Your Face Tomorrow 1

by Javier Marías

  Sometimes, as I have said — although I only saw this on a couple of occasions — this man whom I have failed to interpret or sum up, about whom I cannot form a clear or even a vague idea, danced with a partner, contrary to his custom, and he did so with two different women, one white and the other black or mulatto (I couldn't really tell which, the lights were low); but even then he seemed less intent on his partners than on himself and his own enjoyment, although he doubtless liked dancing with them just for a change and so that he could swing them around and hold them and brush lightly past them in that large uncluttered room, a whole long zone or area bare of furniture, of all obstacles, as if he kept it like that on purpose to facilitate his cavortings. The white woman wore trousers, which was a pity; the black woman, on the other hand, wore a skirt that swirled about and up, and sometimes did not immediately subside, but remained caught for a few seconds on her stockings (or, rather, tights or whatever they're called, that come up to the waist) until a wiggle of her hips or a distracted movement with her hand freed the fabric and returned it to the censorious laws of gravity. I enjoyed seeing her thighs and, fleetingly, her buttocks, which is why I stopped using my binoculars, spying isn't really my style, at least not intentionally, as was the case here. The white woman left after the dance session and got on her bike (perhaps that's why she wore trousers, not that one needs to find a reason); the black or mulatto woman stayed the night I think; the two of them stopped after they had been dancing for a while and immediately turned out the lights, and I didn't see her leave for a long time afterwards, it was late and had grown still later by the time I decided to go to bed in order to forget all about her. Women have occasionally stayed in this apartment too, especially during my first few months of settling in and reconnaissance and taking stock: one of them has been back since, another one wanted to, but I wouldn't let her, the third didn't even suggest it, she washed her hands of the affair before it was even over — yes, there had been three thus far; I knew nothing about her then and have heard nothing since, not since she had breakfast in my kitchen, not so much hurriedly as mechanically and swiftly, as if being there so early in the morning had nothing to do with her, a mere coincidence of accommodation, she was engaged to some VIP's son and got a thrill out of announcing her imminent marriage to him and yet was terrified by its very imminence, perhaps he had been phoning her since the previous night or since early that morning, dialling and hanging up, then picking up the phone again and dialling, that nervous fiancé getting no reply or only her answer machine or voice mail, which is unbearable, calling and calling in vain, I couldn't stand this constant trying to get through to Luisa, what could she be doing, perhaps she'd taken the phone off the hook because she had a visitor, perhaps someone was going to stay the night with her, and the only way of ensuring that my distant voice did not interrupt or disturb anything — she must have suddenly realised that it was Thursday, when it became clear that the visit would last longer than expected: spear, fever, my pain, sleep, dreams, the substantial or the insignificant — was to put the children to bed slightly earlier than usual and to leave the phone off the hook all night, she could always claim tomorrow that it had been an accident.

  But only the flattering, diligent man stays, at least at this stage, only the one doing his best to move in and occupy the empty space in the warm bed without aspiring to introduce any changes, since his predecessor's way of doing things seems just fine and he yearns only to be him, even though he does not yet know it; the jolly, smiling one leaves or does not even come in, he's not interested in sharing a pillow except during active waking hours; and the despotic, possessive one puts on an act at first, takes great care not to appear intrusive, waits to be encouraged and even when he is, declines the first invitations ('I don't want to complicate your life, I'd be putting you to a lot of trouble, and maybe you're not sure yet that you want to see me tomorrow, perhaps you should give it a bit of thought'), he appears deferential, respectful, even cautious, he tries not to reveal any invasive or expansionist tendencies, and he does not linger or dawdle in alien territory until a much later phase, precisely because he is planning to take the whole place over and cannot run the risk of arousing suspicion. He does not spend the night, even if begged to do so, not at first: he puts all his clothes back on despite the lateness of the hour, the exhaustion and the cold, and overcomes all inertia — having to put his socks back on — and postpones all eagerness, all haste — he does not mind if eagerness and haste are condensed into one; he gets in his car or calls a taxi and leaves noiselessly at dawn, in order that he can begin to be missed more quickly, as soon as he closes the door behind him and enters the lift and leaves the dishevelled, still-warm woman to return to her rumpled, unwelcoming bed, to her wrinkled sheets and to the still lingering smell. If that man is there, that devious guy who, later on, will not give her so much as a moment's breathing space and will isolate her totally, and who will not even have to bury me or dig me in any deeper because he will have suppressed my memory with the first terror and the first supplication and the first order; if he is her visitor tonight, then Luisa might put the phone back on the hook again once he has gone, as smartly dressed as when he arrived and even with his gloves on, and perhaps she will replace the phone when she hears the downstairs door bang and hears his steps in the street, noisy and confident and firm now, his progress towards it steady and sustained. So maybe I should keep ringing, or try again later, when I finally decide to go to bed in order to forget about her, it's almost eleven o'clock in Madrid and what am I doing here so far away, unable to go home to sleep, what am I doing in another country behaving like a nervous fiancé or, worse, like an insignificant lover or, worse, like a pathetic suitor who refuses to accept what he already knows, that he will always be rejected? That time is no more, it is not my time now, or, rather, my time has passed, I have had two children for a long while now and the person I am phoning is their mother, long enough for my thoughts never to forget about them and for them to be for me eternally children, why has my time been overturned or why has it been left hanging, what is the point of getting anxious on the pretext of fearing for the possible future that awaits all three of them depending on who replaces me, as far as I know there is no one on the way or travelling along that route, although if there was, Luisa would not necessarily tell me, still less about her occasional encounters that as yet have led to no inauguration, about who she sees or who she goes out with, not to mention who she goes to bed with and who she sees off at the front door, a dressing-gown thrown over her warm and, until only a moment ago, naked body, to whom she says goodbye with a long kiss as if storing it up until the next time, or perhaps she is pale after a long day, without a trace of makeup, all dishevelled, her hair grown childlike with the commotion of the day and the night, her tiredness apparent in the dark circles under her eyes and in her dull skin, when not even the momentary contentment of what has just happened can beautify a face that asks for and tolerates only repose and sleep, more sleep, and an end, at last, to thought. Neither have I told her about the three women who have spent the night here, not even one, which one, why would I, not even about the one who has been here twice.

  The beggars have withdrawn after devouring their booty — they are a mere interregnum of ash and shadow — and the square is almost empty, someone crosses it now and again, no one is ever the last person anywhere, there is always someone who crosses later on. Lights are on in the smart hotel and in a few of the houses, but in my field of vision no one, at that moment, appears. The unfathomable dancer opposite has stopped and turned out the lights, he started at too late an hour to be able to withstand much prancing about. So here I am, all alone like a boyfriend or a lover, substantial and insignificant, here I am still awake. 'Sí?'

  I picked up the phone almost before it had rung, it was so close. I spoke in Spanish, having been thinking in my own language for some time.

  'Deza.' Luisa sometimes called me by my surname, when she wanted to be forgiven or to
get something out of me, but also when she was in a very bad mood, because of something I had done. 'Hi, you've probably been trying to get through, I'm sorry, my sister has had me on the phone for an hour playing psychiatrist, she's going through a really rough patch with her husband and she considers me to be an expert on the subject now. Honestly. And the children are asleep now, I'm really sorry, I put them to bed at the usual time, the fact is that I'd completely forgotten it was Thursday until this very moment, when I put the phone down, you know what it's like when what's perfectly clear to you isn't at all clear to the other person, so you repeat yourself about ten times and end up getting more and more exasperated, and my sister's the same, I mean, she only really wants to hear what she's telling herself and not what I might think about the matter or advise her to do. Anyway, how are you?'

  She sounded very tired and slightly absent, as if talking to me was a final, additional night-time chore she hadn't counted on, and as if she were still in conversation with her sister and not with me, always assuming that the conversation did take place. It's always the same, every day and with anyone, constantly, in any exchange of words, trivial or grave, we can believe or not believe what we're told, there aren't that many options, too few and too simple, and so we believe almost everything we're told, or, if we don't, we usually keep quiet about it, because otherwise everything becomes so tangled and difficult, staggering forwards in fits and starts, and nothing flows. And so everything that's said is taken, in principle, as the truth, the true and the false, unless the latter is obvious, that is, obviously false. This wasn't the case with Luisa now, what she was telling me could be what had really happened or it could be a mask for something else — a different phone call, a supper out under the protection of a talkative babysitter, a prolonged visit from someone and then a prolonged goodbye, it wasn't my business, and what did it matter — I had to accept it, in fact, I shouldn't even be thinking about it. Besides, there is another option, everything is full of half-truths, and we all take our inspiration from the truth in order to formulate or improvise lies, so there is always a pinch of truth in every lie, a basis, the starting-point, the source. I usually know, even if they don't concern me or there is no possible way of checking (and often I couldn't care less, it doesn't really matter). I detect them without any need of proof, but, generally speaking, I say nothing, unless I am being paid to point them out, as was the case when I was working in London.

  'Fine,' I said, and even that one word was false. I didn't really feel like talking at all. Not even to ask about the children, there probably wouldn't be anything new to report. Nevertheless, she gave me a rapid summary as if to compensate me for not having heard their voices that night: perhaps that is why she had called me Deza, so that I would forgive the oversight with which I was not reproaching her, after all, those few minutes with my son and daughter on the phone were always very routine and rather silly, the same questions from me and similar responses from them, who never asked me anything apart from when I would be coming to see them and what presents I would bring, then a few affectionate words, the odd joke, all very stilted, the sadness came afterwards in the silence, at least in mine, but it was bearable.