Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [139]
He was surprised by Sulfe’s call the day after the tribute to D’Ors. Jonah’s whale would let him out of house arrest in the case of such a stimulating proposal. He’d be there. Samos was pleased about this re-encounter. They’d shared an interest in Lusitania and for the poet Teixeira de Pascoaes, though one day they’d had a lively disagreement on the subject of saudade or longing. The judge had even raised his voice and got quite angry. He’d kept using the word outrage. ‘An outrage, Sulfe. Teixeira’s proposal to declare a metaphysical concept such as saudade a tenet of the New State. A State is something very serious. You’re not a jurist, so you can’t know. Without wishing to boast, I’d say there’s a moment for the soldier and a moment for the jurist. An act of victory has to be translated into law. But what’s saudade? It has no juridical worth. You can’t sustain a State with a wooden sword.’
‘A wooden sword?’
‘Yes, all that about saudade is a wooden sword for floral games.’
‘And when they talk about the grace of God? Caudillo by the grace of God? The New State as creatio a Deo?’
The judge glanced in amazement at the others who were present.
‘Such a comparison is improper,’ said Samos. ‘Between God and saudade.’
‘Of course it is. Floral games! Like that, on its own, doesn’t it sound funny?’ asked Sulfe, adopting a conciliatory tone. ‘So too does the grace of God.’
And they all laughed with jovial relief.
Alfonso Sulfe stayed behind. He clearly wanted to see Ricardo Samos on his own. Not quite on his own. Gabriel was there, in the alcove, camouflaged in a green skin from the desk-lamp, as he liked to think, and focused on the text from Durtol Château Sanatorium. It described New Year’s Eve, 1913. How much he missed his family. It also said how much he’d weighed that day, though in his case he’d used data from the Toledo-Ohio scales in Villar the chemist’s.
‘Dear Samos, I wanted to ask you for a special favour.’
‘What is it, Sulfe?’
‘At university, shortly after the war, you mentioned some very interesting books that had come your way by a stroke of fate.’
Ricardo Samos raised his guard. The tension of being with an acquaintance who you fear is about to commit an act of folly. Not a simple slip-up, but a grave mistake.
‘One of those books was called Le Nu de Rabelais . . .’
‘What?’
‘Le Nu de Rabelais. In French. Highly illustrated. Drawings and photographs of extraordinary erotic grace . . .’
‘No, I don’t have that book.’
Sulfe didn’t seem to register the negative. He rubbed his hands together and his eyes gleamed. ‘You’ll wonder why I’m bringing this up after so many years,’ he said. ‘It was, for me, a very special night of friendship. The evening before the trip to Paris, Milan and Berlin. There was something that separated us from the rest of the group. A passion for books. You then had the kindness to share a secret.’
Samos had remained rigidly silent, but at this point he interrupted the story