Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [182]
‘A majestic, royal cape.’
‘Sounds good,’ said the governor. ‘Sounds wonderful.’
The judge explained. A festal cape had once been prepared for King Alfonso XIII to celebrate a planned visit to Galicia, which was meant to protect his royal highness during a naval display to be held in his honour. But such a portentous ceremony never took place. It was cancelled due to bad weather. The king never wore the cape. It wasn’t even collected. As a result of bureaucratic intricacies, no one was willing to take charge of the commission. So the tailor decided he’d use it himself. It was a magnificent cape. And still is. Because that cape exists.
‘And it’s only been worn by the tailor?’
‘That’s right. You could say he was trying it on.’
The judge pulled a note from his inside pocket. Read the following: ‘Festal cape for Alfonso XIII. Sea-blue armure fabric, night-blue velvet collar with golden-threaded soutache, red lining and a fastening of golden braid in cable-stitch. The vestment is in a reasonable state and can be recovered despite the intervening years. The fastening is a little frayed, the velvet soutache completely worn and there’s a tear in the armure on the right shoulder as well as open seams in the fabric and lining. While of good quality, the velvet requires special treatment since it’s been compressed. For the cape to return to its former splendour would need painstaking attention and invisible mending, since the use of new materials is out of the question, which would only detract from the garment’s historical value.’
‘Not exactly a piece of cake, Samos,’ observed the governor with concern.
‘The garment is unique. Historic. Don’t think about the tears, think about the meaning. A royal cape is worn by Franco for the first time in public. “Your excellency, we humbly offer you this cape as Majesty of the Sea.”’
‘With those words! Those very words! Exactly. Write them down.’
‘I won’t forget them,’ said Samos.
‘Yes, but I will,’ said the governor.
‘Darning’s no good. It’s an extremely difficult, delicate task. That requires a surgeon. The only people who can do this,’ the governor is informed, ‘are the nuns in Domestic Service. They’re the ones responsible for handing down the art of invisible mending.’ When Mother Asun is shown the garment, she blinks and contorts her face. ‘You’d have to work with tiny threads, use filaments the size of eyebrows.’ She no longer has the eyes or hands for such a job.
‘Who can do it with certainty?’ asks the governor’s secretary, who doesn’t want to fail in this special mission. ‘They can ask what they like.’
‘Only Silvia can do this.’
‘Silvia? Tell me where to find her.’
‘No. We’ll do it differently,’ said the nun. ‘I’ll get in contact. She also is a special, sensitive case. Who’s it for? It’s important to know who will be using the garment.’
‘It’s an order from the governor, mother. A priority matter. It’s a museum piece for which there’s a special urgency. That’s all I can say.’
Having spoken to Mother Asun, Silvia went for a long walk in the docks. It was midday. She saw the champion of Galicia with the horse Carirí and thought of Leica. This time, she said yes, she’d have her photo taken. Medusa was on the Wooden Jetty, sitting on an oak beam that would be used as a sleeper. She looked like the only inhabitant of a strange, empty city built on stakes behind her. Silvia couldn’t help watching her. Whenever she went that way, the same thing happened. She was bewitched by that woman who only revealed half of her face, as if she were a black-and-white figure. Medusa stood up. The way they walked, they resembled two interlinked people