Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [123]
That afternoon, before Ren left, they talked about anonymous letters. The judge showed him an envelope with no return address and the sheet that came inside. A typed text. A carbon copy.
‘Same as always,’ said the judge. ‘Same poem. Third canto of The Divine Sketch by Manuel Curros Enríquez. Same date at the bottom. 19th of August 1936.’
With rude gnashing of teeth . . .
Rather than reading, Ren seemed to be searching for fingerprints on the sheet.
He offered me some and said,
‘It’s not exactly the best,
but you’re welcome.’ ‘What is it?’
‘A morsel of human flesh.’
‘Can’t we find the typewriter and typist?’ asked the judge, giving Ren a deliberate look.
‘I also got a copy,’ said Ren. ‘Dez as well.’ He moved his moustache uneasily, as if searching somewhere outside the Crypt. ‘Who can the bastard be? It’s the same typewriter as every year. I checked it against clandestine pamphlets, leaflets, writing samples from prisoners, people under surveillance, but found nothing out of the ordinary. What the hell happened that day, Samos? I know something must have happened. Something almost always did. But what was so special this nutter can’t keep quiet about it? I don’t remember.’
The judge looked at him and was silent. There’d been several things. He didn’t remember either, but his memory did. The advantages and disadvantages of having such a good memory. Memory sometimes does its own thing, thought the judge. By the time you realise, without wanting to, you’ve a book in your hands from the alcove, with burnt edges. He could have gone in search of others, other bibliographical jewels that were in there, English editions with gilt edges and watercolours, wonderful editions. But no, by the time he realised, what the memory of his hands had done was pull out the little book with burnt edges and the symbol of a scallop shell in the centre, the little book with the Six Galician Poems. The way things happened, both poet and publisher had to go and die on that day, 19 August, the day they burnt books. He had to study this law that wasn’t in the code. The law of chance. Change, chance, words are so mixed up. Which is why it was important to be precise. Did they come from the same family of words? He’d have to check that.
‘Something must have happened.’ Inspector Ren re-examined the letter. With rude gnashing of teeth. He dropped it casually on the desk. Well, he was convinced it had been typed on an Underwood Universal. But there were lots of those. ‘What we need is a register of every typewriter there is. The day I find that Underwood Universal, I’ll show him rude gnashing of teeth.’
The judge smiled. He knew about Ren’s obsession for typewriters. Ren had told him he had a collection at home, about twenty of them, including some that had been confiscated when war broke out. He also had a few from secret resistance groups. Sometimes, after a day’s work, he’d sit down and type. ‘Nothing that makes any sense. I just bash the keys.’ Biff, bang, wallop. It made him feel good, hitting those machines.
‘All this in confidence, right, your honour? Strictly between ourselves.’
‘One day, you’ll have to invite me to your sanctuary, Ren.’
One day. One day he’d have to extend an invitation. ‘It’s all a mess. You can imagine what it’s like living on your own.’
‘You know what the Portuguese say? “Desire of solitude leads to great virtue or wickedness.”’
‘All my vice is taken up with eating.’
Samos was clearly talking through one side of his mouth, but thinking