Books Burn Badly

Acetylsalicylic Acid

‘WHAT THIS BOY needs is acetylsalicylic acid. Bring me an aspirin.’

Neves stands still. Rigid. She’d been expecting something else, some cure. A few divine words. Some animal’s anatomy. A picture of saints. Of a cabaret singer. Herb tea. Something.

‘Aren’t you going to say something to him?’

‘Listen, is there an aspirin?’

‘There is. But take care, you’ll make a hole in his stomach.’

‘I know that, woman. Dissolve it in a spoonful of water. And make some coffee.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, coffee. Coffee from the pot.

‘OK. Now listen, Gabriel. Take the aspirin first and hold it in your mouth for a bit, without swallowing, so you get the taste. The bitter taste. Don’t spit. Good. That’s good. Now take a sip of coffee. Coffee’s also bitter. Bitterness on the palate is the best thing to get you talking. Sweetness is far too conformist. That’s it, my boy.

‘Now what you have to say is “acetylsalicylic acid”.’

Gabriel repeated it swiftly, perfectly.

‘Good, that’s good. Did you notice how the words contained what was spoken?’

Gabriel looked at Neves and O. They had large, wide open, beautiful eyes. He thought he’d like to be an ophthalmologist when he was older, as well as an underwater archaeologist. Be able to look into those eyes.

‘Ophthalmologist,’ he whispered, surprised that fear hadn’t climbed the walls of his throat.

‘What was that?’ asked Polka.

‘Ophthalmologist.’

‘That’s also valid,’ said Polka with satisfaction, seeing an improvement in Gabriel’s initiative. ‘It’s also scientific. Now let’s re-turn a few other re-turnables. As if we were singing, but without singing. Say, “The drunken accordion speaks English, German. .”’

It was then the kitchen door suddenly opened. The judge was wearing his hat and overcoat, he hadn’t hung them up in the hallway as he usually did, which may have been why he looked bigger than the door. To Neves, the most nervous among them, he was like an enormous creature trying to enter a miniature house. The man with the sack of beans inside a bean. A cat, with whiskers as wide as the door, inside a mouse-hole. Behind his glasses, his eyes bespoke urgency. He glanced at Polka. A local. In his kitchen. The poor light at that time was like a continuation of a country storm.

‘And my wife?’

‘She received a call from Fine Arts, your honour. To take some foreigners on a tour,’ Neves replied nervously, but quickly, without slipping up. ‘She said if you called, you were not to worry. She’d be at the official dinner on time, just as you arranged.’

‘I see.’

Before leaving, he looked again at Polka. It was a fleeting, wordless glance. He was waiting for Polka to gesture to him in greeting with his corduroy peaked cap. For his part, Polka thought the opposite. That the initiative should come from the man in the hat. He was the owner of the house. The one who had to welcome him.

‘This is my father, your honour,’ said O.

‘Hello. How are we today?’

‘Same as always, your. .’

He was going to add what he always said with friendly humour, ‘Working for eternity, making a bed for those who are going to sleep in the open.’ But he didn’t have time, he spoke like a mute, because the judge was already taking leave of his son. ‘Don’t forget your exercises.’ An admonition that, from the tone, appeared to be directed towards everyone.

Neves accompanied the judge to the door. Polka, meanwhile, poured himself some coffee, which he sugared generously.

‘But you’re. . having. . sugar!’ the boy protested.

Polka winked.

‘My words are re-turned already.’

‘Phew! I’m glad he didn’t ask anything,’ sighed Neves when she came back.

‘I’d have explained it all to him,’ said O. ‘We weren’t doing anything wrong.’

‘He’s very particular,’ commented Neves in a low voice. ‘When he gets all authoritative, there’s nothing to be done. He walks with his bust on a pedestal.’

Polka savoured the last drop of sugary coffee. La dolce vita, he called those dregs. A phrase he’d heard from Luís Terranova. What had happened to Terranova, to that boy who was a diamond, a Gardel? He hoped he hadn’t had dealings with eternity.

Polka savoured the last drop as if it were an undying pleasure and then clicked his tongue.

‘What was the problem? He looked at me and didn’t see me.’

He turned to face Gabriel.

‘Now you know. What you have to do is look and see. Give eyes their vision. Words their meaning. Come on. Let’s have another go. Say, “With each note he played, the bagpiper made a polished diamond”.’

Gabriel recited the sentence without getting stuck on the jingle. He didn’t choke on a single word. His voice sounded happy and singsong and the words contained everything they named.

‘That’s it. That’s what I call many happy re-turns,’ Polka congratulated himself. ‘You have to find the right key for the lock.’

He was emotional. He took Gabriel’s head in his hands as if he might lift it off his body and polish the sculpture. These were no sad verses, but the man’s eyes were wet. He heard Luís Terranova’s voice again. He was standing naked, a god in the nude, on top of Ara Solis. He mumbled that incomprehensible refrain Yamba, yambo, yambambe! as if it were Latin. Something Polka only did when he’d just killed a worm of fear.