by Unknown
Polka fell silent after hearing this but, when the nurse made to leave, said in a loud voice, ‘If you need a gravedigger, here I am, girl! Working for eternity.’
He wasn’t sure if the gesture the nurse made from the door was one of farewell or another kind of message. He did think she smiled, though.
‘Why’d you say that?’
Polka was surprised the man behind the curtain spoke so soon. He’d just fallen into a mid-afternoon stupor as he tried to sew together the rags of white and grey blots. Put them in order for when his daughter arrived. She still didn’t know he’d lost his sight. Couldn’t read. Couldn’t even dig graves. At least, he wasn’t the one who shovelled earth or sealed niches. He could still play the bagpipes, though, when asked to do so. A march. Mother, or Ancient Kingdom of Galicia, or St Benedict, or Laíño, the one he liked so much, it always sounded good, from cradle to grave. At night, he’d listen to the radio. He enjoyed moving the dial, listening to stations broadcasting in foreign languages. Words sound wonderful when you can’t understand them. Animal electricity. He could barely read, but occasionally he’d open the pouch and hold the books in his hands. Feel their electricity. He recalled Jaume Fontanella, Joan Sert, his fellow prisoner, the Catalan architect who fled on a Portuguese passport and studied Braille so he could read at night. Polka copied that movement. He didn’t know Braille, but he could imagine. His fingers ran over the paper’s geography, relief. He felt the excitement, the way the words bristled under his touch. He could rattle off the whole of The Invisible Man.
‘Say what?’
‘That you work for eternity.’
‘I make graves, sir, houses that last till doomsday.’
‘Anyone knows that’s Shakespeare!’ declared the judge.
‘Matter is neither created nor destroyed, it is simply transformed.’
‘Nonsense!’
His reaction was a way of decreeing silence and Polka was only too happy to obey. He had too much to do, was far too busy to worry about calming down an angry man. On the way back, reviewing his life, he’d got into a discussion with the priest. As far as he could remember, it was the only time in his life he’d come out on top. He had to persuade him he could be the new gravedigger, he’d be good at it. He wasn’t wanted on site or at the Dairy or at Coca-Cola. A lame, old man bearing antecedents. The sun had surely gone past his door by now. The ants climbed his legs, occupied his body, especially in winter. Olinda carrying bundles of clothes. He had to bring in some money. He was lame, he’d been a victim. But he wasn’t considered as such. Ex-combatants were the victors. He’d only been imprisoned, so he must have done something. Those who accused him of having done something had no idea what he’d really done. The secret he shared with Olinda. Couldn’t even imagine how the two of them had helped to derail trains loaded with wolfram, sink boats transporting the mineral to Nazi munition factories. He must have done something. Of course he had. More than they realised. Now he had to convince the priest he’d make a good gravedigger. He was going over that part of his memory. The priest apologising, a historic step, for having forced O to count up to 666 chestnuts, the number of the devil. He may have been bad-tempered and a bit bald, said the priest, but not like that vindictive prophet in the Bible. They then moved on to discuss the wedding in Cana. The first of Christ’s miracles. With the wine. He knew the Gospel from memory, word for word, as he did the Latin Mass. And he’d always been greatly intrigued by this chapter. There was something enticing, mysterious, about it. He found what was left unsaid as charming as what was mentioned. Christ didn’t want to perform his first miracle. He may never have wanted to perform miracles. But he had to make a compromise. It was a question of family honour, of Mary’s insistence. What difference does it make? said Jesus’ mother. Get us out of this fix. Whoever heard of a wedding without wine? What’ll people think? This stingy lot count their beans, won’t give bones to the dog. Mary was right. She knew the score. But Polka suspected Christ was always a little resentful of his mother for making him turn water into wine.
A grunt came from behind the curtain. The hidden man was breaking the silence. The grunt was a conciliatory one.
‘What you said before was obviously a tribute to Shakespeare. I’m glad. We need culture. I wondered where I might find it and here it is. In a ward in hospital.’
His heart was pumping again. Aphrodite had told him you get this ecstatic reaction in people who’ve suffered a heart attack. A false sense of power. Life coursing back into their body. Reserved people who suddenly loosen their tongue. Yes, misery guts had suddenly become chatty. Extremely polite. ‘How wonderful,’ said the hidden man, ‘to find someone who really knows their Scripture.’
‘His tongue loosened, mine got stuck,’ Polka told the nurse. ‘You should have seen me in the good times. Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis . . .’
‘You’d have made a good Holy Father, Francisco.’
‘Call me Polka. When I was young, everybody called me that. And I’ve already been Pope. During Carnival. It’s a miracle I wasn’t martyred.’
She’d been wanting to talk about that. The doctors were amazed by what they’d found in Polka’s heart. Nothing to do with an ecstatic recovery. His was slow, gradual. Rather they were amazed he’d lasted so long. He had other complications. Polka knew he had other complications. But the thing with his heart was surprising. A clinical case.
‘I don’t want to be a clinical case,’ he said mistrustfully. ‘What’s wrong with my heart?’
‘Your heart is a book,’ replied Aphrodite. ‘You had two heart attacks before this one. It’s obvious from the scars. The doctors can’t understand how you managed to survive without medical attention. Don’t you remember anything? You should have felt something like the thread of life being severed.’
‘Once or twice, I did forget to breathe, yes.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I drew on my resources. Drew on my resources and tore death’s horseshoes off my face.’
So all that had been written in his heart? After that business with the books, his right arm had been numb for days. He had no memory of the pain. He felt lethargic, resistant. Remembered what Holando used to say, always playing with words. He said traballo – ‘travail’ or ‘work’ – came from tripalium, a tool used to restrain a horse while shoeing it. He’d felt he was being tortured. But who could distinguish between what was happening inside and outside the body? He never complained. As he was afraid of being afraid, so the possibility of complaining caused him such unease it made him laugh. He’d heard of the thyroid, a gland that made you grow. Perhaps his made him laugh. He’d certainly forgotten to breathe, but realised in time. His skin changed colour. Everything around him acquired a crimson glow, on the verge of going out. The other time he forgot to breathe was when he was invaded by ants. He had high fever. Was convinced he was underground. The ants came in through his bullet wounds and all his other orifices. He’d once had a nightmare that insects were invading his body. The first to arrive were death flies, which laid eggs out of which came larvae, etc. His body was there for the taking. But on this occasion the ants were burdened with seeds, tufts, breadcrumbs. One ant carried a drop of duck’s blood. Another, the head of a matchstick with red aniline. There were groups carrying even larger things. A cricket they insisted on introducing through his mouth. Fragments of The Invisible Man. His body was to be a deposit. Until, that is, he remembered to breathe. So all that had been written in his heart?
He didn’t stop. Polka let him speak.
‘Some people focus on his great genius as a comedian and tragedian, or the way he controls the passions, but I’m fascinated by the way he chronicles power in action. Each sentence is imbued with decisive power. I have to admit that, in questions of power, even my admired Machiavelli is like a pettifogger next to this friend’s royal musculature.’
‘I’ve buried more books than I’ve read,’ said Polka finally, without a hint of irony. He was be
ing enigmatic.
‘Books? You’re a strange kind of gravedigger.’ There was now an obvious tremor in the voice of the man behind the curtain.
‘That’s right. It was the first time I dug graves. My apprenticeship, so to speak. I buried books. Most of them were dead. Reduced to cinders. They’d been burning for two days. But some were still alive. Still bubbling. You threw earth on top and, after a while, the tips of pages stuck out like thorns. A shame. Most of us were simple labourers with little or no education. This was the first time some of us had opened a book. Oh, it was terrible, sir, a drop of duck’s blood.’
He came out with this phrase whenever he felt uncomfortable, afraid of being afraid. It was his way of describing the indescribable.
‘Terrible, sir, a drop of duck’s blood.’
The hidden patient, the man behind the curtain, fell quiet, but wasn’t exactly silent. He made a noise with his body, an expression of malaise. It seemed he was trying to stand up. They’d both been through Emergency, where time became detached from bodies, to Intensive Care, where time floated about, clinical appliances emitting underwater sounds. Now time was saline, dripping back into their bodies. He spoke in a torrent. Kept talking about duck’s blood. May have wanted to use Shakespeare to make fun of him. But he acquitted himself well. He was not uneducated. Common, thought the judge, but not uneducated.
‘What books, what books did you say you buried?’
‘All kinds. It was at the start of the war. Right here, in the city. Lots of people find it strange. Some things I don’t talk about. So as not to be thought mad. He’s a screw loose, that’s what they say. Terrible, sir, a drop of duck’s blood. There was even a book on the city’s coat of arms. You know the city’s coat of arms is the lighthouse. Well, on top of the lighthouse was a book. This book was also removed, never made it back on to the shield. As if they were burning stone and bronze as well. You’re not young. You must have heard about it. The way they burnt books.’
‘No,’ lied the judge. ‘I wasn’t here then. Listen. I’m greatly interested in books, you’ve no idea how much. I swear few things in life interest me as much as books. Perhaps you can help me.’
‘I already said I’m not a man of books.’
‘Tell me about the ones you buried. You must recall the odd title. Try and remember.’
He remembers. Letters hovering over the ashes like samara wings. That piece. That wafer. A drop of duck’s blood. The horror. The nails, bones, entrails of books. An unmistakable stench that won’t go away.
‘There were loads of books. Whole libraries. The best. Those belonging to cultural associations. To Germinal. To Casares Quiroga. You’ve heard of Casares, haven’t you? He also was erased. They even wanted to tear his name out of the register of births. Lots of people suffered the same fate as that book on the city’s coat of arms and were erased.’
‘Listen to me. What books were those that stuck out when you were burying them? What books caught your attention?’
Polka could feel the stench of the smoke that day in his nostrils. Estremil was right. It was like being at the mouth of hell. The whole of Germinal’s library burnt. A good one, that. Because there were things that were extremely learned, but practical as well. He would have explained this to the man behind the curtain, but didn’t quite like the way he asked questions. His impatience. Polka sifted through time, raked time into piles. Remembered and felt. Didn’t want to lose direction. Germinal had books for trades, for getting up to date in a profession. Most of the people who went there were workers. Elegance and culture in this city were a popular fashion. On the whole, people with money were brutes. No, Olinda, don’t worry, I won’t say that to him. You’re right, it’s best to be prudent. You never know who you’re talking to.
‘Yes, sir, matter is neither created nor destroyed, it is simply transformed. I learnt this from a young boxer by the name of Arturo da Silva, who worked as a plumber. This idea did me good, did me a service. Such a simple thing and yet so true, don’t you think?
‘The first time I entered Germinal, Holando told me that to get a book I had to go to Minerva. “Minerva?” “Yes, the librarian.” He’d come out with these lyrical excesses to hide his shyness. “That’s Aphrodite and she’s Athene.” And they ended up making fun of me. Was I crazy? “Her name’s Minerva,” Holando kept telling me. So off I went with my scrap of paper. “Excuse me, Minerva . . .” And I thought now she’s going to give me a sarcastic look with those large black eyes of hers and say in a hoarse voice, because her voice was a bit hoarse, “Are you also crazy?” But she didn’t say anything. She read the scrap of paper: Galvani and Animal Electricity. Holando and the others were crying with laughter. Very funny. So what? I could have chosen something else. But this caught my attention. Don’t know why. Or perhaps I do. Once, when I was little, I watched my mother cut a duck’s neck. She was brave enough to do this, to kill an animal with her bare hands. My father was as strong as an ox, but couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even kill a mouse. What’s more, he once bumped into a mouse on the staircase and shouted so loud the poor animal died of fright. So there’s my mother, with her sleeves rolled up, holding the duck, cutting its neck, when something happens and the duck pulls loose, flies over us without a head. My mother explained, “That’s because it had a lot of electricity stored up inside.” I told Minerva this story and she seemed very moved. “Animals shouldn’t be killed for eating,” she said. “I agree. We all agree. Just the other day, we were reading the ten commandments of naturism.” “Who read them?” “Holando. Holando’s the expert.” And Holando comes over. Starts chatting to Minerva, of course he’s pleased. She’s working on a new dictionary. “A dictionary of usage,” she said. “By word families.” That’s nice, I thought. Word families. Holando was one of the first to get killed. Together with the champ of Galicia. They went for the best of them.’
‘Get to the point, will you? The books! What about the books?’
‘Electricity is an amazing thing. You have electricity. A tree has electricity. When life runs out, electricity goes to earth. That book about Galvani and animal electricity must have burnt as well. Though I looked for it among the carnage.’
‘The carnage?’
‘The remains. The remains of books. They stank of flesh.’
‘Some of them were probably bound in leather. It’d be the leather.’
‘I suppose so. It happened right here, a short distance away, in the docks and María Pita Square. They brought loads of books to be disposed of. The pyres burnt for two whole days. I was a park and garden employee at the time and was assigned to clean up the ashes. It was during the summer. August, the 19th of August. Some things you never forget. My body still sways with that blasted lorry, I can feel my teeth chattering. The whole ground was covered in ash, but some were only half burnt. The lorry had to make several trips. We buried them in a waste tip in Rata Field, on the other side of San Amaro. We worked with rakes, it was like scraping away the skin, revealing flesh. Some people vomited, chucked their guts up. After we’d covered them, I could still feel them bubbling under my feet. I threw earth on top, pressed it down as hard as I could, but still felt the bones under my galoshes. I was fired after that. Apparently I was on a list for belonging to the union. That wasn’t all. Half a year later, I was arrested. I was married, my wife about to give birth. Some nativity scene!’
Polka waited for the other to laugh at his irony. It was a pretty sad story, but the man didn’t have much of a sense of humour. He cleared his throat and asked, ‘Was there a copy of the New Testament? It’s not the kind of thing you just forget.’
‘It was like treading on bones, you bet. Point is I was then arrested. Do you know why? For playing. Doesn’t sound very serious, does it? Well, I was arrested for playing music. Someone denounced me because I was due to play on a union excursion. The cultural associations had organised a special train to attend the Caneiros festivities. Upriver. I was a gardener, but played the bagpipes as a hobby. I pla
yed for the union, but for the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel as well. You see, one piece does as well for a wedding, a baptism, a funeral, as for a union march or a procession. But that train never departed. Had it left, it’d have been empty. Understand? It’s as if they came and asked for our tickets. In a short time, we’d all been arrested. Those who didn’t flee were killed. I was lucky. I was imprisoned to start with and then sent to a labour camp, a wolfram mine. I was a slave, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Do you know what the worst of it was? Knowing, when you dug up that mineral, it was for fattening the beast. Do you understand or not?’
‘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?’