other re-turnables. As if we were singing, but without singing. Say, “The drunken accordion speaks English, German. .”’

It was then the kitchen door suddenly opened. The judge was wearing his hat and overcoat, he hadn’t hung them up in the hallway as he usually did, which may have been why he looked bigger than the door. To Neves, the most nervous among them, he was like an enormous creature trying to enter a miniature house. The man with the sack of beans inside a bean. A cat, with whiskers as wide as the door, inside a mouse-hole. Behind his glasses, his eyes bespoke urgency. He glanced at Polka. A local. In his kitchen. The poor light at that time was like a continuation of a country storm.

‘And my wife?’

‘She received a call from Fine Arts, your honour. To take some foreigners on a tour,’ Neves replied nervously, but quickly, without slipping up. ‘She said if you called, you were not to worry. She’d be at the official dinner on time, just as you arranged.’

‘I see.’

Before leaving, he looked again at Polka. It was a fleeting, wordless glance. He was waiting for Polka to gesture to him in greeting with his corduroy peaked cap. For his part, Polka thought the opposite. That the initiative should come from the man in the hat. He was the owner of the house. The one who had to welcome him.

‘This is my father, your honour,’ said O.

‘Hello. How are we today?’

‘Same as always, your. .’

He was going to add what he always said with friendly humour, ‘Working for eternity, making a bed for those who are going to sleep in the open.’ But he didn’t have time, he spoke like a mute, because the judge was already taking leave of his son. ‘Don’t forget your exercises.’ An admonition that, from the tone, appeared to be directed towards everyone.

Neves accompanied the judge to the door. Polka, meanwhile, poured himself some coffee, which he sugared generously.

‘But you’re. . having. . sugar!’ the boy protested.

Polka winked.

‘My words are re-turned already.’

‘Phew! I’m glad he didn’t ask anything,’ sighed Neves when she came back.

‘I’d have explained it all to him,’ said O. ‘We weren’t doing anything wrong.’

‘He’s very particular,’ commented Neves in a low voice. ‘When he gets all authoritative, there’s nothing to be done. He walks with his bust on a pedestal.’

Polka savoured the last drop of sugary coffee. La dolce vita , he called those dregs. A phrase he’d heard from Luís Terranova. What had happened to Terranova, to that boy who was a diamond, a Gardel? He hoped he hadn’t had dealings with eternity.

Polka savoured the last drop as if it were an undying pleasure and then clicked his tongue.

‘What was the problem? He looked at me and didn’t see me.’

He turned to face Gabriel.

‘Now you know. What you have to do is look and see. Give eyes their vision. Words their meaning. Come on. Let’s have another go. Say, “With each note he played, the bagpiper made a polished diamond”.’

Gabriel recited the sentence without getting stuck on the jingle. He didn’t choke on a single word. His voice sounded happy and singsong and the words contained everything they named.

‘That’s it. That’s what I call many happy re-turns,’ Polka congratulated himself. ‘You have to find the right key for the lock.’

He was emotional. He took Gabriel’s head in his hands as if he might lift it off his body and polish the sculpture. These were no sad verses, but the man’s eyes were wet. He heard Luís Terranova’s voice again. He was standing naked, a god in the nude, on top of Ara Solis. He mumbled that incomprehensible refrain Yamba, yambo, yambambe! as if it were Latin. Something Polka only did when he’d just killed a worm of fear.

‘WHAT? ISN’T ANYONE going to die? There’s no money to be made here!’

This is what Polka would say when he passed in front of the the Cuckoo’s Feather bar. His jokes as parish gravedigger encouraged people to carry on living. Sometimes he’d switch refrain and say at the door:

‘Anyone want a reference?’

And they’d shout to him from inside, ‘What death needs is an open mouth. Wine for you, Polka!’

This was something he could always count on. An invitation to a round of wine. He liked it this way. One thing he couldn’t stand was drinking on his own. There are lots of solitary drinkers. But Polka didn’t go in for this wine of solitude. Wine deserved a story, a conversation. Of the Here and the Hereafter, in people’s opinion, he knew more than the priest, who toed the official line. There were questions they didn’t discuss in the vicar’s presence, simply because he couldn’t answer them. For example: ‘Polka, tell us, who’s in charge of the Holy Company, the procession of the dead?’ ‘As I understand it, the one who sets the Holy Company in motion is the first to be buried.’ ‘And who’s the leader?’ ‘Why, Adam, I suppose.’ ‘And who buried Adam, Polka? Was it Eve?’ ‘No, it was a son, a third son who’s rarely talked about and must have been a good sort. Here Cain and Abel get all the attention. The third man must have wanted to avoid any publicity. But it was he, Seth, who buried his father. And stuck an olive branch in the ground over the first corpse. From that olive tree, they took the wood for the Holy Cross.’

‘That’s quite a coincidence, Polka.’

‘Life is like that, my friend, its vocation is to be a story. If you don’t understand that, you don’t understand anything. So I suppose it’s Adam, in order of antiquity, who calls to the others, “Arise, ye dead, and come out together!” Which seems to me an important detail. The fact they decide to come out together, without distinction.’

Polka to O: ‘Don’t be afraid of the dead. What you have to watch out for are the living who spoil life. Old people used to say those who hate life belong to the Bone Society. Sowing terror is both ancient and modern. What they used to do was throw a bone at night against a window they saw illuminated. Which was their way of indicating the victim. But the dead know how to get their own back. Something these thugs don’t realise. The dead find a way to defend themselves. Old people used to talk of a cold slap, which is a slap given by the dead who haven’t been properly buried. I know lots of examples. Lots of examples of murderers who were never judged. Or worse than that. Murderers who even now are meting out justice, making laws. But there were lots who got a dead man’s cold slap. Murderers who lost their mind. Like one who went around with Luís Huici’s fountain pen. Do you know who Huici was? One of the most cultivated, most stylish men this city ever had. A forerunner, a shining star. Well, his assassin would swagger into the bar with the dead man’s fountain pen. And one day he decided to write with it. But all he could write was Luís Huici’s signature. Luís Huici’s name. He died a little later from an illness. That’s what they said. But I knew what it was. He got a cold slap.’