Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [105]
He was certainly very reserved. Professionally austere. But there were things he enthused about. A passion he’d long had, somehow inherited from his father. Collecting books. Another, hunting, he’d acquired later. He himself talked of a sudden conversion. He went on his first hunt for reasons of friendship, but what was supposed to be a hobby turned into a devotion. He recalls this happening not on the mountainside, but in a marsh, the day he brought down a wild goose. The swing after the specimen in the sky, the shot, the fall and, most of all, the tower of water it caused. The emotion was something else. The experience, unnarratable. The times spent hunting became an essential part of Ricardo Samos’ life. Which is why he attached so much importance to the trophies. They weren’t abstractions or symbols. In them, real nature had been overcome. Though he held in check the hunter’s desire to exhibit. He chose which specimens to stuff very carefully. The heads of a boar, a stag, an Iberian goat. Birds. A woodcock. A ptarmigan he’d shot in the Pyrenees. Later on, his most valued specimen, a capercaillie from the Ancares. But now he’s talking to Gabriel. That strange situation when it’s the adult who’s being childishly enthusiastic. Telling him his plans, adventures the boy finds illusory, albeit coming from a man who is seriousness itself. That afternoon, as they leave the taxidermist’s workshop, Ricardo Samos talks to his son about the Carpathian bear. Feeling happy and satisfied, he goes and confesses to him, a secret between the two of them, that he has two wishes: to catch a Carpathian bear and to find a very special book. No, it’s not an incunabulum. It’s a New Testament printed in Spain in the middle of the nineteenth century. Yes, he does have Bibles and Gospels from that period. But this book is dedicated and signed. A whim. An obsession. Yes, it could be called an obsession.
On the subject of obsessions, it’ll soon be time for hunting woodcocks.
It’ll soon be time for Eusebio.
This woodcock hunter was now Ricardo Samos’ essential guide and companion. In his trips to the city, he almost always paid them a visit. Apart from hunting, Eusebio was a mayor and had business. He almost always brought presents. Solid presents that forged a strong link. Fruits of the earth. Sometimes meat. As if he’d chopped nature up into cubes. But also books for the judge from some rectory or country estate fallen on hard times. Eusebio did all he could to avoid looking like a peasant. He dressed elegantly and sometimes overdid it.
Chelo would say, ‘To be a fox, all he’s missing is a tail.’
She who was always pleasant, flexible, able to turn into an art deco mask if necessary, was, however, brusque with this visitor. She didn’t hide her antipathy. ‘I can’t help it,’ she’d tell Samos. ‘It’s something physical.’
He turned up with a woodcock’s feather in a glass case.
‘The hunter’s most prized trophy,’ said the judge. He was clearly trying to mediate on behalf of his hunting companion. A historic assertion by the judge, ‘You can go out on to the mountain without a dog, but not without Eusebio. He was born to hunt. I swear he has a pointer’s scent. That’s his dog, a pointer, when he’s after woodcocks. They understand each other through a code of silent gestures. It’s impossible to tell who supports who. He’s always the first to spot the mirrors.’
‘The mirrors?’
‘Their excrement. White with a green centre. Their excrement is the only clue. The only thing that gives away the most secretive bird in Galician forests.’
Chelo, who’s not at all interested in hunting, is curious about this bird. She asks the women who come with things on top of their heads.