Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [141]
‘A set of teeth, you say? What a good memory, Sulfe! You’d make a fine instructor.’
‘A fine pathologist,’ joked Sulfe.
The judge’s tone grew impatient and contemptuous, ‘Maybe. It could be here or up in the attic. That book with the teeth.’
It was. Without its partner, but it was there. As was the one about nudes. Women with moth and dragonfly wings fluttered about the lamp. Gabriel knew this. He could feel the first part trembling in his hands, the wrinkled wound where the corner of the book had been burnt. He remembered the signature like a password or greeting: Santiagcasares Qu. And then, as he turned the pages, an exasperated scent of smoke and human beings.
‘In two volumes. We also discussed The Future of Death if my memory does not fail me. Talking of obsessions, I recall you were struck by Casares’ interest in the beyond. His library . . .’
‘I really don’t remember any such conversation. His library is as unknown to me as Popefigs’ Island.’
‘You also were after something, Ricardo. Did you find Borrow’s book? Did it escape the flames?’
The judge gave Sulfe a look he reserved for ex-men and sought out his son’s face behind the green light of the lamp.
‘Mr Sulfe’s leaving, Gabriel. Go with him to the door.’
It was as if Sulfe had suddenly woken up in a storm. He knew the door was closing for good. ‘I don’t think I’ll be back any time soon,’ he said, half smiling. ‘Goodbye, acetylsalicylic.’
When Gabriel returned to the study, the judge was spitting out curses. ‘Whale’s belly?’ he fumed. ‘He really went too far!’ He drummed his fingers on the desk’s padded surface. Then grabbed the magnifying glass and examined the geography of the palm of his hand. A habit he had that seemed to calm him. He turned towards Gabriel. ‘A rare bird,’ he said. ‘You watch him. A professor who spends all his time trying to lay his hands on books he’s after. A professor and a kleptomaniac! Who’d have thought it?’
‘Kleptomaniac?’
‘Biblioklept, to be more precise. That’s the word he used years ago, when he told me about his urge to steal books. I was kind enough not to remind him of it. This urge has got him into trouble. He’s lucky it’s not much of a sin around here. I don’t remember anyone being found guilty of stealing books. But this time he went too far. He won’t enter this house again.’
He drummed his fingers on the desk as if pressing imaginary keys and smiled with irony, ‘Colophon! Jacket! Scruple! Who does he think he is? Pointed stone!’
Finally he got up and Gabriel followed him. Nightfall had turned the large sitting-room into conquered land and all that remained of colours in the Chinese Pavilion was a scent of oils and solvent and the damp breath of plants. Grand Mother Circa raced through time.
‘If Mummy comes, tell her to drop by the Oriental. You also should get out. Clear your head. We don’t want you turning into another Sulfe.’
‘I’ve got to study today. Tomorrow we’ve Father Munio’s championship for God.’
He never stuttered when he had a lie prepared.
‘Championship for God? Now that you have to win. Ego sum qui sum.’
‘It has to be in three words.’
Gabriel wanted him to leave. What he’d said about being another Sulfe made his hands tingle with a mixture of excitement and guilt. As soon as his father had closed the door, he ran towards the study. Climbed the library steps and there, in the zone of charred remains, sought out The Prohibited by Galdós. Pulled down the first volume. Remembered how sleepy he’d been on a previous attempt. But now he knew the most interesting thing about that rather gullible character, José María, was not what happened to him, but what he desired. He read it inquisitively. And particularly enjoyed it when the prose became voracious, rudely attractive, as when Camila’s perfect set of teeth bit into his heart.
The Championship for God
‘In three words, God.’
Father Munio was a fan of such competitions that gave classes of Religion what he termed ‘a competitive cheerfulness’. He moved about the classroom