Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [237]
‘There’s no need for us all to be conveniently interrogated, my commander, because I’m the one who’s to blame. They simply responded to my invocation, my Kyrie eleison.’
‘I like brave people, so I’m going to show you a kindness,’ replied the corporal. He led him to a cupboard hanging from the wall, which he opened by pulling the handle with the tip of his rifle.
It was full of whips. Different makes and sizes. One with iron balls.
‘Domine, non sum dignus,’ murmured Polka.
‘Between you and me,’ said the corporal, ‘it takes balls to do what you did. Throw a dummy of the Generalissimo into the river. With a bit of Latin to boot.’
‘It was Carnival.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ He pointed to the cupboard with whips. ‘You can choose one. You deserve it.’
In Polka’s words, ‘It became clear to me then that, deep down, he was a very liberal Fascist.’
‘What a pig!’ exclaims O as she recalls the story. ‘Even made him choose a whip.’ She looks at Pinche and the photo of him as an executioner at the Tower of London, about to crop a tourist at the neck. ‘What the hell! Send it to him. He’s sure to laugh. He sees the humour in everything.’
The Camden Town Fire-Eater
Some women carried fire on top of their heads, factory workers who sometimes placed oil lamps there on wintry nights, on their way to the factory, to play at being souls, though it may not have been a game, like this girl with the green crest ejecting flames through her mouth in Camden Town, having juggled torches while balancing a larger torch on her forehead, between her eyebrows, flames rising to the sky, that’s what I call art, no need to put on an act, risk your neck, like Pinito del Oro, the trapeze artist who fell at Price Circus, set up in Riazor Field, slipped out of the sky without a net, only the arms of a man to break her fall, of course I’m sorry she fell but, since she fell, I’m also sorry not to have been there, it’s all people talked about, seemed everyone was there that night to see Pinito del Oro fall, I don’t have that bad dream about falling, they say it’s a common nightmare, but I am afraid of fire, a form of fear to me, which is what happened to Mary of the Shells, the one with the long, blond hair, Polka told us one night, there was a shipwreck and the locals went to collect what the sea gave up, the gifts of tragedy, among which they found some bottles they supposed could be used, liquor or something, but, when they got back to Mary’s, someone opened one of those containers, accidentally knocked it over next to the hearth, and the liquid rose in huge flames that licked the girl, she started running in the night towards the sea, Mary of the Shells, her beautiful locks burning in the storm, this for me was the image of fear, another that of the Morraza Vixen that could fly and projected flames through its mouth when it howled, be it true or not, what was true was that fire that burnt books in the city, real fear, a fire emerging from the mouth of hate, and the Girl with the Green Crest comes towards me, throwing flames through her mouth as if reading my thoughts, I can’t leave, I’m not going to leg it now, having seen the whole show, though other people are about their business, no one stops, they’re sure to think we planned it as she walks around me, spitting fire, me spellbound, like an idiot, it’s started raining and the flames are coloured, like a rainbow, they’re sure to think I’m an advert, or her mother trying to persuade her of something, to come home, or the opposite, the fire suddenly goes out and the Girl with the Green Crest stands and stares at me, clenching her teeth, she looks furious, of course she would be, it’s about time I loosened the purse-strings, I’d always planned to give her a coin, she deserves it, no one should be poor, especially those who cheer up our sad streets, musicians in the Underground, make lonely people feel safe, they should be paid a salary instead of being hounded by guards all day long, you need permission to sing or