Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [167]
‘Where’s there action?’ asked Gantes.
‘In walking over rocks with bloody feet.’
‘Have you any idea what I’m talking about, boy?’
‘I’m not such a boy,’ said Korea sternly. ‘I’ve unmade a few beds, including a marital one.’
‘He’s no historical vision, Mr Gantes. He’s a bit crazy,’ said the crane operator.
‘By the way, Mr Engineer,’ said Korea, suddenly expressing great interest, ‘did you ever know the champ of Galicia, Arturo da Silva?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
‘For that, you’ll need a trip around the world. Come on board.’
‘I can’t right now. I’ve things to do.’
‘Shame. When I get back, you’ll be old, boy.’
‘Then you’re going to be a long time?’
‘No more than a year.’
Stringer jots down notes with tachygraphic speed.
‘What’s your cargo, sir?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Tito Balboa. Maritime chronicler for the evening Expreso, sir.’
‘Maritime chronicler?’
‘Acting, sir.’
‘This ship’s called the Chemin Creux.’
‘Yes, I noted it down. What cargo’s on board?’
‘General cargo.’
‘Are you in transit?’
‘That’s it. In transit.’
‘When will you leave?’
‘Depends.’
‘Depends? I can’t put that in the newspaper, sir.’
Mr Gantes wasn’t listening. He was paying attention to the phosphorescent diver who’d just climbed up the steps of the Western Quay with a bicycle. The bicycle’s wheels were moving in the air on their own, giving off reddish-green flecks of Irish moss.
‘What kind of fish you got there?’
‘Mr Gantes! It’s a devilish machine. Throws itself into the sea. Not like Clemente’s, which threw itself in for a peso. This one does it for free.’
‘Let me take it for a spin,’ said Korea. ‘I’ll soon tame it.’
‘The bicycle has an owner. Where’s Pinche?’
‘Hiding behind Fabero’s stacks of wood,’ replied Korea. ‘He’s in for a hiding. He was supposed to warm the pots of workmen’s food and made a fire with planks of teakwood. That’s because he only has one eye. And there were quite a few pots. I counted them. Twenty-five.’
‘That’s a lot of pots. It’s not easy to warm them at the same time. You have to understand about fire,’ said Mr Gantes.
The engineer looked at Curtis. They were both thinking about the type of specific heat. Twenty-five pots. All together, like large, tile-coloured mushrooms on the burning ground. Teakwood makes a good fire. Exquisite for workmen’s pots.
‘The builder’s a tough guy in white shoes,’ said Korea. ‘By the name of Manlle. Doesn’t show up much, pays surprise visits, but when he does, sends a shiver down your spine. He’s a real bastard!’
White shoes next to twenty-five tile-coloured workmen’s pots, warming their broth, potatoes with bacon and cabbage, the odd stew. That shout containing accusation and verdict, ‘Who made a fire with teakwood? Blasted pallet of the world! I know someone I’m going to hang off a pontoon so that, when the tide comes in, the fish’ll eat his balls.’
‘What do you do then?’ asked Roque Gantes the engineer.
‘I’m an Autodidact,’ replied Korea ironically.
‘It’s full of triggerfish,’ said the phosphorescent diver. ‘This’ll turn into an invasion. They’ll end up driving the other fish away. They’re just like pigs. Cheeky. Fearless. They come up to you, going “Oink, oink, oink!”’
Balboa wrote with tachygraphic speed, imagining the headline:
INVASION OF TRIGGERFISH
And then, so as not to forget, the onomatopoeia. Oink!
O and Famous Men
Don’t think the fact he was a writer impressed me so much. For a time, a writer came to live in a house in Souto. A little house that had recently been left vacant when Hortensia died and a niece let it out, so that everything was still alive when the tenant moved in. Except for the fire. To start with, there was lots of interest. It was the end of summer. The writer went for a few walks. He wore a sailor’s hat, which made him stand out. Was very polite. He’d stop at the washing place, sit down and delicately enquire about the lives of the women and the stories they knew. When he finally left, the washerwomen would ask themselves what kind