The Manual of Darkness (42 page)

‘I need to ask you to take these,’ Alicia says suddenly.

She puts her hand in her bag, takes out the three small bottles and puts them in his lap.

‘What are they?’

‘Bach’s Flower Remedies.’

‘Bach? The composer?’

‘A different Bach. Though the composer was blind, or at least he was in his final years.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘I’ll tell you about it some day. This Bach was Welsh. He discovered that flowers have healing properties …’

‘A quack.’

‘No. He was a doctor. But when he was young, he was found to have tumours and was given three months to live.’

‘You’re going to tell me that he miraculously cured himself using flowers and then had the munificence to share his discovery with the world.’

‘More or less, yes.’

‘And he’s still alive?’

‘Not exactly. He was born in 1886.’

‘That was a good year. There was a lot of magic in the air. When did he die?’

‘I don’t know exactly. He was fifty-something.’

‘Aha! So the miracle didn’t last long …’ Víctor takes the top off one of the bottles. ‘And this is supposed to cure blindness?’

‘No, you idiot. They are used for overcoming emotional problems. That one …’ Alicia looks at the bottle Víctor is holding ‘… is wild oat, for periods of uncertainty.’

‘Well, that’s useful, then …’

Víctor brings the bottle to his lips.

‘Hang on. There’s a dropper in the top. All you have to remember is the number three. Three bottles, three drops, three times a day.’

‘And how will I know …?’

‘You’ll feel it on your tongue.’

Víctor squeezes the bulb to fill the dropper. Then he turns his face to heaven, opens his mouth theatrically, sticks out his tongue, raises his arm and squeezes again. Five drops come out.

‘OK, that’s not going to do you any harm, but try to count the drops. That one is walnut, it’s good for opening you up to change.’

She prefers not to mention ‘outside influences’. Better not to tempt fate. Víctor screws the top back on the first bottle, puts it in his left trouser pocket, then opens the walnut flower essence and takes three drops.

‘Perfect. And this last one will help you to break with the past.’

‘That’s useful, given my circumstances.’

He squeezes the bulb of the dropper forcefully, emptying the contents on to his tongue.

‘Don’t be stupid, Víctor,’ Alicia chides him, but she is smiling. Even in her wildest dreams, she could not have imagined he would comply this easily. Although she doesn’t believe in miracles, she’s
not that naive. She suspects Víctor has not baulked at taking the drops precisely because he doesn’t believe in them. But at least he took them.

They walk back to his apartment in silence. When they get to the front door of the building, Víctor takes out his key but cannot seem to find the lock. Alicia rushes to explain how he should go about it, but he interrupts her.

‘I’m blind, Alicia, not useless. I still possess a little imagination of my own. Place the left hand on the door and feel for the lock, then bring my right hand in towards my left …’ He does this as he talks. ‘Try the key, start cursing because this one is the upstairs key, ignore the puny little one because it’s the key to the postbox, try again …’

His voice is becoming clouded by rage. Alicia knows this is one of the most delicate moments in the process. Blind people tackle the most demanding tasks with the courage of those who have everything to gain. But they deal with the impossibility of being forced to repeat small, simple tasks with the fear of those who have lost everything. She touches Víctor’s hand, takes the keys from him.

‘There are ways to mark the keys so you can recognise them by touch,’ she says as she opens the door.

‘Marked cards.’ Víctor spits out the words, his face contorted in disgust.

‘Exactly, marked cards. You’d know a lot about that.’

‘I don’t do … never mind …’

‘Here.’ Alicia hands him the keys. ‘Keep them in your right-hand pocket. And since you mentioned the postbox …’

‘No, darling. Maybe some day you’ll teach me to cook some fabulous delicacy, but don’t ask me to collect letters I can’t even read. And don’t you even mention the word discipline …’

‘I suppose you won’t need me to help you up the stairs,’ she interrupts.

‘Are we done for today?’

‘For today, yes.’

‘I think I can manage. Though I might have some trouble finding the key to the apartment. Since I won’t work with marked cards …’

Bitter though he sounds, he is trying to be funny. And Alicia is grateful.

‘I’ll wait here until you get upstairs. If you need me …’

‘I’ll just put my lips together and … blow.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Because you don’t listen to my advice. You haven’t watched
To Have and Have Not
.’

‘I promise you I’ll see it one of these days.’

‘We could watch it together.’

‘I’ll take your word for that.’

‘It’s just a manner of speaking.’

‘Bye, Víctor.’

She puts her hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently. He walks off with a smile on his lips and effortlessly negotiates the first flight of stairs. Alicia listens to his footsteps as she manoeuvres her bicycle out the front door.

‘Alicia!’ he calls down from the third flight. ‘What’s that noise?’

‘My bike.’

‘Oh, so that’s why you arrive all sweaty.’

But he says it as though talking to himself. Alicia holds the front door open with one hand, the bicycle with the other, until Víctor’s footsteps stop and, after some muttering, she hears a door opening. She goes out into the street, shaking her head.

B
ach was not the first person to be admitted to the gallery, nor is his case the most interesting, but he struts around the place with the arrogance that only hierarchy can give. He began to lose his sight in 1740 and, though he never stopped composing, he gradually withdrew from public life. A number of biographers claim he spent his last years shut up in his room, but as we know, darkness fuels too many legends. Whatever the case, in 1749 he decided to entrust himself to the hands of one John Taylor, a surgeon by profession. Our concept of surgery bears little relation to the practice of the time, so let’s just say that Dr Taylor wielded a scalpel and he used it to operate on Bach’s eyes. Aside from completely destroying his sight, he ruined his health and thereafter the maestro was plagued by various infections. On 18 July 1750, less than a year after the operation, Bach spontaneously recovered his sight. It is unavoidable, though useless, to speculate about the possibility that by this time Bach was aware that he would soon be dead and consequently he devoted what little time he had left to the contemplation of beautiful objects and beings. (Alicia invariably does so when she tells this story.) The fact is that Bach died ten days later and there were many things the ageing maestro did not see. With his dying breath (although nobody knows exactly whether this was hours or days before his death), he composed his last piece, but was unable to note it down himself so, according to expert graphologists, he dictated it to Altnikol, an outstanding pupil who was also his son-in-law. It is a chorale prelude still studied today as one of the supreme examples of counterpoint and harmony in G major. Alicia always makes reference to the fact that the composition is based on an earlier melody by Bach entitled ‘When in the hour of utmost need’, but
for reasons unknown, he gave it the title (or rather asked Altnikol to give it the title) ‘Before thy throne I now appear’.

Though he is not exactly famous, the surgeon John Taylor also strolls about the gallery without talking much to anyone and turning a deaf ear to the remarks made about him by Bach and Handel. Because Handel, too, went under Taylor’s knife in 1751, two years after Bach’s operation and barely a year after his death, with similar results. Of course, as we have already said, there is no place for bitterness or resentment in the gallery. Besides, poor Taylor received his punishment in life, since he too eventually went blind. But it is hardly surprising that the two composers should look at him askance and wonder whether his ear for music was as dull witted as his hands. Although they pay him little heed – they are too busy playing the vast grand piano in the middle of the gallery, attempting to decide whether its benefits truly outweigh those of the harpsichord. In any case, the composers are delighted to have been admitted to the gallery for it is here that they meet for the first time. It may sound strange but although they were contemporaries, and even exchanged jobs, sharing the task of dragging music out of medieval obscurity while protecting it from the banality of the Renaissance, they never laid eyes on each other during their lifetimes. Alicia loves to conclude the story like this, with the words ‘never laid eyes on each other’.

As she hauls her bicycle through the door, she thinks that perhaps she should have told Víctor this story today. Some other day. It doesn’t matter. They’re just stories to pass the time, to raise a smile. Stories on Alicia’s mind, now that she is happy.

I
am completely calm. My right arm feels heavy. My right arm feels heavy. My right arm … this isn’t working. This isn’t working because Alicia hasn’t mastered the first step in the Schultz relaxation techniques: ‘Cancel out the outside world.’ It’s one thing to practise after dancing for forty minutes, with Viviana’s deep voice whispering the formula; a very different thing to try it here, lying on the floor of her apartment. Rather than feeling completely calm, she feels increasingly hysterical. She closes her eyes and starts again. I am completely calm. My right arm feels heavy. She’s not supposed to open her eyes. Anyway, the phone isn’t going to ring, no matter how much she stares at it. My right arm is … Urgent. Maybe she should have told him it was urgent. Maybe she should call again. Maybe he’ll answer this time. I am complete. She could leave him another message, ask him to call back as soon as he can.

Alicia sits up quickly as though someone has pinched her, takes her mobile out of her pocket and, for the fifteenth time, checks she has not put it on silent, that it is set to vibrate. She abandons any attempt at feeling calm. She is going to be hysterical until the phone rings and she hears Mario Galván’s voice on the other end of the line. For days now, she has been thinking she needs to talk to someone about this. If she doesn’t, she’ll explode. She has mentioned some of the problems at ONCE to her boss and in the group meetings with the psychologists, but she has kept most of the details to herself. The thing about the cabinet, for example. If she tells them that, they’ll take the case away from her. That’s what she would do in their place.

She has thought about telling Viviana and maybe she still will. It wouldn’t be the first time she has gone to Vivi for advice, but
right now she needs concrete instructions. Viviana would tell her to find her inner strength, to synchronise her outlook to Víctor’s; wise counsel, but she needs something more practical, preferably from someone who knows him well. This morning, after making sure that Víctor could make it up the stairs unaided, she went for a long bike ride before heading back to ONCE. She enjoyed cycling around, feeling the breeze on her face. As she pedalled, she thought, I am not angry, I am just baffled. This man refuses to open his postbox, but he won’t give up his keys; he’s spent a year holed up in his apartment but when I tell him I’ll wait for him downstairs he doesn’t bat an eyelid; he has a perfect sense of direction but won’t let go of my elbow.

As soon as she reached the office, she went to fetch Víctor’s file so she could find the details of the man who had first got in touch with ONCE more than a year ago. She shares her office with several other technicians and she didn’t want anyone to overhear. So she jotted down the number and phoned him from home at lunchtime and was surprised to hear a female voice: ‘The King of Magic. Our opening hours are ten a.m. to two p.m. and from five p.m. to eight thirty p.m. If you would like to leave a message, please do so after the tone.’ The first time, she hung up. She needed to find the right words. She called again: ‘This is a message for Mario Galván. I’m calling from ONCE. I need to speak to you. It’s about Víctor Losa. You can get me at any time on this number.’ Stupid. She didn’t even say the phone number.

She could call back, but it’s only 4 p.m. Maybe ten minutes to. In the meantime, all she can do is wait. She hasn’t eaten, and she’s not going to eat. She could make herself some tea. No, she’ll make herself a herbal tea. Where’s the valerian? The telephone rings; it’s Galván. She had imagined him to be an older man, but is surprised by how old he sounds. Ancient. A rumbling voice coming from the end of a long tunnel through which the wind whistles and wheezes like a bellows.

She introduces herself but doesn’t give any details, says she would prefer to speak to him in person. She tells him she is responsible for Víctor Losa’s rehabilitation and her duties involve assessing his environment. Since he has no family, she felt she had to call him. She does mention something about Víctor being
secretive, adding, ‘but I’m sure you know him better than anyone’. ‘Secretive.’ Galván repeats the word and allows it to hang in the air. It’s true, he never really was one for talking. At no point does she use the word ‘urgent’, but she makes it clear how worried she is, hints that it would be perfect if she could meet with Galván today. She invites him to join her for something to eat, or for a coffee if he has already eaten, a walk, a glass of wine, even dinner. I’m free any time, she says, whenever suits. Galván replies that he’s not really one for socialising. In fact he doesn’t usually see anyone. But, if she is prepared to come to the shop …