Berta Isla

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Berta Isla Page 21

by Javier Marías


  ‘ “Gone down”? What do you mean? Killed?’

  ‘No, they simply saw through his disguise or else he let his mask slip, I don’t know. Whatever happened, he’s no longer useful there, he’s finished. They would kill him if they could, I suppose, but he’ll be miles away by now, with another name and another identity, possibly with another face.’

  ‘The same way they erased that scar of yours.’ This wasn’t a question, but a statement. He raised his thumbnail to his cheek, but didn’t answer. ‘If that man has “gone down”,’ I added, ‘that means there are things that don’t exist.’ He looked at me uncomprehendingly. ‘You said that people like the Kindeláns believe in the existence of things that don’t exist. But they do exist. They always do, isn’t that right? And that’s what you’re involved in, what you do. You work with what does exist.’ I wasn’t so much afraid for myself and for Guillermo now, as for him: perhaps others, if not the IRA, would want to kill him if they could, for the damage he had done.

  He stood up and came over to me, I’d continued my pacing up and down the room while we were talking. He again took hold of the end of the belt on my bathrobe, this time as if asking permission to give it a tug. How could he possibly be thinking of that again? But if someone thinks a thing and reveals his intentions, it makes the other person think it too. I again felt foolishly flattered, I couldn’t help it. However, I brushed aside his hand.

  ‘No, it’s the other way round, Berta,’ he said, drawing back and raising his hands like someone accepting defeat (I didn’t want him to accept defeat, but simply to postpone things): ‘Even what exists doesn’t exist.’

  There was a pause, a truce, I hadn’t looked in on Guillermo for a while, I hadn’t heard him moan or cry; he now had his own room, with the door open day and night, and Tomás, who hadn’t seen him for months, wanted to see him. ‘Goodness, he’s changed,’ he said, even though the cradle was lit only by the light from the corridor and Guillermo’s eyes were closed; best not to wake him unnecessarily. For a couple of minutes we stood watching him together, as we would have done every night before going to bed, leaning slightly over the cradle, had I not been alone for most of those nights and Tomás far away somewhere, with who knows who and pretending to be who knows what, but not himself. He put his arm around my shoulders to complete the image that had been absent for so long, as if with that gesture he were saying: ‘Look, he’s yours and mine, we made him together.’ He reached out to stroke Guillermo’s cheek, very gently so as not to wake him; not, I think, with the nail he reserved for his scar, but with the tip of his thumb. ‘He’s starting to look more like you, don’t you think?’ he said. He hadn’t yet had any supper, he was tired from the journey and was hungry, and would be tired from other things too, from all kinds of experiences that were now opaque and impenetrable to me, as all future experiences would continue to be, if one part of his life did not include me. Yes, he did look tired, he’d just returned from Germany or wherever, with only a brief stopover in London, perhaps he’d spent months doing what he’d been sent to do, like that man in Belfast; perhaps he’d been unmasked or had somehow given himself away, and so couldn’t go on. He’d grown a beard, and his hair was longer, but his face was still his face. Perhaps he really had just come from Germany, perhaps, if Mr Reresby had been telling the truth, it really was just some diplomatic mission. But what if one day he changed his face, what then?

  ‘That Reresby fellow I spoke to, he must have told you I wanted to talk to you urgently. Is he your boss? Is he involved in what doesn’t exist as well?’ Tomás had said I must never ask him anything, but I found that instruction, at least at first, impossible to obey. And I realised that this night was an exception, and I should make the most of it. There was no harm in trying; he could always stop me, or only answer questions he was prepared to answer.

  We sat down at the table, which I’d set with melon and ham, asparagus tips, some razor clams, cheese, pâté, tortillas, quince jelly, and a few nuts; he would say if he wanted anything else. He was still fully dressed, and I was still in my bathrobe.

  Inevitably, he didn’t want to answer that question.

  ‘I can’t tell you about something that doesn’t exist,’ he said. ‘How can I tell you about nothing?’

  ‘At least tell me why.’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why you got involved in the first place. When and for how long. Was it in Oxford, or later? Don’t tell me it was before we got married. Was it afterwards? No one forced you to, did they? I mean, you’re not even wholly English, and your life was here.’ I realised that I was repeating or adopting the arguments of Ruiz Kindelán, but what did that matter when, basically, the fat man was right: Tomás’s steadfast, dangerous commitment made no sense. ‘Kindelán, or whoever he really was, told me that he’d known a few people in that world, and that they never came out of it well. They either lost their minds or died, he said, they either went crazy or were murdered. They lose their life and their identity, and they end up not knowing who they are. No one admires them or thanks them, not even for the sacrifices they’ve made. And when they’re no longer useful, they’re withdrawn from service just like that, like clapped-out machines. He seemed to know what he was talking about, as if he were one of them. I suppose the dangers are the same for anyone belonging to an organisation, be it legal or illegal, clandestine or official. Why did you get involved? I can’t understand it.’

  Tomás looked up from his plate, he was eating very slowly, picking at different things. He looked at me with a kind of moral superiority, almost commiseration, the way one looks at a complete ignoramus or someone terribly superficial.

  ‘Have you never heard of the defence of the Realm?’

  ‘What defence? What Realm? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The Realm is different in different situations, depending on the time and the place, but Realms have always needed to be defended. How else do you think we got where we are? Why do you think people can live in peace, can get on with their lives, focus on their personal sufferings and hardships, can look after themselves and their loved ones, who are never very many, can curse their bad luck without a thought for anything else? Why do you think people are able to live quietly and devote themselves to their own particular disquiets? None of that would be possible without that defence. Why is it, do you think, that each morning everything is still more or less in order, and people can run their various errands, why do letters and other deliveries arrive punctually, why are the markets full, why do the buses and the metro work, the trains and the airports, why can the bankers open their banks and the citizens go there to do their business and put their money in a safe place? Why is there bread in the baker’s shops and cakes in the cake shops, why do the street lamps turn on and turn off, why does the stock market go up and down and everyone receive his or her high or low salary at the end of the month? This seems perfectly normal to us and yet it’s really quite extraordinary, it’s amazing that each day begins and ends. And the reason why all this happens is because of that permanent, silent defence of the Realm, about which almost no one knows, nor should they. Unlike the defence provided by the army, which is only noisily visible in time of war, ours is always active and unspoken, both in time of war and in time of peace. It’s likely that without it, there would be no peace – or apparent peace. There is no Realm in history that hasn’t been attacked, sacked, invaded, undermined, destabilised from within or without, and this goes on ceaselessly; even when it seems there are no threats, there are. Europe is full of castles, walls, towers and fortresses, or their remains and ruins. The fact that we don’t build them any more doesn’t mean they don’t exist and aren’t necessary. We are the watchtowers, the moats and the firebreaks; we are the lookouts, the watchmen, the sentinels who are always on guard, whether on duty or not. Someone has to remain alert so that everyone else can rest, someone has to detect those threats, someone has to anticipate them before it’s too late. Someone has to defend the Realm
so that you can go for a walk with Guillermo. And you ask me why?’

  I hadn’t expected such a committed, self-righteous speech, which wasn’t like him at all, for he had always been so distracted, so uninterested in finding out about himself, indeed had always been almost indecipherable both to himself and others. That was a large part of his attraction, that he was both of the world and unconcerned about the world, still less a presence in it. Then he had fallen victim to those glum, unsettled moods, and I now understood why, but he’d never before shown such commitment to a cause. ‘They’ve probably trained him and persuaded him of the importance of his task,’ I thought. ‘Most of us like to believe we’re irreplaceable, that we contribute something by our existence, that our existence is neither entirely useless nor insignificant. Since I became a mother, I myself consider that this makes me a kind of heroine, and I walk the streets feeling that I deserve the world’s respect and gratitude, as I’ve seen other mothers do. I believe I’ve contributed to the whole, having brought into the world someone who might prove fundamental. Poor child, poor children, if they knew how much abstract faith we place in them. We almost all like to believe something similar, but most of us know it’s not true. Everything Tomás listed, all those things would carry on without us, because we’re interchangeable and replaceable, indeed, there’s a long endless line waiting for the space we occupy to become vacant, however modest that space might be. If we were to disappear, our absence would go unnoticed, and our space would instantly be filled, like a piece of bodily tissue that rapidly regenerates, like the tail of a lizard that grows back again, and no one remembers who cut it off. He, on the other hand, has been given permission to think he’s important, he’s just said as much, the sentinel always on guard, the one who wards off danger and defends the Realm, who allows others to sleep easy in their beds. How can he be so ingenuous and so malleable, how has he let himself be seduced by mere verbiage? Because it is pure patriotic claptrap, although that kind of claptrap is probably never entirely without some basis in reason, built as it is on half-truths: of course there are snares, enemies, dangers. That’s why the masses are so easily led, eager for simplifications and apparent truths. But Tomás isn’t the masses, or he wasn’t, so perhaps he’s had to come up with an alibi for his decision and to justify this to himself; no one can submerge himself in that kind of fictitious life, that renunciation of his own life, the life he had wanted and had lived, without believing that he’s providing an essential service to others, to what he has started calling the Realm, his country. And since when has England been his country?’

  He stopped eating or paused to smoke a cigarette. He got up from the table and went over to one of the windows to watch the storm and the trees being buffeted by the wind. The rain had stopped while we were in the bedroom, but had since started up again. I followed him and stood by his side and said:

  ‘And how come you agreed to be part of all that, given that you were born here? And don’t give me that nonsense about not being as Spanish as I am. You are and always have been. When did you become the great English patriot? Since when is Spain not your home? It’s where I and your son both live.’

  ‘No, I’m not as Spanish as you are, Berta,’ he answered. ‘You’re a madrileña to the core, but I’m not. That’s where they caught me. That’s where they saw my potential, and asked me to join them. They could see I could be valuable to them, and we do, in large measure, belong to the place that values us, especially the place that actively wants us and draws us in. No one has ever wanted me here, but then that’s typical of this country, which always fails to take advantage of those who could be most useful to it, and instead drives them out or persecutes them. Besides, what did you expect me to do? Here, we have no idea what’s going to happen next. Even assuming that the dictatorship needed me, I certainly wouldn’t want to work for them. You wouldn’t like that. You would have found that even stranger, and would probably never have forgiven me. Up until only a few days ago, the prime minister was still Arias Navarro. And we know nothing about this Suárez fellow. We’re told that he wants to bring about real change, but we’ll soon find out whether that’s true or not, or if he’ll even be allowed to change things, however much support he gets from the King.’

  He said this not as if it were a rumour, but as if he had reliable information (‘we’re told’, he said; again that ‘we’). And if he was working for the British Secret Service, then why wouldn’t he have, I thought. In fact, on 1 July, not many days before, King Juan Carlos had forced the resignation of Arias Navarro, who had been one of Franco’s men and his appointee, the man who, his voice breaking with emotion, eyes filling with mawkish tears, had announced Franco’s death on television, only six or seven months ago, although it felt as if years had passed, despite the continued presence of Franco’s henchman as prime minister. I believe he was nicknamed ‘The Butcher of Málaga’, because of the harsh, repressive measures he took in that province, where he was public prosecutor at the end of the Civil War: hundreds were executed without trial or only after a mockery of a trial; he was a bloodthirsty, sentimental fellow like so many others throughout history – that odd mixture is strangely frequent – and the overly sentimental are always to be feared, with their private emotions so close to the surface and their ruthless treatment of others. On 3 July, Adolfo Suárez had been appointed, and he really did change things, but, at the time, he was an unknown quantity and could hardly inspire much confidence. England was not in a good state then, either. Prime Minister Harold Wilson had resigned a few months before and been replaced by James Callaghan. Callaghan was partly responsible for the rise and, three years later, the ultimate victory of his rival Margaret Thatcher, but we knew nothing about her then, in 1976, the year that marked my life for ever, when I found out the true nature of my life. That night, I realised I was faced with a dilemma and had to make a decision, whether or not to stay with Tomás, whether to follow his life even more intermittently than before, knowing about half or perhaps slightly more of his existence, knowing about half or perhaps slightly more of how he spent his time, to what extent he sullied hands and mind, to what extent he had to deceive and betray those who would consider him a colleague or friend, how many he sent to prison or to their deaths, and all without being allowed to ask him anything. Putting myself and my child at risk – although Tomás had sworn there would be no more risks – and with enormous risks for him. I began thinking all this as I stood looking out from the balcony window at the rain in the Plaza de Oriente, standing so close to him that I had only to move my hand to touch his, to tilt my head to rest it on his shoulder, to turn round to embrace him and be embraced: ‘Perhaps one day he won’t come back, perhaps one of his absences will grow longer and longer and the months and then the years will pass with no news of him. Perhaps I’ll have to wait indefinitely, not even knowing if he’s alive or dead, if he’s been unmasked and executed, as Kindelán said could happen. Or perhaps he might be the one to decide to disappear and not come back, to remake his life elsewhere, become someone he is not. What is the point of that, having him and not having him, spending my time waiting for him, always wondering if he’ll come back or will vanish in a mist, in a snowstorm or a cloud of smoke, disappear into the black night or into a storm, if he’ll be one of those husbands who leaves no letter, no body, no trace, but has vanished down the sea’s throat. The alternative is to give him up, for us to separate and for me slowly to forget him or make him fade away as I slowly look for another man, another love, and it would have to be very slow. (I’m young, there’s plenty of time; they say you can forget even the unforgettable, or so older people say.) To detach myself from worrying about what he’s up to and where he is, always waiting for him to reappear or wondering how things are going for him in his chosen, secret portion of the world, which is not mine and can never be; to know nothing, given the impossibility of ever knowing enough, and closing down anything that will now never be taut or smooth or flung wide open, but will always be c
rumpled and nebulous or, worse, pure darkness. Then again, for a long time now, nothing has been diaphanously clear and everything has been like a chink in a door, partly because of my own lack of interest. For some time now, the periods he spends in London – or, rather, the periods I thought he was spending there – didn’t exist for me, but were merely tedious parentheses to which I’d become accustomed since his university days; the truth is that, for years now, we’ve lived our life in fragments, so what difference is there? Ah, but there’s a huge difference: it’s one thing for him to be engaged in diplomatic business at the Foreign Office and quite another for him to be a mole, an infiltrator, an impostor, changing his appearance and using his languages and his brilliant gift for mimicry and accents to pass himself off as an enemy of the Realm, and to fraternise with those enemies and pretend to be one of them, to think like them and even, perhaps, to conspire, in danger of being unmasked or betrayed and becoming the victim of a subsequent settling of accounts, for a spy is a spy even in times of peace, or apparent peace, and will probably be executed anyway, and, of course, in the Northern Ireland of the Kindeláns there is no peace …’

 

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