‘A wooden sword?’
‘Yes, all that about saudade is a wooden sword for floral games.’
‘And when they talk about the grace of God? Caudillo by the grace of God? The New State as creatio a Deo?’
The judge glanced in amazement at the others who were present.
‘Such a comparison is improper,’ said Samos. ‘Between God and saudade.’
‘Of course it is. Floral games! Like that, on its own, doesn’t it sound funny?’ asked Sulfe, adopting a conciliatory tone. ‘So too does the grace of God.’
And they all laughed with jovial relief.
Alfonso Sulfe stayed behind. He clearly wanted to see Ricardo Samos on his own. Not quite on his own. Gabriel was there, in the alcove, camouflaged in a green skin from the desk-lamp, as he liked to think, and focused on the text from Durtol Château Sanatorium. It described New Year’s Eve, 1913. How much he missed his family. It also said how much he’d weighed that day, though in his case he’d used data from the Toledo-Ohio scales in Villar the chemist’s.
‘Dear Samos, I wanted to ask you for a special favour.’
‘What is it, Sulfe?’
‘At university, shortly after the war, you mentioned some very interesting books that had come your way by a stroke of fate.’
Ricardo Samos raised his guard. The tension of being with an acquaintance who you fear is about to commit an act of folly. Not a simple slip-up, but a grave mistake.
‘One of those books was called Le Nu de Rabelais . .’
‘What?’
‘Le Nu de Rabelais. In French. Highly illustrated. Drawings and photographs of extraordinary erotic grace. .’
‘No, I don’t have that book.’
Sulfe didn’t seem to register the negative. He rubbed his hands together and his eyes gleamed. ‘You’ll wonder why I’m bringing this up after so many years,’ he said. ‘It was, for me, a very special night of friendship. The evening before the trip to Paris, Milan and Berlin. There was something that separated us from the rest of the group. A passion for books. You then had the kindness to share a secret.’
Samos had remained rigidly silent, but at this point he interrupted the story with coldness, ‘I don’t have it. Are there any other books you’d like to see?’
‘I understand if, for you, this meeting has been lost in the mists of time, but it’s still very fresh for me, for reasons I will explain. I’m immersed in a study that began with the paschal laughter of the Middle Ages. Risus paschalis. After that, I moved on to a second world we could call the rituals of laughter. The festa stultorum, Mardi gras. . When something becomes an obsession, you never know where it’s going to lead. It’ll sound absurd, even puerile, Samos, but I can’t stop thinking about that book. .’
He was about to add, Of naked queens riding donkeys and rams, dragonfly women in a sacred grove, siren women in Lusignan, playful, warrior women armed with sensual spears, parodying war through amorous combat. Silenus advances in the vanguard of Bacchus’ army. Wine from bars in Franco Street and Algalia had undone locks, loosened their tongues. He could recall Samos’ words as he savoured his treasures, the fruits, he himself had admitted, of pillage.
He said, ‘I’m on Rabelais, in the sixteenth century, immersed in a feast of words. This is something of what I’ve discovered in the belly of that whale. And the more I rummage through its entrails, the more I think about that unknown book with its pioneering photographs.’
‘Whoever told you about that book must have been very passionate, very convincing. But it wasn’t me, Sulfe.’
‘Don’t you remember anything?’ asked the professor in dismay.
‘Le Nu de Rabelais? Is there such a book? I haven’t the faintest.’ Samos’ voice was hard, cutting. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it. You’re mistaken, Sulfe. Completely and utterly. You’ve got the wrong man, the wrong night. And if I did share a secret, something I don’t recall, I trust you’ll know how to keep it.’
It was his father’s reply, the sudden change of tone, that alerted Gabriel. He looked at them without changing position. The intimate smoke of convivial jokes hadn’t entirely dissipated. For a time, the atmosphere was the same and reminded him of a cartoon. Balloons hanging in the air, containing words and thoughts.
‘That must be it, a mistake. It was so long ago. I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ said Alfonso Sulfe tentatively, surprised by Samos’ response. ‘It’s turned into an obsession. The others don’t realise how important it is. But you know what happens with obsessions. You end up like Captain Ahab chasing Moby Dick.’
He stared at him. ‘Moby Dick must be around here somewhere. Benito Cereno too. But not your whale, Sulfe. None of the books you’ve mentioned.’
He stood up so that Alfonso Sulfe had no choice but to do the same. Sulfe glanced at the dark corners, richly bound lands, of the walls. Gabriel sensed his agitation. He had no doubt the professor would have liked to leapfrog the judge and scour those bookshelves. In silence and at a distance, he somehow shared their tension, participated in their duel. It might be said he knew more than either of them, like someone watching a game of cards who’s seen the players’ hands. But he held his breath. Were his father to pay him attention or Sulfe to look in his direction, he’d have to abandon the battlefield.
‘At least clarify one thing for me, Samos. Didn’t you have a first edition of The Prohibited?’
‘The Prohibited?’
For the first time, the judge seemed to realise his son was there, in the alcove, writing, contained in the circle of light from the desk-lamp, which, rather than bringing him closer, kept him apart with the astral effect of torches in the night.
‘Yes, it belonged to Santiago Casares. As did Le Nu de Rabelais. We talked about a set of teeth,’ insisted Sulfe. ‘About the eroticism in Galdós’ description of a woman’s set of teeth.’
‘The Prohibited?’ repeated the judge. ‘I’ve got the Episodes somewhere. But I was never very keen on Galdós. I always found him rather vulgar. Whether or not I’ve books that once belonged to Casares.’
‘That’s it,’ said Sulfe. ‘Those were exactly my words. Mistaken, obviously.’
The professor’s response upset and confused the judge even more. What was all this about a set of teeth? What was he really after?
‘A set of teeth, you say? What a good memory, Sulfe! You’d make a fine instructor.’
‘A fine pathologist,’ joked Sulfe.
The judge’s tone grew impatient and contemptuous, ‘Maybe. It could be here or up in the attic. That book with the teeth.’
It was. Without its partner, but it was there. As was the one about nudes. Women with moth and dragonfly wings fluttered about the lamp. Gabriel knew this. He could feel the first part trembling in his hands, the wrinkled wound where the corner of the book had been burnt. He remembered the signature like a password or greeting: Santiagcasares Qu. And then, as he turned the pages, an exasperated scent of smoke and human beings.