Books Burn Badly - Manuel Rivas [98]
‘What height do you mean, sir?’ asked the judge very seriously.
‘I mean the countryside is very low,’ said Mayarí, opening his arms as if stating the obvious.
‘Yes, but not that low,’ said the judge, uncertain why he was being so forthright. ‘Things are getting better after all.’
‘The countryside is very low, so you have to bend down,’ Mayarí explained. ‘The earth should be a little higher, the height of this table at least.’
Everyone ended up laughing, though the laughter was slow. It was the kind of laughter Mayarí set in motion. A slow laughter. Put another way, a comical seriousness.
In one of the books Gabriel was reading in the alcove, mostly because he enjoyed the illustrations, there was a full-page photo he’d have liked to rip out and take with him or put in a frame on his bedroom wall, though it had nothing on Zonzo’s biro with the naked woman. It was an image with the title ‘Eskimo Beauty’. The girl’s features were very similar to those of O, the washerwoman. She wore a Greenlander’s festive costume, the most unusual part of which were the trousers, made of leather on the thighs and down to the knees and then, on the calves and over the boots, of a thin, white, embroidered material. The whole was reminiscent of a well-clad, free-spirited harlequin. Mayarí and the sailor carrying the boat seemed to belong to that moment, on Lapas Beach, to a race omitted by Pericot in his inventory. The race of smiling, bidentate men. In his life, Gabriel would come to realise this is one of the most pleasant smiles a human being can give. Mayarí tipped his hat and bowed his head slightly, and the sailor did the same with the boat.
The boat man walked towards the water. Having set it down, the old man tugged at the boat as at a large, blind, docile animal. When everything was ready, he jumped in the boat, put the oars in the tholepins and started rowing. It was strange. He rowed with his back towards where he was going. His infallible means of orientation. He watched what he was leaving behind, a view that grew wider and wider. His tiny presence transformed the whole sea. Even though he was far off, you could still see the door and jambs of his bidentate smile.
‘Now,’ said Mayarí to Gabriel, ‘let’s go and see the horse Carirí. It’s supposed to have kept Hercules the photographer good company. Shame Leica, your uncle, didn’t understand. I tried to tell him. Animals always liked the city.’
The Urchin Woman
Fine. All right then. He wouldn’t have to make a speech. The judge himself was aware of this limitation. The children’s show was due to take place in María Pita Square. A forbidding scene. As were the circumstances. It was billed as a public tribute paid by the city’s children to the Caudillo’s grandchildren and would include music and traditional dances. Followed by a performance of The Mountain Goat. They’d suggested giving his son a secondary role. He’d have to be there. No, he wouldn’t have to speak. That’s what the actors were for. It would be filmed by the cameras of NO-DO, the documentary news programme. Even if it was for children, nothing would be left to chance. Everything would be carefully planned. The Head of State would not be present, but his wife would be there, Mrs Carmen Polo. The idea was to make the Caudillo and his family look warmer, more human. The judge said of course, it would be an honour, thank you for thinking of him, of his son, he meant, he would thank the deputy mayor in person, and so on. Was he sure the boy didn’t have to say anything? Yes, quite sure. Not to worry. They wanted children they could trust on the stage. Get closer to the people, yes, but everyone in his place. They’d discussed