Books Burn Badly (60 page)

‘You’re resistant to any architectural charms,’ said Chelo.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘I’ll give it a go in writing. I’ll make you a map and some notes. It’s best to start with the Atalaya building by Antonio Tenreiro in Recheo Gardens. Or else on Pardo Bazán, where there are several boat-houses, the best of which is number 6 Pardo Bazán. That has a façade which is reminiscent of a prow. You must have seen it.’

‘You walk down the street and miss lots of interesting things.’

‘Yes, our eyes are sometimes a little imprisoned.’

Chelo wrote while saying aloud, ‘6 Pardo Bazán. Architect: José Caridad Mateo.’

‘Caridad Mateo,’ he repeated. ‘The son of General Caridad Pita.’

‘That’s right, one of them.’

They kept up the same tone, but to talk of the Caridad family normally was unusual. A pretence. In the city, its environment, even in private, you didn’t talk about General Caridad Pita or his sons. It would have been an anomaly. His name was a taboo among the victors, even to be cursed or denigrated. General Caridad was the leading military authority at the time of the coup, he remained loyal to the constituted government and, in front of the firing squad, shouted, ‘Long live the Republic!’ No, it wasn’t normal to talk about General Caridad. Or his son, the architect, who was in prison and then went into exile. Or the other, younger son who fled by ship. They disappeared, vanished. Ex-men.

‘I understand the architect’s in Mexico,’ said the judge. In fact, he had this on good authority. Inspector Ren had told him so. But he didn’t say this. He just added, ‘I’ll have to take a look at number 6 Pardo Bazán.’

‘He was very talented. Did you ever meet him?’

‘No,’ replied Samos. ‘Not him.’

They never spoke of the matter again. For him, the conversation had been reassuring. The mention of that name that had been struck off the census helped to banish his fears. The buildings were there, in the book of the city, with their styles, history and people who studied them. Hardly surprising they also had their ghosts, after what had happened.

Chelo did not deserve this suspicious, jealous state that had been gnawing away inside him for years. He couldn’t exactly say when their relationship ceased to have to do with feelings. The balance of their marriage was a front sustained by interest and convenience. They didn’t have problems because they were both polite and respected each other’s space as you respect someone’s furniture. The twin blades of a pair of scissors. It was Father Munio who had once compared marriage to a pair of scissors. One blade can’t function without the other. The judge may have been the main cause of distance. This was something he’d started to consider after all these years. He hadn’t paid her enough attention when her father, Mayarí, died. Depression? He didn’t understand. Dying was one of the laws of life, wasn’t it? He hadn’t known how to respond in the case of Gabriel. He realised now his discomfort was caused not just by his speech impediment, that terrible stutter, but by any other sign of weakness or imperfection. Though he never would have recognised it – he believed a patriarch’s sincerity was counterproductive in the home and the slightest Freudian concession gave him an itch – there may have been some truth in Chelo’s theory that he was taking out his own frustrations on Gabriel. His serious character had lately veered towards taciturn melancholy. He easily got annoyed, especially in the Palace of Justice, be it in his office or in the courtroom. Where before he had felt firm and strong, now he frequently became despotic. His concern, his obsession with the ‘Portuguese architect’, had threatened to ruin their diplomatic entente. Stuck in the Crypt, driven by his reading of the man with fiery words, he fell into a kind of rugged fanaticism. When he received an answer from his Most Worthy colleague, he almost exploded with rage. The Portuguese architect didn’t exist. Who was the other man? Finally he managed to control himself and enter a period of cold calculation. He went so far as to design the most sordid use possible of his powers as judge should it reach the point where he had to defend his honour. He went through the law and sentences with a fine-tooth comb. He could make Chelo Vidal go to prison, turn her into a social outcast. But his plan, the revenge that most satisfied him, was to pardon her and have her, self-confessed, at home. Watch the guilt drive her crazy. One day, he found her removing the dust from her opera records with a cloth. Her finger, in a velvet hood, circled slowly around the vinyl grooves. Her finger like the needle of a bodily appliance. Her gaze distracted. That’s how he’d like to see her all the time. Especially after discovering, in the false bottom of a wooden chest, a Getúlio-Vargas-style revolver with a pearly handle, perfect for what we might call an artistic denouement. All this had been in a fit of passion. He calmed down the day she herself mentioned the Portuguese architect. Without being asked, Chelo simply untied the knot that had so entangled him. She came to his study. Looking beautiful as always. Wiping her fingers on a colour-stained cloth. He adopted his recent glowering expression. Chelo said, ‘Ricardo, the Portuguese architect called this morning. Remember? The one I took on a tour with students of boat-houses.’

‘Yes. So what?’

‘He’s come back from Holland.’

‘From Holland?’

‘Yes, he lives and works in Holland. He’s giving a seminar in Lisbon and has come with his students. I told you about it.’

It was quite possible she had, but for some time now he hadn’t wanted to listen.

What was worrying him now had nothing to do with Chelo. It was the implementation of the newly created Tribunal of Public Order. Samos had been one of the advisers. Not the main one, but he’d made a contribution given his knowledge of political law. A state of emergency had just been declared for a period of two years. He’d written an article signed by Syllabus, in which he quoted Schmitt: ‘A state of emergency is to law what a miracle is for theology.’ As a result of the new tribunal, the state of emergency would no longer be a military matter, that burden on the regime that is a state of war, and instead would become a civil affair. Ricardo Samos had reason to believe that the creation of the tribunal would enable him to receive a promotion, finally to occupy a position of high authority. But he was concerned. The sentencing to death and execution of the rebel Julián Grimau for alleged crimes committed more than a quarter of a century earlier, in time of war, agreed by a military tribunal, had been accompanied by the irregularity of delaying the start of the new tribunal, which necessitated a legal artifice. Only a few knew about it, of course. And he was one of them. He wasn’t quite sure what to think. He aspired to be a great jurist, but all that manoeuvring on their part . . . If only he could make it to the Supreme Court. Yes, the Supreme Court was where he should be.

The censor Dez arrived a little late and sat down next to him. Dez did know where he was going to be. After the summer, he’d finally make the move to Madrid. He was bored, he said laughingly, of his job as censor, of running after poets with a red pencil. Now he’d be on the front line. In the Ministry of Information. Instead of cutting bits out, he’d be adding them. There his publication was guaranteed.

‘Don’t say you’re going to stop writing poetry?’ asked Fasco the prosecutor. ‘That new collection you promised us,
The Moment of Truth
, what will happen to it?’

‘I’m going to let it sit for a while,’ said Dez, diverting the conversation. ‘Publish something different. A novel. You’ll be surprised, I’m sure.’ And he murmured enigmatically, ‘I myself was surprised when I pulled that out of me.’

The judge had also pulled something out. He wasn’t quite sure why or when or under what impulse the story had reared its head, but the fact is he again told the story of the tribute to Schmitt in Madrid a little over a year earlier, which he’d had the good fortune to attend as one of the jurist’s Spanish disciples.

They egged him on. Some had not heard the story before and were greatly interested in Don Carlos, a living myth for jurists and practising judges, such an influential and mysterious figure.

As had happened in the Crypt, the initial reaction to the end of the story – Don Carlos’ statement, ‘This is a sacred feast in the winter of my life,’ followed by the lights going out, a total blackout that immersed the headquarters of the National Movement in darkness – the initial reaction, Samos saw once again, was one of amazement, thoughtful silence. Despite the fact that, as Samos was fully aware, the ending invited spontaneous laughter. But his listeners hesitated between laughing, since the scene was particularly funny, and biding their time, since the people in it weren’t particularly funny. Samos, the only one who’d witnessed the event, then made use of all his eloquence to turn that blackout into a kind of apotheosis of Schmitt’s power of presence. A mystical ending.

He’d been there and counted it as one of the most memorable acts he’d been fortunate enough to attend. ‘The master of ceremonies was wonderful and I’m not just saying that because he’s now minister. What a minister he’ll be! A long-range cannon. Did you see how he devoured the international media? And something that’s important given the current situation. He’s a man of law. He has our training.’ He was sure the last bit would please his fellow guests. ‘It was a lesson in oratory. Going back to the roots. A man with fiery words, as Donoso was said to be.’

They were serving the first course after some appetisers. The judge looked at his watch. Chelo would be here soon. Fasco the prosecutor raised his glass and proposed a toast, ‘To next year!’ He then addressed the judge, ‘The lights going out must have been a pretty special moment. Weren’t you afraid?’

In the hotel’s main reception room, the lights did not go out, but Fasco the prosecutor and Samos the judge could not help feeling partially responsible for what happened next. A cloud of lampoons fell from the interior balcony, covering the chandeliers and causing momentary darkness. Rather than being a cloud, its form was of a flock of white birds gliding softly. On the one hand, the flock of lampoons silenced all the guests, who were astonished and raised their heads. On the other, their sound, that of the lampoons, had more in common with the idea of music than with noise, since their descent was in slow motion, autumnal.

Faces of shock, amazement, irritation. In short, blank lampoons.

‘Well, they’re not entirely blank,’ said Fasco in an intriguing voice, feeling and examining the pieces of paper. ‘They’re in Braille!’ He glanced at his fellow guests, stood up and went towards the top table, his annoyance at such an absurd event causing him to mutter, ‘In Braille!’

The others did the same. Fingered the pieces of paper. He was right, they had raised points, they had perforations.

The language of the blind. Blind, blind, blind. Wells, Wells, Wells. The judge drank some water. The taste of water. It could do with some sugar. Yes, the gorilla who’d urinated on the pyre was there somewhere, in full-dress uniform, an authority now. They hadn’t read Wells. They hadn’t read his story,
The Country of the Blind
, about a man who fell into a valley where the faculty of sight was considered abnormal. Blast it! Why did this scandal, this act of subversion, make him think of Wells? There were days he became angry with his memory, his mind’s insistence on going off alone.

After the initial commotion, pre-war posturing, the dinner guests of the National Movement returned to their ranks and were harangued by the governor. Meanwhile plain-clothes agents picked up every single blank lampoon.

Chelo ran as fast as she could down Tabernas Street. She knew she couldn’t keep going for long. But she also knew she had an option. A refuge. Santiago Church. She’d been there often as a guide. And had often exchanged messages in missals. There was a place, a hollow under the altar of Our Lady of Milk, which a restorer friend had shown her and even the priests didn’t know about. Long enough for the immediate danger to pass. She’d leave in the morning, as the first Mass was being said.

Shame about the shawl. She needed time. She had to think. An item of clothing could change everything. The situation struck her now as absurd, but absurdity is defined by bad luck. That bogey. When she entered the hotel through reception, where she was received with smiles, from the policemen as well, she’d seen the danger, that woman sitting alone at the bar. Reading a newspaper. A strong woman with lots up front, on the verge of bursting at the seams. She’d reminded her of the Feminine Section chief Sada always joked about because of the way she walked, ‘There goes the National Movement!’ But it wasn’t her. Chelo hadn’t seen her before. She carried on. Checked her watch. Soon it would be time for the governor and provincial chief’s speeches. The best moment. She headed towards the mezzanine, as if to enjoy the views of the port. She propped the pack of lampoons against the balustrade. There was a timing device which would set it off. But as she was preparing it, she felt the shadow behind her. Coming after her. It couldn’t catch her. But it grabbed her shawl.

Inspector Mancorvo discreetly approached the judge. Said, ‘Please don’t get up now, Samos. But before you leave, don’t fail to talk to us. We’ll wait for you at the exit.’

And there they were. Mancorvo, Ren and a third person, a woman he hadn’t seen before, in a suit. Tall and strong.

‘We have a serious problem, your honour,’ said Ren.

They went to the far end. There really was a magnificent view of the bay. The twinkling of green and red lights. Their vibrant reflection on the water. The crane lights. Ren pulled something from under his jacket.

‘Do you recognise this?’

He was going to touch it, could have said, ‘Night blue with a black velvet pattern.’ But Samos kept quiet. Just nodded.

The Denunciation

I embark on this poem in the hope its felicity of phrase will speed the boat towards St Pierre and Miquelon.
I was practising how to type without looking at the keys. Copying a poem from an anonymous book that came to me in an envelope with no return address. We get lots of anonymous letters at the station. Mostly denunciations. You’d be surprised how many anonymous denunciations there are going around. In some of them, you can see the care they’ve taken with their handwriting. How it’s been written and rewritten till the letters look elegant and pretty. Maybe the person writing it thinks this will make their denunciation more effective. Some of the poems in the anonymous book were in fact denunciations. True ones, against history, but I couldn’t process them. They were good poems. The ones that attracted me the most talked of voyages through cod-infested seas to Terranova and Nova Scotia, even higher up, to the limits of Greenland and the Arctic. So my fingers were trotting happily along, driven by nostalgia for a didactic embrace from Catia, the teacher in the typing academy, when an alarm pulled them up. Without looking, I can tell a Fascist by the way he opens the door, since I work with Fascists. It didn’t take me long to realise that the one who’d come in had a fire burning inside him. The sea breeze makes summers in Coruña cool, but suddenly, as if activated by the Hispano-Olivetti carriage return, the temperature rose by several degrees. I knew the man. He was a cold man. And yet now he was dying, burning, to find his wife. Invested with authority, he could have been wearing his gown, but despite controlling his words, he still couldn’t extinguish the fire they caused to spread across his face and light up his eyes. Love? A red colour, I know, but I’d say there was a stronger type of fuel in that mixture. When he talked to me of ‘wounded pride’ and ‘a question of honour’, the way he said it, I knew he was chewing on hot coals and ashes.