Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [250]
‘Excuse me,’ said the man behind the curtain. ‘What you’re saying’s all very interesting. But I was thinking about the books. The day you buried the books. You said some of them were still alive.’
‘In a manner of speaking. Ashes are ashes. But some were almost intact.’
‘You mean they were asking for a hand.’
‘I suppose you could say that.’
‘So you took some.’
‘You could get killed for doing that.’
‘Even so, you took some. You took some of those books. There was one. A copy of Scripture dedicated to Antonio de la Trava, the valiente of Finisterra.’
‘The valiente of Finisterra? No, I didn’t take any books.’
‘You couldn’t help yourself. You felt sorry. I can see it now. You’re a good person. You felt sorry for that book and hid it under your shirt. Am I right or not?’
‘Nothing of the sort. I didn’t take anything. I buried the lot. Even those sticking out.’
‘I’m sure you kept one or two. Sure you’ve still got them. Trust me. I can pay you a fortune for that book.’
Polka felt for the switch. Found it and rang insistently.
‘What is it, Francisco? What do you want?’
‘Aphrodite, what time does one eat around here?
‘That’s not the best part, girl. Do you know what happened next? He seemed to calm down when the nurse came in. Lunch was served soon after. Hake with potatoes and peas. Followed by yoghurt. You know what I think of yoghurt, but still I ate it. He didn’t eat a thing. Carried on deliberating. I could hear him deliberating. I swear the conspiracy in his head was as loud as the sounds emitted by clinical machines. I know that sound. It’s the beep of troublemakers. Up to him if he didn’t eat. I can be at death’s door, I still won’t leave peas on my plate. “Bon appétit,” I said and fell into a doze. It was a way of bringing the matter to a close. But when I woke up, he was there. Not in bed. He was standing. Clinging to the end of my bed. Staring at me. Tall and strong. In a cloak.’
‘A cloak?’
‘OK. A very smart dressing-gown with a velvet collar over his shoulders, on top of his pyjamas. My God! He looked like General Primo de Rivera. A light in his eyes like that of the one who played Dracula, set the screen in Hercules Cinema on fire, left two holes like cigarette burns. First thing I did was close my eyes. To slow my heart more than anything. What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over. I had to think. And I thought I knew that man from somewhere. He belonged to another class. The skin on his face, his hands, hadn’t weathered. And off he went again.
‘“I can offer you a fortune for that book.”
‘I swear he had the same light in his eyes as the actor Bela Lugosi. He was turning into a nightmare.
‘“You don’t have to worry about a thing. Nobody will know. I’ll make you an exact copy, a facsimile. It’ll be like having the original. And a mass of money. You can name your price.”
‘“Let me think,” I said, hoping this would calm him down. But it had the opposite effect. That man was like a horse. We’d obviously not been treated by the same doctor. He came up to me with emotion, took my hands. His look was – how shall I say? – Eucharistic.
‘“So you do have the book dedicated to the valiente of Finisterra?”
‘I said, “Yes, sir, I have it.”
‘“Borrow’s New Testament?”
‘“The very same.”
‘“You have to sell it to me!”
‘“We’ll talk about that later.”
‘“Later?”
‘“Yes, now I need to sleep.”
‘What was I supposed to say,