Books Burn Badly

The Chemin Creux

THEY THOUGHT HE wasn’t going to reply. That he too, Hercules, the travelling photographer, the Galician champ’s old sparring partner, had stopped listening. Was moving the dial. Was possibly tuning in to a radio station from the past. They didn’t realise he was walking towards the flames, clad in smoke that made his eyes itch.

‘His one-two. His one-two was very special, wasn’t it, Curtis?’ said the crane operator ardently, trying to rouse him from his reverie. ‘First, his right would go for the face, give the impression it was serious. But it was the left hook that was serious. As if a cobra had leapt off the ground. The one receiving the blow didn’t know where it had come from.’

He looked at Curtis, waiting for a nod, a nuance. Something.

‘His one-two. That’s what they talk about. And the way his legs moved. My Dad used to say he was a dancer in the ring.’

‘Back then, I suppose he had a good pair of legs,’ commented Korea ironically.

Gabriel, Zonzo and Stringer giggled nervously. They’d heard this conversation before. They knew what Curtis said about the champ of Galicia and what he told a journalist one day, “I thought you’d come to watch me box, not to see my legs!”’

‘He had a good pair of legs,’ said Curtis suddenly, fixing Korea with his gaze. ‘What wouldn’t you give for such a pair of legs?’

When Curtis laughed, he did so with the whole of his body. Which may explain why he didn’t laugh very often. Not because of his character, but because of the weight of moving his whole geography.

‘He was good at making a feint. And at opening a side corridor.’

‘Opening a side corridor?’ asked Korea with a hint of mockery.

‘Don’t you know what it is to open a side corridor? When the other finds himself in a vacuum, punching the air. If you don’t know the difference between equilibrium and disequilibrium, you’ve a long way to go.’

Korea started paying attention. Equilibrium, nice word. He wanted to ask something else. Suddenly looked in the other direction. Who said he had no visual field? Deformed and attractive, her body slightly bent, Medusa entered his wide-angle lens. Carrying a large fish on her head. On top of a cloth that had been so well coiled it resembled a crown. On top of the crown was a bluefin tuna. Equilibrium. Korea remembered seeing her with a dogfish, like a small shark, on her head. But today it was a tuna. A bluefin tuna on top of Medusa, who was wearing red tights. Payment for services rendered. She’d relieved the Chocho Kid of his virginity. And the Chocho Kid had paid her with his share of the catch.

‘It seems to me a boxer doesn’t have to think much,’ said Korea abruptly. ‘Hit as hard, as quickly and as accurately as possible. The rest is chitter-chatter.’

‘You’re right,’ replied Curtis to Korea’s surprise. ‘If boxing were just a fight, you’d be absolutely right.’

He was going to say, ‘Actually it’s the opposite. The whole time, your whole body’s thinking. Your hand is thinking about your head. Your eyes are dancing on the tips of your toes.’

He was going to tell them about Neto. He’d never told them before. About Neto’s cure. How to soothe and deaden pain, heal wounds, lower bumps, touch up bruises. Neto, Arturo da Silva’s fighting friend. Then he thought about it. Put the two cherry stones in his mouth. Pulled the cap of green rhombuses over his forehead. And fell silent.

Korea watched Medusa move off with the bluefin tuna on top of her head. The Chocho Kid in the other direction. His shirt was hanging out. He tucked it in and tied his belt, which was a piece of string. He breathed in and filled his chest to bursting. He felt he was being observed. Noticed he’d grown. Which was true. His tattered trousers had shortened and were clinging to his calves, as if he’d raised his head. The length of a bluefin tuna. Korea asked the crane operator, ‘How much is a swordfish?’

‘For that, you have to work like a man,’ said the operator reprovingly.

‘Who said anything about working?’ Korea replied. ‘All I did was ask about a swordfish.’

The Chemin Creux berthed at the Western Quay. Moored against the light. Seemed to be bringing a cargo of sun from the East. It was welcome. The stones on the quay were still covered in hues of rain, an oily water forming pools in the joins with bits of rainbow. It felt as if something was happening, perhaps because Tito Balboa rushed forwards and took a few fast notes.

There, on deck, with a smile as wide as his outstretched arms, was Roque Gantes. Who conducted a dialogue with the absentee. Heard Luís Terranova’s singsong voice. His way of exorcising the pain of arrival.

‘In French?’

‘Le zizi et la foufoune.’

‘In Italian?’

‘Il cazzo, la fessa.’

‘It’s bloody cold?’

‘Fa un cazzo di freddo!’

‘Now I like a bit of cosmopolitanism.’

‘Prick, cunt! Schwanz, Möse!’

‘How about Esperanto?’

‘Foki. .’

‘Enough!’ he said to his memory. ‘Just a moment, please.’

Pulling the wooden horse, with the tripod camera on his back, his old friend Hercules approached.

‘Well, blow me down.’

‘Mr Gantes!’

He blinked. The sun could do that, place a moment in a passing eternity. Grant a healing pardon to all things.

‘Heard anything?’ asked the travelling photographer.

‘Not a thing, Curtis. The odd echo, that’s all.’

The city’s urban intelligence consisted of working with the light, its long, glass façades, and following the line drawn by the sea. Roque Gantes still became emotional when he saw the lighthouse and his whole body floundered in organic confusion whenever he entered a Spanish port. But he’d decided not to disembark. Never to set foot on native soil so long as the tyrant lived.

‘Come on board, Curtis. I’ve spoken to the captain. We need people. Experts in cold. That was your thing, wasn’t it?’

‘Thermal electricity, Gantes.’

He went up to Carirí and dug around in the saddle-bags. ‘Germinal’s was a good one, Mr Casares’ too,’ he murmured. They’d taken an age to burn. People always supposed the saddle-bags were empty, were an adornment on the photographer’s wooden horse. But Curtis had a few special belongings.

‘I studied this book. Arturo told me, “If you want to train with me, you’ll have to get a profession.” I said, “I can be a shoeshiner. I’ve a shoeshiner’s box.” And he replied, “Anyone who wants polish can stick his fingers up his bum. There’s something that has a future, Curtis. Will change lives. Thermal electricity.” So, that summer, first I’d go to Germinal to read books on electricity and then to train in the gym on Sol Street.’

‘It looks burnt!’ exclaimed Balboa, Stringer, when he saw A Popular Guide to Electricity.

‘It is burnt,’ replied Curtis laconically. ‘The edges are burnt.’

Gabriel felt a jump in his gut. A tingle in his fingers.

Korea was quick, ‘If that’s a book about electricity, all the fuses will start blowing.’

‘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:

INVASION OF TRIGGERFISH

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