Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [140]
‘I understand if, for you, this meeting has been lost in the mists of time, but it’s still very fresh for me, for reasons I will explain. I’m immersed in a study that began with the paschal laughter of the Middle Ages. Risus paschalis. After that, I moved on to a second world we could call the rituals of laughter. The festa stultorum, Mardi gras . . . When something becomes an obsession, you never know where it’s going to lead. It’ll sound absurd, even puerile, Samos, but I can’t stop thinking about that book . . .’
He was about to add, Of naked queens riding donkeys and rams, dragonfly women in a sacred grove, siren women in Lusignan, playful, warrior women armed with sensual spears, parodying war through amorous combat. Silenus advances in the vanguard of Bacchus’ army. Wine from bars in Franco Street and Algalia had undone locks, loosened their tongues. He could recall Samos’ words as he savoured his treasures, the fruits, he himself had admitted, of pillage.
He said, ‘I’m on Rabelais, in the sixteenth century, immersed in a feast of words. This is something of what I’ve discovered in the belly of that whale. And the more I rummage through its entrails, the more I think about that unknown book with its pioneering photographs.’
‘Whoever told you about that book must have been very passionate, very convincing. But it wasn’t me, Sulfe.’
‘Don’t you remember anything?’ asked the professor in dismay.
‘Le Nu de Rabelais? Is there such a book? I haven’t the faintest.’ Samos’ voice was hard, cutting. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it. You’re mistaken, Sulfe. Completely and utterly. You’ve got the wrong man, the wrong night. And if I did share a secret, something I don’t recall, I trust you’ll know how to keep it.’
It was his father’s reply, the sudden change of tone, that alerted Gabriel. He looked at them without changing position. The intimate smoke of convivial jokes hadn’t entirely dissipated. For a time, the atmosphere was the same and reminded him of a cartoon. Balloons hanging in the air, containing words and thoughts.
‘That must be it, a mistake. It was so long ago. I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ said Alfonso Sulfe tentatively, surprised by Samos’ response. ‘It’s turned into an obsession. The others don’t realise how important it is. But you know what happens with obsessions. You end up like Captain Ahab chasing Moby Dick.’
He stared at him. ‘Moby Dick must be around here somewhere. Benito Cereno too. But not your whale, Sulfe. None of the books you’ve mentioned.’
He stood up so that Alfonso Sulfe had no choice but to do the same. Sulfe glanced at the dark corners, richly bound lands, of the walls. Gabriel sensed his agitation. He had no doubt the professor would have liked to leapfrog the judge and scour those bookshelves. In silence and at a distance, he somehow shared their tension, participated in their duel. It might be said he knew more than either of them, like someone watching a game of cards who’s seen the players’ hands. But he held his breath. Were his father to pay him attention or Sulfe to look in his direction, he’d have to abandon the battlefield.
‘At least clarify one thing for me, Samos. Didn’t you have a first edition of The Prohibited?’
‘The Prohibited?’
For the first time, the judge seemed to realise his son was there, in the alcove, writing, contained in the circle of light from the desk-lamp, which, rather than bringing him closer, kept him apart with the astral effect of torches in the night.
‘Yes, it belonged to Santiago Casares. As did Le Nu de Rabelais. We talked about a set of teeth,’ insisted Sulfe. ‘About the eroticism in Galdós’ description of a woman’s set of teeth.’
‘The Prohibited?’ repeated the judge. ‘I’ve got the Episodes somewhere. But I was never very keen on Galdós. I always found him rather vulgar. Whether or not I’ve books that once belonged to Casares.’
‘That’s it,’ said Sulfe. ‘Those were exactly my words. Mistaken, obviously.’
The professor’s response upset and confused the judge