Books Burn Badly

The Witch’s Kiss

‘WHAT? ISN’T ANYONE going to die? There’s no money to be made here!’

This is what Polka would say when he passed in front of the the Cuckoo’s Feather bar. His jokes as parish gravedigger encouraged people to carry on living. Sometimes he’d switch refrain and say at the door:

‘Anyone want a reference?’

And they’d shout to him from inside, ‘What death needs is an open mouth. Wine for you, Polka!’

This was something he could always count on. An invitation to a round of wine. He liked it this way. One thing he couldn’t stand was drinking on his own. There are lots of solitary drinkers. But Polka didn’t go in for this wine of solitude. Wine deserved a story, a conversation. Of the Here and the Hereafter, in people’s opinion, he knew more than the priest, who toed the official line. There were questions they didn’t discuss in the vicar’s presence, simply because he couldn’t answer them. For example: ‘Polka, tell us, who’s in charge of the Holy Company, the procession of the dead?’ ‘As I understand it, the one who sets the Holy Company in motion is the first to be buried.’ ‘And who’s the leader?’ ‘Why, Adam, I suppose.’ ‘And who buried Adam, Polka? Was it Eve?’ ‘No, it was a son, a third son who’s rarely talked about and must have been a good sort. Here Cain and Abel get all the attention. The third man must have wanted to avoid any publicity. But it was he, Seth, who buried his father. And stuck an olive branch in the ground over the first corpse. From that olive tree, they took the wood for the Holy Cross.’

‘That’s quite a coincidence, Polka.’

‘Life is like that, my friend, its vocation is to be a story. If you don’t understand that, you don’t understand anything. So I suppose it’s Adam, in order of antiquity, who calls to the others, “Arise, ye dead, and come out together!” Which seems to me an important detail. The fact they decide to come out together, without distinction.’

Polka to O: ‘Don’t be afraid of the dead. What you have to watch out for are the living who spoil life. Old people used to say those who hate life belong to the Bone Society. Sowing terror is both ancient and modern. What they used to do was throw a bone at night against a window they saw illuminated. Which was their way of indicating the victim. But the dead know how to get their own back. Something these thugs don’t realise. The dead find a way to defend themselves. Old people used to talk of a cold slap, which is a slap given by the dead who haven’t been properly buried. I know lots of examples. Lots of examples of murderers who were never judged. Or worse than that. Murderers who even now are meting out justice, making laws. But there were lots who got a dead man’s cold slap. Murderers who lost their mind. Like one who went around with Luís Huici’s fountain pen. Do you know who Huici was? One of the most cultivated, most stylish men this city ever had. A forerunner, a shining star. Well, his assassin would swagger into the bar with the dead man’s fountain pen. And one day he decided to write with it. But all he could write was Luís Huici’s signature. Luís Huici’s name. He died a little later from an illness. That’s what they said. But I knew what it was. He got a cold slap.’

‘Years ago, when I was small,’ said O, ‘I heard you say the dead in the Holy

Company would sometimes take a black dog for a walk.’

‘That’s right. A black bitch with a little bell.’

‘Oh, come on! Did you ever see it?’

‘No, I didn’t see it,’ replied Polka, ‘but I heard the tinkle of the bell and scarpered. Listen, O, the only one from that world I had dealings with was Antaruxa.’

‘Get away with you!’ said Olinda, who to thread a needle in the poor light of the lamp concentrated so hard she involved all her muscles, the whole house, every concentric ring from the village to its antipodes, in such a way that, were she to fail said Olympic task, the pillars of the world would come crashing down.

Polka waited for the thread to pass through the eye of the needle. And then answered the question which was still hanging in the air, although Olinda had tried to swish it away with her hand.

‘Antaruxa is a high-ranking witch. She’s the one who kisses the devil.’

‘Be quiet, Francisco!’

When Olinda addressed him by his proper name, it meant she was serious. Very annoyed. And Olinda, annoyed, was no joke. The women of Castro knew how to put you in your place and assert their authority. So Olinda said, ‘Either you shut your mouth or I’ll sew it for you.’ To carry on talking, Polka moved off a little, sat on a stool and spoke from the shadows.

‘She smacks his behind!’ hissed Polka as if he’d revealed one of the greatest secrets of the night of spirits.

‘She smacks what?’ asked O.

Olinda reprimanded Polka with her look. They remained silent. The sea of trees, the dark purple waves of Zapateira Heath, roared. O wondered whether Olinda really would sew Polka’s mouth for him. Suddenly the two of them, husband and wife, burst out laughing.

‘She kisses his bottom,’ hissed Olinda. She was laughing as well.