Extracts from writer's works
Jimenez Ormaetxea, Edorta
Narrative (short story and novel)
Chuck it down!
I will not be in a position to give an adequate account of what happened in Braulio's workshop, not because I do not feel like it, or for some other reason, but because K, my informant, has not yet got round to sorting out the details.
K -this is "neighbourhood biography" so I have to abbreviate my informant's name with this capital letter- is now in the grip of a new obsession, but with autumn approaching he will, hopefully, manage to get round to the matter, and we will see whether he can find out the exact date, in other words the day and year of the events that took place in Braulio's workshop. The thing is K is not very sure exactly what happened, either.
I have no idea who got me mixed up in the whole affair, but quite a few people do, in fact, regard me as a chronicler and that's why they keep telling me anything which could, in their opinion, constitute something to write about: "Do you know about the., and this, that and the other. Do you remember what happened there? About what happened where? About what happened in Braulio's workshop. I haven't heard anything about that." And that is where my obligation to write a chronicle sprang from, as if I had been the one chosen to gather together the most surprising events that have ever taken place in the town. The informant I mentioned before, the one known as K, does not, however, have all the details. The date would be the most important thing, because if I knew that, I could scour the old newspapers. But no way; there was no date, no details even about the number of dead; you see, it was quite clear that K would not have told me any old story that did not involve blood; except for sex which, in the absence of blood, would be the only thing that would make the work of recounting something worthwhile.
If K has indeed made no effort to find out the details, I have to assume that the reason is in some way connected with sex, at least if a sixty-year-old man going up and down the beach with his eyes wide open can be regarded as sexual activity. All he -K- does is look out of the corner of his eye at the women whose tits are exposed, a glance faster than a machinegun, a glance and he carries on with his walk, the passion of his eyes satisfied for a brief moment. In short, K has a reputation as a voyeur, and while the weather helps, he has no time to go to the neighbouring town and find out the exact day and all the details connected with the happenings in Braulio's workshop. Perhaps when winter comes he may have the chance to go and ask questions. In the meantime, having become the chronicler in this little town on the fringes of the Last Empire, I am writing down what K has to say in this complicated, elusive, colonised language that does not even have half a million speakers. I have my work cut out.
The exact details so far are: Braulio's workshop was the first to start making boilers, and even if it was still open until a short time ago, new houses have now sprung up in its place, and there were many deaths. Braulio himself will have turned to dust by now. We are fairly sure about the year, too, because an old man whose eyes reflect the sleeplessness of all the seas has told me; and I hope K will forgive me for resorting to alternative sources, because while there is no change in the weather, he will be taking his walks along the beach looking out for and making furtive glances at any tits, because I've got to finish this story; it was in the spring of 1941.
It was spring, K himself said so. We were going around just in our shirtsleeves, I used to go to private classes, and so I remember they used the lorry belonging to Trilita -that was his nickname-, because at that time there weren't any ambulances, the wounded and dead were all put in Trilita's lorry, and also on those wide carts used in those days in ships' warehouses, piled high with the wounded, blood everywhere, masses of them dead, including my uncle Domingo, but I don't recall his surname. When K gets into the swing, he reels off the whole story parrot-fashion, adding this or that piece of information from time to time, because what makes K think this story constitutes literature is what could have taken place, and not what actually took place; on each occasion he gives more and more details about one single main event, as if wanting to say: there's the main picture and now another small detail. Now K and I have in front of us Modesto, the man who has the mist and sleeplessness of all the seas in his eyes. Wasn't the lorry a foreign make, the one that had a cab for the driver and co-driver? You see, the fishing guilds and people like that went to Bilbao and places in lorries, didn't they? K himself has worked as a lorry driver, and the clearest proof is the detail about the cabin, because it shows that he observed lorries from a very young age, because he still has a picture of the lorry in his head; the lorry, the blood pouring down its sides. And Modesto, the man with the mist and sleeplessness of all the seas in his eyes, says lots of them died, but I don't know how many.
The thing is there had been this round object in Braulio's workshop for ages; it had been found in the sea, an iron thing, and it seems that the skipper who had found it in the sea said it would do to make a buoy, just weld a ring onto it there and hey presto, it's a buoy; when they returned to port, the skipper said to the little boy, take it to Braulio's workshop. And there it stood, that iron thing, it was absolutely round; until some chap in the workshop was supposed to weld half a ring, half a band, or half a link onto it in two spots, and the buoy was made, and that was it. And give your mum the change and forever pulling the little boy's leg. But nothing like that really happened. No one actually welded anything onto that round iron thing, and besides, the workers kept bumping into it, and one of them kicked it into a corner, and the ones in the corner bumped into it and kicked it into another corner, uttering Bloody thing! Sod it! And that went on for two months.
The second month, and K gives the approximate date, because he may have mixed up all the delays in the workshops while he had the lorry with the delay in Braulio's workshop, so, I say, the second month, the skipper was pissed off and said hey, you, get down to Braulio's workshop and bring that bloody buoy, whether it's been made or not, because it's been two months. The little boy goes to Braulio's place and picks up the lump of iron. About time, too, says Braulio giving it another kick. Get it out of here, it was done two months ago -what a bloody liar!- And the little lad with the lump of iron goes off to the port, and drops it from time to time, because it was heavy, and in the end, down at the docks, the skipper, who is in a boat, shouts to the boy: "Hey, chuck it down!"
According to K, it was low tide, and the upper part of the harbour was full of seamen who took advantage of these occasions to paint their boats. The bloody buoy hit the mud and exploded.
It was during the Second World War. That buoy was nothing more than an explosive mine dumped by some warship. In K's view, and there lay the key to his interest in the matter, if the hot welding had not caused the lump of iron to explode, why did it explode there on the mud? And how many died? Masses, said K himself.
Manolo tells me the number dead was 48, because I tried another source as I wasn't getting anywhere with K. But until I know the date, I cannot confirm the number. Maybe that round number of 48 was the number of fascists Manolo killed while he was with the Communist battalion.
In the meantime, K goes up and down the beach throwing furtive glances at the tits, and every day we meet, he tells me, thank God it didn't explode in the village. K always remembers the number who could have died, because forty-eight does not seem very high for literature. I, myself, think there were two, or something like that. No more. Otherwise the story would appear in a Sunday supplement every year. Who knows. The thing is I still have not managed to recount what took place in Braulio's workshop properly. Maybe in the winter. When the voyeurs take a rest.
