Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘You know what he wanted. Everything of his to be burnt. What a fright he gave me when he tried to do it in the kitchen. He wasn’t very good at handling fire. At the end, this became his obsession. In the lounge, he’d start writing verses on scraps of paper and then set fire to them in an ashtray. It was the only time I had to ask him to be careful.’

It was better to confront your ghosts than to carry them on your back, thought Dez. There was a certain matter rolling around in his mind. He realised he was talking to a smart woman, who maybe didn’t just read the fashion magazines with faded covers scattered about the small lounge of the Sahara boarding-house like holidaymakers caught out by winter. The same could be said of Miss Dalia. Her hairstyle, jewels, make-up, nails, everything about her shared a family likeness with the gramophone and those illustrations in Belle époque summer programmes.

‘I wonder if you share my opinion,’ said Dez. ‘There was something wrong with Aurelio Anceis. I mean apart from his illness. Recently he’d become very suspicious, don’t you think?’

‘I know people who spend their lives at sea and come ashore to die, Mr Dez. They can’t accept things. They find us strange. But he never used to complain. On the contrary, to him almost everything was wonderful. In his last days. .’

‘The man was a wretch!’ Dez blurted out in a loud voice that was petulant and accusing.

‘Did he never tell you about the dance in L’Étoile?’

Now it seemed to be the characters in the cover photos listening to her narrative. Dez guessed she wasn’t the kind of woman to start crying, but she blinked and rubbed her hands, ‘In his last days, of course we didn’t know it, he’d pay tribute to the smallest things. I’d give him an apple for dessert and he’d carry on looking at it for hours. He’d say to me, “Isn’t it wonderful, Miss Dalia?”’

Dez glanced in the same direction as the Sahara lady, but found nothing that could be described as wonderful. She abruptly shook her head and said, ‘If what you mean is whether Mr Anceis had a secret, I’d have to reply I don’t know. If he had any secrets, he took them with him. All he left me was a Festina watch.’

‘That’s all very interesting from the point of view of Anceis as a poet. But right now I was thinking about something else. Do you think there’s any possibility Aurelio Anceis hasn’t died?’

She was stunned. Dez would have liked to know whether her contemplation had to do with him, an assessment of his sanity, or whether she was really considering the hypothesis Anceis might not be dead.

‘Listen, sir. It was very polite of him to die the way he did.’

The Sahara lady had adopted a hard tone that sounded quite genuine.

‘He spent the nights coughing,’ said Dalia. ‘I even considered throwing him out, fond as I was of him. “Mr Anceis, why don’t you go to a hospital or some home?” When I said this to him, he fell quiet. He got over his cough for a time. Either that or he smothered it, who knows? He then had the decency to go and die outside. Without bothering anyone. He even made his own bed. He wrote a farewell letter, which I gave to the police. But first he made his bed. He’d smooth out the creases in his quilt with his hand, like an iron. It was very kind of him to die like this. One thing about sailors, they can fend for themselves.’

Her expression hardened further as she addressed Dez. What questions was he asking? Wasn’t he his friend? She said, ‘Mr Anceis was a correct man. Didn’t they find his polished shoes neatly placed together on the Coiraza wall in Orzán as if he’d gone and lain down on the sea?’

The next step was to go in search of Sada. When he found him, on the terrace of the Galicia Café, he spoke with the utmost caution. He had to obtain information, discover what he knew, but not slip up. Sada was either in another world or pretending to be mad. Or both. But, if he did know the truth, he had plenty of reasons to plot his revenge.

‘Anceis?’

‘It’s not an official matter, Sada, my friend. I’m acting as intermediary. They’ve expressed interest in him from the Index in Madrid. He sent some poems. They’re impressed and want to publish them with a fanfare. Funny thing is he only wrote his name and the following address: Orzán Sea, Coruña.’

‘Orzancy is a poet. That’s right.’

‘Not Orzancy. I’m talking about Aurelio Anceis. He hasn’t published a book. I said I’d look into it. Try and remember, Sada. Is there a hidden Parnassus among the bars of Orzán?’

‘Anceis? Never heard of him. There was an Aurelio, the great Aguirre, who drowned in the wildness of Orzán, not in a bar. He’d go around with his head uncovered during God’s storms. Wie wenn am Feiertage. . ’

Dez the censor was aware that words, even those pulled out of a hat by chance, had a purpose. ‘As on a Holiday. .’ He knew the poem, he’d heard it before, but what was the point of quoting Hölderlin? Sada was starting to rise. Ascending through clouds of expressionist Atlantic thunder. He was getting away and the mystery hadn’t been solved yet.

‘But that, Mr Dez, was another time, when shells were still coated in nacre.’

He made a final attempt.

‘He may not still be alive,’ said Dez. ‘Is there anyone whose absence has been noted? If not in Orzán, then on other seaside Parnassuses. The heroic route of the Star, Elms, the Galley, the Strip. . To say nothing of the islands in Coruña’s Aegean: Enrique’s, Leonardo’s, Delicacies, Nautilus, the Cribs. .’

‘Don’t torture me now, Dez. I was born yesterday in the Cuckoo’s Song, resuscitated in the Ship’s Lantern and died in the Cuckoo’s Feather. There are abstemious poets too. Go and find one. After all, it never rains but it pours.’

‘Don’t try to be difficult, master. Geniuses like you are not allowed to indulge in such flaws. Please. Take a trip around the world of spirits. If there’s any news, give me a call.’

‘I’ll toast you with Ferrero Tonic. And the soul of the loin of pork in Enrique’s. By the way. .’

Tomás Dez realised he’d kept the conversation going too long. There were seconds that got stuck in time like bits of dust in the eye.

‘What is it, Sada?’

‘How’s it going with Oeste? ’

He was about to say, ‘It’s fine, being processed.’ But the dust had taken its toll and Dez replied carelessly:

‘Between you and me, there is a problem. Have you read it all?’

‘No, not all of it. I did the cover and a few illustrations. What I can tell you is that magazine is more innocent than Carral bread, Mr Dez.’

‘In the strictest confidence. My report was favourable, but authorisation has been withheld somewhere up the line. The Madrid offices are in disarray. The Julián Grimau case has made a mess of things. We have to be patient.’

‘Patient? Do you know why there are so many seagulls and mullets in this city? Because they feed on patience. The drains are full of patience.’

He made as if to summon the waiter and said, ‘A foie gras of patience, if you please.’

‘Remember, Sada, that was in confidence. Oeste will be published. We may have to pull some strings. Prune it back a bit. But you can trust me. Whatever the circumstances, I’ll always be on the side of art, you know. Which reminds me, I’ve a new work on the way. The Moment of Truth . That’s the title.’

‘Very good,’ said Sada. ‘Very bullish.’

Dez left without looking at the seagulls, but he heard their calls like a soundtrack of suspense on the way to his office. Very bullish. What to make of that? The bastard. He had things to do, the sooner the better.