Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [145]
The comments in the Crypt were few and far between, and always along the same lines. A general condemnation expressed with utter rage, a contempt that took in all the letters of that name with which Gabriel maintained a hidden relationship. Because the man himself did not exist. The link was with his name. Santiagcasares Qu. What he heard, when he heard something, was talk of a Dandy, Señorito, Mason, Hyena, Murderer, Consumptive Nuisance. A strange mix, words that made it difficult to compose an image. Then there were snippets of information that complicated it all. The yacht Mosquito. The red Buick. The Atlantic Hotel. The villa in Montrove. His mother-in-law, who worked in a factory. His wife, a fashion designer. At this point, the cryptic comments became transparent, jovial, regarding the love affairs of his attractive wife. ‘Attractive? She’s a bitch on heat,’ was all they would say. He had two daughters. One, Esther, was in prison and then under constant surveillance until she managed to escape to Mexico. The other, María, had a triumphant career in the Comédie-Française. Given how reviled he was, it was amazing the number of followers that were attributed to him in the Crypt. Artists, teachers, the guy from the shoe factory, the foundry, the glassworks . . . traders, most of those who were discussed in the past tense, that sunken city, almost all of whom were branded Republican supporters of Casares, who was stuck with an adjective that accompanied him, even after his death in exile, like another first surname: Pernicious Casares.
Gabriel heard everything in the alcove as if he’d been, like it or not, in a room in Durtol Sanatorium. He’d come across postcards, letters. He aimed to go through all the books in the zone of charred remains. There were almost always surprises, notes, quotations, verses, postcards from Durtol. They weren’t all like this, but those that were burnt acted as bookmarks. He identified with what the signature said, what this young man wrote. The way he addressed his parents with affectionate openness, the references to literary works and scientific discoveries, the observations on meteorological changes and their effects on the landscape and his body, the way he linked his physical condition with what was going on around him in nature. Most of all, however, he was impressed by his sense of humour when he talked about his illness, his habit of watching and noting his ailments and the state of his health.
He felt archaeological joy the day he found a photo inside an English edition of a book by Wells, The Time Machine, dated 1895. It was a photo from his youth. On the back was written ‘Winter 1900’ followed by ‘Panadeiras, Coruña’. Gabriel was sitting on a stool, reading. He quickly put it in his cabinet of curiosities, the small, wooden box which contained, among other things, his family’s most valuable donations. The tin Lisbon tram that goes to Prazeres, number 28. The postcard from Mozambique. Grandpa Mayarí’s cigar bands, which he called little brands: Flower of Havana Cigars, St Damiana, The Imperious, Havana Eden, all with beautiful drawings, especially the Alhambra, which showed two women, one white and one black, the only curiosity that stood a chance of competing with Zonzo’s Swedish swimmer. Grandpa Mayarí had also given him a ten-peso note from the Spanish Bank of Cuba, dated Havana, 1918, showing a yoke of oxen with sugarcane. Among the coins, his favourite was a sol from Peru which, on the palm of his hand, resembled a solar nugget. A share in the Spanish Hydroelectric Society, a present from his father, showing three horses in a waterfall, which Archangel Gabriel held