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out of the dance halls. And they’re no good for jazz or any of that. You’ll end up on your own, on the mountain, playing the bagpipes for the treasure dwarfs and their Moorish princesses.’
    ‘What do you mean, no good for jazz? You’re dumber than a baritone. Wind . . .’
    ‘A trumpet, a saxophone . . . That’s music, Polka. The music of the future.’
    ‘One day, you’ll hear the bagpipes in a jazz piece, you fool,’ replied Polka. He was really annoyed now. Everyone knew Polka was annoyed when he called someone a fool.
    ‘Polka’s right,’ said Seoane. ‘Mozart included a knife-grinder’s whistle in The Magic Flute .’
    Luís Terranova danced on top of a rock, moving his pubis in voluptuous parody of a folk-dance:
    All those steps
    they’re now doin’
    inside out
    outside in!
    ‘Shame Curtis can’t sing,’ observed Arturo da Silva. ‘We’d have ourselves a Paul Robeson instead of a Luís Terranova.’
    ‘Paul Robeson! He’s the best,’ said the violinist Seoane with enthusiasm. ‘The voice of humanity, the earth and cosmos. Once, when he sang in New York, all the buildings of the banks on Wall Street started shaking. Supposing Robeson were to sing in Hercules Lighthouse, we’d be able to hear him over here, on Ara Solis . . .’
    Ol’ man river
    Dat ol’ man river
    He mus’ know sumpin’
    But don’t say nuthin’
    ‘The length of the strings and the vibration of sound are in proportion. Robeson’s strings are made from gut. What we need is a Paul Robeson. A voice that’ll make bankers shake and stones wail.’
    ‘With or without Robeson, we can’t go to Caneiros without the bagpipes,’ declared Holando. ‘They’re our cosmic egg! The mother of all airs. Come on, Polka!’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Polka. ‘I’m not sure I’ll take them.’
    Luís Terranova slipped off the crag and knelt in front of Polka.
    ‘Your blessing, father.’
    Polka made the sign of the Cross and murmured, ‘ Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis, etc. Now say three Our Fathers.’
    Terranova stood up and wiped the earth and grass from his knees. ‘Three Our Fathers?’ he replied. ‘I only know one.’
    While the others were getting dressed, Polka shielded his eyes and once again scanned the valley. On the other side of San Cristovo, beyond Agrela, was Fontenova. That glint had to be the quicksilver glass sign of Shining Light, which Isolino Díaz had made in the Rubine glassworks. It had been a good idea to put up a sign. A sun in the middle of a fire.
    He was going to say this, proclaim it out loud. But the others were giggling about something. So he mentioned it to the person nearest to him, Arturo da Silva. After all, it had been his idea.
    ‘You see? That mirror over there is Shining Light.’ The glint caused a smile to spread across the boxer’s hardened features.
    Look how easy it is to make a man happy, thought Polka. A glint in the distance.
    They were laughing because of Holando, who’d sunbathed on a rock, but left the book of naturist commandments lying on his chest. This part of his skin had remained white and pallid while the rest of him was bronzed and done to a turn around the edges. The mark of a book on his skin. A natural print.
    ‘Minerva’ll be shocked,’ said Seoane. ‘Now you’ll have to add a title with a hot iron.’ He then announced, ‘Next Sunday, the 19th of July, we’re all going to that beach where the girls get dressed up in seaweed. And on the 2nd of August, it’s the trip to Caneiros. Anyone without a ticket for the special train, talk to Hercules.’
    ‘Here he comes again,’ said Polka. ‘Training for his first communion.’
    There he was, running back along the paths in between the maize fields: Vicente Curtis, Papagaio’s own Hercules and Arturo da Silva’s sparring partner.
    ‘Yep, his first fight’s on the 17th,’ said Arturo. ‘He’ll need your support. This lad’ll be the glory of Galicia. He’s as much air in his