Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [86]
Terranova recognised the wooden horse in a corner of the room, in the shadows. ‘There you are, Carirí!’ And the horse replied with the affection of inanimate things when they’re called by name. It made Terranova get rid of that crystallised fear and smile for a photo. He remembered another travelling photographer who was hit by a tram and fell to the ground with his wooden horse. ‘To hospital, to hospital!’ cried a witness who’d come to help the injured man. The photographer raised his head with difficulty and said, ‘Not hospital! To the horse factory!’
‘Take me to the workshop for horses,’ mumbled Luís Terranova. ‘A bonesetter with cardboard and paste.’ Curtis smiled. He knew the story. They’d often stopped in front of the horse factory between Troncoso and Our Lady of the Rosary. The horses came in all shapes and sizes. From a little horse for a keyring to a fairground or photographer’s horse. This also would make a good business card: Vicente Curtis ‘Hercules’, Boxer and Horse Manufacturer. He tried to straighten the fingers on his hands, but the right middle and index fingers wouldn’t respond. They’d bent them back until they snapped. ‘A horse repairer,’ he said. ‘Or even better one of those who dissect animals. A taxidermist. Can I sleep there, Curtis, next to the horse? Wait for all of this to be over. It’ll never be over, will it, Curtis? Now I really must look interesting. All the colours of raw flesh. A Cubist painting. I’ll make better use of the mirror now, Curtis.’
In the house on Atocha Baixa, there was only a small mirror, which Curtis used to shave. It was broken and was joined by a plaster, though the whole piece was big enough. The size of the blade of a cut-throat razor.
Manlle moved in little light. He smoked a Havana cigar and seemed not to be in a hurry, like the smoke, which gathered slowly, forming a pale bell on the mezzanine of the dockside warehouse. He had a philosophy. So he then took time to explain his philosophy. He wasn’t a man for whom business was just business. It was a personal matter. He’d never do business with someone if he couldn’t shake their hand. That’s what he was explaining to Curtis. He wasn’t in a hurry. Money: the more you run after it, the further away it gets.
‘See, Curtis? Course you do. A man’s a man. I respect people who’ve nothing but day and night. I know what it is not to have enough to make a blind man sing. I can’t stand people who fill their pockets just by lifting the receiver and dialling a number. That’s how money’s being made now, Curtis, in shedloads. There’s corruption all over the shop. You just got to have contacts. Doesn’t matter whether you put a building in front of Hercules Lighthouse. With contacts, you can do it and who gives a shit about the panoramic view, the perfect location, the city’s smile? Big business is like that, Curtis. Those who make money don’t touch a brick, don’t touch a fish, don’t touch anything. Contacts, information. That’s what counts. I got my contacts, I got my information. But I like to touch things, the merchandise. Touch what I’m selling. Whisky, tobacco. Women. I like to see it all. That’s my pleasure. See how it works, right? If there’s a shipment, be where it’s happening. Watch the movement, watch how the merchandise changes value each step of the way. Same with people, Curtis. I’m glad you came. You moved. I know you’re an honest man. We met in the wrong circumstances, what to do? It’s history. I was wanting to talk to someone about Arturo da Silva. A shame, Curtis. He was a champ in and out of the ring. I saw him that day, just before the war, when he unarmed that guy who’s now a judge in Pontevedra Square. He went straight up to him. Took the pistol out of his hands and threw it in the sea. Now he no longer exists. There’s no one to talk to about him. Just the guys who killed him. I met one or two of them. You know, you bump into all sorts of people