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Authors: Manuel Rivas
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port, in Luisa Fernanda’s cabaret or the Méndez Núñez, charmed by the Garotas variety show. The way they came out half naked, singing with a puppet between their legs, ‘Mummy, buy me a negro, buy me a negro from the bazaar, who dances the Charleston and plays the Jazzman.’ Terranova imitated their performance with a boxing glove between his legs. What a clown he was and how well he did it. As when he pushed the barrow and stopped. Read the labels on the boxes one by one. ‘Man, earth, heavens, mother . . . What you doing with all this weight, Curtis? You got the whole world in here.’ ‘I’m going to the Faith bookshop.’ ‘That’s right,’ he replied, ‘always trying to help. To carry all this, you’d need the barrow of faith.’ There were days he spoke like an old man.
‘Maxim’ wasn’t bad, ‘Kid Kafka’ was unsettling, but he liked ‘The Corner’ best.
A gong sounded again inside 12 Panadeiras Street. It was louder this time. Came from deep inside the house. Cut straight through them. Like the cold. Like the moon.
‘A book at least,’ murmured Terranova, ‘would be something.’
‘You want a book?’ Curtis asked him. ‘You really want a book?’
Both of them had their hands in their pockets. Terranova’s feet were half off the kerb and he was leaning forwards. The same game that annoyed Curtis so much when he played it on the edge of the cliffs. His insistence on always walking along the edge, hanging out over the abyss.
He pretended to fall. Did a somersault. ‘Yes, I want a book!’
‘Come on then. I know where we can find some books.’
It was Christmas Eve 1931. They met no one on the way. The sea in Orzán redoubled its efforts when it saw them. Threw foam, drowned in its own roars. They were counting on this. On certain dates, the sea has a tendency to be vainglorious. The more witnesses there are, the more powerful the waves. They advance sideways against the wind. The water runs down their faces. They laugh and curse. In a corner of the Coiraza wall, which acts as a breakwater, the fashioned stone of the quarries is piled up with natural rocks. Kneeling down, with his back to the sea, Curtis moves a stone and puts his hand in the gap. He knows Flora has a store of The Ideal Novel in there. She goes there to sunbathe. And sometimes smokes what she calls an aromatic. These, she says, are her two square metres of paradise. The naked body revives in the open air. Here she reads her short novels. Keeps a stack of them under the stones.
‘ The Ideal Novel? These aren’t books, they’re handkerchiefs. Look what’s here: Sister Light in Hell , My Misfortune , Last Love , Decent Prostitutes , The Executioner’s Daughter , Nancy’s Tragedy . . .’
‘You can only pick one,’ says Curtis, impervious to his remarks. ‘They’re Flora’s. They’re OK. I like them.’
‘I’m not in the mood for crying. I already have to have dinner with my mother and an empty plate. What’s the son of the orphan’s father going to have for dinner? Cod. Corpus meum .’
‘Why don’t you tell her not to lay three places?’
‘She won’t listen. She goes crazy. You don’t know what she’s like. Poor Mummy Cauliflower! She’d accepted it. What does it matter whether he died in St John’s or here? But someone went and said something, and now she’s got this idea a dead man could have been stored in salt. If cod is stored in salt, why not a salted man? Some cod are as big as a man.’
Curtis stared at him in disbelief. Stretched out his arms to measure an imaginary leaf.
‘I’m not joking,’ said Terranova. ‘Some cod are like men.’
Water was pouring down his face. Not all of it from the sea. He took a sip. Spat it out. ‘I’ll take this one. The Decline of the Gods by Federica Montseny. Judging from the title, it’ll go against the world, be a little funny.’
That’s it. A ‘Casaritos’! The supervisor wouldn’t look at the book in the same way if it
‘Maxim’ wasn’t bad, ‘Kid Kafka’ was unsettling, but he liked ‘The Corner’ best.
A gong sounded again inside 12 Panadeiras Street. It was louder this time. Came from deep inside the house. Cut straight through them. Like the cold. Like the moon.
‘A book at least,’ murmured Terranova, ‘would be something.’
‘You want a book?’ Curtis asked him. ‘You really want a book?’
Both of them had their hands in their pockets. Terranova’s feet were half off the kerb and he was leaning forwards. The same game that annoyed Curtis so much when he played it on the edge of the cliffs. His insistence on always walking along the edge, hanging out over the abyss.
He pretended to fall. Did a somersault. ‘Yes, I want a book!’
‘Come on then. I know where we can find some books.’
It was Christmas Eve 1931. They met no one on the way. The sea in Orzán redoubled its efforts when it saw them. Threw foam, drowned in its own roars. They were counting on this. On certain dates, the sea has a tendency to be vainglorious. The more witnesses there are, the more powerful the waves. They advance sideways against the wind. The water runs down their faces. They laugh and curse. In a corner of the Coiraza wall, which acts as a breakwater, the fashioned stone of the quarries is piled up with natural rocks. Kneeling down, with his back to the sea, Curtis moves a stone and puts his hand in the gap. He knows Flora has a store of The Ideal Novel in there. She goes there to sunbathe. And sometimes smokes what she calls an aromatic. These, she says, are her two square metres of paradise. The naked body revives in the open air. Here she reads her short novels. Keeps a stack of them under the stones.
‘ The Ideal Novel? These aren’t books, they’re handkerchiefs. Look what’s here: Sister Light in Hell , My Misfortune , Last Love , Decent Prostitutes , The Executioner’s Daughter , Nancy’s Tragedy . . .’
‘You can only pick one,’ says Curtis, impervious to his remarks. ‘They’re Flora’s. They’re OK. I like them.’
‘I’m not in the mood for crying. I already have to have dinner with my mother and an empty plate. What’s the son of the orphan’s father going to have for dinner? Cod. Corpus meum .’
‘Why don’t you tell her not to lay three places?’
‘She won’t listen. She goes crazy. You don’t know what she’s like. Poor Mummy Cauliflower! She’d accepted it. What does it matter whether he died in St John’s or here? But someone went and said something, and now she’s got this idea a dead man could have been stored in salt. If cod is stored in salt, why not a salted man? Some cod are as big as a man.’
Curtis stared at him in disbelief. Stretched out his arms to measure an imaginary leaf.
‘I’m not joking,’ said Terranova. ‘Some cod are like men.’
Water was pouring down his face. Not all of it from the sea. He took a sip. Spat it out. ‘I’ll take this one. The Decline of the Gods by Federica Montseny. Judging from the title, it’ll go against the world, be a little funny.’
That’s it. A ‘Casaritos’! The supervisor wouldn’t look at the book in the same way if it
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