Books Burn Badly

The Diligent’s Ball

ON ONE OCCASION, he let them play with it, the first football. It fell off the deck of the British ship the Diligent. Some crewmen jumped down, but couldn’t catch the boy who took it. He ran and ran down Luchana Alley, across Rego de Auga, until he reached Ovos Square, where his pursuers realised there was nothing they could do. The fugitive was safe among the stalls and the forest of skirts belonging to women selling birds and eggs. The ball was part of the city’s secret.

There must have been a grain of truth in this epic story. When you held the ball in your hands, if you brought it close to your body, you could hear a beating that wasn’t yours. The boy’s race. The hero’s heart.

‘Who was it?’

‘One of my grandfathers,’ answered Ramón Ponte proudly. ‘He was self-taught. Had his own scales for weighing the value of historical events. And you know what? That boat, the Diligent, went and sank in the entrance to the bay. Must have been as a result of losing the ball.’

‘Can I report it? Make an interview with you?’ asked Tito Balboa.

‘No way. It might lead to an international protest. It’s not a stone, boy. This is history.’

They were playing on the Western Quay. A place where, between nets and stacks of wood, you learnt how to control your pass, given the limits of the sea. Which may explain why Coruñan footballers such as Chacho, Cheché Martín, Amancio and Luis Suárez were so good at it. At passing accurately.

Ramón Ponte was there, watching. Suffering on account of the Diligent’s ball and at the same time moved, as if this were a Biblical game being played with the terrestrial globe. The stacks of wood, like large blinds, enclosed the area and acted like barriers to stop the ball embarking. But even so, between the piles of wood, there were corridors, gaping mouths, down which the ball would sometimes disappear together with friends Gabriel had made in this dockside universe, which as a child he’d only been able to contemplate from the gallery. They left the field and didn’t come back. As if they’d been swallowed up by the ghost of the Diligent returning for its ball. When they picked the teams the next day, one would be missing and someone would casually exclaim, ‘He’s gone!’ Which didn’t mean he’d gone for a walk. It meant he’d gone for ever. There was no need to explain. On that border, those who were leaving played with those who weren’t leaving. And Gabriel realised that his family would never have to emigrate. An inequality that bothered him.

‘You can’t have everything,’ whispered Destiny’s Irony in his ear.

That summer, the day after the match with the Father of Footballs, they picked the teams and one called César was missing.

‘César’s gone!’

Another carried off by the ghost of the Diligent.

‘Where to?’

‘Burgos. To see his Dad in prison.’

‘In prison? What’s he doing there?’

‘What do you think?’ asked the crane operator. ‘He’s inside.’

‘What for? Why’s he in prison?’

He felt the others’ silence and looks were directed towards him. He received a word warning, but this time the fear was external, not internal. It was the others being careful with their words. Keeping them in the dark.