Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [157]
Ramón Ponte was there, watching. Suffering on account of the Diligent’s ball and at the same time moved, as if this were a Biblical game being played with the terrestrial globe. The stacks of wood, like large blinds, enclosed the area and acted like barriers to stop the ball embarking. But even so, between the piles of wood, there were corridors, gaping mouths, down which the ball would sometimes disappear together with friends Gabriel had made in this dockside universe, which as a child he’d only been able to contemplate from the gallery. They left the field and didn’t come back. As if they’d been swallowed up by the ghost of the Diligent returning for its ball. When they picked the teams the next day, one would be missing and someone would casually exclaim, ‘He’s gone!’ Which didn’t mean he’d gone for a walk. It meant he’d gone for ever. There was no need to explain. On that border, those who were leaving played with those who weren’t leaving. And Gabriel realised that his family would never have to emigrate. An inequality that bothered him.
‘You can’t have everything,’ whispered Destiny’s Irony in his ear.
That summer, the day after the match with the Father of Footballs, they picked the teams and one called César was missing.
‘César’s gone!’
Another carried off by the ghost of the Diligent.
‘Where to?’
‘Burgos. To see his Dad in prison.’
‘In prison? What’s he doing there?’
‘What do you think?’ asked the crane operator. ‘He’s inside.’
‘What for? Why’s he in prison?’
He felt the others’ silence and looks were directed towards him. He received a word warning, but this time the fear was external, not internal. It was the others being careful with their words. Keeping them in the dark.
The Roswell Man
‘You can write about the Holy Company and all that. Beings at night. Holding a cross or whatever. Whether they’re superstitions or not, these fears help religion. Happenings go well with faith. But extraterrestrials cause alarm, widespread panic. It’s as if God and his representatives aren’t protecting us. After almost twenty-five years of peace since Franco’s victory, such stories create insecurity, the impression we’re vulnerable. So forget about the Lighthouse Man, the Galician Roswell and all those fantasies about Hercules Lighthouse being a cosmic meeting place and write about ordinary people, ordinary people doing ordinary things, otherworldly things, but normal otherworldly things, got it? If you like this stuff, OK, go after it. You’ve got Corpus, where there are women expelling demons. Apparently there was one last year, all hairy, seen running down the rows of maize, followed by a bunch of children. Shame there’s no photo. We’ve got all these devils in Galicia and no graphical evidence. Vicente Risco wrote reams. But he didn’t have a Bolex camera, what to do? Then you’ve got the pilgrimage to Santa Marta de Ribarteme, with devotees being carried to the chapel in coffins. Don’t tell me there’s a lack of material. Right next to the city, you’ve possessed women going to Pastoriza, spitting out iron nails against the door. You’ve a brilliant future if you’ll take some advice. What do we want with extraterrestrials in Galicia? What are we going to do with them? Encourage tourism? They’ll attract a few loonies. Just what we need! To become the world capital for raving lunatics. Now, if we had a Loch Ness monster, that would be different. Then we’d be talking!
‘We’ve enough with witches. Witches, imps, the Holy Company and, at a push, between you and me, in confidence, the apostle James’ white horse. Every country has its limit. And, as for spatial matters, we’ve the Betanzos hot-air balloon. Now that’s a civilised superproduction. Compare it with those who chuck goats off a bell-tower! Whatever next? I understand we have to keep up with the times, the fashion. I’m on your side, I feel the beating of the teleprinter in my blood, I understand what you’re saying. Nowadays a country without aliens, well, it’s second-division. All right, don’t tell me about the teleprinter