Manuel Rivas - Books Burn Badly

‘Big hands,’ said Leica one day, interlocking fingers. ‘A miniaturist’s big hands.’

A group of worthies in the city wanted to give the dictator an unusual present. He was Supreme Commander of the Forces of Land, Sea and Air, he was described in the papers as Sword of the Most High, and yet he had a thorn stuck in his pride. The fact he had failed to enter the Naval Academy as a young man. His ambition was to be an admiral. So, when he achieved absolute power, his favourite outfit, which he wore on special days, was the Navy officer’s full-dress uniform, worn by admirals in Ferrol only on Good Friday. It was in this uniform he had an important portrait done of himself wearing the Grand Laurelled Cross of St Ferdinand on his chest, holding some binoculars. The local authorities had already given him the manor of Meirás, which he travelled to Coruña in 1937, at the height of the war, to take possession of. He was then presented with the finest building in the Old City, Cornide House. The city’s richest man, the banker Barrié, sold it to him for the sum of five pesetas. An emotional exchange, not without symbolism. Franco paid with one of those small coins bearing his face and the legend ‘Caudillo of Spain by the grace of God’. The banker would later be named Count of the Electric Forces of the Northwest or Count of Fenosa. No, there was no point competing in new property values. Now that the twenty-fifth anniversary of providential leadership was coming, this new present had to be highly symbolic, something that would both surprise Franco and touch his heart. Why not go beyond the admiralty?

The idea came up at a dinner in the yacht club, hosted by the governor. They’re all agreed. The governor is waiting to hear something so that he can assume the proposal as his own. One of the guests is Máximo Borrell, Franco’s favourite fishing companion, described by him in front of everyone as ‘an intimate friend’, which gives his opinion the rank of placet. The proposal came from the judge Ricardo Samos, with his historical, one might say warlike knowledge, who, because of their parallel lives, is close to the governor, since they go hunting together. Samos has some very important information. A clue. He recalls an old conversation among Navy officers, at which his father was present. Yes, there was something of the stature required by history, which could move Franco, not an easy task.

‘A majestic, royal cape.’

‘Sounds good,’ said the governor. ‘Sounds wonderful.’

The judge explained. A festal cape had once been prepared for King Alfonso XIII to celebrate a planned visit to Galicia, which was meant to protect his royal highness during a naval display to be held in his honour. But such a portentous ceremony never took place. It was cancelled due to bad weather. The king never wore the cape. It wasn’t even collected. As a result of bureaucratic intricacies, no one was willing to take charge of the commission. So the tailor decided he’d use it himself. It was a magnificent cape. And still is. Because that cape exists.

‘And it’s only been worn by the tailor?’

‘That’s right. You could say he was trying it on.’

The judge pulled a note from his inside pocket. Read the following: ‘Festal cape for Alfonso XIII. Sea-blue armure fabric, night-blue velvet collar with golden-threaded soutache, red lining and a fastening of golden braid in cable-stitch. The vestment is in a reasonable state and can be recovered despite the intervening years. The fastening is a little frayed, the velvet soutache completely worn and there’s a tear in the armure on the right shoulder as well as open seams in the fabric and lining. While of good quality, the velvet requires special treatment since it’s been compressed. For the cape to return to its former splendour would need painstaking attention and invisible mending, since the use of new materials is out of the question, which would only detract from the garment’s historical value.’

‘Not exactly a piece of cake, Samos,’ observed the governor with concern.

‘The garment is unique. Historic. Don’t think about the tears, think about the meaning. A royal cape is worn by Franco for the first time in public. “Your excellency, we humbly offer you this cape as Majesty of the Sea.”’

‘With those words! Those very words! Exactly. Write them down.’

‘I won’t forget them,’ said Samos.

‘Yes, but I will,’ said the governor.

‘Darning’s no good. It’s an extremely difficult, delicate task. That requires a surgeon. The only people who can do this,’ the governor is informed, ‘are the nuns in Domestic Service. They’re the ones responsible for handing down the art of invisible mending.’ When Mother Asun is shown the garment, she blinks and contorts her face. ‘You’d have to work with tiny threads, use filaments the size of eyebrows.’ She no longer has the eyes or hands for such a job.

‘Who can do it with certainty?’ asks the governor’s secretary, who doesn’t want to fail in this special mission. ‘They can ask what they like.’

‘Only Silvia can do this.’

‘Silvia? Tell me where to find her.’

‘No. We’ll do it differently,’ said the nun. ‘I’ll get in contact. She also is a special, sensitive case. Who’s it for? It’s important to know who will be using the garment.’

‘It’s an order from the governor, mother. A priority matter. It’s a museum piece for which there’s a special urgency. That’s all I can say.’

Having spoken to Mother Asun, Silvia went for a long walk in the docks. It was midday. She saw the champion of Galicia with the horse Carirí and thought of Leica. This time, she said yes, she’d have her photo taken. Medusa was on the Wooden Jetty, sitting on an oak beam that would be used as a sleeper. She looked like the only inhabitant of a strange, empty city built on stakes behind her. Silvia couldn’t help watching her. Whenever she went that way, the same thing happened. She was bewitched by that woman who only revealed half of her face, as if she were a black-and-white figure. Medusa stood up. The way they walked, they resembled two interlinked people moving as one. One pulling the other. One forward, the other cautious, so that they walked with a mixture of brazenness and shyness. Or rather arrogance and fear.

She came up to her and asked for a cigarette.

‘I haven’t got any,’ replied Silvia. ‘It’s true. I don’t smoke.’

‘I didn’t ask whether you smoked or not,’ said Medusa. ‘What do I care whether you smoke or not? This is a city of chatterboxes. Ask for a cigarette and they start giving you their life story.’

Her hair was smooth, very black, and hung like a jet mane. When she talked, it swayed slightly and the shine created drawings that resembled brocade. Silvia would have paid her to carry on talking like this against the world.

‘Why don’t you give me something?’

She said this when Silvia was already rummaging through her purse.

‘Do you want to see my face? I’ll let you see it all for ten pesetas.’

Silvia paid up. And waited. But Medusa said, ‘If you want to see it, you’ll have to unveil it yourself.’ Silvia held out her arm and stroked the smooth hair with her fingers, but didn’t pull it back to see the hidden face.

‘Go on. I’m not a monster, you know.’

Silvia withdrew her hand, turned around and quickly walked away.

That afternoon, a woman visited her in her rented room, as she and Mother Asun had agreed. A civil servant who carried out her instructions to the letter. She brought the cape with her in a protective covering. It was a garment of great historical value that needed restoring for an important exhibition. She could name her price. And conditions. There wouldn’t be a problem.