Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘Another go at Heroic Minute. Attention. It’s time now to stand up. No hesitation. A supernatural thought and. . up you get!’

He sneered at the class. ‘What faces! I don’t see a supernatural thought anywhere.’

Zonzo was always at the back, in the shelter of the wall. He was a bad student with bad marks, but everyone knew he wasn’t sluggish. Nor was he unruly. Almost always mute, even though they threatened to fail him for ever, he made it clear what his attitude was. He was there, at school, under pressure, meeting an obligation that, unlike the others, he didn’t need. Whenever a teacher called his name or said something to him, he became uncomfortable and alert, glancing sideways as if asking, Why me? He had a problem. He was very tall, very slim, and had thick eyebrows which, rather than shading his expression, magnified the slightest ocular movement. Zonzo wished to pass unnoticed, but the more he tried, the more he resembled an intruder dressed up as a pupil.

‘Except for Zonzo,’ said Father Munio, knowing he’d get a laugh. ‘On him, I see the savage sincerity of silence.’

Which is why the surprise was complete when Zonzo raised his hand the day of the championship for God.

‘In three words, God.’

‘The Great Champ,’ said Zonzo. A ripple of nervous laughter spread across the three rows of desks.

Father Munio, standing on the rostrum, held his chalk aloft. His eyes bounced off various heads until reaching the back of the classroom and landing on Zonzo like a discovery. He blinked. With a winged gesture of his gloves, he quietened the murmurs.

‘Could you repeat that?’

‘The Great Champ,’ said Zonzo in a powerful voice.

‘Magnificent,’ said Father Munio. He wrote on the blackboard in capital letters THE GREAT CHAMP. Remarked, ‘Extraordinary.’

Zonzo, amid applause, came and occupied the front desk. It was the first time he’d emerged from the shadows.

‘More answers.’

‘The Most High.’

‘Lord God Omnipotent.’

‘In three words, God. Gabriel?’

Gabriel had spent the previous evening jotting down notes for the competition for God. He’d found two images, two references to the Creator, inspired by postcards sent by Santiago Casares from Durtol Sanatorium, to be precise, accurate: the Universal Architect and the Most Mysterious. But he had been warned. His mouth would refuse to say these words. He’d get tongue-tied.

‘Father, Son, Spirit.’

‘That is true. Three distinct persons and only one true God. Classic,’ his white gloves moved like the doves of a magician, ‘but I’m after something new, an updated message. And today’s biggest contribution came from our new ace.’

He lifted Zonzo’s hand like a boxer’s.

‘We’ll make a mural in the quad.’

GOD,

THE GREAT CHAMP

There it was after so long, visible for all to see, Zonzo’s biro. In his hand. He was sitting at the front desk and holding it. He was writing his Religion exam in Father Munio’s class and using that special biro with the naked woman. They couldn’t detect the details, but any of the pupils could imagine the movements of that Swedish woman, Zonzo had said she was a Swede, completely naked, riding up and down the biro, in the chamber of water, as he wrote. He’d always been careful only to show it outside school. And not to everybody. But the biro, bandied from mouth to mouth, had become famous. It was a legend that had almost been forgotten until it reappeared the day of the exam in Zonzo’s hand. Zonzo, who had just been promoted and was now occupying the position of class captain.

Yes, the first time he saw it, Gabriel would have swapped all the items in his cabinet of curiosities for that transparent biro, full of liquid, with the naked woman swimming to and fro. He also had a water biro, which was pretty and Swedish, but there was no comparison. A present from Grandpa Samos. What moved up and down was the royal flagship Vasa, partly coated in gold, which was going to stun the seas with its radiance, but got its real reputation for sinking on the day it was launched. His Vasa biro was curious, but it paled into insignificance next to Zonzo’s naked swimmer. Something they all wanted to possess. Something out of reach.

Zonzo’s biro carried on writing and seemed to grow in front of everyone. It shook like a mast. He hesitated over the question which God created first, the lion or the swallow. He hazarded a guess. First the lion. No. Reason told him the lighter would come first. He thought a lion would never be able to catch a swallow. He went on to the next question. What words did Our Lord utter when he prepared to create man? Zonzo stuck the end of the biro in his mouth. They were on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite remember them.

Father Munio realised first that the class had become excessively silent. Then that everyone was trying not to look in exactly the same direction.

He followed that direction. It led to Zonzo’s hand.

They all stuck to their seats in amazement. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen a priest hit a pupil. Harsh treatment was a mark of prestige in this school whose motto was to give each pupil a sense of being one of the elect, on a road without softness. Lots of the boarders were sons of emigrants who invested a large part of their savings in fees for this private, religious school, believing this was the best way for them to ascend in the social scale. Other pupils came from the upper classes, who valued the educational demands and rigorous discipline. So there was nothing strange about a priest hitting a pupil in class. Even laying into him. What was surprising was that the priest should be the jolly Father Munio. That he should lay into Zonzo with such anger. That the knuckles of his right glove should be stained with blood. That the pupil should resist and absolutely refuse to let go of the biro with the naked Swede.

HE HAD A mental image of Schmitt before their visit to Casalonga on the outskirts of Compostela. He appeared in two photos which occupied a preferential place on his father’s bookshelves. It was a beautiful summer’s day. His father told him, ‘Say good morning, “Good morning, Mr Schmitt,” and nothing else. Wait to see if he says or asks you something and then clear off. Go with people your own age.’ Several times, he’d heard the judge use the expression ‘power of presence’ to describe someone he regarded as a master. So, having got out of the car, he was a little flustered as he crossed the lawn. He was helped, as almost always, by the calm temperament of Chelo, who took him by the arm. She was wearing a white dress with lace. Mr Schmitt was sitting in the garden and the guests went up to greet him with an attitude of reverence.

‘What are you going to be when you grow up?’

‘An archaeologist,’ he replied. Perhaps. He’d been toying with the idea for some time. He’d read an article and been attracted not so much by the purpose of finding something as by the method. It was silent work, where first you had to divide an area into squares and carry out the excavation. A method that was valid for all time. Not just for the ruins of the past.

‘Good! Another Schliemann in search of Troy!’ exclaimed Schmitt. He looked not at him, but at Chelo Vidal. In the luminosity of that summer’s morning in 1962, she was the one who had ‘power of presence’.

Of Schmitt, all he particularly remembers is when, in the evening, he raised a glass of red wine and said by way of a toast, ‘May the fat. . never dance on my grave!’ After ‘fat’, he spat out a name. The judge didn’t usually drink, but this time he accompanied his revered master. Back home, Gabriel asked his father who the fat man was who would never dance on Mr Schmitt’s grave. His father laughed and replied, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not Oliver Hardy. He was talking about the German chancellor, Adenauer.’