Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [178]
But Coruña’s starlings leave after Carnival, during Lent. Go back north. Someone had said they’re the same birds pecking the crumbs of tourists at Stonehenge.
‘They’re not going to kill me,’ said Rubén. ‘They can hardly beat up the musician. They won’t even know who Casals is.’
They’ll know, thought Leica. Of course they’ll know. But he didn’t say anything. He was studying the starlings’ space. If there’s a history of the line, there’s a history of the void as well. The starlings’ absence in the sky was noticeable, just as the mark of a picture frame stays on the wall.
‘Better not to say who it’s by,’ continued Rubén. ‘These days, I can’t get Manuel Seoane out of my head. I had a nightmare. I opened my instrument case and there he was. “What are you doing?” I asked him in horror. “Ssssssh!” he told me to be quiet. “I’m on the run. Protect me. I can’t fit in the violin case.” You could see the bullet holes, which were clean, as if a drill had made them. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t tell him he was dead. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” he asked. I nodded. “Something important?” I nodded again. But couldn’t get the words out. So he passed me a piece of ruled paper and said, “Write it down on this.”’
Leica knew Manuel Seoane, the violinist, well. He could see him through the viewfinder. He was taking his photo with a cravat tucked into his jacket like the swelling of an artist. His hair was slicked back, but staves rose up in an allegro molto vivace. He’d been shot in Rata Field with other young soldiers loyal to the Republic. An execution, that of eight soldiers, carried out in the light of day. They were accused of plotting a rebellion in Atocha Barracks. The whole city had been summoned to witness the execution. People were supposed to boo them. It would be a large public spectacle and final warning so that those who still hadn’t come round would finally ‘bite the dust’. But they weren’t going out with a whimper. All the time, shouting, ‘Long live the Republic! Freedom for ever!’ The crowd falls quiet. This silence was the last great act of resistance.
In the studio, Leica lifted the needle without stopping the record. This way, he felt he could hear that piece he’d read and reread in the French cinema magazine: ‘Following the release of The Testament of Dr Mabuse, Fritz Lang was summoned to the Ministry to take charge of German film-making. That same night, he took a train and fled to Paris.’ Every evening, a train left Coruña for Irún, with a connection to Hendaye on the French border. It was full of Galician emigrants going to work in France. Rubén paid him attention. He’d leave on that train tonight.
‘You have to leave right now,’ Leica had told him suddenly. ‘Don’t think about it. Take your instrument and go on that train.’
How nice to hear that. To hear himself, albeit telling someone else. He gazed at the camera. He knew what the camera was thinking. It was jealous of the cello leaving on the train, with a seat all to itself.
Leica and Silvia
‘It’s the camera that takes the photos. Decides whether it likes the people. Picks them. Moves them. Makes them foggy. It’s a good camera, sure enough, but most of the photos are pretty bad. When there’s a good one, you could say an image has been born for humanity. It’s down to the camera. The images it’s been through! I’m not surprised it’s a little manic, capricious. There was a time, in its youth, when it took photos with great pleasure. It was very clever. Found light where there wasn’t any. And it’s done a lot of things it didn’t like, just for me. People sometimes do things against their will and end up feeling they like them. I haven’t got that far. My problem is I don’t know how to say no. So it’s the camera that takes most of the decisions. Here, take a look. If you’re that beautiful, blame the camera. It’s the camera’s fault.’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘No, it’s true. There was a time I wanted to be