Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

He stood up. He looked fatter when he was annoyed. Today Stringer attributed this abdominal enlargement to his theory on the restriction of whys. He brandished the newspaper in front of him.

‘See this photo? Who is it? Yes, it says so in the headline. It’s Carmencita, Franco’s daughter, water-skiing. Right here, in Coruña Bay. You ever see someone water-ski in a long skirt? No, of course not. Well, she wasn’t wearing one either. Her legs were bare as they should have been. So why’s she in a skirt? Because we received an indication , got it? Someone upstairs picks up the phone and indicates the Caudillo’s daughter has to appear in a skirt, so her legs can’t be seen. You don’t ask why. You just cover her legs. See this article. There’s a quote from a song where it should say, ‘Leaning against the jamb of the brothel’. What does it say? Go on, tell me.’

Stringer read the bit he was pointing to, ‘Leaning against the jamb of the hostel’.

‘Nonsense, right? Why? What for? You want to know why? The guy in charge of words is in charge of us, inside and out. I’ll tell you something else, but I don’t want it leaving this office.’

His habit of glancing to the sides. He looked as if he was going to withdraw his offer. He believed in oaths. He repeated in a deep voice, ‘I don’t want it leaving this office.’

‘You have my word, sir.’

‘I was thinking of publishing a childhood memoir by Salvador de Madariaga. No politics. Memories of a Coruñan child. An intimate piece with a strong regional flavour. Quite innocent. There weren’t even any chlorocephalids.’

‘Chlorocephalids?’ enquired Balboa. The director of the Expreso , who was often reserved, had these expansive moments when he even invented new words.

‘Yeah, those little men with green heads eating astropops, like the ones you saw around the lighthouse. Anyway, I was thinking of printing this piece by the Spanish historian, which would require authorisation since, as you know, the illustrious Coruñan may not be an extremist, but he does live in exile. For this reason, I went to Madrid, to the Ministry. Naively I thought the fact the three of us — the Minister, the writer and me — were all Galician would make it easy. But remember one thing, Balboa. All this pretence about being from the same country is a letter of credence, a visa, for someone who’s planning to stab you in the back. The Minister received me in person and I thought no problem. I explained what it was about and he asked to see the document. He read it right there, in front of me. Very calmly. He was obviously interested. He knew the areas where the child had spent his life. And the fact he was showing some interest dispelled any lingering doubts, any fear I may have had of needlessly stirring up trouble. Then the Minister raised his head, looked at me and said, “No, there’s no way you can publish this.”’

‘No?’

Stringer imagined the story would have some surprise, but he hadn’t expected this abrupt ending. He was shocked. Until recently, his only job had been to record the arrival and departure of boats and the price of fish. Obviously he’d heard about the censor’s office, he knew there was a building on Cantóns with various censors. What’s more, before starting to write, one of his errands had been to take the galley proofs to that building to be approved before they were printed. But normally nothing happened. He’d once heard the administrator who returned the proofs comment ironically, ‘The pages devoted to the glorious 18th of July are exactly the same as last year and the year before that. A newspaper that repeats itself! These layabouts haven’t even bothered to change the headlines.’ Another time, he was given an envelope for the director. Someone had written ‘Confidential’ with a red pencil. But the envelope was half open or half closed and he couldn’t resist the temptation. It said any information relating to Korea was to be treated with the utmost caution. Of course, he knew they meant the Asiatic country, but what he saw was the face of the guy down in the docks, Miguel, otherwise known as Korea. He’d received a beating. His shaven head was a globe with oedemas and scabs representing the poor countries.

‘No?’

‘That’s what he said, “You can’t publish this.” And then I. .’

He blinked. Too much light in his clear eyes. It was something that infuriated him, his glands’ disobedience, ‘Dacryocystitis! A journalist’s nightmare. Would you please lower those blinds!’

Stringer quickly complied. He was afraid the lowering of the blinds would delay the story. So, as he was doing it, he asked, ‘And then what, sir?’

‘I was prepared to plead with him, to beg. It was all so absurd. And it seemed to me such arbitrariness was a defeat for the whole of humanity. I said, “They’re memories of when he was a child, sir. An old man recalling his childhood. That’s all. Why not publish them?” The Minister rummaged through some papers and, without looking at me, pointed to the door and said, “Why? I’ll tell you why. Because where there’s a skipper, a sailor’s not in charge. That’s why.”’

The director of the evening Expreso thumped the table as the Minister had done before him. Aldán was someone who couldn’t say no. It grated on him internally like an ulcer of the soul. In his hypochondriac state, he sometimes thought about this, his soul’s duodenum perforated like a sieve. He admired Benito Ferreiro from the shipping company, who’d just attended a dinner which should have formed part of the city’s honourable history. A tribute to Valentín Paz-Andrade, ex-Republican MP, who’d come back from working as an expert for the United Nations in Mexico. The act was authorised under surveillance, so long as it was presided over by a stooge of the regime. Perhaps one of those who one day urinated on some burning books? Eyes sunken in the fat of time. Anyway, there was lots of talk about Paz-Andrade’s knowledge of the sea. At which point the stooge stood up and proposed a toast, ‘To the Caudillo, Spain’s first fisherman!’

Benito Ferreiro refused to join in the toast. He got up and left the table.

‘Where are you off to, Ferreiro?’ barked the stooge.

Ferreiro turned calmly around and replied, ‘To take a piss.’

‘Let me tell you something else about the censor’s office. Something you can take away with you. Certain scenes can contain tools and instruments of torture. But what can’t appear is their sound. You can see the executioner as he prepares to use the garrotte, but not hear him. That’s the soundtrack.’

It occurred to Stringer there was another man inside the director, a restless creature who was always coming and going. Perhaps a Hypernaut of Infinite Space or an Inhabitant of Emptiness. What he said next had a deliberately obscure meaning, he couldn’t tell whether it was good or bad, ‘What you learn here in a day you won’t learn anywhere else.’ He sat lost in thought, but Stringer knew he was counting to ten with his fingers like beads. An economical way of calming down. He then adopted a confidential tone, ‘The governor called the censor and the censor called me. They’re really upset about this report, as if they’d lost their mind. It seems this lunatic you interviewed has a bag of crossed cables on his back, but also a story inside that can’t be told. Don’t ask me anything else. No extraterrestrials, no boogie-woogie, no Hypernauts of Infinite Space or long-haired musicians, even if they’re English. That’s the final word. So now you know. Stay positive. Don’t go upsetting the boat.’

‘Mr Aldán. .’

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You don’t have to keep secrets from me. I’ll read you the script. Tell you what there is.’ He added something Stringer didn’t necessarily take as a warning, ‘It’s then up to you to get by.’