by Unknown
‘Where are you from?’
‘I belong to an astral diaspora, the Inhabitants of Emptiness.’
‘What are you doing next to Hercules Lighthouse?’
‘It’s a point of cosmic convergence. It appears in the genetic information of the Explorers of Infinite Space. Among extraterrestrials, it’s vox populi. This is where I hope to start the Soulder, an apparatus for receiving cosmozoons.’
‘What are cosmozoons?’
‘Particles of life from other systems.’
Marconi always sitting on the same stone.
‘Why do you always sit on this stone?’
‘It’s not a stone. It’s the Soulder’s stator.’
‘What exactly is a Soulder?’
‘A space vehicle I’m trying out, which one day will move as a result of the energy accumulated in this ancient lighthouse. The historians of antiquity talk of a Large Mirror in this lighthouse of Brigantia which shows a reflection of Ireland. What are we talking about? A cosmic observation point, an equally old UFO base.’
It was the first time an article had been written about UFOs in Galicia. Stringer highlighted the similarities between the Roswell Man, who appeared in 1947 near Corona (New Mexico, USA), and the Hercules Man, who landed for the first time in Coruña in 1957, as he himself has confessed. They’re both pale. Both completely bald. Only that the famous one died and disappeared while the other, who so far has escaped notice, lives on among us with an assumed identity. In his own words. An exclusive interview in the evening Expreso.
‘See, it made the front page!’
Tito Balboa or Stringer is elated. It’s his first piece. A report that will set tongues wagging. His first journalistic scoop.
Curtis blinks as he reads the news item.
‘But that’s Marconi!’
The travelling photographer eyes Stringer differently, with disappointment, distrust. ‘So you think you’re clever?’
‘I have to do another report on you, Mr Curtis. Imagine the headline: “FOUND: HERCULES”.’
‘Right,’ said Curtis. ‘On one condition. You have to put, “FOUND: HERCULES, SON OF A WHORE”.’
That seemed to shut him up.
Marconi, sitting on his stone chair, the stator, gazes at his own portrait in the paper’s photomontage, next to a strange, membranous being. Emits murmurs. If the question is whether the earth is a shadow of the sky, the answer is yes.
The Diligent’s Ball
On one occasion, he let them play with it, the first football. It fell off the deck of the British ship the Diligent. Some crewmen jumped down, but couldn’t catch the boy who took it. He ran and ran down Luchana Alley, across Rego de Auga, until he reached Ovos Square, where his pursuers realised there was nothing they could do. The fugitive was safe among the stalls and the forest of skirts belonging to women selling birds and eggs. The ball was part of the city’s secret.
There must have been a grain of truth in this epic story. When you held the ball in your hands, if you brought it close to your body, you could hear a beating that wasn’t yours. The boy’s race. The hero’s heart.
‘Who was it?’
‘One of my grandfathers,’ answered Ramón Ponte proudly. ‘He was self-taught. Had his own scales for weighing the value of historical events. And you know what? That boat, the Diligent, went and sank in the entrance to the bay. Must have been as a result of losing the ball.’
‘Can I report it? Make an interview with you?’ asked Tito Balboa.
‘No way. It might lead to an international protest. It’s not a stone, boy. This is history.’
They were playing on the Western Quay. A place where, between nets and stacks of wood, you learnt how to control your pass, given the limits of the sea. Which may explain why Coruñan footballers such as Chacho, Cheché Martín, Amancio and Luis Suárez were so good at it. At passing accurately.
Ramón Ponte was there, watching. Suffering on account of the Diligent’s ball and at the same time moved, as if this were a Biblical game being played with the terrestrial globe. The stacks of wood, like large blinds, enclosed the area and acted like barriers to stop the ball embarking. But even so, between the piles of wood, there were corridors, gaping mouths, down which the ball would sometimes disappear together with friends Gabriel had made in this dockside universe, which as a child he’d only been able to contemplate from the gallery. They left the field and didn’t come back. As if they’d been swallowed up by the ghost of the Diligent returning for its ball. When they picked the teams the next day, one would be missing and someone would casually exclaim, ‘He’s gone!’ Which didn’t mean he’d gone for a walk. It meant he’d gone for ever. There was no need to explain. On that border, those who were leaving played with those who weren’t leaving. And Gabriel realised that his family would never have to emigrate. An inequality that bothered him.
‘You can’t have everything,’ whispered Destiny’s Irony in his ear.
That summer, the day after the match with the Father of Footballs, they picked the teams and one called César was missing.
‘César’s gone!’
Another carried off by the ghost of the Diligent.
‘Where to?’
‘Burgos. To see his Dad in prison.’
‘In prison? What’s he doing there?’
‘What do you think?’ asked the crane operator. ‘He’s inside.’
‘What for? Why’s he in prison?’
He felt the others’ silence and looks were directed towards him. He received a word warning, but this time the fear was external, not internal. It was the others being careful with their words. Keeping them in the dark.
The Roswell Man
‘You can write about the Holy Company and all that. Beings at night. Holding a cross or whatever. Whether they’re superstitions or not, these fears help religion. Happenings go well with faith. But extraterrestrials cause alarm, widespread panic. It’s as if God and his representatives aren’t protecting us. After almost twenty-five years of peace since Franco’s victory, such stories create insecurity, the impression we’re vulnerable. So forget about the Lighthouse Man, the Galician Roswell and all those fantasies about Hercules Lighthouse being a cosmic meeting place and write about ordinary people, ordinary people doing ordinary things, otherworldly things, but normal otherworldly things, got it? If you like this stuff, OK, go after it. You’ve got Corpus, where there are women expelling demons. Apparently there was one last year, all hairy, seen running down the rows of maize, followed by a bunch of children. Shame there’s no photo. We’ve got all these devils in Galicia and no graphical evidence. Vicente Risco wrote reams. But he didn’t have a Bolex camera, what to do? Then you’ve got the pilgrimage to Santa Marta de Ribarteme, with devotees being carried to the chapel in coffins. Don’t tell me there’s a lack of material. Right next to the city, you’ve possessed women going to Pastoriza, spitting out iron nails against the door. You’ve a brilliant future if you’ll take some advice. What do we want with extraterrestrials in Galicia? What are we going to do with them? Encourage tourism? They’ll attract a few loonies. Just what we need! To become the world capital for raving lunatics. Now, if we had a Loch Ness monster, that would be different. Then we’d be talking!
‘We’ve enough with witches. Witches, imps, the Holy Company and, at a push, between you and me, in confidence, the apostle James’ white horse. Every country has its limit. And, as for spatial matters, we’ve the Betanzos hot-air balloon. Now that’s a civilised superproduction. Compare it with those who chuck goats off a bell-tower! Whatever next? I understand we have to keep up with the times, the fashion. I’m on your side, I feel the beating of the teleprinter in my blood, I understand what you’re saying. Nowadays a country without aliens, well, it’s second-division. All right, don’t tell me about the teleprinter again, I know it’s informed about a UFO sighting in Gaintxurizketa, Errenteria, Euskadi. I tried to explain this to the Delegate of Information and Tourism, we’ve as much right to spot UFOs as
anyone else. But we live where we live and we’re not going to change it, me with my gastronomic dishes, you with your cosmic theory.
‘In short, Balboa, what I mean is the governor doesn’t want extraterrestrials in his province. Nor does he want Hercules Lighthouse being presented as a cosmic reference point, an operations base, where, if I didn’t misunderstand you, sowers of cosmozoons are planning a landing. So there’s an end to aliens in the Expreso. A whole squadron of UFOs with Hypernauts and Inhabitants of Emptiness can turn up, we’re not reporting it even in brief.’
‘I still don’t understand why.’
‘Take my advice. Stop asking why! We’re journalists, that’s all. We’re not philosophers or . . . selenotropes? Did you ever see a newspaper with question marks? This is not an industry of whys. Why’s the US conducting a war in Vietnam? Why’d they demolish the Cooperative, one of the city’s most beautiful buildings? Why’d they pull down Primitive Baths and the Health Spa, which is a lot of pulling down? Well, my friend, to build a garage. No more Primitive or Health, that’s what great words have in store for them. We could print a full-page WHY? A local, universal, cosmic WHY? It’d be a great day for Spanish journalism. And our evening paper’s last.’
He stood up. He looked fatter when he was annoyed. Today Stringer attributed this abdominal enlargement to his theory on the restriction of whys. He brandished the newspaper in front of him.
‘See this photo? Who is it? Yes, it says so in the headline. It’s Carmencita, Franco’s daughter, water-skiing. Right here, in Coruña Bay. You ever see someone water-ski in a long skirt? No, of course not. Well, she wasn’t wearing one either. Her legs were bare as they should have been. So why’s she in a skirt? Because we received an indication, got it? Someone upstairs picks up the phone and indicates the Caudillo’s daughter has to appear in a skirt, so her legs can’t be seen. You don’t ask why. You just cover her legs. See this article. There’s a quote from a song where it should say, ‘Leaning against the jamb of the brothel’. What does it say? Go on, tell me.’
Stringer read the bit he was pointing to, ‘Leaning against the jamb of the hostel’.
‘Nonsense, right? Why? What for? You want to know why? The guy in charge of words is in charge of us, inside and out. I’ll tell you something else, but I don’t want it leaving this office.’
His habit of glancing to the sides. He looked as if he was going to withdraw his offer. He believed in oaths. He repeated in a deep voice, ‘I don’t want it leaving this office.’
‘You have my word, sir.’
‘I was thinking of publishing a childhood memoir by Salvador de Madariaga. No politics. Memories of a Coruñan child. An intimate piece with a strong regional flavour. Quite innocent. There weren’t even any chlorocephalids.’
‘Chlorocephalids?’ enquired Balboa. The director of the Expreso, who was often reserved, had these expansive moments when he even invented new words.
‘Yeah, those little men with green heads eating astropops, like the ones you saw around the lighthouse. Anyway, I was thinking of printing this piece by the Spanish historian, which would require authorisation since, as you know, the illustrious Coruñan may not be an extremist, but he does live in exile. For this reason, I went to Madrid, to the Ministry. Naively I thought the fact the three of us – the Minister, the writer and me – were all Galician would make it easy. But remember one thing, Balboa. All this pretence about being from the same country is a letter of credence, a visa, for someone who’s planning to stab you in the back. The Minister received me in person and I thought no problem. I explained what it was about and he asked to see the document. He read it right there, in front of me. Very calmly. He was obviously interested. He knew the areas where the child had spent his life. And the fact he was showing some interest dispelled any lingering doubts, any fear I may have had of needlessly stirring up trouble. Then the Minister raised his head, looked at me and said, “No, there’s no way you can publish this.”’
‘No?’
Stringer imagined the story would have some surprise, but he hadn’t expected this abrupt ending. He was shocked. Until recently, his only job had been to record the arrival and departure of boats and the price of fish. Obviously he’d heard about the censor’s office, he knew there was a building on Cantóns with various censors. What’s more, before starting to write, one of his errands had been to take the galley proofs to that building to be approved before they were printed. But normally nothing happened. He’d once heard the administrator who returned the proofs comment ironically, ‘The pages devoted to the glorious 18th of July are exactly the same as last year and the year before that. A newspaper that repeats itself! These layabouts haven’t even bothered to change the headlines.’ Another time, he was given an envelope for the director. Someone had written ‘Confidential’ with a red pencil. But the envelope was half open or half closed and he couldn’t resist the temptation. It said any information relating to Korea was to be treated with the utmost caution. Of course, he knew they meant the Asiatic country, but what he saw was the face of the guy down in the docks, Miguel, otherwise known as Korea. He’d received a beating. His shaven head was a globe with oedemas and scabs representing the poor countries.
‘No?’
‘That’s what he said, “You can’t publish this.” And then I . . .’
He blinked. Too much light in his clear eyes. It was something that infuriated him, his glands’ disobedience, ‘Dacryocystitis! A journalist’s nightmare. Would you please lower those blinds!’
Stringer quickly complied. He was afraid the lowering of the blinds would delay the story. So, as he was doing it, he asked, ‘And then what, sir?’
‘I was prepared to plead with him, to beg. It was all so absurd. And it seemed to me such arbitrariness was a defeat for the whole of humanity. I said, “They’re memories of when he was a child, sir. An old man recalling his childhood. That’s all. Why not publish them?” The Minister rummaged through some papers and, without looking at me, pointed to the door and said, “Why? I’ll tell you why. Because where there’s a skipper, a sailor’s not in charge. That’s why.”’
The director of the evening Expreso thumped the table as the Minister had done before him. Aldán was someone who couldn’t say no. It grated on him internally like an ulcer of the soul. In his hypochondriac state, he sometimes thought about this, his soul’s duodenum perforated like a sieve. He admired Benito Ferreiro from the shipping company, who’d just attended a dinner which should have formed part of the city’s honourable history. A tribute to Valentín Paz-Andrade, ex-Republican MP, who’d come back from working as an expert for the United Nations in Mexico. The act was authorised under surveillance, so long as it was presided over by a stooge of the regime. Perhaps one of those who one day urinated on some burning books? Eyes sunken in the fat of time. Anyway, there was lots of talk about Paz-Andrade’s knowledge of the sea. At which point the stooge stood up and proposed a toast, ‘To the Caudillo, Spain’s first fisherman!’
Benito Ferreiro refused to join in the toast. He got up and left the table.
‘Where are you off to, Ferreiro?’ barked the stooge.
Ferreiro turned calmly around and replied, ‘To take a piss.’
‘Let me tell you something else about the censor’s office. Something you can take away with you. Certain scenes can contain tools and instruments of torture. But what can’t appear is their sound. You can see the executioner as he prepares to use the garrotte, but not hear him. That’s the soundtrack.’
It occurred to Stringer there was another man inside the director, a restless creature who was always coming and going. Perhaps a Hypernaut of Infinite Space or an Inhabitant of Emptiness. What he said next had a deliberately obscure meaning, he couldn’t tell whether it was good or bad, ‘What you learn here in a day you won’t learn anywhere else.’ He sat lost in thought, but Stringer knew he was counting to ten with his fingers like beads. An economical way of calming down. He then adopted a confidential to
ne, ‘The governor called the censor and the censor called me. They’re really upset about this report, as if they’d lost their mind. It seems this lunatic you interviewed has a bag of crossed cables on his back, but also a story inside that can’t be told. Don’t ask me anything else. No extraterrestrials, no boogie-woogie, no Hypernauts of Infinite Space or long-haired musicians, even if they’re English. That’s the final word. So now you know. Stay positive. Don’t go upsetting the boat.’
‘Mr Aldán . . .’
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You don’t have to keep secrets from me. I’ll read you the script. Tell you what there is.’ He added something Stringer didn’t necessarily take as a warning, ‘It’s then up to you to get by.’
‘I was thinking, about the Loch Ness monster, I was thinking we also had a sea monster.’
‘Yeah, right. Leviathan and all that. Where there’s sea . . .’
‘I’m serious, Don Ovidio. You know the painter Sada?’
‘I know him.’
‘He painted it in his own way. More like a serpent than a whale. He calls it Antaruxa. Because of something he experienced as a child. It turned up in Coruña Bay, after a storm during which the waves, to use the popular expression, climbed the clouds of the sky. They say it whizzed up the Gulf Stream, first went round and round Marola Isle like a big wheel and, on the second day, entered the docks. People could touch it. It was very calm. Actually it was more like a whale than a sea serpent. A snow-white whale. Its eyes were two luminous slits, an emerald green. With two large black stains like sickle-shaped leaves on top of them. It never broke anything. It acted as if it had come to visit the city. According to the eye-witness accounts I’ve seen, it spent all its time gazing at the windows. But some considered it a kind of Kronosaurus, with huge canines a metre long, which would mash up the whole Sea Club’s team. Not at all. It was very artistic. Most people applauded the miracle. But those who thought it a monster got their own way. A company of carabineers was dispatched and an officer gave the order to fire. They shot it. Right here, in the heart of the city, they blew our myth to smithereens.’