by Unknown
Which is why, to begin with, they liked this Father Munio who was on their side, that of the illuminated screen. This priest who wrote the order of the day on the blackboard: ‘I want you to be happy on earth’ (The Way, 217). Or: ‘There you have light, to help you discover the reasons for your gloominess’ (The Way, 666). And then the daily exercise, the spiritual gymnastics of his so-called Heroic Minute. ‘Attention. It’s time now to stand up. No hesitation. A supernatural thought and . . . up you get!’ The whole class on its feet, with raised arms like wings, copying him as he flapped his white gloves. Yes, this priest who was such fun he gave himself a round of applause.
‘Allez-hop! Now don’t you feel better?
‘Books, men who accumulate knowledge, are OK, but what we need are publicists for God. Just as merchandise is put on offer, material goods from detergents to fridges, and the person responsible is not afraid to show his face, to repeat the jingle, how much more then should we be engaged in publicity for God? No, we should have no scruples about turning into Walking Advertisements.’ And he’d make them laugh by referring to ‘the spark of life’, Coca-Cola’s slogan. Then he’d hush the amused murmurs with the studied, winged gesture of his gloves and the voice of a liturgical illusionist. ‘If this is how we talk about a beverage that mysteriously contains sugar and caffeine, what invincible force can we extract from our faith?’ He then pointed to the order of the day on the blackboard, a phrase he wrote in large letters as soon as he arrived, which was meant for them to think about and which today sounded like a contradictory, unsettling proclamation: ‘Holy Shamelessness’. Now did they understand?
‘Another go at Heroic Minute. Attention. It’s time now to stand up. No hesitation. A supernatural thought and . . . up you get!’
He sneered at the class. ‘What faces! I don’t see a supernatural thought anywhere.’
Zonzo was always at the back, in the shelter of the wall. He was a bad student with bad marks, but everyone knew he wasn’t sluggish. Nor was he unruly. Almost always mute, even though they threatened to fail him for ever, he made it clear what his attitude was. He was there, at school, under pressure, meeting an obligation that, unlike the others, he didn’t need. Whenever a teacher called his name or said something to him, he became uncomfortable and alert, glancing sideways as if asking, Why me? He had a problem. He was very tall, very slim, and had thick eyebrows which, rather than shading his expression, magnified the slightest ocular movement. Zonzo wished to pass unnoticed, but the more he tried, the more he resembled an intruder dressed up as a pupil.
‘Except for Zonzo,’ said Father Munio, knowing he’d get a laugh. ‘On him, I see the savage sincerity of silence.’
Which is why the surprise was complete when Zonzo raised his hand the day of the championship for God.
‘In three words, God.’
‘The Great Champ,’ said Zonzo. A ripple of nervous laughter spread across the three rows of desks.
Father Munio, standing on the rostrum, held his chalk aloft. His eyes bounced off various heads until reaching the back of the classroom and landing on Zonzo like a discovery. He blinked. With a winged gesture of his gloves, he quietened the murmurs.
‘Could you repeat that?’
‘The Great Champ,’ said Zonzo in a powerful voice.
‘Magnificent,’ said Father Munio. He wrote on the blackboard in capital letters THE GREAT CHAMP. Remarked, ‘Extraordinary.’
Zonzo, amid applause, came and occupied the front desk. It was the first time he’d emerged from the shadows.
‘More answers.’
‘The Most High.’
‘Lord God Omnipotent.’
‘In three words, God. Gabriel?’
Gabriel had spent the previous evening jotting down notes for the competition for God. He’d found two images, two references to the Creator, inspired by postcards sent by Santiago Casares from Durtol Sanatorium, to be precise, accurate: the Universal Architect and the Most Mysterious. But he had been warned. His mouth would refuse to say these words. He’d get tongue-tied.
‘Father, Son, Spirit.’
‘That is true. Three distinct persons and only one true God. Classic,’ his white gloves moved like the doves of a magician, ‘but I’m after something new, an updated message. And today’s biggest contribution came from our new ace.’
He lifted Zonzo’s hand like a boxer’s.
‘We’ll make a mural in the quad.’
GOD, THE GREAT CHAMP
There it was after so long, visible for all to see, Zonzo’s biro. In his hand. He was sitting at the front desk and holding it. He was writing his Religion exam in Father Munio’s class and using that special biro with the naked woman. They couldn’t detect the details, but any of the pupils could imagine the movements of that Swedish woman, Zonzo had said she was a Swede, completely naked, riding up and down the biro, in the chamber of water, as he wrote. He’d always been careful only to show it outside school. And not to everybody. But the biro, bandied from mouth to mouth, had become famous. It was a legend that had almost been forgotten until it reappeared the day of the exam in Zonzo’s hand. Zonzo, who had just been promoted and was now occupying the position of class captain.
Yes, the first time he saw it, Gabriel would have swapped all the items in his cabinet of curiosities for that transparent biro, full of liquid, with the naked woman swimming to and fro. He also had a water biro, which was pretty and Swedish, but there was no comparison. A present from Grandpa Samos. What moved up and down was the royal flagship Vasa, partly coated in gold, which was going to stun the seas with its radiance, but got its real reputation for sinking on the day it was launched. His Vasa biro was curious, but it paled into insignificance next to Zonzo’s naked swimmer. Something they all wanted to possess. Something out of reach.
Zonzo’s biro carried on writing and seemed to grow in front of everyone. It shook like a mast. He hesitated over the question which God created first, the lion or the swallow. He hazarded a guess. First the lion. No. Reason told him the lighter would come first. He thought a lion would never be able to catch a swallow. He went on to the next question. What words did Our Lord utter when he prepared to create man? Zonzo stuck the end of the biro in his mouth. They were on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite remember them.
Father Munio realised first that the class had become excessively silent. Then that everyone was trying not to look in exactly the same direction.
He followed that direction. It led to Zonzo’s hand.
They all stuck to their seats in amazement. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen a priest hit a pupil. Harsh treatment was a mark of prestige in this school whose motto was to give each pupil a sense of being one of the elect, on a road without softness. Lots of the boarders were sons of emigrants who invested a large part of their savings in fees for this private, religious school, believing this was the best way for them to ascend in the social scale. Other pupils came from the upper classes, who valued the educational demands and rigorous discipline. So there was nothing strange about a priest hitting a pupil in class. Even laying into him. What was surprising was that the priest should be the jolly Father Munio. That he should lay into Zonzo with such anger. That the knuckles of his right glove should be stained with blood. That the pupil should resist and absolutely refuse to let go of the biro with the naked Swede.
The Photos
He had a mental image of Schmitt before their visit to Casalonga on the outskirts of Compostela. He appeared in two photos which occupied a preferential place on his father’s bookshelves. It was a beautiful summer’s day. His father told him, ‘Say good morning, “Good morning, Mr Schmitt,” and nothing else. Wait to see if he says or asks you something and then clear off. Go with people your own age.’ Several times, he’d heard the judge use the expression ‘power of presence’ to describe someone he regarded as a master. So, having got out of the car, he was a little flustered as he crossed the lawn. He was helped, as almost always, by the calm temper
ament of Chelo, who took him by the arm. She was wearing a white dress with lace. Mr Schmitt was sitting in the garden and the guests went up to greet him with an attitude of reverence.
‘What are you going to be when you grow up?’
‘An archaeologist,’ he replied. Perhaps. He’d been toying with the idea for some time. He’d read an article and been attracted not so much by the purpose of finding something as by the method. It was silent work, where first you had to divide an area into squares and carry out the excavation. A method that was valid for all time. Not just for the ruins of the past.
‘Good! Another Schliemann in search of Troy!’ exclaimed Schmitt. He looked not at him, but at Chelo Vidal. In the luminosity of that summer’s morning in 1962, she was the one who had ‘power of presence’.
Of Schmitt, all he particularly remembers is when, in the evening, he raised a glass of red wine and said by way of a toast, ‘May the fat . . . never dance on my grave!’ After ‘fat’, he spat out a name. The judge didn’t usually drink, but this time he accompanied his revered master. Back home, Gabriel asked his father who the fat man was who would never dance on Mr Schmitt’s grave. His father laughed and replied, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not Oliver Hardy. He was talking about the German chancellor, Adenauer.’
‘I don’t think anyone will dance on his grave,’ said Chelo on the return journey. ‘He’s in a good state. He looks after himself. By the way, it was almost impossible to take a photograph of him.’
‘That’s right, he’s not a fan of photos,’ replied the judge.
‘Who was that Barry Goldwater he likes so much?’
‘A senator from Arizona. Supposedly from McCarthy’s school, but a lot cleverer. A thorn in the side of the Kennedys. A good, strong conservative, he called him. Funny. It’s the first time he’s been nice about an American politician.’
It would take Gabriel longer to see a portrait of Santiago Casares. He had a look in Espasa, an extensive encyclopedia that joined forces on the walls with the volumes of Aranzadi. It didn’t even give his name, despite the fact he’d been Prime Minister. A pamphlet his father kept had a caricature signed by Rogelio Rivero. A terrible drawing which said something about the quality of the text. The portrait was followed by a kind of introduction in rhyme: Even knowing God’s might, / I still don’t understand / how it is he might / turn into such a blight / such a miserable man. There it was, at the bottom of the large drawer in his desk. The folder for Santiago Casares, underneath the marked, underlined novels by John Black Eye.
The comments in the Crypt were few and far between, and always along the same lines. A general condemnation expressed with utter rage, a contempt that took in all the letters of that name with which Gabriel maintained a hidden relationship. Because the man himself did not exist. The link was with his name. Santiagcasares Qu. What he heard, when he heard something, was talk of a Dandy, Señorito, Mason, Hyena, Murderer, Consumptive Nuisance. A strange mix, words that made it difficult to compose an image. Then there were snippets of information that complicated it all. The yacht Mosquito. The red Buick. The Atlantic Hotel. The villa in Montrove. His mother-in-law, who worked in a factory. His wife, a fashion designer. At this point, the cryptic comments became transparent, jovial, regarding the love affairs of his attractive wife. ‘Attractive? She’s a bitch on heat,’ was all they would say. He had two daughters. One, Esther, was in prison and then under constant surveillance until she managed to escape to Mexico. The other, María, had a triumphant career in the Comédie-Française. Given how reviled he was, it was amazing the number of followers that were attributed to him in the Crypt. Artists, teachers, the guy from the shoe factory, the foundry, the glassworks . . . traders, most of those who were discussed in the past tense, that sunken city, almost all of whom were branded Republican supporters of Casares, who was stuck with an adjective that accompanied him, even after his death in exile, like another first surname: Pernicious Casares.
Gabriel heard everything in the alcove as if he’d been, like it or not, in a room in Durtol Sanatorium. He’d come across postcards, letters. He aimed to go through all the books in the zone of charred remains. There were almost always surprises, notes, quotations, verses, postcards from Durtol. They weren’t all like this, but those that were burnt acted as bookmarks. He identified with what the signature said, what this young man wrote. The way he addressed his parents with affectionate openness, the references to literary works and scientific discoveries, the observations on meteorological changes and their effects on the landscape and his body, the way he linked his physical condition with what was going on around him in nature. Most of all, however, he was impressed by his sense of humour when he talked about his illness, his habit of watching and noting his ailments and the state of his health.
He felt archaeological joy the day he found a photo inside an English edition of a book by Wells, The Time Machine, dated 1895. It was a photo from his youth. On the back was written ‘Winter 1900’ followed by ‘Panadeiras, Coruña’. Gabriel was sitting on a stool, reading. He quickly put it in his cabinet of curiosities, the small, wooden box which contained, among other things, his family’s most valuable donations. The tin Lisbon tram that goes to Prazeres, number 28. The postcard from Mozambique. Grandpa Mayarí’s cigar bands, which he called little brands: Flower of Havana Cigars, St Damiana, The Imperious, Havana Eden, all with beautiful drawings, especially the Alhambra, which showed two women, one white and one black, the only curiosity that stood a chance of competing with Zonzo’s Swedish swimmer. Grandpa Mayarí had also given him a ten-peso note from the Spanish Bank of Cuba, dated Havana, 1918, showing a yoke of oxen with sugarcane. Among the coins, his favourite was a sol from Peru which, on the palm of his hand, resembled a solar nugget. A share in the Spanish Hydroelectric Society, a present from his father, showing three horses in a waterfall, which Archangel Gabriel held by the reins. Picture cards from bars of chocolate, showing aviation heroes and monuments. A few stamps as well. Grandpa Pedro Samos had presented him with a Portuguese stamp from 1898 celebrating the fourth centenary of the discovery of a maritime route to India. A dark blue stamp worth fifty reis. He kept it in an envelope with a description saying it represented ‘a Manueline window with the galleon behind and, above it, the inscription “If there were more world, there I would arrive” and two medallions of Vasco da Gama and Camões’. The judge had insisted it was very valuable and would be much more so when he grew up and the thirty odd years had gone by until the fifth centenary in 1998, with him in possession of this marvel, this stamp that by then would be a secular relic. What would its value be? Who could say? With a grandiose gesture, ‘Incalculable!’
Fernando Sada, his mother’s painter friend, had given him what he claimed to be a mako shark’s tooth. He said, ‘The most perfect, successful predator ever to have lived!’ With the passing of time, as he got to know Sada better, he began to doubt the tooth belonged to a mako shark or to any shark at all. But, if it wasn’t a shark’s, what was it? One day, he met him in the street and Sada asked, ‘Have you still got that tooth belonging to the dog Cerberus?’
‘Let me see,’ said Korea on the Wooden Jetty. Gabriel had started going there with Zonzo occasionally, protracting the journey home from school. Besides, the doctor’s advice to his parents was that Gabriel should get out more. Spend as much time as possible with people his own age. Why go any further? There, next to his home, was the most alluring space in the city, the docks. So Korea played at sticking the shark’s tooth in his mouth like a false canine.
‘Be careful,’ said Gabriel, afraid he might steal it, go off with it in his mouth. ‘It’s very, very . . .’
Korea spat it out on the ground.
‘Yes, you already told us it was very ancient. Well, I don’t like things that are ancient, especially teeth.’
Ren had given him the GNM game and Victorious Wings when he took part in conversations in the Crypt. He also visited the judge on his own sometimes, bringing old books and antiquities.
They’d have heated discussions as to their value and the judge would almost always end up buying the items. The visits were more or less spaced out, but Gabriel remembers them from his childhood. For a long time, he thought Ren sold fragments of history and he associated his presence with a leather bag or a sturdy suitcase with metal rivets. On one of these visits, one of the last Gabriel witnessed, when the two men had wrapped up the day’s business, the inspector called him over.
‘How’s your cabinet of curiosities?’
Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. The most recent additions had been a planisphere and a small telescope. But he soon grew tired of observation. At night, if they let him, he preferred to go fishing for squid with Zonzo up by San Antón Castle. Together with his fishing apparatus, Zonzo brought something probably no one in the city had ever seen before. A portable, battery-operated television. A television you carried under your arm. Not any old piece of junk, the genuine article. While they tried to entice squid with a torch and mirror, most of the other night fishermen would take in a gangster movie, the fearless and incorruptible Eliot Ness versus Al Capone. Everybody adjusting the aerial whenever they lost the picture on the only channel. The mini-television was a present Manlle had brought back from Rotterdam. No, there was no competing with Zonzo in the field of curiosities.
‘Well, I understand you like things that have to do with nature. Serious stuff, I mean.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Absolutely.’
Ren, swollen with pride, solemnly extracts an entomological box from the suitcase with metal rivets. ‘For you. They’re Coleoptera. To start with, they all look the same, but then you realise they’re different. I never thought there was so much in them.’