Books Burn Badly (22 page)

The Street Singer

He’s on his way to the censor’s office. Glances at the window of Camisería Inglesa on Real Street. There they are. The musicians’ shirts. This is where all the orchestras and bands buy their costumes. Shirts with lace adornments. Frills, embroidery, tassels, flared sleeves, large collars with sickle-shaped corners. They even have mariachi outfits. A festive assortment of shirts. That zone of intense colours. With the fuchsia shirt. Blasted bees! He should go straight in and get that fuchsia shirt. Not think about it. The day is luminous. All the sea and city mirrors work towards the light. A sin, fuchsia.

Today he’s in civilian clothes. No one’s going to shout out, ‘The censor, Commander Dez, has just bought the fuchsia shirt!’ You can never tell. No, Commander Dez knew he wouldn’t enter Camisería Inglesa this time either. He needed an assistant for such things. He’d already mentioned it at headquarters. Yes, like others, he needed a soldier for his domestic affairs. He carried on. Stopped outside Colón, previously the Faith bookshop. An avant-garde hang-out in the 1930s. With a name like Faith. Who’d have thought it? Words are like shirts. Here we go. He’d stopped to give his eyes a rest. To forget about the fuchsia. He certainly didn’t feel like looking at books today. He had a stack of them waiting at the office, as yet unpublished. Recently he’d been lazy. And he had this problem with his fingers. This contagious dermatitis.

By the Obelisk. Now that’s a good voice.

‘It’s ten and the clock chimes as I take a step into God’s time.’

Good? Extraordinary. A true voice. A spring. And he dares to sing that tango about someone who’s been sentenced to death right here, in the city centre. Coppery skin, clear eyes. What a guy!

He chucked him a coin. A big one. It fell outside his cap and rolled further along the pavement, as if making fun. The coin did a dance and finally settled near Curtis, the instant photographer, that tower of a man, thickset and silent, so still he seemed made of wood like the horse.

‘Some money’s fallen on the ground,’ said Commander Dez to Terranova. ‘Aren’t you going to pick it up?’

‘I didn’t see it fall,’ said Terranova, squinting comically up at the sky.

His reaction amused Dez. He was in a good mood. Anything this guy did had to have style. He put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket, opened his wallet and produced a note which he held aloft, clinging to his fingers, and then released. The fall of the note seemed unreal. A period of slow motion which spread to all the movements on Cantóns. The note fell unwillingly. Landed near the cap and trembled uneasily on the ground like someone who, having been warm, is now uncomfortable.

The street singer glanced over. The note struggled, didn’t want to stay put. Finally Terranova bent down for it.

‘I sometimes make exceptions.’

‘You sing well,’ said Dez. ‘You shouldn’t be here, begging in the street.’

‘I’m saving up to buy a suit. A white suit with a coloured shirt.’

Dez the censor smiled. He was going to ask what colour shirt he wanted, but felt a tingle inside his mouth.

He said, ‘Is that what you’re begging for? For a shirt?’

‘And to buy my passage.’

‘Where to?’ asked Dez for the sake of asking. He knew where people bought passages to.

‘Buenos Aires!’

‘Buenos Aires, Buenos Aires!’ the commander mocked him.

He turned around. Started to leave. Another bout of nausea. He looked back and shouted at him:

‘Do what everyone else does, stupid! First leave and then buy a white suit and coloured shirt.’

‘No. I want to board the ship in my suit and shirt. A shirt that’s visible from the lighthouse!’

Tomás Dez retraced his footsteps. Glanced at the impassive cowboy photographer and produced another note.

‘That should buy you a shirt. This is no place for you. You could be a prince.’

He was still there. Coppery skin, clear eyes. ‘Chessman’ again. When it came to tangos, he could always sing ‘Street Gang’ or ‘For a Head’.

This time, he was in uniform. The percussion of his military boots on the paving stones kept time with the song. He walked purposefully, martially, and when he did this, he had the impression the echo of his footsteps thundered in an imaginary bell-jar that contained the city.

He went straight up to him. Looked at him carefully. Took a coin out of his pocket and, tossing it in the air, caught it again. Only he saw whether it was heads or tails.

‘You’re not a gypsy,’ said Commander Dez to Terranova. ‘You’re not a gypsy or a showman and you’re certainly not Portuguese.’

Terranova fell silent. Looked like a squirrel at Curtis. Who looked like a woodcock at both sides of the street. Two military police jeeps had just pulled up and a black Opel parked behind them.

‘I know who you are,’ said Tomás Dez. ‘I know more than you can imagine. I even know where you were in hiding.’

Terranova again sought Curtis’ eyes, which had the same texture as the horse Carirí’s.

‘You’re both deserters,’ said Dez. ‘You should have joined up. A long time ago, I grant you, but your papers are waiting for you in a file somewhere. Should someone open that file and find those papers, you’d be in for a bad time.’

‘And who might you be?’ asked Terranova.

‘Someone who’s going to give you an opportunity. And I’ll tell you why. Some voices are a divine gift. A gift that must be protected. Come with me. I’ve an office near here. There’s no point in trying to escape, God himself won’t save you.’

Luís Terranova pointed to Curtis, ‘What about him?’

‘Who? That clown? He can take his horse somewhere else!’

‘An assistant. About time too, Dez. He’ll have to train, I’m afraid. Three months and you’ll have him permanently at your service. He’ll have to show his face at the barracks every now and then. Is that the guy? Good-looking. Your parents’ housekeeper’s son? Of course you have to help out. And if he’s an artist, as you say, if he’s talented and does wonders with his voice and would have made an excellent falsetto, then it’s quite right he shouldn’t be on sentry or night duty. Of course you should have an assistant. If he needs domesticating, just send him back to the barracks and we’ll do the rest. Everything in order, Dez.’

The Lead Locomotive and the Flying Boat

The lead locomotive climbed the ascending railway with all the twists and turns. A line of bodybuilders waited their turn. If it reached the top, a firework would go off with a lot of noise. But it never arrived. None of the hopefuls managed to push the lead locomotive to the summit, which was waiting to make a boom. Luís Terranova paid and asked Curtis to have a go, to accomplish that bodybuilder’s mission. He did it without breaking into a sweat. The lead locomotive whizzed up the railway and crashed against the top. It was like a performance of lightning and thunder. The silence that ensued, rather than recognition or envy, seemed to contemplate the inexplicable. Luís raised Curtis’ arm in triumph, as if he were his manager. He was wearing his white suit and darting around the fairground like someone who’s both happy and worried.

He’d decided to break with Dez. He’d got involved to avoid going to prison, but it was now he felt like a deserter. He’d gone with Curtis to a remote part of the city, where he wouldn’t look for him, but now he realised how sticky Dez’s shadow really was. He never thought freedom could adopt such a stormy expression. Cause so much fear.

Two days earlier, he’d taken a decisive step. He’d gone looking for Curtis and invited him to eat in the restaurant Fornos. They’d stopped in front of the menu before. ‘Shrimps, prawns, crab, clams in seafood sauce, Pontesampaio oysters, Andalusian tripe, stewed lamprey, Fornos kidneys.’ They’d peered through the window at Sada’s paintings. It was like opening a submarine door and discovering a mass of fish and seaweed. ‘Come in, take a look,’ Sada said to them, ‘you can eat in your dreams as well.’ But Terranova promised they’d return and eat in reality. And there they were, sitting down, asking for the menu. Terranova was happy. He’d finally kept a promise. Bad luck. It was Curtis who spotted Commander Dez as soon as they entered the restaurant. At the far end, at a table with three others. Dez, for his part, didn’t just see them come in, part of his face did not recover its initial position, that of someone joining in a lively gathering coloured with vermouth. His face was split down the middle. This may not have been visible to the rest, but it was to Curtis. The part of his face that did not go back to its first position watched them with a mixture of surprise and rage. Luís adjusted Curtis’ tie, laughing all the time, because, as he said, the knot had never become completely undone since the first time it was tied.

‘Samantha’s knot!’ Luís proclaimed. ‘You’d need an imperial sword to undo it.’

He either hadn’t seen or was pretending not to have seen Tomás Dez. He had his back to him, so the line drawn by his guardian’s rage through the air hit the back of his neck and bounced against Curtis’ eyes. Luís summoned the waiter with all the ease of a regular and read the menu out loud, in the tone of a futuristic herald he adopted in high places.

‘He’s over there, at the far end,’ warned Curtis when he’d finally calmed down.

‘Who? Bela Luvoski? How terrifying!’

‘Well, it is a bit,’ whispered Curtis, moving his head as if his shirt collar was bothering him.

‘That’s his tactic,’ said Terranova. ‘The next stage is to threaten. Another tactic he has. Only he doesn’t know that today I’m with Galicia’s champ.’

They avoided the subject. Curtis swept it aside with a wave in the air. But he didn’t lose sight of the danger. He was serious. Eyes in the back of his head.

‘Do you know what you remind me of?’

He didn’t. He hadn’t seen Terranova like this for quite some time. He was both cheerful and vulnerable. In suspense. His eyes smiling, but about to break into pieces. Everything in his body was awake, as when they went fishing for barnacles and confronted the ocean’s hydromechanics. The moment when terror and euphoria combined at their feet. In case of doubt, it was best to crouch down in single combat with the sea, never to turn around. When it came to it, the worst thing you could do was doubt. Luís always jumped. Everything had to be decided and carried out in the pause between each puff of the sea. He held his knife, prised off the best fruit and jumped again just as the foam covered the whole rock. All this in the time it took the sea to breathe. For him, it wasn’t a heroic deed, but a joke. The veterans didn’t like him fooling about in the middle of that warlike roar.

‘Every single wave,’ Mariñas told him one day to earn his respect, ‘has an impact of thirty tons per square metre. This is the most powerful machine in the whole universe.’

‘But the winkle hasn’t even moved!’

There was no point arguing. Luís Terranova had the right to laugh at the sea if he wanted to. Everyone deals with fear as best they can.

To leave the restaurant, Dez passed next to them without saying hello. With a look of hostile indifference.

They’d talk about it at home. That was the message.

‘Why did you have to take him there?’

‘Why not? He’s a friend of mine from childhood. There’s no reason to be jealous.’

‘Officially you’re now my ward. You were my assistant and now you’re my ward. That’s a promotion! Which is why you’re in this house, because I’m your guardian and you’re my ward. You know what people will say. “You’ll have to take Hercules in as well. And the horse. A large family. Who’ll pay for it all, Dez, for fodder for the wooden horse?” And so on.’

‘As you’d say, that’s your fault for consorting with commoners.’

‘And what was that about being jealous? Who do you think you are?’

The night was too warm for the Atlantic coast. As if waiting for people to let down their guard, a stormy armada had gathered behind the Sisargas. For anyone wanting to see it, the front of storm-clouds advanced in thick darkness, adding night to night. So the first bolt of lightning was mistaken for a breakdown in the firmament. The thunder, however, came from a magazine at sea. Everyone noticed the fleet of storm-clouds. And carried on dancing.

Part of the gleam landed on Luís Terranova’s white suit. He let the shock go through him and then gave Curtis a friendly punch on the shoulder. ‘Hey, that was you! You did it with the lead locomotive.’

The sea suddenly wanted to devour the houses, but the orchestra carried on playing. It sounded like an ancient dispute. Pucho Boedo was singing. Luís Terranova got on the flying boat. Singing the same song. Against the wind. Gusts that changed perspectives, tore off faces and left only expressions. Only the musicians’ stage and the flying boat held on to the scene. And the fairground owner, who was removing the lead locomotive, because all hands were now fighting the sea, pulling boats out of its mouth, turned to Luís and went straight to the point, ‘Ride’s over!’

‘A bit longer, please.’

Surprised that his thunderous voice had not had the desired effect, for the first time the fairground owner sought out the eyes of that figurine dressed in a white suit and a red cravat. Curtis had stopped pushing and the boat had slowed right down. He was dark, but his eyes were very clear, aquatic. The fairground owner felt like doing something he’d never done: letting off one of the lead locomotive’s fireworks. But, on the other hand, he needed that boy to sing, now that the orchestra had stopped.

‘The wind’ll take everything.’

‘I’m owed another ride,’ said Luís.

The storm was carrying the sea inland.

‘I’m not responsible,’ said the fairground owner to Curtis. ‘I’m not responsible for that boat your friend’s in.’

It was then his three blond sons appeared. They’d been helping secure the boats and were drenched and out of breath, as if dressed in water and grease. One of them dismantled the railway with his father. The other two stopped the flying boat, ignoring Terranova’s protests.