Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

In Oeste , the poem was kept the same.

He banged his fist on the table. On that worm that had wormed its way out of the table. He’d kill Oeste . He’d kill that bug any which way.

The application to publish the magazine, which was described as ‘An Independent Cultural Weekly’, was signed by Chelo Vidal, Ricardo Samos’ wife. ‘Playing the prima donna,’ he snarled. Its director, who had to be an accredited journalist, was the guy from the evening Expreso . On the editorial board were Sada the painter, that young poet friend of his, Avilés, Dr Abril, the teachers Eloísa Garza and Dora Castells and the two Vidals, Chelo and Sebastián the photographer. There was then a long list of contributors, a mixed bag among whom, with his magnifying glass, he could detect the odd liberal survivor, youngsters who were suspicious from the moment they started writing, and a few exotica, who were above suspicion, travelling companions, like that pretty girl in National Formation, Laura. But he had Ren’s report. And pretty Laura, the Carlist, so beautiful in her traditionalist uniform, was now keeping company with ‘existentialist claptrap’. It had all been carefully planned to lend an air of respectability to the invention, which showed all the signs of being a second Atlántida , closed years before by a specific order from Madrid based on a report he’d never publicly acknowledge as his own, the terms of which he only had to repeat to cause excitement on his palate: ‘A group of degenerate, existentialist Bohemians.’

Among the promoters of Oeste , the young poet would soon be out of play. Ren had in mind a simple operation to intimidate him and force him out of the country. He would open his post, make it clear he was being watched. Or issue one of his favourite warnings by phone, ‘You’re living by permission.’ Dez centred his suspicions on Sada. He was the oldest and had the constitution of a cobweb. He seemed to hang in the air, like a dream, but with moorings everywhere. He had to confirm it. He had to locate the source as soon as possible. I Was Forsook , with its new title The Moment of Truth , was about to appear in his name. Yes, The Moment of Truth . That was his contribution, his touch, and he liked it. He felt the paternity of the title somehow justified his appropriation of the work. It was like an adoption, he thought. And the title was perfect.

Eight months after this final attempt to have I Was Forsook authorised for publication, Aurelio Anceis died. It was a poetic death. He threw himself into the sea from the Coiraza wall in Orzán on a day of swell.

Dez had already decided, before Anceis’ death, that I Was Forsook had to exist. But in his own way. It would now be Tomás Dez’s second book, the sequel to his literary debut, From Mars to Daphne . A decade had gone by. It was a prudish book, but he had to be grateful to a work he was deeply ashamed of. It had enabled him to make contacts, there’d been a few reviews in which the book was described in agreeable terms and, since then, he’d appeared as a poet in the wake of the so-called ‘creative youth’, those who after the war had followed the banner of Garcilaso de la Vega, poet and soldier. Not unintentionally had he begun his work with a quote from Garcilaso’s Second Elegy: O crude, o rigorous, o fierce Mars, clad in diamonds for a tunic and always so hard! His strategy worked. An initial review in the local press, which was unsigned, talked of ‘poems of virile race’, a formula that was repeated in other commentaries. He’d also sent the book to Agustín de Foxá, with a humble dedication in which he deliberately used Foxá’s own verses evoking Madrid: From my eucalyptic shadows, these poems travel in a landau with cinnamon horses to visit the master and kneel while he drinks from the pink shell with rainbow veins. He was a real admirer of Foxá. He’d memorised the two centaur sonnets, the young and the old. Reciting them was one of his coups de théâtre among friends. But Foxá never answered. He may not have liked the image of someone kneeling while he drank from the pink shell. The truth is it was a ridiculous dedication. He realised this as soon as he’d posted it. As often happens with extreme eulogies, it smacked of parody. Nor did he reply to a second attempt, when Dez sent a copy of Tableau of the Middle Ages , asking for it to be signed, for which he enclosed an envelope with the necessary stamps. He had better luck with Eugenio Montes, when he did the same with his book The Star and Trail , published by Ediciones del Movimiento. He went straight to the point and paraphrased Sánchez Mazas’ preface in a spirit of Fascist camaraderie: ‘With thanks for placing human letters at the Falange’s service.’

I Was Forsook , that is The Moment of Truth , would signify a radical change. A literary bomb. ‘Garcilasistic’, my foot! He was going to shock the literary world beyond this oyster city, stuck in its own shell. And then this had to happen. He had to do something about it. Right away.

He again visited the Sahara boarding-house, where Anceis had stayed during his last two years as a grounded sailor. No, said Miss Dalia, the owner, no one had asked after Aurelio Anceis. No relative had turned up. No one had made any claim.

‘No one?’

She didn’t find it so strange. In a boarding-house like hers, with a majority of long-term guests, the world was seen differently. Some people, some sane people, who were like hermit crabs, only ever came out of their rooms to eat. Talked to nobody. Lived like zeroes.

‘Zeroes? Why do you say zeroes?’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ replied Miss Dalia. ‘What I mean is nobody missed him. Nobody came looking for him before you.’

Dez would remember this visit. It was the last time he saw him alive.

Anceis barely said anything. He complained of a strong migraine. He was dressed under the bedspread, with his sailor’s hat pulled down as if he wanted to hold on to the pain rather than letting it go. He asked him, out of courtesy, how he felt and unexpectedly Aurelio Anceis replied he felt guilty.

‘Guilty for what?’

‘For having survived. Don’t you feel guilty?’

‘No, not really,’ said Dez.

‘I’d like you to return I Was Forsook .’

‘Why?’

‘You heard me. All the paperwork. The poems, applications. Everything. It’s my last wish. I can’t demand it of you, so I’m asking you as a final wish, as a plea. If it doesn’t reach me in time, burn it. I was going to burn it anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I wanted the poems to come out as a book so that I could burn them. Make a bonfire down by the docks. They were written to be burnt.’

He was seized by a violent cough he quickly tried to stifle with a handkerchief, though all it did was redden his face. Dez associated Anceis’ words with that cough and the abrasive change in the colour of his skin.

He stood up, turning away, averting his eyes from him. This was not the proper way to behave. To hell with it. He was in the company of an ex-man.

He turned back at the door. ‘Goodbye, Mr Anceis. I hope you get better soon.’

When he reached the censor’s office, he told his secretary, ‘If that seafaring poet turns up again, I’m not in and I’m not expected. Get rid of him straightaway.’

‘Yes, Commander Dez.’

Commander. He liked it when his secretary called him that.

‘Anything to report concerning Aurelio Anceis?’ Tomás Dez now asked the owner of the Sahara boarding-house. Dalia had shown him into that lounge which still had a gramophone. Mute, but there it was, lending a certain style. The woman also looked more ancient and more attractive than the first time, with those painted nails dancing like dragonflies. ‘Anything new turn up, any request?’