Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘Come with us, Curtis,’ said Gantes the engineer. ‘With your knowledge, you should take a trip around the world. And there’s a library on board. We’ve Spartacus and everything. Come on. Who knows? We may even find him.’

Curtis had his right hand on the horse Carirí’s head and was stroking its mane.

‘I can’t, Mr Gantes.’

‘Why can’t you? All you have to do is get on board. Bring the horse with you.’

‘I have to wait here, in case he comes.’

‘What if he doesn’t come? What if he never returns?’

‘He’ll send a message. We agreed. He was always late, Mr Gantes, as you’ll remember, he was like that, but he came. And when he came, the rest was forgotten. He’d come and that was it. If he said he’d come, he’d come. OK, he was always late. But once he arrived, the party was a given. He was like a magnet for sweet iron filings.’

‘When did he leave, Curtis?’

Curtis didn’t want to answer that question. Didn’t want to make that calculation.

‘What year did he leave, Curtis?’

‘. .’

‘Years ago, wasn’t it?’

‘. .’

‘It’s rained since then. Grass has grown on the roofs.’

‘Time passes and it doesn’t, Mr Gantes.’

For Korea, an eternity had gone by since these two had started their conversation. Time had no meaning for him if there wasn’t movement. There they were — men, boat and horse — stuck. The sun projected the Chemin Creux ’s prow like a giant needle or a cypress crown in search of hours on the stones. Korea jumped over the line of shade. Yawned and stretched like a cat.

‘Luís Terranova? Who is this phenomenon who was always late?’

‘I told you a thousand times,’ growled the crane operator. ‘A marvellous singer. People stopped dancing to listen to him. His voice still echoes in the air if you can hear it. He took “Parade of Stars” by storm with that tango, “Chessman”, about someone who’s been sentenced to death.’

Korea noticed the last part of Ramón Ponte’s intervention was aimed at Curtis and Gantes on the boat. Korea didn’t like the tone the crane operator used when addressing him. He treated him, sometimes, like a village idiot. But they were from the same district. Which, for Korea, was a sacred bond. Besides, the operator was somehow strong and cultivated. He had a small library in the cabin of his crane. And he had the first regulation football to reach Coruña, which fell off the back of a British ship, so to speak. Korea was proud of the operator, it’s just that they moved to different rhythms. He was aware he wouldn’t last long operating a crane, though he was impressed by the skill with which he could load a large block of granite, move it through the air like a bale of compressed mist, and by the elegance with which he unloaded those studs from Canada, the ease with which they flew off the boat and landed to effect improvements in the Galician cow’s genetics. When one of the studs was in the air, the operator said, ‘See, all this talk about Spanish bulls and bullfighting, but when it comes down to it, they bring in a Canadian stud to mate with our cows.’ Yes. Being a crane operator was not without merit, but everything they did happened slowly, with an animal’s resistance. And Korea needed something to happen fast. It was late already. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and felt the emptiness.

‘Why won’t he come down?’

‘Who?’

‘The ship’s admiral.’

‘That’s Mr Gantes, you fool. The engineer. Maritime Awakening’s engineer.’

He didn’t know quite how to interpret this information. According to Ponte, he must be some kind of local celebrity. All the more reason to descend from there.

‘Is he going to stay on the ship? Why won’t he come down?’

‘Ask him.’

‘Hey, Mr Engineer. Why won’t you come down?’

Curtis had put the cherry stones back in his mouth and was grinding time between his molars.

‘You know something, boy? The day I come down, I’ll do it barefoot,’ said Mr Gantes from the deck. ‘I’ll step on the sawteeth of rock barnacles till my feet bleed. From Portiño to Pedra das Ánimas, in bare feet.’

The Chemin Creux ’s engineer was tense and in pain, as if he’d expelled a hermit crab through his throat.

Only Korea, recovering from the shock with wit, was able to break the silence, ‘I like what you say. There’s action in it.’

‘Where’s there action?’ asked Gantes.

‘In walking over rocks with bloody feet.’

‘Have you any idea what I’m talking about, boy?’

‘I’m not such a boy,’ said Korea sternly. ‘I’ve unmade a few beds, including a marital one.’

‘He’s no historical vision, Mr Gantes. He’s a bit crazy,’ said the crane operator.

‘By the way, Mr Engineer,’ said Korea, suddenly expressing great interest, ‘did you ever know the champ of Galicia, Arturo da Silva?’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

‘For that, you’ll need a trip around the world. Come on board.’

‘I can’t right now. I’ve things to do.’

‘Shame. When I get back, you’ll be old, boy.’

‘Then you’re going to be a long time?’

‘No more than a year.’

Stringer jots down notes with tachygraphic speed.

‘What’s your cargo, sir?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Tito Balboa. Maritime chronicler for the evening Expreso , sir.’

‘Maritime chronicler?’

‘Acting, sir.’

‘This ship’s called the Chemin Creux .’

‘Yes, I noted it down. What cargo’s on board?’

‘General cargo.’

‘Are you in transit?’

‘That’s it. In transit.’

‘When will you leave?’

‘Depends.’

‘Depends? I can’t put that in the newspaper, sir.’

Mr Gantes wasn’t listening. He was paying attention to the phosphorescent diver who’d just climbed up the steps of the Western Quay with a bicycle. The bicycle’s wheels were moving in the air on their own, giving off reddish-green flecks of Irish moss.

‘What kind of fish you got there?’

‘Mr Gantes! It’s a devilish machine. Throws itself into the sea. Not like Clemente’s, which threw itself in for a peso. This one does it for free.’

‘Let me take it for a spin,’ said Korea. ‘I’ll soon tame it.’

‘The bicycle has an owner. Where’s Pinche?’

‘Hiding behind Fabero’s stacks of wood,’ replied Korea. ‘He’s in for a hiding. He was supposed to warm the pots of workmen’s food and made a fire with planks of teakwood. That’s because he only has one eye. And there were quite a few pots. I counted them. Twenty-five.’

‘That’s a lot of pots. It’s not easy to warm them at the same time. You have to understand about fire,’ said Mr Gantes.

The engineer looked at Curtis. They were both thinking about the type of specific heat. Twenty-five pots. All together, like large, tile-coloured mushrooms on the burning ground. Teakwood makes a good fire. Exquisite for workmen’s pots.

‘The builder’s a tough guy in white shoes,’ said Korea. ‘By the name of Manlle. Doesn’t show up much, pays surprise visits, but when he does, sends a shiver down your spine. He’s a real bastard!’

White shoes next to twenty-five tile-coloured workmen’s pots, warming their broth, potatoes with bacon and cabbage, the odd stew. That shout containing accusation and verdict, ‘Who made a fire with teakwood? Blasted pallet of the world! I know someone I’m going to hang off a pontoon so that, when the tide comes in, the fish’ll eat his balls.’

‘What do you do then?’ asked Roque Gantes the engineer.

‘I’m an Autodidact,’ replied Korea ironically.