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River Monelos. Three thousand were a lot of buffaloes. At that time, at the turn of the century, four million buffaloes were being slaughtered each year. Four million tongues. With the bones, they could have built another Wall of China. They lacked a monumental imagination.
    ‘Holando’s right,’ said Arturo da Silva. ‘That really would turn things upside down if we stopped being carnivorous. You know what the monks of Oseira used to do during Lent, when it was forbidden to eat meat. They’d drop pigs in the river and then fish them out with nets. The farmers, who couldn’t get a whiff of bacon for fear of being excommunicated, went to the abbot to protest, but the abbot replied, “Anything in a net counts as fish!”’
    Galicia’s lightweight champion put his head and elbows on the mossy ground and stretched his legs athletically up in the air. Head down, he said, ‘I need a steak for boxing.’
    Terranova approaches him. He walks comically, like a barefoot Chaplin, carrying a stalk of hay like an imaginary stick, and points with it at the champ’s penis while reciting a classic line from his dockside repertoire: ‘I am that vast, secret promontory you Portuguese call the Cape of Storms.’ Arturo can’t stand being tickled with the straw and can’t help laughing at the irony. He jumps to his feet and chases after Terranova, who’s already cleared a gorse bush, scaled a crag and is standing on top like a statue on its plinth. He covers and uncovers himself with his hands, ‘O thou, Great Prick, who art fallen low! Lurdo di Columnata! Poor bacon of mine cured in Carrara marble.’
    His skin was so brown it gave the impression he’d spent his life naked in the sun. And he sprang about the rocks without having to watch his feet. The school of fishing for barnacles on Gaivoteira, Altar, Cabalo das Praderías, the great outcrops underneath the lighthouse. How he loved an attentive audience he could sing to, amuse with his dockside knowledge, this international wit that charmed old Master Amil during his evening classes at the Rationalist School! Terranova climbed a natural step. Covered and uncovered his sex.
    ‘It’s not my fault. Luba, the girl from the Normandie , told me, “If it’s small, it’s not your fault but Baba’s.” “Who’s Baba?” “Who do you think? The devil. He used superhuman force against you, a potency greater than yours.” Hearing that from a stewardess on board the largest steamship in the world left me a wreck. “Is there a cure, Luba?” “Of course there’s a cure. Travel round the world.” And she burst out laughing. You should have seen the teeth on that woman. They say, after the fire in Lino’s Pavilion, only the organ keys remained intact. Well, that’s what Luba’s teeth were like. They should put her portrait as a figurehead on the bows of the Normandie. She’s so cheerful it’s frightening. “What do you mean, Luba,” I said to her, “travel round the world?” You should see those teeth. The Normandie ’s most valuable asset. It’s thanks to them the steamship keeps moving.’
    ‘Forget about that. What’s the cure?’
    ‘Read Brazo y Cerebro! And obey the commandments of naturism.’
    Holando chucked a pebble at his belly-button. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
    ‘I’m sorry, I can’t say. It’s against all my religions.’
    ‘Even better then.’
    ‘Luba said, “The woman should be sky and the man earth.”’
    ‘And that gives you a bigger penis?’
    ‘It gives you a bigger everything, darling.’
    ‘Here we are, drying out like gods.’
    ‘Like eels. Don’t talk to me about gods.’
    ‘Greek gods,’ said Holando. ‘I like them. They spent the day ascending and descending between the two worlds. They weren’t afraid of slipping on the fig-leaf. Prometheus was a libertarian. The first to break the chains. Dionysius too. We should take him to Caneiros as our patron saint. That’s to say nothing about Aphrodite,