Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘His one-two. That’s what they talk about. And the way his legs moved. My Dad used to say he was a dancer in the ring.’

‘Back then, I suppose he had a good pair of legs,’ commented Korea ironically.

Gabriel, Zonzo and Stringer giggled nervously. They’d heard this conversation before. They knew what Curtis said about the champ of Galicia and what he told a journalist one day, “I thought you’d come to watch me box, not to see my legs!”’

‘He had a good pair of legs,’ said Curtis suddenly, fixing Korea with his gaze. ‘What wouldn’t you give for such a pair of legs?’

When Curtis laughed, he did so with the whole of his body. Which may explain why he didn’t laugh very often. Not because of his character, but because of the weight of moving his whole geography.

‘He was good at making a feint. And at opening a side corridor.’

‘Opening a side corridor?’ asked Korea with a hint of mockery.

‘Don’t you know what it is to open a side corridor? When the other finds himself in a vacuum, punching the air. If you don’t know the difference between equilibrium and disequilibrium, you’ve a long way to go.’

Korea started paying attention. Equilibrium, nice word. He wanted to ask something else. Suddenly looked in the other direction. Who said he had no visual field? Deformed and attractive, her body slightly bent, Medusa entered his wide-angle lens. Carrying a large fish on her head. On top of a cloth that had been so well coiled it resembled a crown. On top of the crown was a bluefin tuna. Equilibrium. Korea remembered seeing her with a dogfish, like a small shark, on her head. But today it was a tuna. A bluefin tuna on top of Medusa, who was wearing red tights. Payment for services rendered. She’d relieved the Chocho Kid of his virginity. And the Chocho Kid had paid her with his share of the catch.

‘It seems to me a boxer doesn’t have to think much,’ said Korea abruptly. ‘Hit as hard, as quickly and as accurately as possible. The rest is chitter-chatter.’

‘You’re right,’ replied Curtis to Korea’s surprise. ‘If boxing were just a fight, you’d be absolutely right.’

He was going to say, ‘Actually it’s the opposite. The whole time, your whole body’s thinking. Your hand is thinking about your head. Your eyes are dancing on the tips of your toes.’

He was going to tell them about Neto. He’d never told them before. About Neto’s cure. How to soothe and deaden pain, heal wounds, lower bumps, touch up bruises. Neto, Arturo da Silva’s fighting friend. Then he thought about it. Put the two cherry stones in his mouth. Pulled the cap of green rhombuses over his forehead. And fell silent.

Korea watched Medusa move off with the bluefin tuna on top of her head. The Chocho Kid in the other direction. His shirt was hanging out. He tucked it in and tied his belt, which was a piece of string. He breathed in and filled his chest to bursting. He felt he was being observed. Noticed he’d grown. Which was true. His tattered trousers had shortened and were clinging to his calves, as if he’d raised his head. The length of a bluefin tuna. Korea asked the crane operator, ‘How much is a swordfish?’

‘For that, you have to work like a man,’ said the operator reprovingly.

‘Who said anything about working?’ Korea replied. ‘All I did was ask about a swordfish.’

The Chemin Creux berthed at the Western Quay. Moored against the light. Seemed to be bringing a cargo of sun from the East. It was welcome. The stones on the quay were still covered in hues of rain, an oily water forming pools in the joins with bits of rainbow. It felt as if something was happening, perhaps because Tito Balboa rushed forwards and took a few fast notes.

There, on deck, with a smile as wide as his outstretched arms, was Roque Gantes. Who conducted a dialogue with the absentee. Heard Luís Terranova’s singsong voice. His way of exorcising the pain of arrival.

‘In French?’

‘ Le zizi et la foufoune. ’

‘In Italian?’

‘ Il cazzo, la fessa. ’

‘It’s bloody cold?’

‘ Fa un cazzo di freddo! ’

‘Now I like a bit of cosmopolitanism.’

‘ Prick, cunt! Schwanz, Möse! ’

‘How about Esperanto?’

‘ Foki. . ’

‘Enough!’ he said to his memory. ‘Just a moment, please.’

Pulling the wooden horse, with the tripod camera on his back, his old friend Hercules approached.

‘Well, blow me down.’

‘Mr Gantes!’

He blinked. The sun could do that, place a moment in a passing eternity. Grant a healing pardon to all things.

‘Heard anything?’ asked the travelling photographer.

‘Not a thing, Curtis. The odd echo, that’s all.’

The city’s urban intelligence consisted of working with the light, its long, glass façades, and following the line drawn by the sea. Roque Gantes still became emotional when he saw the lighthouse and his whole body floundered in organic confusion whenever he entered a Spanish port. But he’d decided not to disembark. Never to set foot on native soil so long as the tyrant lived.

‘Come on board, Curtis. I’ve spoken to the captain. We need people. Experts in cold. That was your thing, wasn’t it?’

‘Thermal electricity, Gantes.’

He went up to Carirí and dug around in the saddle-bags. ‘Germinal’s was a good one, Mr Casares’ too,’ he murmured. They’d taken an age to burn. People always supposed the saddle-bags were empty, were an adornment on the photographer’s wooden horse. But Curtis had a few special belongings.

‘I studied this book. Arturo told me, “If you want to train with me, you’ll have to get a profession.” I said, “I can be a shoeshiner. I’ve a shoeshiner’s box.” And he replied, “Anyone who wants polish can stick his fingers up his bum. There’s something that has a future, Curtis. Will change lives. Thermal electricity.” So, that summer, first I’d go to Germinal to read books on electricity and then to train in the gym on Sol Street.’

‘It looks burnt!’ exclaimed Balboa, Stringer, when he saw A Popular Guide to Electricity .

‘It is burnt,’ replied Curtis laconically. ‘The edges are burnt.’

Gabriel felt a jump in his gut. A tingle in his fingers.

Korea was quick, ‘If that’s a book about electricity, all the fuses will start blowing.’

‘The boy’s not stupid,’ said Gantes to the crane operator. ‘He’s got a causal sense of humour.’

‘No, he’s no fool. The thing is books give him cramps in his hands. Even if they’re not about electricity.’

‘That’s not true,’ retorted Korea. ‘I like western novels.’

‘It’s a start,’ affirmed Gantes. ‘A watered-down version of Shakespeare!’

Curtis held the book like a relic, without opening it, afraid that it might fall apart.

‘Cold is the absence of heat,’ he said in contact with the book. ‘You have to know that. And then there are different kinds of heat. Sensible heat, latent heat. . but, practically speaking, perhaps it’s most important to understand the mechanics of specific heat, which is to say the amount of heat per unit mass required to raise the temperature by one degree Celsius.’

Everyone listened in silence, reverentially, as if a prayer had been spoken on the quay from a hitherto unknown religion. At that moment, Curtis’ look had a slight iridescence. Between the dark refrains of the sea on the pontoons, he seemed to hear Luís Terranova’s startled laugh when he heard him recite the definition of specific heat for the first time, aloud, from memory, without getting a single word wrong. It was by the lighthouse at the start of summer. Curtis was acting as Earman for Luís. He was his memory, his supplier of lyrics and his ears. Luís was finally going to audition as a vocalist for a festive orchestra. Terranova would sing and Curtis had to measure his voice. ‘Can you hear?’ ‘I can now. Go a bit further, to that rock.’ ‘Can you hear?’ ‘Louder, louder!’ ‘Can you hear?’ ‘Not any more.’