Books Burn Badly (29 page)

His father had rehearsed with him. Asked Chelo to teach him. ‘Teach him what?’ ‘To do a storm well.’ ‘I’ll teach you something else first,’ Chelo agreed. ‘To walk like a leading actor. When you cross the stage and go to your corner, you have to walk as if you were Boreas himself, god of the wind. And forget the wings. Either you’re a god of the wind or you’re an angel. An angel doesn’t go about frightening sheep.’ ‘This is
The Mountain Goat
,’ the judge pointed out. ‘I’m the mountain goat up on the mountainside and I’ll eat whoever should dare to cross this line!’ The two of them burst out laughing. Perhaps the last time they laughed together like that, openly, freely, Gabriel remembers.

‘It may not be right,’ said the judge, ‘but he has to wear wings. Those are the instructions and we’re not going to change them now. The important thing is to sound like a storm, like a strong wind. You have to blow down the tuba and shake the sheet of copper for the whole city to hear.’

‘You’d better take him to the lighthouse,’ suggested Chelo seriously. ‘Singers used to go there, to the rocks at the foot of Hercules Lighthouse, to fight with the air and expand their capacity.’

‘We get to the lighthouse and what’ll we do there? Start shouting?’

Outside his usual haunts – his study, court, the game preserve – the judge was a man on the defensive, on permanent alert. ‘Besides, it’s August, the weather’s good. There’ll be loads of people. They’re going to say . . .’

‘What are they going to say?’

‘A madman shouting and a child playing the tuba. I’m not Dalí. I’m a judge.’

The three of them went to the lighthouse in the Hispano-Suiza. Samos first looked for a remote place. Gazed out to sea. Tried to make out the Sisarga Isles, but it wasn’t a clear day. There was a lazy, stubborn mist. By the time he realised, he could hear the sound of Gabriel’s tuba and Chelo’s shouts telling him, ‘Louder, louder!’ But he couldn’t see them. He thought he’d find them all right. By walking in that direction. He went around a few gorse bushes. Heard a ship’s siren. The tuba. Or was it another siren? It was some time since he’d heard ships’ sirens so close without being sure. He felt very uneasy. The mist, the siren. The fear this mix gave him, though he didn’t know why. He shouted out Chelo’s name. And got the same response:

‘Louder, louder!’

The two of them crouching behind a rock, by the cliff face, crying, ‘Louder, louder!’

On the way back, driving along the lighthouse road, he seemed comforted. In a magnificent voice, he recited that fragment they hadn’t heard for a while:

‘Enough,’ he told Gabriel, ‘for Grandpa Samos to forgive all sins. He’s a devotee of the
Maritime Ode
. And I who get seasick, go weak at the knees with these verses.’

When the day arrived, Gabriel played the wind with all the conviction of a raging northerly, a ventriloquist of the air. The judge was on tenterhooks. Had Gabriel been able to see him, he’d have seen how his father half-opened his mouth to reinforce the effect of the wind. Had it been down to him, he’d have stood behind the curtain, churning out thunder and lightning. Despite being a judge. A judge who doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Not long before, next to Gran Antilla, the confectioner’s, a woman came up to him in a black shawl, carrying a basket on her head. He was taller, much taller. When she addressed him, he didn’t look at her, but seemed to be peering down and sniffing around inside the basket.

‘Your honour, if he goes to prison, that’ll be the end of him. He’s like a crystal vase. He’ll break.’

Gabriel noticed her apron was covered in scales he hadn’t seen before.

‘Quiet, woman. This is not the place,’ said the judge, walking off. ‘It is not the place.’

She stepped forwards, intervened, ‘Where then can I see you?’

‘Your lawyer. Talk to your lawyer.’

‘My lawyer?’

She stared at the ground in fright. Seemed to be looking for something important she’d lost.

‘My lawyer?’

‘That’s right. Talk to him. He’ll tell you what to do.’

‘He’s the one who said there was nothing to do unless you wanted. He said you’re the law, in such cases some judges have one yardstick and others, another, and it depends on you whether or not he goes to prison. It’s the first time, your honour. He’s not a criminal. He just has this thing.’

‘Well, he’s going to be cured of this thing. Put back on the straight and narrow.’

‘You think? No. He’s going to be smashed to pieces like a crystal vase.’

The judge suddenly wheeled around towards the woman carrying sea urchins on top of her head. Apart from height, apart from the fact that one was a man and the other, a woman, this was the principal, visible, undeniable difference between the two. He was wearing a hat, a wide-brimmed, cinnamon-coloured hat, while she had a basket. Gabriel was with his father. Next to him and on his side. This street, hour, were their space and time. The woman had disturbed their tranquillity, come from outside, with a basket full of sea urchins and problems. A basket she set down, exposing a kind of cloth crown on top of her head, which took the weight. She didn’t even realise she’d left it there, her cloth crown.

‘He’s already considered to be a danger. A danger to society!’ The woman raised her voice as she said this, and a few passers-by turned around, the kind of silent twist that imputes guilt to the object under scrutiny. ‘That’s punishment enough. He can’t find work. He can’t drive or get a passport. His life is ruined. A danger? People in the street call him “girlie”. He’s the one in danger.’

The woman’s hand dipped inside a pocket of her apron, rummaged around and produced a newspaper cutting. Gabriel was reminded of Mayarí’s strips. This printed piece of paper had a layer of blood and fish scales.

‘He’s already appeared in the paper. Take a look. His name and everything. He’s already an outcast. Please don’t send him to Badajoz, your honour.’

‘He’ll be cured there. He has an illness. And he’ll be cured.’

‘In prison? He’ll be cured in prison? How? With beatings? Ice-cold water? Electricity?’

Her chest was heaving. She seemed about to burst and the judge took Gabriel by the shoulder and moved off. All she did was cry. Silently, not with sobs. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘Please leave us alone.’

‘Fools,’ she said. ‘You fools!’

The judge glanced angrily in all directions. Being called a fool infuriated him. Somebody in the crowd might know him. This stinking fishwife, with her basket like a picture hat, calling the judge a fool. That’d make them laugh. No doubt Black Eye was in the vicinity. That bastard. Gabriel also looked around. He found the woman disagreeable, especially when she started crying. Crying and talking about electricity. A strange woman with a strange son, who was bothering his father and spoiling their walk. But it was also true this destination, Badajoz Prison, didn’t sound good next to Gran Antilla. On a pleasant Friday afternoon. With lots happening. On the crowded terraces, in their white jackets with anchor-like golden buttons, the waiters, instead of carrying drinks, resembled elegant sailors keeping their balance on the city’s deck.

An impression that wasn’t far away from the description the judge repeated like an advertising slogan, ‘In summer, Coruña’s an ocean liner.’

They’d walked down Real Street. As was their custom, they’d gone into Villar the chemist’s and weighed themselves on the scales. It was a magnificent machine, its brand and origin in large letters, ‘Toledo Scale Company (Ohio)’, which turned weighing yourself into a serious act, your body’s solemn incorporation into the industrial process. You stepped on to a platform and through the glass could watch the whole mechanism in action. Your weight activated it and, as you stood there, you couldn’t help seeing the device as part of yourself, transported to Ohio. When the judge weighed himself, there was a detail. He took off his hat and gave it to his son. Gabriel never knew how much his father weighed. He was slim, but had a strong constitution. And was very serious about keeping his weight in check. One of the features that distinguished him from the common herd. A definite aim he shared with Chelo, which made them different from most of their colleagues. Whenever they conducted a ‘review’, the term they used for gossip, their comments seemed to be ruled by the Ohio scales’ precise mechanism. For the most part, those under scrutiny were deemed to have put on weight.

The judge’s felt hat was very light, or so it seemed when Gabriel was holding it while his father weighed himself. Now, as he got more and more angry at the Urchin Woman’s interference, the hat appeared to be something more than an article of clothing. Something of weight. Calcareous. Part of the body.

They were at the junction of Real Street and Rego de Auga, between the Rosalía de Castro theatre and Gran Antilla. Every urban setting has its speciality and, in Gabriel’s intimate topography, this was a warm, lively place meant for happy encounters and polite greetings. The sellers’ balloons and little ships rose above the field of heads. A good spot for Curtis to stop the horse Carirí and the children to mount the horse and have their photo taken, holding on to its natural mane, which was black as jet. Which is why the unexpected reference to Badajoz, for Gabriel, suddenly caused an orographical accident. If she hadn’t said anything, anything in particular, if she hadn’t given it a name, he’d have wandered over to the window of Gran Antilla, the confectioner’s, and so given his father an excuse to dispatch this plaintive woman with her cargo of prickles. But no. No. She had referred to that place which was the first hole in the GNM or Glorious National Movement’s game of skill called ‘The Reconquest of Spain’, a present from Inspector Ren for his cabinet of curiosities, together with a game of bombardments called ‘Victorious Wings’. So that when Gabriel heard Badajoz, the steel ball started rolling and, instead of getting past and continuing on its path of conquest, it went and fell in the hole. He then heard Ren’s voice, as if it were part of the GNM’s game of skill, singing out the localities and dates the steel ball rolled past on its triumphant way, if the move was skilful: Badajoz (14/8/36), Toledo (27/9/36), Málaga (8/2/37), Bilbao (19/6/37), Teruel (22/2/38), Lérida (3/4/38), Barcelona (26/1/39) and Madrid (28/3/39).

‘Badajoz, 14th of August 1936.’

And he’d add mysteriously, ‘Yagüe. Now that was a good one!’

Whenever the ball fell in Badajoz, didn’t make it past the hole on to other scenes of conquest, he heard the refrain, ‘Now that was a good one!’ Even when an elated Ren was holding the game, it was still a sombre exclamation. Something that stuck to the city’s name like an involuntary accent. It was, after all, a mistake. It would be many years before Gabriel found out what had happened in that hole the ball sometimes landed in. Before he discovered that hole in a game of skill contained a bullring piled high with corpses, in a warlike corrida where people were the victims. The ball was always the same, but when Ren had the game and was tensing his muscles to direct the ball, it didn’t always carry on, but sometimes rolled its own way, fell in the hole labelled Badajoz and like an echo triggered that admiring ‘Now that was a good one!’ which the boy perceived as a rare distortion of meaning, since if the ball fell in the hole, you had in fact played badly.

Years later, Sofia, a love of Gabriel’s, also failed to understand the look of amazement, panic even, she saw in him when she used such a colloquial expression as ‘Now that was a good one!’ It was something trivial. She didn’t even remember what they were talking about, she was so surprised by his reaction. She had to get used to this man who had a tense physical relationship, was permanently on edge, with words. Who lived in a state of extreme alert with language. She couldn’t see what he was seeing. The GNM game. The direction of the ball. Badajoz. The bullring. Inspector Ren’s exclamation, ‘Now that was a good one!’

To start with, she thought the relationship wouldn’t work. He moved between silence and an entomologist’s precision when he used a word and she soon discovered there were lots that, for one reason or another, caused him commotion or conflict. He seemed to see the words. He attributed this extreme precaution to a particular phase of his training to be a judge. Anyone could betray the meaning of words. Starting with a writer. But not a judge.

‘Even when it’s a question of love?’

His eyes scribbled. Before opening his mouth, he’d sketch out what he was going to say, its implications, in his mind. He’d even move his fingers over a surface. Search instinctively for a blank sheet of paper.

‘What you say is a state of emergency.’

There came a time in Chelo’s work when women entered the painting. Or was it the other way round?

She gave the tiredness of bodies a rest.

Sometimes the feet were left dancing and she painted them with dots and filigree, the ankles as well, as if putting on embroidered tights.

One leg from Chantilly, courtesy of Jacques Fath, another from Camariñas, courtesy of Chuchú.

Apart from moments of melancholy introversion, she was a cheerful woman. She liked to assume the frivolity of reading out far-fetched phrases in women’s magazines or newspaper fashion supplements, which got bigger and bigger, especially on Sundays. New clothes and hairstyles to brighten up the papers.

‘White cotton piqué with black dots!’

She paused. Stood up. Stretched her arms towards the sun and proclaimed to the begonias, ‘
Jolies Madames!
’

One of the women entering and leaving the painting was the knitter.