Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [124]
‘Thanks for the Bible, Ren. A good price too.’
Yeah. Thumping away at the palm of his hand.
He asked, ‘Any other news?’
Beating the palm of his hand. Looking elsewhere. At the mystery of the leather bag.
‘I’d tell you, Samos, if there were.’
‘Nothing about the valiente of Finisterra?’
‘Nothing, your honour. I’ve done all I could. Been through all the lists. The Falange. The knights militia. Those who transferred Casares Quiroga’s library. Those posted to his house. Those at the docks and in María Pita. The squad of workmen who disposed of the remains. I’ve been through it all. Conducted searches. Nothing. Better forget that book, your honour. I’m after another, by that Irishman, you said belonged to Huici. I don’t think it’s far off. That’s what my nose tells me. When you’re least expecting something is when it knocks at the door. That’s the way of old things.’
I Was Forsook
He saw Hercules go by, that crazy photographer with the horse. Terranova’s friend. He couldn’t help it. His orbital look upset things. Not for him, but for his memory. Blasted memory, always up to no good. Going off like that without his permission. Now following the photographer and his horse. He knew their story. The horse was from Cuba, Vidal had brought it with his son’s photographic equipment. But Leica had kept it in his studio. He wanted to be an artist. Not lead a horse about. So he rented it to Hercules, or lent it, whatever the arrangement was, you never know, they belonged to the same group, did him a favour, lent him the horse and instant camera. The horse’s eyes were well done. The point is horse and photographer made him nervous. It was too much. Why hadn’t he gone as well, that colossus, cowboy, hick, subnormal, champ, son of a whore, why hadn’t he left instead of wandering around the city like a ghost complete with wooden quadruped?
Tomás Dez was so distracted, distracted and disturbed, as if he’d heard ‘Chessman’ carried on the breeze, was so preoccupied he didn’t notice his secretary’s warning signs when he reached the censor’s office. So this stranger coming up to him, dressed like a sailor from a spectral boat, caught him by surprise.
‘Are you the censor?’
Censor? It was true. He was one of the censors. He gave him a supercilious look. ‘I’m very busy.’ And carried straight on to the door of his office.
‘I was forsook!’
He turned around as if he’d heard a strange, inescapable code.
‘You what?’
‘I’ve been waiting for months for a reply. My book. A book of poems. Called I Was Forsook.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘The Most Mysterious of the Mysterious.’
Interesting. I was forsook? I was forsook? Part of his memory identified the echo.
‘Just a minute,’ said Dez. ‘I’ve some matters to attend to and then I’ll come back to you.’
He was feeling generous. Time to redeem yourself, Dez, said his ironic side. Possibly the taste on his palate after chewing ‘Chessman’, the condemned man’s song. Why be despotic with this old sailor in a worn overcoat, invoking the Most Mysterious? He shut the door and rummaged through the pile of originals waiting for a report. It had been some time since he’d read or processed anything. His problem with dermatitis was getting worse. Other times, it cleared up completely. Like now.
There it was: I Was Forsook. Signed: Aurelio Anceis.
He opened the book. Was hit by the unforeseeable. By way of a preface, two lines from a medieval poem by Pero Guterres:
They all say God never sinned,
but mortally I see him sin.
What was this? He turned the page. Read:
CRUMBS
Word-crumbs
rounded and
polished
by the fingers of silence,
with the inflamed accuracy of
beads in a rosary
on the star-map of
an oilskin tablecloth.
Crumbs like these
can save hands.
He read:
CRUSADE
I the warrior thank you,
my God,
for crippling me.
I was a good shot,
but you, Lord,
direct a bullet with your eyes:
in the rifle’s soul,
an hallelujah