Books Burn Badly (48 page)

‘The boy’s not stupid,’ said Gantes to the crane operator. ‘He’s got a causal sense of humour.’

‘No, he’s no fool. The thing is books give him cramps in his hands. Even if they’re not about electricity.’

‘That’s not true,’ retorted Korea. ‘I like western novels.’

‘It’s a start,’ affirmed Gantes. ‘A watered-down version of Shakespeare!’

Curtis held the book like a relic, without opening it, afraid that it might fall apart.

‘Cold is the absence of heat,’ he said in contact with the book. ‘You have to know that. And then there are different kinds of heat. Sensible heat, latent heat . . . but, practically speaking, perhaps it’s most important to understand the mechanics of specific heat, which is to say the amount of heat per unit mass required to raise the temperature by one degree Celsius.’

Everyone listened in silence, reverentially, as if a prayer had been spoken on the quay from a hitherto unknown religion. At that moment, Curtis’ look had a slight iridescence. Between the dark refrains of the sea on the pontoons, he seemed to hear Luís Terranova’s startled laugh when he heard him recite the definition of specific heat for the first time, aloud, from memory, without getting a single word wrong. It was by the lighthouse at the start of summer. Curtis was acting as Earman for Luís. He was his memory, his supplier of lyrics and his ears. Luís was finally going to audition as a vocalist for a festive orchestra. Terranova would sing and Curtis had to measure his voice. ‘Can you hear?’ ‘I can now. Go a bit further, to that rock.’ ‘Can you hear?’ ‘Louder, louder!’ ‘Can you hear?’ ‘Not any more.’

‘Come with us, Curtis,’ said Gantes the engineer. ‘With your knowledge, you should take a trip around the world. And there’s a library on board. We’ve
Spartacus
and everything. Come on. Who knows? We may even find him.’

Curtis had his right hand on the horse Carirí’s head and was stroking its mane.

‘I can’t, Mr Gantes.’

‘Why can’t you? All you have to do is get on board. Bring the horse with you.’

‘I have to wait here, in case he comes.’

‘What if he doesn’t come? What if he never returns?’

‘He’ll send a message. We agreed. He was always late, Mr Gantes, as you’ll remember, he was like that, but he came. And when he came, the rest was forgotten. He’d come and that was it. If he said he’d come, he’d come. OK, he was always late. But once he arrived, the party was a given. He was like a magnet for sweet iron filings.’

‘When did he leave, Curtis?’

Curtis didn’t want to answer that question. Didn’t want to make that calculation.

‘What year did he leave, Curtis?’

‘. . .’

‘Years ago, wasn’t it?’

‘. . .’

‘It’s rained since then. Grass has grown on the roofs.’

‘Time passes and it doesn’t, Mr Gantes.’

For Korea, an eternity had gone by since these two had started their conversation. Time had no meaning for him if there wasn’t movement. There they were – men, boat and horse – stuck. The sun projected the
Chemin Creux
’s prow like a giant needle or a cypress crown in search of hours on the stones. Korea jumped over the line of shade. Yawned and stretched like a cat.

‘Luís Terranova? Who is this phenomenon who was always late?’

‘I told you a thousand times,’ growled the crane operator. ‘A marvellous singer. People stopped dancing to listen to him. His voice still echoes in the air if you can hear it. He took “Parade of Stars” by storm with that tango, “Chessman”, about someone who’s been sentenced to death.’

Korea noticed the last part of Ramón Ponte’s intervention was aimed at Curtis and Gantes on the boat. Korea didn’t like the tone the crane operator used when addressing him. He treated him, sometimes, like a village idiot. But they were from the same district. Which, for Korea, was a sacred bond. Besides, the operator was somehow strong and cultivated. He had a small library in the cabin of his crane. And he had the first regulation football to reach Coruña, which fell off the back of a British ship, so to speak. Korea was proud of the operator, it’s just that they moved to different rhythms. He was aware he wouldn’t last long operating a crane, though he was impressed by the skill with which he could load a large block of granite, move it through the air like a bale of compressed mist, and by the elegance with which he unloaded those studs from Canada, the ease with which they flew off the boat and landed to effect improvements in the Galician cow’s genetics. When one of the studs was in the air, the operator said, ‘See, all this talk about Spanish bulls and bullfighting, but when it comes down to it, they bring in a Canadian stud to mate with our cows.’ Yes. Being a crane operator was not without merit, but everything they did happened slowly, with an animal’s resistance. And Korea needed something to happen fast. It was late already. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and felt the emptiness.

‘Why won’t he come down?’

‘Who?’

‘The ship’s admiral.’

‘That’s Mr Gantes, you fool. The engineer. Maritime Awakening’s engineer.’

He didn’t know quite how to interpret this information. According to Ponte, he must be some kind of local celebrity. All the more reason to descend from there.

‘Is he going to stay on the ship? Why won’t he come down?’

‘Ask him.’

‘Hey, Mr Engineer. Why won’t you come down?’

Curtis had put the cherry stones back in his mouth and was grinding time between his molars.

‘You know something, boy? The day I come down, I’ll do it barefoot,’ said Mr Gantes from the deck. ‘I’ll step on the sawteeth of rock barnacles till my feet bleed. From Portiño to Pedra das Ánimas, in bare feet.’

The
Chemin Creux
’s engineer was tense and in pain, as if he’d expelled a hermit crab through his throat.

Only Korea, recovering from the shock with wit, was able to break the silence, ‘I like what you say. There’s action in it.’

‘Where’s there action?’ asked Gantes.

‘In walking over rocks with bloody feet.’

‘Have you any idea what I’m talking about, boy?’

‘I’m not such a boy,’ said Korea sternly. ‘I’ve unmade a few beds, including a marital one.’

‘He’s no historical vision, Mr Gantes. He’s a bit crazy,’ said the crane operator.

‘By the way, Mr Engineer,’ said Korea, suddenly expressing great interest, ‘did you ever know the champ of Galicia, Arturo da Silva?’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

‘For that, you’ll need a trip around the world. Come on board.’

‘I can’t right now. I’ve things to do.’

‘Shame. When I get back, you’ll be old, boy.’

‘Then you’re going to be a long time?’

‘No more than a year.’

Stringer jots down notes with tachygraphic speed.

‘What’s your cargo, sir?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Tito Balboa. Maritime chronicler for the evening
Expreso
, sir.’

‘Maritime chronicler?’

‘Acting, sir.’

‘This ship’s called the
Chemin Creux
.’

‘Yes, I noted it down. What cargo’s on board?’

‘General cargo.’

‘Are you in transit?’

‘That’s it. In transit.’

‘When will you leave?’

‘Depends.’

‘Depends? I can’t put that in the newspaper, sir.’

Mr Gantes wasn’t listening. He was paying attention to the phosphorescent diver who’d just climbed up the steps of the Western Quay with a bicycle. The bicycle’s wheels were moving in the air on their own, giving off reddish-green flecks of Irish moss.

‘What kind of fish you got there?’

‘Mr Gantes! It’s a devilish machine. Throws itself into the sea. Not like Clemente’s, which threw itself in for a peso. This one does it for free.’

‘Let me take it for a spin,’ said Korea. ‘I’ll soon tame it.’

‘The bicycle has an owner. Where’s Pinche?’

‘Hiding behind Fabero’s stacks of wood,’ replied Korea. ‘He’s in for a hiding. He was supposed to warm the pots of workmen’s food and made a fire with planks of teakwood. That’s because he only has one eye. And there were quite a few pots. I counted them. Twenty-five.’

‘That’s a lot of pots. It’s not easy to warm them at the same time. You have to understand about fire,’ said Mr Gantes.

The engineer looked at Curtis. They were both thinking about the type of specific heat. Twenty-five pots. All together, like large, tile-coloured mushrooms on the burning ground. Teakwood makes a good fire. Exquisite for workmen’s pots.

‘The builder’s a tough guy in white shoes,’ said Korea. ‘By the name of Manlle. Doesn’t show up much, pays surprise visits, but when he does, sends a shiver down your spine. He’s a real bastard!’

White shoes next to twenty-five tile-coloured workmen’s pots, warming their broth, potatoes with bacon and cabbage, the odd stew. That shout containing accusation and verdict, ‘Who made a fire with teakwood? Blasted pallet of the world! I know someone I’m going to hang off a pontoon so that, when the tide comes in, the fish’ll eat his balls.’

‘What do you do then?’ asked Roque Gantes the engineer.

‘I’m an Autodidact,’ replied Korea ironically.

‘It’s full of triggerfish,’ said the phosphorescent diver. ‘This’ll turn into an invasion. They’ll end up driving the other fish away. They’re just like pigs. Cheeky. Fearless. They come up to you, going “Oink, oink, oink!”’

Balboa wrote with tachygraphic speed, imagining the headline:

And then, so as not to forget, the onomatopoeia. Oink!

O and Famous Men

Don’t think the fact he was a writer impressed me so much. For a time, a writer came to live in a house in Souto. A little house that had recently been left vacant when Hortensia died and a niece let it out, so that everything was still alive when the tenant moved in. Except for the fire. To start with, there was lots of interest. It was the end of summer. The writer went for a few walks. He wore a sailor’s hat, which made him stand out. Was very polite. He’d stop at the washing place, sit down and delicately enquire about the lives of the women and the stories they knew. When he finally left, the washerwomen would ask themselves what kind of writer this was that they had to tell him stories. Olinda would just say, ‘He asks in order to know. He does well. Some ask in order not to know.’ The worst thing was the fire. The writer couldn’t get the iron stove to work. The house ejected smoke through every crack, every hole, except for the chimney. Sometimes he’d emerge from the doorway and take a few steps, coughing, with watery eyes. His incompetence was secretly observed from other windows with a sense of shame. Not even the most frenzied of ideas could resist such a sacrifice. ‘Poor Anceis,’ said Polka, ‘when’s he going to write if he spends all day fighting with the stove?’ And one of the washerwomen asked, ‘What’s a man who can’t light a fire going to write anyway?’ There was more excitement when the Asphalt Man came. Now that was an unusual event. The tarmacking of the road to Grand Avenue. Years later, when I saw the Americans land on the moon, I recalled the Asphalt Man’s arrival in Castro. It was all very similar, but Castro happened first. He came in a white suit with diving goggles, wearing large, metal-soled boots, and we realised – you only had to see the faces – that each step he took was going down in history. He walked very slowly over the gravel, spraying tar with a sprinkler and hose. He was obviously very good since he barely stained his white suit. When he finished, he removed one of his large, leather gloves and went and shook Polka’s hand. I felt very proud. That, among all the inhabitants of the planet, the Asphalt Man should greet Polka.

My favourite, however, was the Poster Man. He’d arrive by bike. The roll of posters and long-handled brush on his back and the bucket with glue hanging off the handlebars. When he brought programmes, people would come from all around. That’s what he’d say with his rabbit’s smile, ‘I suppose you were hiding under the stones?’ The truth is it seemed not only living children turned up, but children from down through the ages. I swear there were lots I didn’t know, had never seen. So the programmes for Portazgo Cinema soon ran out. One day, when I was late, the Poster Man winked at me and said, ‘In the kingdom of heaven, my love, the last will be first.’ With that rabbit’s smile. Thin as a strand of spaghetti. Like the bicycle frame. And then he unfolded a poster, one of the big ones he stuck on the wall, and gave it to me. ‘Here, for being Polka’s daughter. Tell him it’s from Eirís.’ A poster for me! The Poster Man came on Thursdays to advertise the film for Saturday night and Sunday afternoon. So I had time to practise the film in the river.

Polka knew some pretty special people. Like the photographer with the wooden horse he called the champ of Galicia. One day, we were walking past the football stadium in Riazor and he greeted a man he said had also been champ of Galicia. ‘Look, O, Tasende, champion of Galicia in cross-country running. He’s now the owner of Riazor Stadium.’ ‘Don’t you believe your Daddy?’ asked the man with a smile. He then lifted two enormous rings with dozens of keys. ‘These are the keys to every door in the stadium.’

Polka was also friends with the writer. He taught him how to light the iron stove without his eyes watering. He took a blank piece of paper from the typewriter, lit it with his lighter and put it under the flue. The sheet went up in flames and all the smoke went after it, never to return. This was followed by the sound of typing and one of the washerwomen said to Olinda, ‘Poor writer, he’s happy now, punching keys.’

The Phosphorescent Diver

The phosphorescent diver and the crane operator were agreed that the most fascinating pieces of scenery were not those in view, but those at the bottom of the sea, and there was no greater happiness for a human being than the moment he felt like a fish again. A bodily form of happiness. ‘But the surface,’ said the diver, ‘can also be interesting.’