Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

Curtis blinks as he reads the news item.

‘But that’s Marconi!’

The travelling photographer eyes Stringer differently, with disappointment, distrust. ‘So you think you’re clever?’

‘I have to do another report on you, Mr Curtis. Imagine the headline: “FOUND: HERCULES”.’

‘Right,’ said Curtis. ‘On one condition. You have to put, “FOUND: HERCULES, SON OF A WHORE”.’

That seemed to shut him up.

Marconi, sitting on his stone chair, the stator, gazes at his own portrait in the paper’s photomontage, next to a strange, membranous being. Emits murmurs. If the question is whether the earth is a shadow of the sky, the answer is yes.

ON ONE OCCASION, he let them play with it, the first football. It fell off the deck of the British ship the Diligent . Some crewmen jumped down, but couldn’t catch the boy who took it. He ran and ran down Luchana Alley, across Rego de Auga, until he reached Ovos Square, where his pursuers realised there was nothing they could do. The fugitive was safe among the stalls and the forest of skirts belonging to women selling birds and eggs. The ball was part of the city’s secret.

There must have been a grain of truth in this epic story. When you held the ball in your hands, if you brought it close to your body, you could hear a beating that wasn’t yours. The boy’s race. The hero’s heart.

‘Who was it?’

‘One of my grandfathers,’ answered Ramón Ponte proudly. ‘He was self-taught. Had his own scales for weighing the value of historical events. And you know what? That boat, the Diligent , went and sank in the entrance to the bay. Must have been as a result of losing the ball.’

‘Can I report it? Make an interview with you?’ asked Tito Balboa.

‘No way. It might lead to an international protest. It’s not a stone, boy. This is history.’

They were playing on the Western Quay. A place where, between nets and stacks of wood, you learnt how to control your pass, given the limits of the sea. Which may explain why Coruñan footballers such as Chacho, Cheché Martín, Amancio and Luis Suárez were so good at it. At passing accurately.

Ramón Ponte was there, watching. Suffering on account of the Diligent ’s ball and at the same time moved, as if this were a Biblical game being played with the terrestrial globe. The stacks of wood, like large blinds, enclosed the area and acted like barriers to stop the ball embarking. But even so, between the piles of wood, there were corridors, gaping mouths, down which the ball would sometimes disappear together with friends Gabriel had made in this dockside universe, which as a child he’d only been able to contemplate from the gallery. They left the field and didn’t come back. As if they’d been swallowed up by the ghost of the Diligent returning for its ball. When they picked the teams the next day, one would be missing and someone would casually exclaim, ‘He’s gone!’ Which didn’t mean he’d gone for a walk. It meant he’d gone for ever. There was no need to explain. On that border, those who were leaving played with those who weren’t leaving. And Gabriel realised that his family would never have to emigrate. An inequality that bothered him.

‘You can’t have everything,’ whispered Destiny’s Irony in his ear.

That summer, the day after the match with the Father of Footballs, they picked the teams and one called César was missing.

‘César’s gone!’

Another carried off by the ghost of the Diligent .

‘Where to?’

‘Burgos. To see his Dad in prison.’

‘In prison? What’s he doing there?’

‘What do you think?’ asked the crane operator. ‘He’s inside.’

‘What for? Why’s he in prison?’

He felt the others’ silence and looks were directed towards him. He received a word warning, but this time the fear was external, not internal. It was the others being careful with their words. Keeping them in the dark.

‘YOU CAN WRITE about the Holy Company and all that. Beings at night. Holding a cross or whatever. Whether they’re superstitions or not, these fears help religion. Happenings go well with faith. But extraterrestrials cause alarm, widespread panic. It’s as if God and his representatives aren’t protecting us. After almost twenty-five years of peace since Franco’s victory, such stories create insecurity, the impression we’re vulnerable. So forget about the Lighthouse Man, the Galician Roswell and all those fantasies about Hercules Lighthouse being a cosmic meeting place and write about ordinary people, ordinary people doing ordinary things, otherworldly things, but normal otherworldly things, got it? If you like this stuff, OK, go after it. You’ve got Corpus, where there are women expelling demons. Apparently there was one last year, all hairy, seen running down the rows of maize, followed by a bunch of children. Shame there’s no photo. We’ve got all these devils in Galicia and no graphical evidence. Vicente Risco wrote reams. But he didn’t have a Bolex camera, what to do? Then you’ve got the pilgrimage to Santa Marta de Ribarteme, with devotees being carried to the chapel in coffins. Don’t tell me there’s a lack of material. Right next to the city, you’ve possessed women going to Pastoriza, spitting out iron nails against the door. You’ve a brilliant future if you’ll take some advice. What do we want with extraterrestrials in Galicia? What are we going to do with them? Encourage tourism? They’ll attract a few loonies. Just what we need! To become the world capital for raving lunatics. Now, if we had a Loch Ness monster, that would be different. Then we’d be talking!

‘We’ve enough with witches. Witches, imps, the Holy Company and, at a push, between you and me, in confidence, the apostle James’ white horse. Every country has its limit. And, as for spatial matters, we’ve the Betanzos hot-air balloon. Now that’s a civilised superproduction. Compare it with those who chuck goats off a bell-tower! Whatever next? I understand we have to keep up with the times, the fashion. I’m on your side, I feel the beating of the teleprinter in my blood, I understand what you’re saying. Nowadays a country without aliens, well, it’s second-division. All right, don’t tell me about the teleprinter again, I know it’s informed about a UFO sighting in Gaintxurizketa, Errenteria, Euskadi. I tried to explain this to the Delegate of Information and Tourism, we’ve as much right to spot UFOs as anyone else. But we live where we live and we’re not going to change it, me with my gastronomic dishes, you with your cosmic theory.

‘In short, Balboa, what I mean is the governor doesn’t want extraterrestrials in his province. Nor does he want Hercules Lighthouse being presented as a cosmic reference point, an operations base, where, if I didn’t misunderstand you, sowers of cosmozoons are planning a landing. So there’s an end to aliens in the Expreso . A whole squadron of UFOs with Hypernauts and Inhabitants of Emptiness can turn up, we’re not reporting it even in brief.’

‘I still don’t understand why.’

‘Take my advice. Stop asking why! We’re journalists, that’s all. We’re not philosophers or. . selenotropes? Did you ever see a newspaper with question marks? This is not an industry of whys. Why’s the US conducting a war in Vietnam? Why’d they demolish the Cooperative, one of the city’s most beautiful buildings? Why’d they pull down Primitive Baths and the Health Spa, which is a lot of pulling down? Well, my friend, to build a garage. No more Primitive or Health, that’s what great words have in store for them. We could print a full-page WHY? A local, universal, cosmic WHY? It’d be a great day for Spanish journalism. And our evening paper’s last.’