Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [138]
‘Wells, Wells, Wells!’
The books are burning. Ricardo Samos is about to raise his arm, mumble something. He coughs. His body bends over. The young Parallelepiped approaches with concern, dumb camaraderie. ‘Is anything wrong, boss? It’s all this horrible smoke. Why don’t you go down to the beach for a breath of fresh air? Or drink some coffee.’
‘I’m fine,’ says Samos to Tomás Dez. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Coffee. With lots of sugar. It’s the best thing for stress.’
The Prohibited
There was a secret person inside Sulfe. It was well known he was a loner. And single. ‘Celibate, you mean,’ his father would say. ‘Married to his books.’ Not any old books. His motto was, ‘He who alights on the classics’. Gabriel had heard his father say this several times and always solemnly. Now he knew the phrase came from Alfonso Sulfe and was peculiar to him.
‘I’ve nothing to hand, Gabriel, but I’m going to give you a word for your cabinet of curiosities. Take note. OK. Are you ready? The word is “colophon”. An example: “The book had no colophon”. In this case, it refers to the final notes, and this is its general meaning. “Colophon” is the end of something. But the strange thing is where it comes from. It’s connected with the life of a Greek fortune-teller called Calchas. An important person in the history of war, which is to say in history. It was he who invented the greatest trick this world has ever seen, the Trojan horse. But he had to cope with a terrible prophecy. That he would die when he met a more powerful fortune-teller. And that’s exactly what happened in a place called Colophon.’
‘What did the other foretell?’
‘We don’t know.’
Gabriel thought it would make an interesting story for a postcard from Durtol Sanatorium.
‘Do you like reading? It’s the best thing that can happen to you in life. Writing has other implications. Another word, my favourite. “Scruple”. From scrupulus. This was the name for a small, pointed stone. It could also be used as a bargaining chip. But then came the meaning you’re already familiar with. Rather than knowing what a scruple is, you feel it, don’t you? Injeci scrupulum homini. I put a scruple in the man, I put him in a quandary. Funny. It’s still a sharp, pointed stone. The difference now is it’s inside the body. What’s yours? A word you like. Come on. Quickly.’
Gabriel wondered whether or not to say his word. The man seemed kind enough and, whenever he said it, he felt the pleasure of someone playing a prank on a sage.
‘“Acetylsalicylic”, sir.’
‘Not bad.’
Samos the judge would occasionally refer to Alfonso Sulfe as one of the most talented men in the country. Shame he shut himself up so much in his hole. He clearly enjoyed the other’s etymological expeditions. ‘Sulfe, tell us the origin of the word “jacket”.’ His friend’s wisdom was thus put on show during conversations in the Crypt. To start with, Alfonso Sulfe would blush, but then he’d succumb to a few minutes of glory.
‘We could say the word “jacket” comes from the Road to Santiago. St Jacques in France. There’s the germ of the word. Jacques. There were so many peasants who had this name it became a generic term for a local and the article of clothing he wore. In that way . . .’
‘Did you know that, Don Munio?’
‘No. Another miracle performed by the Apostle.’
Apart from that, Alfonso Sulfe barely intervened in the conversation when it had to do with ‘the current state of affairs’, meaning politics. He’d been friends with the judge for a long time, ever since the 1940s. The 1940s! He talked of those years as of a distant age, with dark melancholy. Now a colleague from that period had reappeared. They met in Santiago at a tribute to Álvaro D’Ors and discussed renewing lost ties. The judge invited him to the Crypt. Sulfe was grateful, but couldn’t. As well as his lectures, he was stuck in the belly of a medieval whale, he said enigmatically.
‘Are there any Bibles in that whale?’ asked Samos. A game of allusions. Alfonso Sulfe