Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

She knew what was happening. The River Mandeo, the festive river, was running down his spine. It was the same when he recalled the quicksilver glass sign of the Shining Light in the Abyss association in Silva district. That emery design with a sun in flames. The Fascists smashed it to pieces and replaced it with a sign that said ‘Winter Aid’. One night, somebody broke off the second part, leaving the word ‘Winter’ forever engraved on the façade. ‘Winter,’ like that, with a capital letter. So now the River Mandeo was coming back. Because the special train never left. Nor did the boats. And on 2 August they didn’t travel upriver to the field of festivities, Libertaria, for a day. Instead, lots of them travelled as corpses that August, thrown a little further up, from Castellana Bridge, on the Coruña-Madrid road. The dead who washed up in pools were collected by locals and buried. Dead dispossessed of life and identity. The Unknown. In Vilarraso, Aranga and Coirós. Those who were supposed to go upriver, on an outing to Libertaria, ended up travelling downriver. Having been murdered. None of these crimes was ever investigated. The terror of the families, if any were left, was such they didn’t dare look into the dead.

‘You were going to read me something, Papa. You were talking about a trip upriver. And were going to read me something.’

‘I was after a book about animal electricity, it was a bit of joke, to see what she’d say, the others were watching. And she, Minerva, the librarian Holando called Minerva, told me very seriously there was a book called Hypnotism and Animal Magnetism , so I told her the story about the duck. The day my mother took it and cut its neck, she was the only one at home brave enough to do that, to sacrifice an animal so that we could eat. The duck put up such a resistance it took to the air. Flew over us without a head. And my mother said, “That’s because it had a lot of electricity stored up inside.” Minerva listened with wide open eyes. She was obviously amazed by the story. She had a book on the desk. “If you’re interested in nature,” she said, “I recommend you read this one.” It was Man and the Earth by Élisée Reclus.

‘“Can I take it out on loan?”

‘“ No, you can’t. There are six volumes. This is the first. You can start with this one. Here, in the library.”’

When it came to closing time in Germinal, on Sol Street, which leads into Orzán Bay, Polka was so absorbed by the book he decided to commit a transgression and take it with him, hidden under his jacket. That was at the end of June, just before St John’s Eve. He saw her at the bonfires and turned pale in front of the flames. He went to the library on several occasions, intending to return it, but on reaching the door, he saw Minerva there and was unable to enter out of guilt and shame. He, a park and garden employee, a bagpiper from Castro who could play as well in a tribute to Sacco and Vanzetti as in a procession for Our Lady of Mount Carmel, patron of the sea, shelter for castaways, he, member of the Shining Light in the Abyss association, reader of Brazo y Cerebro and The Ideal Novel — to have stolen a book like a petty thief! But he’d made up his mind. Without further ado, when he left work on Friday the 17th, before attending Curtis’ first fight, he would go to Germinal and return it. Very seriously, he would offer his apologies to Minerva. Volunteer to help out. He could do a bit of everything. That was the advantage of living on the border between city and field. But it wasn’t possible. That evening was the first time the ships’ sirens sounded on news of the military uprising in North Africa and people flocked down to the city centre. He spent all night with the book under his arm. There were demonstrations for people to be given arms in defence of the Republic. And he went as well, feeling a little crestfallen.

‘Don’t lose your sense of humour now, Polka,’ said Arturo da Silva. ‘Without weapons, what’ll we do if you’re out of sorts? Come on, pray for us in Latin, it’s quicker.’

It was nothing to do with his mood. Or fear at what was happening. How to explain to Arturo the burden of guilt? Guilt for Man and guilt for the Earth. Guilty guilt. He couldn’t tell him. In the middle of a military coup, at a time of life and death, he couldn’t say he’d kept a book by Élisée Reclus. It was a trifle, but the guilt was enormous and weighed on him.

He opened Volume I and saw the terrestrial globe held by two hands: ‘Man is Nature achieving self-consciousness’.

‘Would you believe it? That was how the first volume of Man and the Earth escaped the flames. The rest burnt. The guy in charge was desperate to lay his hands on a New Testament. Kept asking us. First he burnt the books, then he wanted to act as firefighter for Christ. But there was nothing he could do. What he didn’t know was the pain I felt as I turned over the ashes to see if anything remained of Élisée Reclus. Even Olinda didn’t know how I got this book. That’s war for you. You’re left with an encyclopedic volume whose brothers are missing. I sometimes dream the library’s open. I go to return the book and Minerva says, “Now, as a punishment, you’ll have to read all the volumes.” So I have to read all the volumes and I can because we’re not at war.’

‘You were going to read me something, Papa.’

‘That’s right. Just a moment.’

Polka was unsure whether it was better to look at the globe through his presbyopics or to see it blurred. He now had problems with the sight of his hands. When the globe became well, sort of global, they trembled.

KOREA DISAPPEARED FOR a year from the Western Quay. He came back shaven, without that showy hair he wore like a mane. Very serious. Having lost weight. Everything in him had got smaller, except for his eyebrows, which cast a shadow on the gullies of his face, as if time had rushed past, carrying with it the vegetation, the flesh on the terraces, the laughter mechanism. Not his teeth. But it looked as if they’d grown like unearthed dolmens. He was holding hands with María Medusa.

He remembered the last time he’d seen them, between planks of wood, with sacks of salt for a bed. She’d been sitting, caressing Korea’s crown, while he’d been lying with his head in the girl’s lap. They’d seemed to him very beautiful. He’d never felt the desire to paint a scene before and that’s what he’d thought he was doing when he looked at them. The stacks of wood framed the couple and at the same time filtered the light in slats like a large blind.

Close up, he’s able to appreciate the patches on his face better. Has the feeling he’s painted them before. Is familiar with the shades of flesh.

‘Hello, your honour,’ said Korea.

There was nothing threatening about him. His frank look was not one of revenge. Chelo would sometimes mark squares so that she could draw the oval of a face. Korea’s was like this. A serenity marked off by scars. Medusa stroked his ponytail with her smooth, white hand. A fibrous hand with long fingers and prominent veins, which caressed slowly, as if it was going to stay.

‘You had a record player, right?’

Gabriel was about to come out with a list of excuses. It wasn’t his. It belonged to his mother. It was portable, but very heavy. If he was caught bringing it down, he wouldn’t know what to say. And the judge. The judge can hurt you, Korea, don’t you realise? Wasn’t it enough? But he didn’t say anything. He nodded. Yes, they had a record player. In the Chinese Pavilion, Chelo used the radiogram, a piece of furniture that in Gabriel’s mind, he wasn’t sure why, went with the grandfather clock Grand Mother Circa. The record player had been a present from Leica for his sister. The result of one of his futuristic deals with the Wizard of Oz, as he called the owner of Hexámetro, in the field of publicity and window dressing. He’d heard his father comment that Leica was made of mercury. He thought he was referring to his ups and downs, but on this occasion he meant his ideas, as slippery as beads of mercury on a fork. It seemed the judge had forever been studying Leica and still wouldn’t be able to pick him out at an identity parade. He was a mutant, capricious creature, in his opinion, who gave the lie to his idea of a catalogue of personalities and behaviours. At court, he could tell who somebody was at the first coup d’œil , the first olhadela . . Leica had for some time been carried away by what he called the window revolution, which would transform the face of the city, create a new landscape, a second nature. The way had been prepared by a pioneer, Armando Liñeira, who’d had the sensational idea of parading models inside the shop window of La Palma. This was how things stood at the start of summer 1963, when Korea reappeared on the Western Quay and asked Gabriel to bring down the record player which Leica had given Chelo and he’d acquired. It worked on batteries. Why not? Why not bring it down? Why not give this hero of the Western Quay that pleasure? He’d even taken it the first Sunday they went to the beach in Santa Cristina. The day he waited for the girl to arrive who spoke chimpanzee language with a strange accent, had fair skin, greenish-brown freckles, was tall and lanky, but with hardly any breasts, despite the large, pink nipples.