Books Burn Badly

Élisée’s Book

‘WE WERE GOING to the festivities on the 2nd of August. First by special train to Betanzos, from Coruña Station, then by boat up the River Mandeo to Caneiros Field. We’d spent ages preparing for it. This festive journey, this trip on boats with laurel awnings, swaying in time to the accordions, propelled by bagpipe airs, was like going to a place you’d dreamt of. So many turns and there it was, Libertaria. A day like that was worth a year. With a bit of luck, you’d set off empty-handed and come back in an embrace.’

Polka stood up and went in search of Man and the Earth, Volume I, by Élisée Reclus. With this book in his hand, Polka adopted the look of someone serious. The look of Élisée Reclus. Not that he couldn’t be serious without this book. But in this case, he’d say, his seriousness was well documented. It took a lot of effort to convince him to go to the eye doctor, as he called the ophthalmologist. He hated admitting physical failure. They then spent hours talking. The doctor told him he had presbyopia, which is why little words vanished on the page. Polka then listed the seven deadly sins. The ministers, he said, in the government of Carnival. The doctor was still a child, but he remembered the costumes on Cantóns. It had been a special Carnival, the best, following the elections in February 1936. Processions came with bands of musicians from every single neighbourhood. The child’s eyesight may have magnified the memory. Perhaps. It was the last great Carnival. After that came war, prohibition.

Yes, he remembered them well. The Ministers of Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Anger and Sloth. The sins were all very stylish, wearing frock coats and top hats, each with a big cigar and ceremonial staff. Arm in arm with them, in very short, low-cut Charleston dresses embroidered with bugles and beads, with cigarette holders and boyish haircuts, came the virtues, the girls from Germinal, the eye doctor, though only a child, had a good look at them, at Humility, Charity, Chastity, Kindness, Temperance, Patience and Diligence. Diligence struck him as particularly beautiful. What he didn’t know, said Polka, is that there was an eighth sin. Presbyopia.

Polka put on his presbyopics and, before turning and becoming really serious, made a gesture he learnt from Pepe Pazos, a sailor who was caught by the revolution of October 1917 in the port of St Petersburg and saw the Aurora fire cannon shots at the Winter Palace, who was also in Madrid in July 1936 — a sailor! — and asked, ‘Where are you going?’ ‘To Montana.’ ‘What for?’ ‘To storm the barracks.’ ‘OK then.’ Pazos, who was an expert in icebergs for the convoys that went to the Arctic during the Second World War. Pazos, who steered a support ship during the Normandy Landings. Well, this Pazos, before talking, made a humble gesture that Polka imitated, ‘What can I tell you that will be lasting?’

Polka had gone off in search of Volume I of Man and the Earth by Élisée Reclus because it contained a key to what he wanted to say, to what that trip upriver, the festivities of that year, actually meant. But, as so often happened, he forgot what he was looking for and ended up staring at a globe in the book held by two hands. If he looked over his presbyopics, the globe moved, became hazy like a strange being. Through his glasses, it became crystal clear, in its place. He wasn’t quite sure how he preferred it, whether crystal clear or blurred.

‘You were going to read me something, Papa,’ said O.

Unlike his natural state, Polka’s seriousness was very dramatic. ‘You’ve got to leave, girl. As soon as possible. Without delay. Before the years trap you and nothing changes. Everything here smells musty. The air. Time itself.’

She knew what was happening. The River Mandeo, the festive river, was running down his spine. It was the same when he recalled the quicksilver glass sign of the Shining Light in the Abyss association in Silva district. That emery design with a sun in flames. The Fascists smashed it to pieces and replaced it with a sign that said ‘Winter Aid’. One night, somebody broke off the second part, leaving the word ‘Winter’ forever engraved on the façade. ‘Winter,’ like that, with a capital letter. So now the River Mandeo was coming back. Because the special train never left. Nor did the boats. And on 2 August they didn’t travel upriver to the field of festivities, Libertaria, for a day. Instead, lots of them travelled as corpses that August, thrown a little further up, from Castellana Bridge, on the Coruña-Madrid road. The dead who washed up in pools were collected by locals and buried. Dead dispossessed of life and identity. The Unknown. In Vilarraso, Aranga and Coirós. Those who were supposed to go upriver, on an outing to Libertaria, ended up travelling downriver. Having been murdered. None of these crimes was ever investigated. The terror of the families, if any were left, was such they didn’t dare look into the dead.

‘You were going to read me something, Papa. You were talking about a trip upriver. And were going to read me something.’

‘I was after a book about animal electricity, it was a bit of joke, to see what she’d say, the others were watching. And she, Minerva, the librarian Holando called Minerva, told me very seriously there was a book called Hypnotism and Animal Magnetism, so I told her the story about the duck. The day my mother took it and cut its neck, she was the only one at home brave enough to do that, to sacrifice an animal so that we could eat. The duck put up such a resistance it took to the air. Flew over us without a head. And my mother said, “That’s because it had a lot of electricity stored up inside.” Minerva listened with wide open eyes. She was obviously amazed by the story. She had a book on the desk. “If you’re interested in nature,” she said, “I recommend you read this one.” It was Man and the Earth by Élisée Reclus.

‘“Can I take it out on loan?”

‘“ No, you can’t. There are six volumes. This is the first. You can start with this one. Here, in the library.”’

When it came to closing time in Germinal, on Sol Street, which leads into Orzán Bay, Polka was so absorbed by the book he decided to commit a transgression and take it with him, hidden under his jacket. That was at the end of June, just before St John’s Eve. He saw her at the bonfires and turned pale in front of the flames. He went to the library on several occasions, intending to return it, but on reaching the door, he saw Minerva there and was unable to enter out of guilt and shame. He, a park and garden employee, a bagpiper from Castro who could play as well in a tribute to Sacco and Vanzetti as in a procession for Our Lady of Mount Carmel, patron of the sea, shelter for castaways, he, member of the Shining Light in the Abyss association, reader of Brazo y Cerebro and The Ideal Novel — to have stolen a book like a petty thief! But he’d made up his mind. Without further ado, when he left work on Friday the 17th, before attending Curtis’ first fight, he would go to Germinal and return it. Very seriously, he would offer his apologies to Minerva. Volunteer to help out. He could do a bit of everything. That was the advantage of living on the border between city and field. But it wasn’t possible. That evening was the first time the ships’ sirens sounded on news of the military uprising in North Africa and people flocked down to the city centre. He spent all night with the book under his arm. There were demonstrations for people to be given arms in defence of the Republic. And he went as well, feeling a little crestfallen.

‘Don’t lose your sense of humour now, Polka,’ said Arturo da Silva. ‘Without weapons, what’ll we do if you’re out of sorts? Come on, pray for us in Latin, it’s quicker.’

It was nothing to do with his mood. Or fear at what was happening. How to explain to Arturo the burden of guilt? Guilt for Man and guilt for the Earth. Guilty guilt. He couldn’t tell him. In the middle of a military coup, at a time of life and death, he couldn’t say he’d kept a book by Élisée Reclus. It was a trifle, but the guilt was enormous and weighed on him.

He opened Volume I and saw the terrestrial globe held by two hands: ‘Man is Nature achieving self-consciousness’.

‘Would you believe it? That was how the first volume of Man and the Earth escaped the flames. The rest burnt. The guy in charge was desperate to lay his hands on a New Testament. Kept asking us. First he burnt the books, then he wanted to act as firefighter for Christ. But there was nothing he could do. What he didn’t know was the pain I felt as I turned over the ashes to see if anything remained of Élisée Reclus. Even Olinda didn’t know how I got this book. That’s war for you. You’re left with an encyclopedic volume whose brothers are missing. I sometimes dream the library’s open. I go to return the book and Minerva says, “Now, as a punishment, you’ll have to read all the volumes.” So I have to read all the volumes and I can because we’re not at war.’

‘You were going to read me something, Papa.’

‘That’s right. Just a moment.’

Polka was unsure whether it was better to look at the globe through his presbyopics or to see it blurred. He now had problems with the sight of his hands. When the globe became well, sort of global, they trembled.