Your Face Tomorrow: Fever and Spear

by Javier Marías

  ‘But it wasn’t always so,’ he continued with his own thoughts. ‘Throughout the centuries, they too shared speech and language, at least in the imaginations of the living, that is, of the future dead. Not just the talkative ghosts and loquacious phantoms, the chatty spirits and garrulous spectres present in almost all traditions. It was also assumed that they would, quite naturally, talk and speak and tell tales in the other world. In that same scene from Shakespeare, for example, before the king gives his soliloquy, one of the soldiers with whom he speaks says that the king will have a hard time of it should the cause of the war prove to have been a bad one: “When all those legs and arms and heads, chopped off in a battle,” he says, “shall join together at the latter day, and cry all, ‘We died at such a place.’ ” You see, that was what they believed, not only that the dead would speak and even protest, but that their scattered, separated heads and limbs would protest as well, once reunited to present themselves for judgement with due decorum.’

  ‘We died at such a place.’ That was what Wheeler had said in his language, and in my own language I completed the Cervantes quotation to myself, the one he had not allowed me to finish and which also bore witness to that same belief: ‘Farewell, wit; farewell, charm; farewell, dear, delightful friends; for I am dying, and hope to see you soon, happily installed in the other life.’ That was what Cervantes hoped for, I thought, no complaints and no accusations, no reproaches, no settling of accounts or demands for compensation for all his earthly troubles and grievances, of which he had known not a few. Not even a final judgement, which is what the unbeliever most misses. Instead, a renewed encounter with wit and charm, with his dear, delightful friends, who would also find contentment in the next life. That is the only thing from which he takes his leave, the only thing he would wish to preserve in the eternity for which he is bound. I had often heard my father speak of that written farewell, which is not as famous as it deserves to be, it can be found in a book which almost no one reads and which may, nevertheless, be greater than all the others, greater even than Don Quixote. I would have liked to remind Wheeler of the whole quotation, but I did not dare to insist or to cause him to deviate from his path. Instead, I accompanied him along the way, saying:

  ‘The very idea of a Final Judgement meant that, according to common expectations, that would be what people would mostly be doing after death: telling everyone’s story, then talking, relating, describing, arguing, refuting, appealing and, in the end, hearing sentence. Besides, a trial on such a monumental scale, the trial on a single day of everyone who had ever lived on Earth, Egyptian pharaohs rubbing shoulders with modern-day business executives and taxi-drivers, Roman emperors with modern-day beggars and gangsters and astronauts and bullfighters. Imagine the noise, Peter, the entire history of the world with all its individual cases transformed into a madhouse. And the more remote and ancient dead would get fed up with waiting, with counting the uncountable time that would elapse before their Judgement, doubtless furious about the literally infinite delay. They who had remained silent and alone for millions of centuries, waiting for the last person to die and for no one else to be left alive. That belief condemned us all to a very long silence. There you have a true example of “the whips and scorns of time”, “the law’s delay”,’ and this time I was the one to quote from his poet. ‘And according to that belief, the very first man ever to die would, right now, still be counting the hours of his silent solitude, those that had passed and those still to come; and if I were him, I would be selfishly longing for the world to end once and for all and for there finally to be nothing.’

  Wheeler smiled. Something in what I had said, or perhaps more than one thing, had amused him.

  ‘Exactly,’ he replied. ‘A silence sine die: that would be the best-case scenario, assuming one’s faith was unshakeable. But there is, of course, the aggravating factor that, by then, during the Second World War, hardly anyone believed in that parliament or justification or final report by each individual at the end of time, and it was hard to think that the heads and limbs which, night after night, were being shattered by the bombs raining down on those cities could ever one day be reunited in order to cry out at some later date: “We died at such a place”; and it was little consolation that the causes were just, and it mattered still less if they were or weren’t good, when the main cause of all the dying and killing became instead mere survival, one’s own or that of those one loved. It probably hadn’t been much believed before that either, perhaps not since the First World War, which was no less ghastly for the world that watched it and which is also my world, don’t forget, as is this world that contains both you and me today, or is perhaps merely dragging us along with it. Atrocities make men into unbelievers, at least in their innermost consciousness and feelings, even if, out of some superstitious reflex reaction, or some other reaction based on a mixture of tradition and surrender, they decide to pretend the opposite and gather together in churches to sing hymns in order to feel closer and to instil themselves not so much with courage as with integrity and resignation, just as soldiers used to sing as they advanced, almost defenceless, bayonets fixed, mostly in order to anaesthetise themselves a little with their cries before the impact or the blow or being hurled into the air, in order to numb thoughts that had been wounded long before the flesh ever was, and to silence the various sounds made by death as it prowled around on the look-out for easy prey. I know this, I’ve seen it in the field. But it isn’t only the acts of savagery, the cruelties, those one has suffered and those one has oneself committed, all in the cause of survival, which is as just as it is unjust. It is also the stubbornness of the facts: the fact that no one has ever come to talk to us after they have died, despite all the efforts of spiritualists, visionaries, phantasmophiles, miraculists and even our present-day unbelieving believers, who, even though their belief is only residual and habitual, can be counted in their millions; long experience has forced us to recognise over the centuries, perhaps only in our heart of hearts and possibly without ever actually admitting as much to ourselves, that the only people who have no language and never speak or tell or say anything are the dead.’ Peter stopped and looked down again, and added at once, without looking up: ‘And that includes us, of course, when we join their ranks. But only then and not before.’

  He remained like that, staring at the grass. He seemed to be waiting for me to make some comment or to ask some question. But I didn’t know which, which of those two things he wanted and for which one he was silently asking me, or if he really needed either. And so the only thing that occurred to me was to whisper in my own language, a language in which the words had not originally been written, but the only one in which I knew them:

  ‘It is strange to inhabit the earth no longer. Strange no longer to be what one was …and to abandon even one’s own name. Strange no longer to desire one’s desires. And being dead is such hard work.’

  Fortunately, I suppose, Wheeler ignored this too.

  ‘Yes, they only talk to us in our dreams,’ he went on, as if my unattended half-verses had, none the less, triggered some reaction. ‘And we hear them so clearly, and their presence is so vivid, that, as long as sleep lasts, these people with whom we can never exchange a word or a look when awake, or make any contact, seem to be the very people who are, in fact, telling us things and listening to us and even cheering our spirits with their longed-for laughter, identical to the laughter we knew when they were alive on this earth: it’s exactly the same, that laughter; we recognise it unhesitatingly. It really is very strange; if pressed, I would say inexplicable, it is one of the few intact mysteries left to us. One thing is certain, though, at least for rationalists like you and like me, and as Toby was and Tupra still is, those voices and their new voices are inside us, not somewhere outside. They are in our imagination and in our memory. Let’s put it like this: it is our memory imagining, and not, for once, only remembering, or, rather, doing so in impure, motley fashion. They are in our dreams, the dead;
we are the ones dreaming them, our sleeping consciousness brings them to us and no one else can hear them. It is more like an impersonation’ (a word that translates into Spanish as a mixture of encamación, suplantación and personificatión) ‘than a supposed visitation or warning from beyond the grave. Such a mechanism is not unknown to us, when we’re awake I mean. Sometimes you love someone so much that it’s very easy to see the world through their eyes and to feel what that other person feels, in so far as it’s possible to understand another person’s feelings. To foresee that person, to anticipate them. Literally, to put yourself in their place. That’s why the expression exists, very few expressions in a language exist in vain. And if we do that when we’re awake, then it’s hardly surprising that these fusions or conversions or juxtapositions, metamorphoses almost, should occur while we’re asleep. Do you know that sonnet by Milton? Milton had been blind for some time when he wrote it, but he dreamed one night of his dead wife Catherine, and he saw and heard her perfectly in that dimension, that of the dream, which so welcomes and withstands the poetic narrative. And in that dimension he recovered his vision threefold: his own, as faculty and sense; the impossible image of his wife, for neither he nor anyone else could still see her in the present, she had been erased from the earth; and, above all, her face and figure, which, in him, were not even remembered but imagined, new and never seen before, because he had never seen her in life other than with his mind and with his touch, she was his second wife and he was already blind when they married. And as he leaned forwards to embrace her in the dream, “I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night”, that’s how it ends. With the dead you always return to night and to hearing only their silence and to never receiving a reply. No, they never talk, they are the only ones; and they are also the majority, if we count all those who have passed through the world and left it behind. Although they all doubtless talked when they were here.’ Wheeler touched the drawings again, tapped them with his index finger, pointing at them vehemently as if they were more than they were. ‘Do you realise what this meant, Jacobo? They were asking people to be silent, to sew up their lips, to keep their mouths tight shut, to abstain from all careless talk and even from talk that might not seem careless. They filled everyone with fear, even children. Fear of themselves and of betraying themselves, and, of course, fear of other people, even the person one most loved, the person who was closest and most trusted. So, when you think about it, what they were asking with these slogans was not just that people should renounce the air, but that by doing so, they should become assimilated with the dead. And this at a time when each day brought us news of so many new dead, those on the infinite fronts scattered around half the globe, or those you could see in your own neighbourhood, in your own street, victims of the night-time bombing raids, when anyone might be the next. Weren’t those deaths enough? Wasn’t it enough, that definitive and irreversible silence imposed on so many without those of us still alive having to imitate them and fall silent before our time? How could they ask that of a whole country or of anyone, even of an isolated individual? If you look at these posters (and there were more), you’ll see that no one, however insignificant, was excluded. What interesting or dangerous information, for example, could those two ladies travelling on the Underground be harbouring, they’re probably talking about their hats or about the most innocuous details of their daily lives. Ah, but their husband or brother or son might have been called up, that was the norm, and although their men, already forewarned, would not have told them much, they might know something of importance that could be used, how can I put it, without their even knowing that they knew it or unaware of its importance. Everyone could know something, even the most misanthropic beggar to whom nobody speaks, not just in time of war but never, and even though the majority aren’t aware of the precious nature of what they know. And the less conscious one is, the more dangerous one becomes. It may seem like an exaggeration, but everyone is capable of unleashing calamities, disasters, crimes, tragic misunderstandings and acts of revenge merely by speaking, innocently and freely. It is always possible and even easy to let the cat out of the bag or, as you say in Spanish, irse de la lengua, what a lovely expression, at once so broad and so precise, covering both the intentional and the involuntary nature of the action.’ And Wheeler, of course, said that lovely expression, irse de la lengua, in Spanish. ‘Whatever the era or the circumstances, no one is safe from that. And never forget: everything has its moment to be believed, however unlikely or anodyne, however incredible or stupid.’

  Wheeler looked up again, as if he had heard before I did what I heard immediately afterwards, but only after a few seconds, the noise of an engine in the air and that of a propeller too, perhaps he had got used to picking up the slightest sound or aerial vibration during the war or during his wars, before it was even audible, I suppose it’s also possible to learn to have a presentiment of a presentiment. Then a helicopter appeared, flying low over the trees, an odd sight in the Oxford sky, still more so at a weekend, on one of those Sundays in exile from the infinite, perhaps some academic ceremony was being held that required the presence of the Prime Minister or some other high-ranking official or someone else from the crowded monarchical ladder (the Duke and Duchess of Kent seem to be in a dozen places at once, with, it’s said, supernatural help) and about which we knew nothing, Wheeler had been retired for so long now that, with each year that passed, the university authorities were more and more inclined to forget to invite him to their solemn feasts. British premiers have traditionally shown a kind of homing instinct for our university, although, during my time as a teacher there, I still remember how we members of the congregation denied a doctorate honoris causa, by a majority vote, to the modest Mrs Thatcher (the rancorous Margaret Hilda) when she was still only Mrs and not Baroness or Lady. She was an Oxford graduate and was in power at the time, but that didn’t help her much. I had a temporary right to vote and it was with great excitement and pleasure that I gave my vote to the nay-saying majority. The woman took the snub badly, and later appeared to exact her revenge by imposing restrictions and laws prejudicial to Oxford University and to others too, but she was the first Prime Minister to whom such a degree had been denied, for it had been awarded to all or almost all her predecessors, with barely any opposition, a mere formality, or, shall we say, graciously.

  The noise of the blades immediately became unbearable, Peter clapped his hands over his ears and at the same time screwed up his eyes hard, as if the clatter — a giant rattle — hurt his eyes too, and thus he could not prevent the drawings from being blown about in the turbulence. He didn’t even see this happen. I tried to hold down those I could with my hands, but only very few. The helicopter started making passes overhead, as if we were the object of its vigilance, perhaps it amused the pilot to see this frightened old man and to watch his companion chasing after some elusive bits of paper that were heading in the direction of the river. I had to hurl myself flat on the grass (not just once or twice either) to rescue the more graspable papers before they fell into the water, while the helicopter circled overhead with what I perceived, possibly erroneously, to be mockery, as I hurled myself this way and that. Then it moved off and disappeared in a matter of seconds, just as it had come. A few drawings were still flying about, especially the newspaper cuttings, which were the lightest, I feared that Fraser’s ‘Information to the Enemy’ might not only crumble like a papyrus (it was over sixty years old that bit of paper), but also get a soaking. I was still chasing after various of these when I saw that Wheeler had finally opened his eyes as well as his ears, and — with his hands free again — was now raising one arm to his forehead — or it may have been his wrist to his temple — as if he were in pain or were checking to see if he had a fever, or perhaps it was a gesture of horror. And I saw that he had stretched out his other arm, pointing with his forefinger just as he had the previous night when he couldn’t find the word he wanted and I had to guess or work out what it was. I would have as
sumed that this was the same thing again, this momentary aphasia, had it not been preceded by the helicopter flying over and by Peter’s contrived deafness and blindness while the blades thundered above us, I had seen him, how can I put it, defenceless and helpless, and possibly overcome. I went fearfully over to him, I abandoned the bits of paper for the moment, abandoned my hunt for the remaining rebellious items.

  ‘Peter, are you feeling ill, is something wrong?’ He shook his head and continued pointing with a look of alarm on his face at the banks of the peaceful Cherwell, I didn’t need approximations this time: ‘The cartoon?’ I asked, and he nodded at once even though I think I may have used the wrong term, it was the original cutting that was worrying him, he had only become aware of the danger when he opened his eyes after his initial fright or his lightning realisation, not before; and so off I went again, I ran, leapt, fell, caught it, closing my fingers on it, still intact, on the very edge of the gently flowing stream, I must have looked like one of those fielders in cricket who hurl themselves to the ground, in that quintessentially English game about which I understand nothing, or else a goalkeeper in a football match performing a full-length save, in that no longer so quintessentially English game which I understand perfectly. The air had grown still again, I picked up another two or three bits of paper from the ground, they were all safe, none had been lost, none had got wet, a few were merely slightly crumpled. ‘Here you are, Peter, I think they’re all here, and they hardly seem to be damaged at all,’ I said, smoothing some of them out. But Wheeler was still unable to speak, and he pointed at me repeatedly with his finger as if at an heir or at an addressee, and I understood that these drawings were for me, that he was giving them to me. He opened the file and I began putting the drawings back, apart from the one by Fraser, the one that was not a reproduction but an original cutting, because he raised his forefinger again to stop me as I was about to put it back with the others, then immediately touched his own chest with his thumb. ‘No, not that one, that’s for me,’ said the gesture. ‘You’re keeping this one?’ I asked, trying to help him out. He nodded, I set it aside. It was strange that he should suddenly have been left speechless, just when he had been talking about the few or the many — depending on how one looked at it — who were also speechless. The previous night, when he had been unable to come out with the word ‘cushion’, he had explained afterwards, when he had recovered his voice or his fluency: ‘It happens from time to time. It only lasts a moment, it’s like a sudden withdrawal of my will.’ And it was then that he had used that rather recondite word, although less so in English than in Spanish: ‘It’s like a warning, a kind of prescience …’ without actually completing the sentence, not even when I had urged him to do so shortly afterwards; to which he had replied: ‘Don’t ask a question to which you already know the answer, Jacobo, it’s not your style.’ Prescience means a knowledge of future events, or knowing beforehand exactly what will happen. I don’t know if such a thing exists, but sometimes we also give a name to what does not exist, and that is where uncertainty begins. I had no doubts now as to how that sentence should end, I had wondered about it and had guessed at it the previous evening, now I knew the answer even though he had not told me: ‘It’s like a warning, a kind of prescience, a foreknowledge of what it’s like to be dead.’ And he could perhaps have added: ‘It’s not being able to talk, even though you want to. Except that you don’t want to, your will has withdrawn. There is no wanting and no not wanting, both have gone.’ I looked back at the house, Mrs Berry had opened a window on the ground floor and was waving to us. Perhaps she had looked out as soon as she heard the racket made by that predatory helicopter and had, without our realising it, seen me haring around and diving to the ground. I raised my voice to ask: ‘Time for lunch?’ and accompanied my cry with the rather absurd gesture of one hand held at mouth level, like someone twirling spaghetti round a fork. I don’t think she heard me, but she understood. She said ‘No’ with her hand and then used it to indicate waiting, as if to say: ‘No, not yet,’ and then pointed at Peter with a gesture of disquiet or uncertainty, ‘Is he all right?’, was the translation. I nodded several times to reassure her. She raised both hands at once, as if she were being held up at gunpoint, ‘Good,’ then closed the window and disappeared inside. Wheeler recovered his voice: