Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [248]
‘That’s right. It was the first time I dug graves. My apprenticeship, so to speak. I buried books. Most of them were dead. Reduced to cinders. They’d been burning for two days. But some were still alive. Still bubbling. You threw earth on top and, after a while, the tips of pages stuck out like thorns. A shame. Most of us were simple labourers with little or no education. This was the first time some of us had opened a book. Oh, it was terrible, sir, a drop of duck’s blood.’
He came out with this phrase whenever he felt uncomfortable, afraid of being afraid. It was his way of describing the indescribable.
‘Terrible, sir, a drop of duck’s blood.’
The hidden patient, the man behind the curtain, fell quiet, but wasn’t exactly silent. He made a noise with his body, an expression of malaise. It seemed he was trying to stand up. They’d both been through Emergency, where time became detached from bodies, to Intensive Care, where time floated about, clinical appliances emitting underwater sounds. Now time was saline, dripping back into their bodies. He spoke in a torrent. Kept talking about duck’s blood. May have wanted to use Shakespeare to make fun of him. But he acquitted himself well. He was not uneducated. Common, thought the judge, but not uneducated.
‘What books, what books did you say you buried?’
‘All kinds. It was at the start of the war. Right here, in the city. Lots of people find it strange. Some things I don’t talk about. So as not to be thought mad. He’s a screw loose, that’s what they say. Terrible, sir, a drop of duck’s blood. There was even a book on the city’s coat of arms. You know the city’s coat of arms is the lighthouse. Well, on top of the lighthouse was a book. This book was also removed, never made it back on to the shield. As if they were burning stone and bronze as well. You’re not young. You must have heard about it. The way they burnt books.’
‘No,’ lied the judge. ‘I wasn’t here then. Listen. I’m greatly interested in books, you’ve no idea how much. I swear few things in life interest me as much as books. Perhaps you can help me.’
‘I already said I’m not a man of books.’
‘Tell me about the ones you buried. You must recall the odd title. Try and remember.’
He remembers. Letters hovering over the ashes like samara wings. That piece. That wafer. A drop of duck’s blood. The horror. The nails, bones, entrails of books. An unmistakable stench that won’t go away.
‘There were loads of books. Whole libraries. The best. Those belonging to cultural associations. To Germinal. To Casares Quiroga. You’ve heard of Casares, haven’t you? He also was erased. They even wanted to tear his name out of the register of births. Lots of people suffered the same fate as that book on the city’s coat of arms and were erased.’
‘Listen to me. What books were those that stuck out when you were burying them? What books caught your attention?’
Polka could feel the stench of the smoke that day in his nostrils. Estremil was right. It was like being at the mouth of hell. The whole of Germinal’s library burnt. A good one, that. Because there were things that were extremely learned, but practical as well. He would have explained this to the man behind the curtain, but didn’t quite like the way he asked questions. His impatience. Polka sifted through time, raked time into piles. Remembered and felt. Didn’t want to lose direction. Germinal had books for trades, for getting up to date in a profession. Most of the people who went there were workers. Elegance and culture in this city were a popular fashion. On the whole, people with money were brutes. No, Olinda, don’t worry, I won’t say that to him. You’re right, it’s best to be prudent. You never know who you’re talking to.
‘Yes, sir, matter is neither created nor destroyed, it is simply transformed. I learnt this from a young boxer by the name of Arturo da Silva, who worked as a plumber. This idea did me good, did me a service. Such a simple thing and yet so true, don’t you think?
‘The first time I entered Germinal, Holando