Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

He said, ‘What’s amazing is the mark your Dad has on his lips. A perfect circle.’

‘That’s because he plays the trumpet,’ replied Zonzo.

‘A brilliant musician,’ said Korea. ‘Have you ever heard him?’

‘Course I have,’ replied Zonzo, feeling offended.

‘All right, keep your hair on,’ said Korea.

That day, Zonzo had a fishing rod with an automatic reel. A brand-new fishing rod. From America. The three of them were going to fish for squid at night up by San Antón Castle.

‘Keep your hair on, mate,’ repeated Korea. ‘Hey! That house with the light on, isn’t that your place?’

‘Could be,’ said Zonzo almost without looking.

‘Your mother’s like a train,’ said Korea. ‘His mother, the painter, she’s all right. But yours, Zonzo, yours is gorgeous. Did she really used to sing under the name Pretty Mary?’

‘Piss off,’ said Zonzo, leaving with his brand-new fishing rod.

‘All right, I won’t say anything else,’ shouted Korea. ‘We’re not going to catch squid by hand. They’ll all bite tonight, Zonzo. Look at that moon!’

‘Watch it, Korea. One day, I’ll kill you.’

Zonzo was special. He had no fear. No fear of Korea, and that was brave. He remembered one day he went to his house. His mother at the window. In came a man, wearing a smart suit. Tall and strong. He occupied the centre of the room with the absolute control of someone who conquers territory with an imposing look. No one heard a knock at the door for the simple reason he opened the door himself. ‘Hello, boys.’ He threw a package at Zonzo, who neither looked at it nor opened it.

‘It’s all arranged for you to sing at La Boîte. If you don’t like Pretty Mary, we’ll have to think of another name. How about Nostalgic Mary?’

‘Nostalgic? I hardly feel nostalgic. I feel like something the cat brought in.’

He burst out laughing. Went over to the woman at the window. Embraced her and kissed her on the lips.

‘Let’s go,’ suggested Zonzo. He didn’t say goodbye. Outside, he opened the present. A pair of new, genuine football boots, which he dropped down the stairwell.

‘One day, I’ll kill him.’

‘Temper, temper!’ Korea exclaimed. ‘This guy’s hung up on his mum. Lucky I didn’t say anything about Manlle.’

‘Who’s Manlle?’

‘Ask Mr Justice,’ said Korea ironically.

THIS DRAWER, THE largest in the desk, on the bottom right, was where the judge kept the folders with his manuscripts, Syllabus’ articles and the legal affairs he was currently involved in. He locked it. Always. But the hiding place was hardly a secret. He locked it and kept the key with others in what Chelo called his potiche , a present she had given him, a small rounded jar made of enamelled glass with vegetal designs. His potiche stood on a shelf to the left as you came in, flanked by thick volumes.

The judge never told Gabriel he wasn’t allowed to open the drawer and rummage through the papers. The fact of opening, locking and then hiding the key was enough to let it be known this was a reserved space. What’s more, despite what you might think if you saw him acting as judge, Samos was not in the habit of giving orders at home. Both he and Chelo were methodical in their own way. Gabriel would never mix his mother’s colours in the Chinese Pavilion without her permission. Nor would he rummage through the drawer with his father’s manuscripts. If he did rummage through the drawer, it was because of that surprising discovery. The day he saw him pull out a western novel.

When the opportunity presented itself, he opened the drawer and searched archaeologically through the different layers in among the folders. And found not one, but half a dozen western novels, all signed John Black Eye. And all looking as if they’d been read many times. With slips of paper marking pages where some passages had been underlined with a red pencil. Almost all these sentences, some of which seemed rather strange for a western novel, had a single protagonist: the Judge of Oklahoma.

So it was he read:

The Judge of Oklahoma always had the last word, which ended up convincing him he was always right.

Whenever they went to the river on a picnic, the Judge of Oklahoma would warn his nephews and nieces, Anyone drowns, I’ll kill them!

On the subject of influences, the Judge of Oklahoma would fill his mouth with Cicero and other classics. One day, a visiting lawyer dared to reply, But it’s not their fault, your honour.

Whenever in clay pigeon shooting he shouted ‘Pull!’ both the trap and the clay pigeon felt a certain kind of relief.

The Judge of Oklahoma, a great consumer of eggs, considered chicken farming an inferior occupation.

A smuggler who was arrested for breaking the prohibition law made the following statement, They’ve outlawed shit and turned it into gold. The Judge of Oklahoma interpreted this as an act of contempt.

The Judge of Oklahoma explained the different ways of applying the death penalty: hanging, firing squad, garrotte. . One of those present in the courtroom couldn’t help commenting admiringly, What a versatile lot you are!

The Judge of Oklahoma pronounced sentence with the same inclination with which the painter Castiglione sketched his Young Man with Lowered Head.

In order to avoid protests in the courtroom, he had the public divided into three halves.

Return to the source! Look in the source! exclaimed the Judge of Oklahoma when indoctrinating future judges. Everyone thought he meant Roman Law, but he had in mind the blonde, northern mermaid splashing about in the Trevi Fountain.

In the field of law, had he been the only judge in the world, he’d have known no rival.

In his time as a member of the special tribunal, the Judge of Oklahoma would take pity on those who’d been sentenced to death and tell them, Not to worry. The day you die will be the last of your life.

Let the trial begin! declared the Judge of Oklahoma solemnly. And then he added, Show the culprit in!

On one of the folders, he saw the name John Black Eye. Inside was a carbon copy of one letter and the original of another. The first was dated in Coruña and addressed to the publisher of the Far Off West series. The person writing introduced themselves as ‘an unconditional follower of John Black Eye’ and quoted some of his titles as examples of ‘masterpieces in the western genre’.

‘Such galloping prose,’ it said, ‘is only possible against the backdrop of a vast culture, whose qualities are stressed in the learned historical and ethnographical references and detailed geographical descriptions. What stands out, however, is the ironic style, the great subtlety, the unmistakable talent that suggest the presence of a great and hidden artist.’

Finally the letter’s author enquired about John Black Eye’s real identity or, if this were not possible, his address so that he could send him ‘an admirer’s humble tribute’.

There was one surprising detail in the letter. It was signed R. Mandivi and it took Gabriel some time to realise this was his father’s initial and second surname. He wasn’t the one who asked questions. The questions came to him. Why not put his own name?

The other letter, written at a later date, came from Barcelona. The typed text was brief:

Dear Mr Mandivi,

We passed on your request to John Black Eye, who in turn expressed his heartfelt gratitude for your comments. It is his rule not to enter into correspondence with readers. He was delighted, however, to comply with another of your requests, for which we enclose a signed copy of Word of Colt . Please accept our apologies and our own thanks for your interest.