When we officially inaugurated La Madriguera, on Saturday, July 27, 2019, our opening slogan was: «Bring us a book and we'll treat you to a coffee». We thought it would be a good way to socialize, to make ourselves known and, let's be honest, to fill our shelves a little, which at that time were quite empty.
The first person to show up, with a book under his arm, even before we opened our doors, was Fabio. And don't think he came with just any copy. If memory serves me correctly, he brought us the first volume of the Complete Works of Manuel Padorno, a tome of more than 800 pages that he had already read. A new work, recently published by Pre-Textos in 2016, which costs almost €30 brand new. He gave us that marvel simply in exchange for some sweets and a coffee. But he didn't stop there. Fabio immediately took a photo of the bookstore's facade and uploaded it to his Facebook profile. Well, that image was shared, in its day, by more than 400 people. That single photograph gave us more instant visibility on social networks than all the interviews I did during that pre-pandemic summer in various media outlets. The event itself was a success that far exceeded our expectations: many people came, we had a great time, and in general, the reception was unbeatable. But I will never forget that the first person who came to the event, the first reader that La Madriguera had when absolutely no one knew us, was Fabio.
Then, over the years, he showed us his enormous generosity and his unlimited altruism. Not only did he donate several boxes of books during one of his moves (and imagine what was inside: quality literature, friends; because Fabio is, above all, a voracious reader), but he continually recommended us to his students and friends. I remember one afternoon three teenagers showed up at the bookstore looking for books that their history teacher had recommended to them.
I soon discovered, in addition, his admirable facet as a literary guide. Thanks to Fabio I was able to meet in person different writers to whom he professed cult. It was he who, one morning, appeared with Nicolás Dorta at La Madriguera. They had the detail of stopping by to say hello before the Tenerife author presented Las zonas comunes, his first book of short stories, in the Sala El Aljibe of Haría, where Fabio acted as master of ceremonies. The good Nico took this candid photo of Fabio and me at the entrance of the bookstore, when we were still wearing masks. I was even more excited that he introduced me to María Gutiérrez, ‘Puri’, the author of Chilajitos, whose poetic micro-stories I had liked so much. And when the great Elsa López, a few months before being awarded the Canary Islands Prize for Literature, was at the Sociedad Torrelavega talking about her latest book of short stories, Ella quiere ser sorda, Fabio invited me to have a drink with his colleagues at the end of that unforgettable evening. There, on the terrace of Bar Asturias, I met, among others, Rubén Mettini, the Dorian Gray of writers, with his perfect, eternally young complexion.
That's why, when the day before yesterday afternoon, in just one hour, two friends in common, Pepe Betancort and Daniel Jordán, told me that Fabio was leaving us, that they had not renewed his contract at the IES Agustín Espinosa where he was so excited to teach, to send him to Gran Canaria, I was extremely saddened. First for himself, but above all for us. Because although I know for sure that Fabio will return to the island as soon as he can (we spoke yesterday morning, and what a soap opera he is), right now we are deprived of the immediate pleasure of his company, his virus-proof optimism and his contagious joy, which we need so much in these dark times. And even worse, his students are robbed of a passionate teacher, involved with teaching as much as possible.
But there is an even more serious crime. Because with Fabio's departure we not only lose a teacher and a friend, a lover of letters and a disinterested promoter of Lanzarote's culture. With his departure we lose —and here we all lose— an extraordinary poet. A man capable of writing a poem to a tree that was in front of his house when it was cut down. A soul so sensitive as to make us perceive the melancholy of the volcanoes (the expression is his, not mine). In a chronicle of Lanzarote and I, Leandro Perdomo wondered, almost half a century ago, where was the poet of Arrecife; to end up concluding, disillusioned, that in that era he did not see him. And he left us a couple of warnings for posterity: «Without a poet, Arrecife will not be saved, it will not be able to save itself». The final phrase cannot be more significant: «Poor are the peoples without poets! Where is the poet of Arrecife?».
Today I want to answer that question that Leandro left hanging in the air. The poet of Arrecife was here, right in front of our very noses. I have been repeating his name throughout this article. Because I firmly believe (and I know for sure that I am not the only one who thinks so) that the poet of Arrecife is Fabio. Fabio Carreiro Lago. Call me crazy, if you want. Time (if he returns), will tell. I hope it is so —and sooner rather than later—, because if Leandro's prophecy is true (and in these things he rarely tends to be wrong), then we are lost: because without his poet, without Fabio Carreiro Lago, Arrecife will not be saved, it will not be able to save itself.
What the hell are they waiting for to bring him back?
