The Carpenter's Pencil Read online

  7

  DOCTOR DA BARCA HAD A GIRLFRIEND. AND THAT girlfriend was the most beautiful woman in the world. In the world that Herbal had seen and, he was sure, in the one he had not seen. Marisa Mallo. He was the son of poor peasant farmers. In his house in the village there were very few pretty things. He remembered it without nostalgia, full of smoke or flies. Like a pipeline stretched across time, the memory stank of manure and carbide gas. Beginning with the walls, everything had a patina like rancid bacon, a sooty yellow colour that got in the eyes. In the morning, when he left with the cows, he saw everything through those sooty yellow glasses. He even saw the green meadows in this way. But there were two things in the house he looked upon as treasures. One was his little sister, Beatriz, a blonde, blue-eyed girl, who always had a cold and a runny nose. The other was an old quince tin where mother kept her jewellery: some jet earrings, a rosary, a medal made of Venezuelan gold as soft as chocolate, a silver peso from the reign of Alfonso XII, which she had inherited from her father, and some mother-of-pearl hairslides. There was also a little jar with two aspirin and his first tooth.

  He would place the tooth in the palm of his hand and to him it resembled a grain of rye which a mouse had nibbled. But the really pretty object was the old tinplate box, which had gone rusty at the joins. On the lid was the image of a young woman with a fruit in her hand, a back comb in her hair, and a red dress with a pattern of white flowers and flounces on the sleeves. The first time he saw Marisa Mallo, it was as if she had descended from the quince box to stroll about the main market-place in Fronteira. They had gone there to sell a pig and some early potatoes. It was two miles from the village to the town on foot along muddy tracks. His father went in front, with his felt hat and daughter in his arms, his mother went behind, carrying the heavy basket on her head, and he was in the middle, pulling at the pig, which was tied with a halter around its leg. To his despair, the animal kept trying to nuzzle into the mud and when they reached Fronteira it looked like a large mole. His father slapped him across the face. “Who’s going to buy this pig now?” And there he was, at the market, wiping away the encrusted dirt with a handful of straw when he lifted his head and saw her go by. She stood out like a young woman from the cluster of other girls, who seemed to accompany her only in order to point to her and say here is the queen. They came and went like a band of butterflies and he followed them with his eyes, while his father blasphemed because no-one was going to buy that scruffy pig, and it was all his fault. He dreamt that the pig was a lamb and she came and ran her fingers through its curls. “We should be selling you, not the pig,” his father would mutter. “Though I doubt anyone would want you.”

  “That’s just the way my father was. If he started the day cursing, there was no going back, like someone constantly digging a cesspit under their feet. And I would think to myself yes, please, if someone could come and buy me and take me away with a string tied to my leg.”

  In the end, they sold the pig and the new potatoes. And mother was able to buy a tin of oil with the image of another woman, who also looked like Marisa Mallo. They returned to the main market in Fronteira on many other occasions. He no longer cared about his father’s mood. To him these days were like holidays, the only ones with any sense in the whole year. Putting out the cows to graze, he would yearn for the first day of the month to arrive. And this is how he observed the growing and blooming of Marisa Mallo, member of the region’s powerful families, goddaughter to the mayor, daughter to the notary, little sister to the parish priest in Fronteira. And, above all, Don Benito Mallo’s grandchild. And he never had a lamb to see if she would come and comb its woollen curls.

  8

  IT WAS IN THE CAR, ON THE WAY BACK FROM THE outing with the painter, while the rest of the party passed around a bottle of brandy, that he noticed for the first time the disorder in his head. As if there were people inside it. The Falangists had gone from being very annoyed to being hysterical and were patting him on the shoulder. “Drink up, boy, drink.” But he told them he did not drink. And they burst out laughing. “Since when, Herbal?” And he replied very seriously that he had never drunk. “I don’t like alcohol.” “But you’re always half-cut!” “Leave him alone,” said the driver, “he’s a bit strange tonight. Even his voice seems to have changed.”

  And that was the last he spoke. He had heard a shot and sunk to the ground. Along the funnel of a very straight road he worked on his drawing of the Pórtico da Gloria with a carpenter’s pencil. And he did it with incredible skill. He was able to describe it with words he had never used. “The beauty of the angels bearing the instruments of the Passion,” his head was telling him, “is an aching beauty that demonstrates the melancholy at the unjust death of the Son of God.” When he drew the prophet Daniel, he managed to capture the happy smile of the stone and, as he followed his gaze, he became aware of the enigma. Carrying the food, across Obradoiro Square, cloaked in the sun’s rays, with a white cloth over her basket, was Marisa Mallo.

  “How did it go yesterday, Herbal?” the governor asked gloomily.

  “He was a Nazarene, sir.”

  He became aware that the governor was looking at him in a strange way and recalled what the others had said the night before, about his voice having changed. In future, it was better to keep quiet. Stick to monosyllables. Yes, no, sir.

  When Marisa Mallo came in with the food and said good morning, he replied with a grunt and an abrupt gesture that meant you can leave the basket there, I shall be making my inspection. As soon as he lifted the cloth, he saw the local cheese, wrapped in a cabbage leaf. “That’s where the butt is,” the sight in his head told him. The following day she returned with the basket and he saw the drum of the revolver in a sponge cake, and he gestured that everything was OK, that the basket should come through. The third day he already knew that the barrel was in the bread. And he waited with curiosity for the next delivery, the morning Marisa arrived with bags under her eyes he had not noticed before, because he finally looked straight at her, and dared to undress her from top to toe, as if she were cheese, sponge cake and bread. “I’ve got some trout,” she said. And he saw a bullet in each trout’s belly and said, “OK, I’ll pass them on to him, you can go now.”

  Until then he had avoided Marisa Mallo’s eyes. His head bowed, he fixed his gaze on her wrists. And it hurt him to know that what was being rumoured was true. That she had cut her wrists when her relations, the leading family in Fronteira, tried by every possible means to erase Doctor Da Barca from her mind. Marisa Mallo was all skin and bones. Marisa Mallo wore hospital bandages in place of bracelets. Marisa Mallo was prepared to die for Doctor Da Barca. It was then he went to the guardroom and very discreetly swapped the bullets for some of a different calibre. Under the darkness of night, when he assembled the revolver and tried to fill the drum, Doctor Da Barca knew that the attempt to escape had failed. Under the flagstone that, to the astonishment of the other inmates, he had managed to turn over, he hid for ever a revolver with bullets that could not be used.

  The escorts came for him a few nights later. There were people from Fronteira who knew him well and were out to get him. Among the party there was also a medical student who had failed. But Herbal did not allow them into the cells. The voice in his head prompted him. “Tell them he’s not here any more, funnily enough he was taken to Coruña this afternoon.” “Funny that. The one you’re after,” he said, “was put on trial and driven straight to Coruña today. I can’t say I envy him.” Since the others had a particular prisoner in their sights and were clearly under orders, he pretended to slit his throat. “Some names have been carefully chosen to serve as an example. They’ll be dealt with in a day or two in Campo da Rata. Don’t you worry. And long live Spain.”

  This was not entirely untrue, there had been several urgent transfers to the prison in Coruña over the last couple of days. That night, Herbal went to the governor’s office and sifted through the files until he found the transfer papers. Three schoolteachers
were due to be moved the following day. The dead man told him, “Take the warrant, now the governor’s pen, and write Da Barca’s full name in the blank space. Don’t worry, I’ll help you with the handwriting.”

  The following day, when Doctor Da Barca passed him in the doorway, bound for his new destination, in handcuffs and with no other belongings than the bag he had used as a doctor, he noticed how he fixed him with a stern gaze, eyes that said, “I shan’t forget you, razor-shell, who murdered the painter. May you live long enough for the virus of remorse and rot to spread till you gently explode.” When Marisa Mallo came, at visiting time, he told her he was not there any more, the one you’re asking for is not on the list, and gave no further explanations, as cold as can be, as if the person in question were a total stranger who had disappeared in time. And all because he wanted to see how sad the most beautiful woman could be. To see how tears spring from an inaccessible source. After a few seconds lasting an eternity, like someone catching a very fine piece of porcelain in the air just before it smashes, he added, “He’s in Coruña. Alive.”

  That same day, he went to see Sergeant Landesa. “My sergeant, I should like to ask a very personal favour.” “What is it, Herbal?” Sergeant Landesa held him in esteem. He had always carried out orders without a second thought. They understood each other well. They had trodden gorse together as kids. “Well, my sergeant, you see, I wondered if you might arrange for my transfer to Coruña. My sister lives there, she has a husband who beats her, and would take me in to keep him under control.” “That’s as good as done, Herbal. Give him a kick in the balls from me.” He signed and stamped a piece of paper, because for some reason Sergeant Landesa held more power than his rank would imply. From there he went straight to see the officer in charge of approving transfers within the corps. This was a suspicious man, of the kind who believes that their task of putting obstacles in the way is a momentous one. When he explained that he was interested in a move to the prison in Coruña, the officer interrupted him, rose from his office chair and delivered a heated discourse. “We are fighting a relentless war against evil, the salvation of Christendom depends on our victory, thousands of men are risking their lives at this very moment in the trenches. And meanwhile what are we up to? Processing applications. Mincing bullshit. Volunteers, volunteers to fight for God and country, that’s what I should like to have right here, in a line, at the door to this office.” It was then he gave him the piece of paper Sergeant Landesa had signed. The blood drained from the officer’s cheeks. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me before it was from the information service?” The painter, as if amused by the whole incident, whispered in his ear, “Tell him it is not your task to deliver discourses.” But he remained silent. “Report first thing tomorrow at your new destination. And forget what I said. The main struggle is waged in the rearguard.”

  9

  AT THE PRISON IN CORUÑA THERE WERE HUNDREDS of inmates. Everything seemed to work in an organized, more industrial way. Even the outings at night. They were taken on foot to Campo da Rata, by the sea-shore. Sometimes, during the volleys of firing, the prisoners who wore white shirts would shine out in the sails of light emanating from Hercules Lighthouse. The sea would low along the cliffs from Punta Herminia to San Amaro, like a deranged cow at the windows of the empty feeding troughs. After each volley, a silence of human lament would be heard. Until the litany of the mad cow started up again.

  One of the ways in which the night escorts entertained themselves was by postponing death. Sometimes, from among the prisoners who had been selected to be murdered, one remained alive. That piece of luck, that random life, made everything even more dramatic, before and afterwards. Before, because a tiny and capricious ray of hope impeded the sympathy of those in the line, like pebbles along the route. Afterwards, because the one who came back would certify the horror in the terror of his eyes.

  One evening at the beginning of September, he was standing on his own in a watchtower, following a cormorant in flight, when the painter’s voice spoke to him, “Try and be a volunteer tonight.” Unafraid that he might be heard, he replied angrily, “Go to hell.” “But, Herbal, surely you’re not going to leave him now?” “Go to hell, painter, haven’t you seen the way he looks at me? It’s like he’s sticking two syringes in my eyes. When Marisa comes to see him, he reckons it’s out of choice I stand in the middle listening to what they say and not even letting them touch fingertips. His trouble is that he’s no idea what an order is!” “Well,” the painter told him, “you could turn the occasional blind eye.” “I have done, you know I have, I let them touch each other’s fingertips.”

  “And what would they say to each other?” Maria da Visitação asked, joining her fingertips.

  “There was a lot of noise. There were so many inmates and visitors they couldn’t make themselves heard even at the top of their voices. They would come out with the sort of things lovers say, but a bit stranger.

  “He said that, as soon as he was free, he would go to Oporto, to Bolhão Market, and buy her a bag of coloured beans called marvels.

  “She said she would buy him a bag of hours. She knew of a trader in Valença who sold hours of lost time.

  “He said they would have a baby girl and she would turn out to be a poet.

  “She said she had dreamt they had already had a baby boy years ago, he had taken off on a boat and was now a violinist in America.

  “And I thought these were hardly worthwhile occupations at such a time.”

  That night, Herbal was waiting to go as a volunteer with the escorts when it was time for the outing. This was a curious fact. It was never announced but, as if it had something to do with the moon, everyone knew when it was a night of blood. In the firing squad, with Doctor Da Barca in front of him, he pretended to care even less, as if he were setting eyes on him for the first time. But then, when he aimed, he remembered his uncle the trapper and said with his look, “I wish I didn’t have to, my friend.” The prisoners, well versed in the art of martyrdom, tried to remain upright on the piles of rubbish in Campo da Rata, but the strong sea breeze made them flap like clothes hung from the cable of a ship. The first to shoot, to open the season, waited for a sail of light to pass, so that there would be a longer period of darkness. It felt as if they were firing into the wind. A little stronger and a gust of the north-easterly would bring down the dead on top of them.

  Doctor Da Barca continued to remain upright.

  “Take him,” the painter whispered urgently in his ear. “Move!”

  “This one’s coming back!” Herbal said. And he snatched at him swiftly like a hunter carrying a live wood pigeon by the wings.

  Anyone who returned from the journey to death became part of a different order of existence. They would sometimes lose their mind and power of speech on the way. To the escorts themselves, they became a kind of invisible, immune being, who had to be ignored for some time until they resumed their mortal nature.

  But Doctor Da Barca was sought again after only a couple of days.

  “Wake up, didn’t you hear the bolts?” the painter alerted Herbal, shaking him by the ear. “Uh-uh, not this time,” the guard said to the voice. “That’s it. Leave me alone. If he has to die, I hope he’s struck down on the spot.” “Listen. Are you going to give up now? You’ve no risk involved,” said the painter. “I haven’t?” Herbal replied, on the verge of shouting. “I’m almost going mad, or doesn’t that seem much to you?” “It’s not bad for a time like this,” said the painter laconically.

  The guards at the main gate had let a group of escorts into the prison, people he did not know, except for one who sent a shiver running down his spine, he who had seen it all before: a priest he had come across at an official ceremony, now wearing a blue shirt and with a pistol on his belt. They scoured corridors and cells, picking off men from a list. “Is that everyone?” “There’s one missing. Daniel Da Barca.” The muffled silence of a wake. The torch lit up a bulge on the ground. Dombodán. Herbal saying,
“That must be him.” But then, the ghost’s determined voice, “Who is it you’re after?” “Daniel Da Barca.” “Yes, that’s me, over here.”

  “Now what?” Herbal asks, unsure what to do. “Follow them, you fool!” the painter tells him.

  The word went around the cells. Doctor Da Barca was being taken out for a second time. As if this were as far as misfortune could go, the prison spewed out all the pent-up shouts of despair and rage from that never-ending summer of 1936. The pipes, the bars, the walls, a fierce percussion affecting men and things.

  On the way, on the shore of San Amaro Beach, Herbal was saying, “This one’s mine. A personal matter.”

  He dragged Doctor Da Barca down to the sand, punched him in the stomach and brought him to his knees. He grabbed his hair, “Open your mouth, for Christ’s sake.” The barrel between his teeth. “Better not break them,” thought the doctor. He put the barrel in his mouth. At the last moment he lowered the trajectory.

  “One queer less,” he said.

  In the morning some washerwomen found him. They cleaned his wounds with sea water. They were disturbed by some soldiers. “Where did this one come from?” “Where do you think? From the prison, like all the rest.” They gestured towards the dead. “What are you going to do with him?” the women asked. “Take him back, what else are we going to do? Get our balls chopped off?”

  “Poor man! Is there no God in heaven?”