Back home, Chelo finds her husband ecstatic. He has a new Bible, an extraordinary Parisian edition illustrated by European print masters of the nineteenth century. Chelo says she’s not in the mood. It was a tiring day. Everything’s fine, it’s just she’s exhausted. Even so, she’ll take a look. ‘The illustrations are of the most remarkable women in the Bible,’ says the judge. He knew she’d be interested. She sits down. Is captivated. Then says she’s changed her mind. She’s awake now. This is what happens after a tiring day. She’s going to paint. ‘Excuse me. I’m going to paint. Paint the night,’ she says, pointing to the picture of a female worker resting her oil lamp on a colleague’s head as a joke.
That afternoon, before Ren left, they talked about anonymous letters. The judge showed him an envelope with no return address and the sheet that came inside. A typed text. A carbon copy.
‘Same as always,’ said the judge. ‘Same poem. Third canto of The Divine Sketch by Manuel Curros Enríquez. Same date at the bottom. 19th of August 1936.’
With rude gnashing of teeth. .
Rather than reading, Ren seemed to be searching for fingerprints on the sheet.
He offered me some and said,
‘It’s not exactly the best,
but you’re welcome.’ ‘What is it?’
‘A morsel of human flesh.’
‘Can’t we find the typewriter and typist?’ asked the judge, giving Ren a deliberate look.
‘I also got a copy,’ said Ren. ‘Dez as well.’ He moved his moustache uneasily, as if searching somewhere outside the Crypt. ‘Who can the bastard be? It’s the same typewriter as every year. I checked it against clandestine pamphlets, leaflets, writing samples from prisoners, people under surveillance, but found nothing out of the ordinary. What the hell happened that day, Samos? I know something must have happened. Something almost always did. But what was so special this nutter can’t keep quiet about it? I don’t remember.’
The judge looked at him and was silent. There’d been several things. He didn’t remember either, but his memory did. The advantages and disadvantages of having such a good memory. Memory sometimes does its own thing, thought the judge. By the time you realise, without wanting to, you’ve a book in your hands from the alcove, with burnt edges. He could have gone in search of others, other bibliographical jewels that were in there, English editions with gilt edges and watercolours, wonderful editions. But no, by the time he realised, what the memory of his hands had done was pull out the little book with burnt edges and the symbol of a scallop shell in the centre, the little book with the Six Galician Poems. The way things happened, both poet and publisher had to go and die on that day, 19 August, the day they burnt books. He had to study this law that wasn’t in the code. The law of chance. Change, chance, words are so mixed up. Which is why it was important to be precise. Did they come from the same family of words? He’d have to check that.
‘Something must have happened.’ Inspector Ren re-examined the letter. With rude gnashing of teeth. He dropped it casually on the desk. Well, he was convinced it had been typed on an Underwood Universal. But there were lots of those. ‘What we need is a register of every typewriter there is. The day I find that Underwood Universal, I’ll show him rude gnashing of teeth.’
The judge smiled. He knew about Ren’s obsession for typewriters. Ren had told him he had a collection at home, about twenty of them, including some that had been confiscated when war broke out. He also had a few from secret resistance groups. Sometimes, after a day’s work, he’d sit down and type. ‘Nothing that makes any sense. I just bash the keys.’ Biff, bang, wallop. It made him feel good, hitting those machines.
‘All this in confidence, right, your honour? Strictly between ourselves.’
‘One day, you’ll have to invite me to your sanctuary, Ren.’
One day. One day he’d have to extend an invitation. ‘It’s all a mess. You can imagine what it’s like living on your own.’
‘You know what the Portuguese say? “Desire of solitude leads to great virtue or wickedness.”’
‘All my vice is taken up with eating.’
Samos was clearly talking through one side of his mouth, but thinking something different. He’d grabbed the mallet. And was thumping the palm of his hand.
‘Thanks for the Bible, Ren. A good price too.’
Yeah. Thumping away at the palm of his hand.
He asked, ‘Any other news?’
Beating the palm of his hand. Looking elsewhere. At the mystery of the leather bag.
‘I’d tell you, Samos, if there were.’
‘Nothing about the valiente of Finisterra?’
‘Nothing, your honour. I’ve done all I could. Been through all the lists. The Falange. The knights militia. Those who transferred Casares Quiroga’s library. Those posted to his house. Those at the docks and in María Pita. The squad of workmen who disposed of the remains. I’ve been through it all. Conducted searches. Nothing. Better forget that book, your honour. I’m after another, by that Irishman, you said belonged to Huici. I don’t think it’s far off. That’s what my nose tells me. When you’re least expecting something is when it knocks at the door. That’s the way of old things.’
I Was Forsook
HE SAW HERCULES go by, that crazy photographer with the horse. Terranova’s friend. He couldn’t help it. His orbital look upset things. Not for him, but for his memory. Blasted memory, always up to no good. Going off like that without his permission. Now following the photographer and his horse. He knew their story. The horse was from Cuba, Vidal had brought it with his son’s photographic equipment. But Leica had kept it in his studio. He wanted to be an artist. Not lead a horse about. So he rented it to Hercules, or lent it, whatever the arrangement was, you never know, they belonged to the same group, did him a favour, lent him the horse and instant camera. The horse’s eyes were well done. The point is horse and photographer made him nervous. It was too much. Why hadn’t he gone as well, that colossus, cowboy, hick, subnormal, champ, son of a whore, why hadn’t he left instead of wandering around the city like a ghost complete with wooden quadruped?
Tomás Dez was so distracted, distracted and disturbed, as if he’d heard ‘Chessman’ carried on the breeze, was so preoccupied he didn’t notice his secretary’s warning signs when he reached the censor’s office. So this stranger coming up to him, dressed like a sailor from a spectral boat, caught him by surprise.
‘Are you the censor?’
Censor? It was true. He was one of the censors. He gave him a supercilious look. ‘I’m very busy.’ And carried straight on to the door of his office.
‘I was forsook!’
He turned around as if he’d heard a strange, inescapable code.
‘You what?’
‘I’ve been waiting for months for a reply. My book. A book of poems. Called I Was Forsook.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘The Most Mysterious of the Mysterious.’
Interesting. I was forsook? I was forsook? Part of his memory identified the echo.
‘Just a minute,’ said Dez. ‘I’ve some matters to attend to and then I’ll come back to you.’
He was feeling generous. Time to redeem yourself, Dez, said his ironic side. Possibly the taste on his palate after chewing ‘Chessman’, the condemned man’s song. Why be despotic with this old sailor in a worn overcoat, invoking the Most Mysterious? He shut the door and rummaged through the pile of originals waiting for a report. It had been some time since he’d read or processed anything. His problem with dermatitis was getting worse. Other times, it cleared up completely. Like now.