Books Burn Badly

The Tachygraphic Rose

HE’D BEEN THINKING about that moment for quite some time. He wasn’t at all sure. He was used to observing people, watching them, examining the smallest details. A hair. The prints left by fingers or lips. To reading the writing bodies leave behind them in a space. The extraordinary information that can be contained in a bin full of rubbish. He thought about it one day. Writing poems, each of which was about a rubbish bin. It would be both biography and geography. It was one of the aspects of his job that most attracted him. He wouldn’t tell anyone this. He’d tell her. A little later on. How the act of emptying a bin on a large table, sorting and arranging families of refuse, was a way of constructing a poetic place, a genuine, enthralling fiction. Catia was an intelligent woman. She’d be interested. For sure. In fact, being a policeman was like being a historian. And the search for clues, rummaging around in a rubbish bin, was a kind of archaeological dig. This position gave him security in front of the other, the one being observed, followed or watched. The biographee, so to speak. With Catia, he had the opposite impression. He was the one being studied. He was under her control, starting with her position in the class of speed typing. From the front, it was she who gave instructions that affected his whole body, who guided him with the invisible threads of words to achieve the goal of his fingers being as fast as his eyes. But it wasn’t just in this time he spent as an automaton, sitting in a row with other pupils. When he stood up, before this woman who was younger and shorter than he was, he felt the mandate continued. His techniques of self-control didn’t work. His desire to neutralise his muscles’ spontaneous joy when, for example, she came to advise him on the position of his elbows actually caused extreme rigidity. It was the same with his speech. He was like a lopsided pair of scales. So when he finally took the step of asking Catia out one Sunday afternoon, after she’d twice agreed to have coffee with him in Borrazás during the break, and when Catia said yes, OK, she’d be there the day after next, at five o’clock in the Beach Club, his typewriter got stuck because he pressed several keys at once.

‘You’re a policeman?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did you hide it at enrolment?’

‘I have my reasons. Secrecy, a certain kind of secret, is a tool of the trade. More important than a gun.’

‘Why are you telling me now? Better to have kept it a secret.’

‘Right now I’m not a lawyer or a policeman. Or even a criminal. I’m just a guy who’s nervous on a date with a girl he likes.’

‘I’m not in the habit of ruining dates,’ said Catia, ‘but let me get something clear. I don’t see a policeman or a lawyer or a criminal. I see someone who hides what he is.’

‘Listen, Catia, we need the police. Call it what you like. They’re here to protect people. And in my case a little secrecy is needed. I can’t go around with a placard saying, “Long live people!”’

‘It’s not like that,’ said Catia. ‘Don’t try and pretend we live in a normal country. I’m the one who has to be cautious.’

And she did speak cautiously, in a low voice, but what she said sounded very loud, incredibly loud, perhaps because it was unusual for the time and place, and seemed to spread as far as the eyes could see, which was a long way. As far as the lighthouse. She said, ‘There’s violence everywhere and it’s fear because of you. Don’t try and pretend this is a normal country. It’s governed by. .’ She was going to say, ‘It’s governed by a dictator.’ But she went even further. There was something in this man, Paúl Santos, that encouraged her to be bold. ‘It’s governed by the worst possible criminal.’

‘Do you want me to arrest him and haul him up before a judge?’ asked Santos with the voice of a detective in films. It was a quick, spontaneous reaction. And made Catia accept the joke. Smile for a second.

‘Yes, I do,’ she said.

‘Then I’ll do my best.’

That was all the humour Catia could take.

‘What do you think of my uncle?’

‘He’s a great guy. An extraordinary intellect.’

‘He’s a wreck, isn’t he?’

‘No, I didn’t say that.’

‘I did. Did you know that Héctor Ríos, Dr Montevideo, was going to be a public prosecutor under the Republic?’

‘No. You can tell he knows about law, though.’

‘Actually he was a prosecutor when the war started. He’d passed all the exams. And was waiting to be posted. He passed with flying colours. He was passionate about literature and had a way of reading legal texts, even the dullest, most chaotic ones, as part of literature. As he says, literature with. .’

‘Implications.’

‘Yes, implications,’ continued Catia. ‘Héctor Ríos wasn’t even in the war. When it started, he’d just arrived from Madrid. He’d come to spend his holidays after those exams to be a prosecutor. During the first days of the war, he kept low. He went from the beach, the sun of the beach, to a hole. He finally managed to escape through Portugal. Lots of fugitives were detained by Salazar’s police and returned to the border. He got to Lisbon and sailed for America. To start with, he was in Buenos Aires. He worked on a newspaper called Crítica. The owner’s name was Natalio Botana. Lots of the heroes in his western novels are called that, Botana. He mentions them both, Botana and his horse Romantic. When I was typing up his novels, I always thought Botana and his horse were two fictional characters. But then, not long ago, while typing up a chapter on exile in that book he’s so taken up with, A Dramatic History of Culture, I discovered that Botana and Romantic actually existed. They were responsible for saving the refugees on the Massilia. This boat, crowded with Spanish and Jewish fugitives, had left Bordeaux in October 1939. It reached Buenos Aires, but it wasn’t exactly a good time in Argentina either. The Massilia remained in port, full of hungry people, being treated like a phantom ship by the authorities. Natalio Botana’s horse, Romantic, had the courage to win the most important race at Buenos Aires’ racecourse and the first thing Botana did was declare that the prize money was for the refugees on board the Massilia. This immediately drew attention to the boat. Thanks to a horse, the boat became a symbol.’

‘That’s why it’s Romantic!’ exclaimed Santos.

‘Yes, he has these moments of optimism. He lived for years between Buenos Aires, Mar del Plata and Montevideo. He then had the idea of returning. Looked into it. There were no proceedings against him. No lawsuit. There was no reason not to return. Of course he couldn’t be a public prosecutor, but he’d be left alone so long as he stuck to private activities. This is what the Spanish diplomats told him. It was a lie. I’m talking about six years ago, in 1957. Everything was a lie. No sooner had he arrived than they were after him. Which is when this guy turned up, claiming to be a civil servant. He could get them off his back. There was a way: by paying money. How much? All he had. They knew what his savings were. They were very well informed. And before he could even think of denouncing them, the guy got there first, “You’re not going to denounce us, are you?” He showed him his own denunciation, one that he’d prepared against Héctor Ríos. My uncle was amazed. It contained everything. All his steps since a year before the Republic, since his participation in the Spanish University Federation. Even a short course in Esperanto he’d given at a cultural association. This also had been noted down. It was a terrible nightmare, as if a camera had been following him all his life. And then the extortioner mentioned the Law of Political Responsibilities. He could be tried not just for having Republican links. He could be tried, eighteen years after the end of the war, even for what he hadn’t done. For the crime of passivity. He was ready to resist, but the following day two members of the Political Brigade came to carry out a search. They turned everything upside down and took away his passport. In the afternoon, the guy came back. I was present that day. He again insisted that everything could be arranged. I remember his gesture. He brushed against a keyboard and said, “Carriages won’t go unless you grease them.” That’s what he said. He then hinted something about me and the academy. That’s when Montevideo gave in, I think. I didn’t know he’d paid. He retired to his room, the cabin, as if into a second exile. And started writing non-stop. He hasn’t stopped writing since. But you know that part.’

Yes, he knew that part. How he wrote western novels to earn a few pennies and then that work that filled his head day and night, A Dramatic History of Culture. He could hear the doctor, during a break in the class of advanced stenography according to the Martí method, asking him, ‘Do you consider yourself brave, Mr Santos?’ ‘I think so,’ Santos replied after pondering the question. It was then Montevideo said to him, ‘I’m only a little brave when I write.’

The echo of the question came back to him. ‘Do you consider yourself brave, Mr Santos?’

He could have guessed the ending to the story Catia was telling him since his incursion into the museum of horrors that was Ren’s house. But Santos didn’t dare say, ‘I know.’

He replied, ‘What you’re telling me is awful. Things’ll change, Catia. History will do justice. To Dr Montevideo as well.’

Shame about history, thought Paúl Santos. He also had a matter to settle with history. He was about to tell Catia something about the mystery of his biography, but his scientific gaze was stubborn. It was now examining colours. The various crimson shades of her lips, nails, knitted dress.

‘I have to go,’ she said, rising to her feet suddenly.

The knitted dress was cherry-coloured and had a black belt.

Paúl Santos stood up as well. He was going to protest, but he thought better and said, ‘I’ll go with you.’

‘No, I’d rather be alone today.’

That adverb, the word ‘today’, struck him as a trail worth following. An adverb to be studied through a magnifying glass.

Before leaving, however, Catia turned and spoke to him at high typing speed, ‘Do you know anything about two men in ashen suits who followed me down the street? Do you know why they were taking photographs?’

Paúl Santos picked up the chemical signals of imminent danger, but had no reply. He stopped seeing cherry colour and, looking into her eyes, shook his head. A scientific failure.