Free The Manual of Darkness by Enrique de Hériz Page A

the child he could not find a better ballad than this, slow almost to the point of solemn but with a swing beat that made it miraculously happy and delightful. It was difficult to listen to it just once. When Víctor inherited the record, the needle of the record player had ploughed the grooves so often that Armstrong’s voice sounded as though it were competing with a chorus of crickets. But still he played it. Over the years, he collected every available version of the song, though none seemed to be as good as the original.
    The magical effect, if it had ever had one, vanished when he needed it the most. For Víctor, there came a time when his tears were all too real and his father was not there to sing ‘If’ to him. In fact, it was his absence Víctor mourned, so the very mention of the song made him cry all the more. And yet still he went on playing it, singing it so often that it became a sort of automatic reflex, not only in the face of sorrow, but also when something threatened his peace of mind. Whenever he felt scared or nervous, or when he simply needed to concentrate, the notes to ‘If’ came from his throat unbidden, so changed that they no longer seemed to form a melody. It was a habit Galván supposedly rid him of once and for all, but one would have to come very close to Víctor to know whether the tremulous sound he makes constantly these days is a whimper of grief or the first six notes of ‘If’: B, C, B, A, G, A. Is that it, Víctor? Again? If they made me a king? But they have made you a king. You are king of the world. The finest magician. Dethroned by a song. Song? Which song? This one, Víctor, the same song as always.
    Galván made you strip. First the glasses, then the shirt. Then, when your terrified hands sought refuge in your pockets, he made you take off your trousers. He took away the table and the chairs, stepped back into the darkness and commanded you to sing. You wanted to disappear. Why didn’t you just pick up your clothes and leave? You stayed in order to side with him. Standing there, bashful. Stripped of everything, even your short-sighted eyesnaked, you bowed your head and the blurred pile of clothes at your feet made you think there was a dead body lying there, that it was bitterly cold, that the dead body could be you. You made the sound again, a sound like clearing your throat, but now it is recognisably B, C, B, and Galván’s voice kept hammering in your ears, Sing, sing louder, I can’t hear you, Víctor, sing. Perhaps it would have been enough to give form to the melody – after all, he only wanted to make you sing, to make you realise. But then you sang the first line: ‘
If they made me a king
’. You shivered a little, brought your knees together like the helpless little boy you claimed not to be any more, but you did sing. Softly, out of tune, you sang the first verse almost without moving your lips, and when you reached the second verse, it was not Galván who was urging you on, but Armstrong himself, until you thought you could see his pearly teeth shining in the dark. Or perhaps it was your father. Your father, Víctor. His face, not Armstrong’s. His face bending down as though he could press his lips to the belly of time and ask you to sing to put an end to all the tears, so that your voice rose to sing the third verse at the top of your lungs: ‘If I ruled the earth, what would life be worth, If I hadn’t the right to you Baa-Daa-Baa-Doo Baa-Dah-Boo-Dee’. You thought you could see him smiling, and when you finished you were sure it was him clapping until Galván took a step forward, became visible, his arms wide, and said, ‘Come here, come here, you silly boy,’ and though three minutes earlier you would have sworn undying hatred, you rushed into his arms, which were Armstrong’s arms and your father’s arms and your own arms, hugging them all at once. Put your clothes on, Víctor.
    It worked. When Víctor bent down to pick up his clothes, what