Books Burn Badly (41 page)

‘
The Prohibited?
’

For the first time, the judge seemed to realise his son was there, in the alcove, writing, contained in the circle of light from the desk-lamp, which, rather than bringing him closer, kept him apart with the astral effect of torches in the night.

‘Yes, it belonged to Santiago Casares. As did
Le Nu de Rabelais
. We talked about a set of teeth,’ insisted Sulfe. ‘About the eroticism in Galdós’ description of a woman’s set of teeth.’

‘
The Prohibited?
’ repeated the judge. ‘I’ve got the
Episodes
somewhere. But I was never very keen on Galdós. I always found him rather vulgar. Whether or not I’ve books that once belonged to Casares.’

‘That’s it,’ said Sulfe. ‘Those were exactly my words. Mistaken, obviously.’

The professor’s response upset and confused the judge even more. What was all this about a set of teeth? What was he really after?

‘A set of teeth, you say? What a good memory, Sulfe! You’d make a fine instructor.’

‘A fine pathologist,’ joked Sulfe.

The judge’s tone grew impatient and contemptuous, ‘Maybe. It could be here or up in the attic. That book with the teeth.’

It was. Without its partner, but it was there. As was the one about nudes. Women with moth and dragonfly wings fluttered about the lamp. Gabriel knew this. He could feel the first part trembling in his hands, the wrinkled wound where the corner of the book had been burnt. He remembered the signature like a password or greeting: Santiagcasares Qu. And then, as he turned the pages, an exasperated scent of smoke and human beings.

‘In two volumes. We also discussed
The Future of Death
if my memory does not fail me. Talking of obsessions, I recall you were struck by Casares’ interest in the beyond. His library . . .’

‘I really don’t remember any such conversation. His library is as unknown to me as Popefigs’ Island.’

‘You also were after something, Ricardo. Did you find Borrow’s book? Did it escape the flames?’

The judge gave Sulfe a look he reserved for ex-men and sought out his son’s face behind the green light of the lamp.

‘Mr Sulfe’s leaving, Gabriel. Go with him to the door.’

It was as if Sulfe had suddenly woken up in a storm. He knew the door was closing for good. ‘I don’t think I’ll be back any time soon,’ he said, half smiling. ‘Goodbye, acetylsalicylic.’

When Gabriel returned to the study, the judge was spitting out curses. ‘Whale’s belly?’ he fumed. ‘He really went too far!’ He drummed his fingers on the desk’s padded surface. Then grabbed the magnifying glass and examined the geography of the palm of his hand. A habit he had that seemed to calm him. He turned towards Gabriel. ‘A rare bird,’ he said. ‘You watch him. A professor who spends all his time trying to lay his hands on books he’s after. A professor and a kleptomaniac! Who’d have thought it?’

‘Kleptomaniac?’

‘Biblioklept, to be more precise. That’s the word he used years ago, when he told me about his urge to steal books. I was kind enough not to remind him of it. This urge has got him into trouble. He’s lucky it’s not much of a sin around here. I don’t remember anyone being found guilty of stealing books. But this time he went too far. He won’t enter this house again.’

He drummed his fingers on the desk as if pressing imaginary keys and smiled with irony, ‘Colophon! Jacket! Scruple! Who does he think he is? Pointed stone!’

Finally he got up and Gabriel followed him. Nightfall had turned the large sitting-room into conquered land and all that remained of colours in the Chinese Pavilion was a scent of oils and solvent and the damp breath of plants. Grand Mother Circa raced through time.

‘If Mummy comes, tell her to drop by the Oriental. You also should get out. Clear your head. We don’t want you turning into another Sulfe.’

‘I’ve got to study today. Tomorrow we’ve Father Munio’s championship for God.’

He never stuttered when he had a lie prepared.

‘Championship for God? Now that you have to win.
Ego sum qui sum.
’

‘It has to be in three words.’

Gabriel wanted him to leave. What he’d said about being another Sulfe made his hands tingle with a mixture of excitement and guilt. As soon as his father had closed the door, he ran towards the study. Climbed the library steps and there, in the zone of charred remains, sought out
The Prohibited
by Galdós. Pulled down the first volume. Remembered how sleepy he’d been on a previous attempt. But now he knew the most interesting thing about that rather gullible character, José María, was not what happened to him, but what he desired. He read it inquisitively. And particularly enjoyed it when the prose became voracious, rudely attractive, as when Camila’s perfect set of teeth bit into his heart.

The Championship for God

‘In three words, God.’

Father Munio was a fan of such competitions that gave classes of Religion what he termed ‘a competitive cheerfulness’. He moved about the classroom with great dynamism. In his cassock and white gloves, which he never took off, he had a certain hypnotic effect on his pupils, especially the first few days. His was a spectacular, telegenic style, which contrasted with the severe and often bitter or intimidatory seriousness of most teachers. In fact, he was the only one who talked about television in class without treating it like a diabolical or despicable appliance. He created a bond with pupils whenever he referred to programmes or characters that were gaining notoriety, such as the family of ranchers in
Bonanza
with their model father, or the most popular advertisements. His comparisons not only were celebrated by those who had televisions, but immediately won over the others. His televisual colloquialism placed Father Munio firmly on the side of screen-lovers, which meant everybody, but especially those who were subject to a regime of rationing, verging on prohibition, as was the case with the boarders. The latter, on the odd Saturday evening, had even been forced to occupy the lounge in front of a disconnected television. One of Father Pedrosa’s disciplinary ideas. They’d used their afternoon break to go and play at bullfighting with the waves in Orzán and, when they came back, there was Father Pedrosa waiting for them with the dramatic special effects of his wreaths of breath as he strode across the darkening quad. The television, not switched on, was a petrified piece of grey, wintry sky that Saturday evening. And there was a correlation between the overcast sky, the tutor’s warm vapour and the imageless screen. From where they were, they could hear the hoarse sound of the waves, they were, so to speak, inside the submarine, but deprived of the journey to the ocean bed being undertaken around that time by all whose television was working. The boarders sat there in silence, condemned not to see.

Which is why, to begin with, they liked this Father Munio who was on their side, that of the illuminated screen. This priest who wrote the order of the day on the blackboard: ‘I want you to be happy on earth’ (
The Way
, 217). Or: ‘There you have light, to help you discover the reasons for your gloominess’ (
The Way
, 666). And then the daily exercise, the spiritual gymnastics of his so-called Heroic Minute. ‘Attention. It’s time now to stand up. No hesitation. A supernatural thought and . . . up you get!’ The whole class on its feet, with raised arms like wings, copying him as he flapped his white gloves. Yes, this priest who was such fun he gave himself a round of applause.

‘Allez-hop! Now don’t you feel better?

‘Books, men who accumulate knowledge, are OK, but what we need are publicists for God. Just as merchandise is put on offer, material goods from detergents to fridges, and the person responsible is not afraid to show his face, to repeat the jingle, how much more then should we be engaged in publicity for God? No, we should have no scruples about turning into Walking Advertisements.’ And he’d make them laugh by referring to ‘the spark of life’, Coca-Cola’s slogan. Then he’d hush the amused murmurs with the studied, winged gesture of his gloves and the voice of a liturgical illusionist. ‘If this is how we talk about a beverage that mysteriously contains sugar and caffeine, what invincible force can we extract from our faith?’ He then pointed to the order of the day on the blackboard, a phrase he wrote in large letters as soon as he arrived, which was meant for them to think about and which today sounded like a contradictory, unsettling proclamation: ‘Holy Shamelessness’. Now did they understand?

‘Another go at Heroic Minute. Attention. It’s time now to stand up. No hesitation. A supernatural thought and . . . up you get!’

He sneered at the class. ‘What faces! I don’t see a supernatural thought anywhere.’

Zonzo was always at the back, in the shelter of the wall. He was a bad student with bad marks, but everyone knew he wasn’t sluggish. Nor was he unruly. Almost always mute, even though they threatened to fail him for ever, he made it clear what his attitude was. He was there, at school, under pressure, meeting an obligation that, unlike the others, he didn’t need. Whenever a teacher called his name or said something to him, he became uncomfortable and alert, glancing sideways as if asking, Why me? He had a problem. He was very tall, very slim, and had thick eyebrows which, rather than shading his expression, magnified the slightest ocular movement. Zonzo wished to pass unnoticed, but the more he tried, the more he resembled an intruder dressed up as a pupil.

‘Except for Zonzo,’ said Father Munio, knowing he’d get a laugh. ‘On him, I see the savage sincerity of silence.’

Which is why the surprise was complete when Zonzo raised his hand the day of the championship for God.

‘In three words, God.’

‘The Great Champ,’ said Zonzo. A ripple of nervous laughter spread across the three rows of desks.

Father Munio, standing on the rostrum, held his chalk aloft. His eyes bounced off various heads until reaching the back of the classroom and landing on Zonzo like a discovery. He blinked. With a winged gesture of his gloves, he quietened the murmurs.

‘Could you repeat that?’

‘The Great Champ,’ said Zonzo in a powerful voice.

‘Magnificent,’ said Father Munio. He wrote on the blackboard in capital letters THE GREAT CHAMP. Remarked, ‘Extraordinary.’

Zonzo, amid applause, came and occupied the front desk. It was the first time he’d emerged from the shadows.

‘More answers.’

‘The Most High.’

‘Lord God Omnipotent.’

‘In three words, God. Gabriel?’

Gabriel had spent the previous evening jotting down notes for the competition for God. He’d found two images, two references to the Creator, inspired by postcards sent by Santiago Casares from Durtol Sanatorium, to be precise, accurate: the Universal Architect and the Most Mysterious. But he had been warned. His mouth would refuse to say these words. He’d get tongue-tied.

‘Father, Son, Spirit.’

‘That is true. Three distinct persons and only one true God. Classic,’ his white gloves moved like the doves of a magician, ‘but I’m after something new, an updated message. And today’s biggest contribution came from our new ace.’

He lifted Zonzo’s hand like a boxer’s.

‘We’ll make a mural in the quad.’

There it was after so long, visible for all to see, Zonzo’s biro. In his hand. He was sitting at the front desk and holding it. He was writing his Religion exam in Father Munio’s class and using that special biro with the naked woman. They couldn’t detect the details, but any of the pupils could imagine the movements of that Swedish woman, Zonzo had said she was a Swede, completely naked, riding up and down the biro, in the chamber of water, as he wrote. He’d always been careful only to show it outside school. And not to everybody. But the biro, bandied from mouth to mouth, had become famous. It was a legend that had almost been forgotten until it reappeared the day of the exam in Zonzo’s hand. Zonzo, who had just been promoted and was now occupying the position of class captain.

Yes, the first time he saw it, Gabriel would have swapped all the items in his cabinet of curiosities for that transparent biro, full of liquid, with the naked woman swimming to and fro. He also had a water biro, which was pretty and Swedish, but there was no comparison. A present from Grandpa Samos. What moved up and down was the royal flagship Vasa, partly coated in gold, which was going to stun the seas with its radiance, but got its real reputation for sinking on the day it was launched. His Vasa biro was curious, but it paled into insignificance next to Zonzo’s naked swimmer. Something they all wanted to possess. Something out of reach.

Zonzo’s biro carried on writing and seemed to grow in front of everyone. It shook like a mast. He hesitated over the question which God created first, the lion or the swallow. He hazarded a guess. First the lion. No. Reason told him the lighter would come first. He thought a lion would never be able to catch a swallow. He went on to the next question. What words did Our Lord utter when he prepared to create man? Zonzo stuck the end of the biro in his mouth. They were on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite remember them.

Father Munio realised first that the class had become excessively silent. Then that everyone was trying not to look in exactly the same direction.

He followed that direction. It led to Zonzo’s hand.

They all stuck to their seats in amazement. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen a priest hit a pupil. Harsh treatment was a mark of prestige in this school whose motto was to give each pupil a sense of being one of the elect, on a road without softness. Lots of the boarders were sons of emigrants who invested a large part of their savings in fees for this private, religious school, believing this was the best way for them to ascend in the social scale. Other pupils came from the upper classes, who valued the educational demands and rigorous discipline. So there was nothing strange about a priest hitting a pupil in class. Even laying into him. What was surprising was that the priest should be the jolly Father Munio. That he should lay into Zonzo with such anger. That the knuckles of his right glove should be stained with blood. That the pupil should resist and absolutely refuse to let go of the biro with the naked Swede.