Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘In the time of the Spanish Republic, were you never tempted?’ Schmitt asked Samos one day when they met in Casalonga during the summer of 1962.

‘I was a rational socialist for a few hours of crazy joy,’ he replied ironically.

His attraction for Ríos lasted a little longer than that. Samos had been brought up in an atmosphere of traditional, monarchist Catholicism. A few months earlier, in April, the Republic had been declared. The swift course of events made him dizzy. To start with, he shared the other students’ joy. The Republic had arisen like spring, a creative impulse in society. In that vote in 1931, of the thirty-nine members of Coruña Town Hall, only five were monarchist. But gradually he felt the distrust that dominated in the family home, where the fall of the monarchy was labelled a disaster. There was an air of tension at home. His mother’s apprehension about laicism led her to pray for the salvation of Spain, sometimes on her own, other times with groups of female friends. His father, a Navy legal officer and historian by vocation, seemed to be distant from it all, including his marriage, though he’d occasionally let fly about the Philippines, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Morocco and the Statute of Catalonia. Whether he liked it or not, Ricardo Samos was subject at home to a constant sense of apocalyptic doom. During this time, Héctor Ríos provided a balance. It was he who embodied the charming side of current events. Ricardo was also going to study law. If they coincided in Santiago, could Ríos teach him Esperanto? Of course he could. But when that meeting took place, a year later, Samos expressed no interest and Héctor was no longer absorbed in the task of disseminating a universal language.

‘There’s one priority for which we need all languages. We have to talk about the League of Human Rights.’

Samos was unhappy about the boarding-house. Perhaps because he was a freshman, he’d been given a small, dark room with damp patches on the ceiling. He still hadn’t decided whether he was going to fulfil his promise to his mother to attend first Mass in the cathedral the next morning.

‘Why’s that?’

When he got enthusiastic, Héctor had a tendency to construct paragraphs. ‘The only way to oppose totalitarianism is to aim for a World Federation governed by just principles of universal law. These human rights, without borders, will be the framework for a common language, the real Esperanto.’

They’d known each other as children. They were neighbours in the Old City. Playing on the beach. They can’t see. It’s a game of gangsters in the Wild West. You have to crouch down, move stealthily and find your enemy without being seen. You shoot with your mouth.

‘Bang, Ríos!’

‘Where am I then?’

‘What you say about the League of Human Rights sounds Masonic,’ Samos blurted out. His mother had said his voice was finally dropping and he’d have sworn it happened on that day, at that moment.

Héctor felt the blow. Was confused. Samos’ voice, which sounded so different, may have had something to do with it.

‘Masonic? Is that good or bad?’

Samos preferred not to reply. He emphasised his silence. He knew this silence was the sign of a definitive parting of the ways. Months later, he’d come into contact with those at Acción Española . In the Law Faculty, there was also a very active group of traditionalist teachers openly conspiring against the Republic.

‘Now you’ve a voice of thunder. You’d be terrific playing the part of the Last Martian. Remember? Instead of Regent’s Park, we’ll choose Mount Alto, next to Hercules Lighthouse. That superhuman note. Ulla, ulla!’

They laughed.

‘Ulla, ulla, ulla!’

It was burning. The flames were licking at the cover. The books had been released by the blasted time machine. He hears a voice. That guy who’s taken to reading out the titles and their authors on the pyres by the docks.

‘Wells!’

He turns towards him.

‘Wells, Wells!’

Though he looks at him seriously, the guy is smiling, ‘He certainly wrote a lot!’ He’s holding a third book in his hand. Why does he have to try and be funny? Why is he imitating a dog’s bark?

‘Wells, Wells, Wells!’

The books are burning. Ricardo Samos is about to raise his arm, mumble something. He coughs. His body bends over. The young Parallelepiped approaches with concern, dumb camaraderie. ‘Is anything wrong, boss? It’s all this horrible smoke. Why don’t you go down to the beach for a breath of fresh air? Or drink some coffee.’

‘I’m fine,’ says Samos to Tomás Dez. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘Coffee. With lots of sugar. It’s the best thing for stress.’

THERE WAS A secret person inside Sulfe. It was well known he was a loner. And single. ‘Celibate, you mean,’ his father would say. ‘Married to his books.’ Not any old books. His motto was, ‘He who alights on the classics’. Gabriel had heard his father say this several times and always solemnly. Now he knew the phrase came from Alfonso Sulfe and was peculiar to him.

‘I’ve nothing to hand, Gabriel, but I’m going to give you a word for your cabinet of curiosities. Take note. OK. Are you ready? The word is “colophon”. An example: “The book had no colophon”. In this case, it refers to the final notes, and this is its general meaning. “Colophon” is the end of something. But the strange thing is where it comes from. It’s connected with the life of a Greek fortune-teller called Calchas. An important person in the history of war, which is to say in history. It was he who invented the greatest trick this world has ever seen, the Trojan horse. But he had to cope with a terrible prophecy. That he would die when he met a more powerful fortune-teller. And that’s exactly what happened in a place called Colophon.’

‘What did the other foretell?’

‘We don’t know.’

Gabriel thought it would make an interesting story for a postcard from Durtol Sanatorium.

‘Do you like reading? It’s the best thing that can happen to you in life. Writing has other implications. Another word, my favourite. “Scruple”. From scrupulus . This was the name for a small, pointed stone. It could also be used as a bargaining chip. But then came the meaning you’re already familiar with. Rather than knowing what a scruple is, you feel it, don’t you? Injeci scrupulum homini. I put a scruple in the man, I put him in a quandary. Funny. It’s still a sharp, pointed stone. The difference now is it’s inside the body. What’s yours? A word you like. Come on. Quickly.’

Gabriel wondered whether or not to say his word. The man seemed kind enough and, whenever he said it, he felt the pleasure of someone playing a prank on a sage.

‘“Acetylsalicylic”, sir.’

‘Not bad.’

Samos the judge would occasionally refer to Alfonso Sulfe as one of the most talented men in the country. Shame he shut himself up so much in his hole. He clearly enjoyed the other’s etymological expeditions. ‘Sulfe, tell us the origin of the word “jacket”.’ His friend’s wisdom was thus put on show during conversations in the Crypt. To start with, Alfonso Sulfe would blush, but then he’d succumb to a few minutes of glory.

‘We could say the word “jacket” comes from the Road to Santiago. St Jacques in France. There’s the germ of the word. Jacques. There were so many peasants who had this name it became a generic term for a local and the article of clothing he wore. In that way. .’

‘Did you know that, Don Munio?’

‘No. Another miracle performed by the Apostle.’

Apart from that, Alfonso Sulfe barely intervened in the conversation when it had to do with ‘the current state of affairs’, meaning politics. He’d been friends with the judge for a long time, ever since the 1940s. The 1940s! He talked of those years as of a distant age, with dark melancholy. Now a colleague from that period had reappeared. They met in Santiago at a tribute to Álvaro D’Ors and discussed renewing lost ties. The judge invited him to the Crypt. Sulfe was grateful, but couldn’t. As well as his lectures, he was stuck in the belly of a medieval whale, he said enigmatically.