Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [144]
Father Munio realised first that the class had become excessively silent. Then that everyone was trying not to look in exactly the same direction.
He followed that direction. It led to Zonzo’s hand.
They all stuck to their seats in amazement. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen a priest hit a pupil. Harsh treatment was a mark of prestige in this school whose motto was to give each pupil a sense of being one of the elect, on a road without softness. Lots of the boarders were sons of emigrants who invested a large part of their savings in fees for this private, religious school, believing this was the best way for them to ascend in the social scale. Other pupils came from the upper classes, who valued the educational demands and rigorous discipline. So there was nothing strange about a priest hitting a pupil in class. Even laying into him. What was surprising was that the priest should be the jolly Father Munio. That he should lay into Zonzo with such anger. That the knuckles of his right glove should be stained with blood. That the pupil should resist and absolutely refuse to let go of the biro with the naked Swede.
The Photos
He had a mental image of Schmitt before their visit to Casalonga on the outskirts of Compostela. He appeared in two photos which occupied a preferential place on his father’s bookshelves. It was a beautiful summer’s day. His father told him, ‘Say good morning, “Good morning, Mr Schmitt,” and nothing else. Wait to see if he says or asks you something and then clear off. Go with people your own age.’ Several times, he’d heard the judge use the expression ‘power of presence’ to describe someone he regarded as a master. So, having got out of the car, he was a little flustered as he crossed the lawn. He was helped, as almost always, by the calm temperament of Chelo, who took him by the arm. She was wearing a white dress with lace. Mr Schmitt was sitting in the garden and the guests went up to greet him with an attitude of reverence.
‘What are you going to be when you grow up?’
‘An archaeologist,’ he replied. Perhaps. He’d been toying with the idea for some time. He’d read an article and been attracted not so much by the purpose of finding something as by the method. It was silent work, where first you had to divide an area into squares and carry out the excavation. A method that was valid for all time. Not just for the ruins of the past.
‘Good! Another Schliemann in search of Troy!’ exclaimed Schmitt. He looked not at him, but at Chelo Vidal. In the luminosity of that summer’s morning in 1962, she was the one who had ‘power of presence’.
Of Schmitt, all he particularly remembers is when, in the evening, he raised a glass of red wine and said by way of a toast, ‘May the fat . . . never dance on my grave!’ After ‘fat’, he spat out a name. The judge didn’t usually drink, but this time he accompanied his revered master. Back home, Gabriel asked his father who the fat man was who would never dance on Mr Schmitt’s grave. His father laughed and replied, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not Oliver Hardy. He was talking about the German chancellor, Adenauer.’
‘I don’t think anyone will dance on his grave,’ said Chelo on the return journey. ‘He’s in a good state. He looks after himself. By the way, it was almost impossible to take a photograph of him.’
‘That’s right, he’s not a fan of photos,’ replied the judge.
‘Who was that Barry Goldwater he likes so much?’
‘A senator from Arizona. Supposedly from McCarthy’s school, but a lot cleverer. A thorn in the side of the Kennedys. A good, strong conservative, he called him. Funny. It’s the first time he’s been nice about an American politician.’
It would take Gabriel longer to see a portrait of Santiago Casares. He had a look in Espasa, an extensive encyclopedia that joined forces on the walls with the volumes of Aranzadi. It didn’t even give his name, despite the fact he’d been Prime Minister. A pamphlet his father kept had a caricature signed by Rogelio