Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [2]
Like this one. This one came of its own accord.
He’s a soldier. At first, I’m a little shocked. He seemed a bit of a monster. So young and in uniform. Smooth-faced. Baby-faced except for the lips, which are fleshy and more forward than his other features. Maybe the mouth hangs open like that when it’s in the water, against the current. He looks at me with curiosity. And a sad smile. He has a round face, like those in our family. He’s blond. The water is golden, not from the sun’s rays, but maybe because of his blondness. I enjoy the figures’ company, but I don’t like it when they stare. I drop the garment I’m washing in their direction, slowly, not to smash the image, but so that it fades away, lurks under a pebble, has a chance to hide in the reeds.
But this time I don’t. This time, I let it be.
A baby-faced soldier with a man’s look. A smooth-faced soldier. In a trenchcoat with big buttons and a stiff collar. Framed by a circle of water. His arms are crossed and he wears a badge on his left sleeve. A man’s look, that’s right. He looks at me without pride, but also without pity. It’s what they do, the water figures, they come and see, look when you look.
I asked Mum about him.
I asked her about the young soldier.
She pretends not to hear me.
Slap, slap! Cloth on stone.
I think Mum would prefer not to know about my figures. Maybe she has enough with her own. I notice she avoids shaking the clothes out by the river when she sees me gazing into the water. I think they also move, change looks along the river, because they’re extremely restless. When one disappears for a while, it’s probably off somewhere in her circles. That’s what happened to the boxer. The boxer hung around here for a while, on my part of the river, and then left. I reckon he went to where she washes since Polka told me the boxer liked women who worked in the local factories.
But she pretends not to see my figures, and I pretend not to see hers.
‘What’s that?’
‘A soldier, a baby-faced soldier.’
‘There’s been more than one soldier,’ she said. Slap, slap!
‘Right. The one I’m talking about is smooth-faced and blond. And smiles. Or sort of, anyway.’
‘You mean Domingos,’ she finally replied, ‘who died at Annual in 1921. The one with the tubes of laughter.’
The figure smiled. It was him, the one with the tubes of laughter.
‘He always smiled,’ said Olinda. ‘Smart as garlic, but weak. Sickly. Our mother, Grandma Dansa, accompanied him to the recruiting office.
‘“This lad’s no good for war,” she told them.
‘And one of them replied, “Everyone’s good for war, if not for killing, then for dying.”
‘One day he wrote a letter, saying he had responsibility for the tubes of laughter, the name they gave the radio operators’ poles. He’d carry the radios on the back of a mule. And he learnt things. Said he could now understand the language of birds. All of his letters were a kind of joke. They seemed to have come not from a war, but from a comedy. They were such a joke grandma cried when we read them to her. At the end, he always put IKTH, which meant I Kiss The Hand Of My Mother. And grandma couldn’t stop crying because of what he’d learnt at war.’
And then Olinda opened up. She talked about something she always avoided, about the soldiers in our family and our locality. The Philippines. Cuba. Morocco. ‘Go forth and multiply as cannon fodder. An empire of bones, piled up year after year. Followed by those who died in the Civil War. What the army lost abroad they tried to reconquer at home.’ That’s what Olinda said. Slap, slap! The wet cloth striking against the stone seemed, in someone so taciturn, to be a way of expanding the story. Words with a layer of dusty sweat, iodine and blood, suddenly soaked, twisted, slapped, soaped, twisted, wrung out. Left in the sun. Clean. A white shirt drying. Some trousers. The