Your Face Tomorrow

by Javier Marías

  ‘How do you know he doesn’t have some footage of us? We could lose our advantage or it could be cancelled out.’ He said ‘of us,’ not ‘of me,’ I thought that it could be footage of Rendel or Mulryan, although the latter seemed a very cautious type, and I couldn’t imagine Pérez Nuix behaving like Manoia in that cowshed. Or it could be Tupra, of course, or someone above him or, rather, above us, for I, too, was ‘us.’ Or a compromising video of another sort, not equivalent, not comparable, not as vile, or so at least I hoped. What I had seen in that film from Sicily was utterly repellent, as were the scenes shot in Ciudad Juarez and other places, I would never be able to forget them or, better still, erase them: as if they had never existed or trod the earth or strode the world, or passed before my eyes.

  ‘That was in Sicily, wasn’t it?’ I asked then, adopting a technical tone of voice, which is the most helpful when one is on the verge of collapse.

  ‘Very good, Jack, you get better and better,’ he replied and made as if to applaud me, although he couldn’t do so while holding the disk in one hand and his cigarette in the other. ‘How did you glean that, from the song, the language or both things?’

  ‘Three things—there was the guy with the lupara as well. It wasn’t that hard.’ I assumed he would know that word, even if he didn’t know Italian. I was wrong, and this surprised me.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The lupara.’ And I spelled it out for him. ‘That’s what they call that kind of double-barreled shotgun in Sicily.’

  ‘Well, you do know a lot.’ Perhaps he was bothered because I was managing to put on a semblance of composure; after spending so much time covering my eyes, he must have felt sure that I would completely fall apart when I saw the man with whom I had shared both supper and drinks, whose hand I had shaken, with whose wife I had danced, gouging out a person’s eyes. And of course I had fallen apart, I was trembling inside and I wanted to get out of that room as quickly as possible, but I wasn’t going to let Tupra see that, he had tormented me quite enough for one night and I wasn’t prepared to give him still more pleasure. Flavia would have no inkling of her husband’s sadistic side, it’s astonishing how little we know the faces of those we love, today or yesterday, let alone tomorrow.

  ‘What I’d like to know is how come there was a camera in what I assume to be a remote cowshed somewhere in the back of beyond? Isn’t that rather strange?’ I tried to maintain that technical tone of voice, and I was doing quite well with my efforts to pull myself together.

  Tupra again looked down at me from above, more amused now than irritated.

  ‘Yes, it would have been very strange, Jack, if the fellow with the lupara, you see what a quick learner I am’—he pronounced the word as if it were English, ‘looparrah,’ he didn’t have a very good ear—‘hadn’t hidden it there beforehand. If they’d discovered it, he might have ended up just like the man in the chair.’

  I didn’t really want an answer to my next question, but I asked it purely in order to shore myself up, until the moment when I could leave, and I asked it in that same technical tone:

  ‘You’re not telling me that guy’s English, are you, looking like that? You’re not telling me he’s our agent?’ I almost said ‘your,’ but I corrected myself or changed my mind in time, possibly ironically, possibly because in some way it suited me.

  The answer was obvious, ‘What else do you think we spend our money on?’ or ‘Why else do we have contacts?’ or ‘Why else do we resort to blackmail?’ but Tupra, at that late hour, wanted to draw the attention back to himself. The fact is he had been doing this intermittently all night.

  ‘That’s a big question, Jack.’ He moved away from me, went to the desk from which he had taken the disk, carefully put the disk back inside, and locked the drawer with the key, the key to his treasures. Then he turned to ask me the question again, from the other side of the desk, in the near-darkness. He said it with his large mouth—with his overly soft and fleshy mouth, as lacking in consistency as it was over-endowed in breadth—at the same time blowing out smoke: ‘You’ve had plenty of time to think about it, so answer the question I asked you in the car. Now that you’ve seen things you’d never seen before and, I hope, never will again. Tell me now, why, according to you, one can’t go around beating people up and killing them? You’ve seen how much of it goes on, everywhere, and sometimes with an utter lack of concern. So explain to me why one can’t.’

  None of the classic responses would work with him, I had known that from the start. I hadn’t expected Reresby to come back to it, although I don’t know why, given that like me and like Wheeler, he never lost the thread or forgot any unresolved matter or let go of his prey if he didn’t want to. I looked stupidly around me, as if I might find an answer on the walls; the room lay in semi-darkness, the lights down low. For a moment, my eyes rested on the one image, perhaps as a respite from all the others, from those I had seen on that wretched television screen and from Tupra’s living image: the portrait of a British officer wearing a tie and curled mustache and a Military Cross, his hair grown into a widow’s peak, his eyebrows thick and an elegiac look no doubt like mine in his eyes, and in that mournful look I saw a reflection of my own exhaustion, a look that might give me away to Tupra, despite my artificial tone of voice. I could just make out the signature on the drawing, ‘E. Kennington. 17,’ a name I had heard in Wheeler’s mouth when he spoke to me about the Careless Talk Campaign of 1917, during World War One, the war that both he and my father had experienced as children, it seemed incredible that the two of them had still not been erased from the world, that they were not safe more or less in one-eyed, uncertain oblivion as the officer in the portrait would certainly be, unless Tupra knew his identity, the killing in that conflict had been worse than in any other, I mean people were killed in the very worst of ways, with new techniques but also in hand-to-hand combat and with bayonets, and those who had fallen at the front were uncountable, or no one had dared to count them. I tried a slight diversionary tactic, playing for time:

  ‘Who’s that military gentleman?’And I pointed to the drawing. Reresby’s answer was contradictory, as if he simply wanted to get rid of the question:

  ‘I don’t know. My grandfather. I like his face.’ Then he immediately returned to the matter at hand. ‘Tell me why one can’t.’

  I didn’t know what to reply, I was still very shaken, still dismayed and upset. I nevertheless said something, almost without intending to and certainly without thinking, purely in order not to remain silent:

  ‘Because then it would be impossible for anyone to live.’

  I couldn’t judge the effect of these words or indeed if they had one, I never found out if he would have laughed or not, if he would have mocked them, if he would have refuted them or scornfully allowed them to fall without even bothering to pick them up, because just then, the moment after I had spoken them, I heard a woman’s voice behind me:

  ‘Who are you with, Bertie, and what are you doing? You’re keeping me awake, do you know what time it is, aren’t you coming to bed?’

  This was said in a domestic tone of voice. I turned round. The woman had switched on the light in the corridor and her shadowy figure on the threshold was silhouetted against the brightness, she had opened the door but her face was invisible. She was wearing a transparent, ankle-length dressing gown, made of gauze or something similar, tied with a belt or else in another way caught in around the waist and the rest was loose and flimsy, at least that was my impression, her apparently naked figure could be clearly seen through the gauze, although it was unlikely she would be naked, if she had heard my voice, or our voices; she had on slippers with high slender heels, as if she were an old-fashioned model of lingerie or negligees or nightdresses, a pin-up girl from the 1950s or the early ’60s, a woman from my childhood. She looked like a calendar girl. She smelled good too, a sexual smell that wafted into the room from the doorway, creating the illusion of dissipating its horrors. She didn’t have an hourgla
ss figure nor that of a Coca-Cola bottle, but very nearly, it was outlined perfectly and very attractively against the bright light behind her; she was tall and had long legs, a toboggan down which to slide, so she could have been his ex-wife Beryl, who had so inflamed and aroused De la Garza. I suddenly thought of him perhaps still lying on the floor of the handicapped toilet—less clean now—badly injured and unable to move. I felt a twinge of conscience, but I would not be the one, that night, to go and find him and see how he was, I felt shattered, drained. I’d phone the Embassy another day, someone, sooner or later, was bound to pick him up and call an ambulance. The Manoias, on the other hand, would have long since been sleeping in their beds in the Ritz, placid and reconciled, and Flavia would be satisfied and content to have enjoyed a nocturnal triumph and to have provoked an incident, although she would also have asked herself as she closed her eyes: ‘Tonight, I was all right, but will I be all right tomorrow? I’ll be another day older.’ Whoever the woman on the threshold was, her appearance there obliged me to leave, or finally allowed me to—it didn’t seem to me that Tupra was about to introduce me to her.

  ‘Just working late with a colleague. I’ll be right with you, my dear,’ he said from behind the desk, and he used that rather old-fashioned term ‘my dear.’

  ‘So there was someone waiting for him, and he doesn’t live alone, or at least on some nights he doesn’t lack for loving company,’ I thought, standing up. ‘So he does have a weak point, someone at his side. And he likes the old ways, which isn’t quite the same as what he calls the way of the world. Perhaps the way of the world was there in what I had seen on the screen, and in the handicapped toilet, and that’s what he’s just poisoned me with.’

  6

  Shadow

  I didn’t hurry, I lingered and delayed, and allowed a few months to pass before that ‘other day’ came when I finally decided to go in person to the Embassy to see how De la Garza was. Not that I wasn’t concerned about his fate, I often pondered it with unease and sorrow, and in the days that followed that long unpleasant night, I kept an attentive eye on the London papers to see if they carried any report of the incident, but none of them picked it up, probably because Rafita hadn’t reported the assault to the police. Tupra’s intimidation, or mine when I translated Tupra’s words giving those very precise instructions, had clearly had its effect. I also bought El País and Abc each day (the latter because it took more interest than most in the vicissitudes of diplomats, as well as those of bishops), but during the first few days nothing appeared in those either. Only after about ten days, in an article on the comparative dangers of European capitals, did El País’s London correspondent mention in passing: ‘There was some alarm among the Spanish colony in London a week or so ago when an Embassy employee was admitted to a hospital after being beaten up one night by complete strangers, for no apparent reason and in the middle of the street, according to his initial version of events. Later, he admitted that the brutal attack (which left him with many bruises and several broken ribs) had taken place in a fashionable disco and had been the result of a fight. This somewhat reassured people, since it was clearly a chance, isolated event that he possibly brought on himself and that was, at least, directed at him personally.’

  It would have been impossible for De la Garza to conceal his state from superiors and colleagues, and so in order to justify being away on sick leave, he would have told that story, saying, perhaps, that some brutish louts had provoked him, or that he had acted in defense of a lady (offenders of ladies like to pass themselves off as the exact opposite: I could still remember his words ‘Women are all sluts, but for looks you can’t beat the Spanish’), or that someone had insulted Spain and he’d had no alternative but to get rough and come to blows, I was curious to know what fantasy he would have invented in order to emerge from the episode relatively unscathed (well, unscathed from his point of view and according to his account of things, because whoever it was had clearly thrashed him): ‘Oh, they gave me a thorough pummelling, true enough, but I gave as good as I got and beat the shit out of them,’ he would have crowed, still mingling coarseness with pedantry, like so many Spanish writers past and present, a veritable plague. Only the antipathy felt for him among his own circle could explain the words: ‘that he possibly brought on himself,’ it was a little uncalled-for, and the correspondent would doubtless have received a reprimand for his lack of objectivity. It amused me to imagine myself as a hard Mafia type, and at least I learned that Tupra had been spot on, he had diagnosed it right there, in the toilet, two broken ribs, maybe three, at most four, perhaps he was one of those men who could estimate the effect of each blow and each cut, depending on the part of the body and the force with which the blow was dealt, like surgeons or hitmen, perhaps he was experienced in this and had learned to gauge the intensity and depth and never went too far, but knew exactly how much damage he was inflicting and tried not to get carried away, unless, of course, he intended to. It would clearly be best not to get into a fight with him, a physical fight I mean.

  And so I let time pass, telling myself that it would be better to phone De la Garza or to go and see him when he was more recovered and the anger and shock had subsided a little; and the fear, of course, which would be the feeling that had gone deepest. As far as I knew, he had obeyed us, Tupra and me, he had done as we said; he hadn’t even gone telling tales to Wheeler or to his father, Don Pablo, with his now waning influence. I hadn’t visited Wheeler for some time, but I still spoke to him on the phone every week or every two weeks, and while these were, as almost always, delightful stimulating conversations, they were, nonetheless, fairly routine. One day, I casually mentioned Rafita and he interrupted me at once: ‘Oh, haven’t you heard? It was terrible, he got beaten up good and proper and is still in the hospital, I believe. I haven’t heard anything from him directly, he’s not yet in a state to speak to anyone, only from people at the Embassy and from his father, who flew over to London to be with him and look after him during the first few days, and since he didn’t leave Rafa’s bedside for a moment, he had no time to come up to Oxford, and since I never go anywhere now, we didn’t see each other.’ ‘Good heavens, what happened?’ I asked hypocritically. ‘I don’t know exactly,’ he said. ‘He must have been drunk and he has, apparently, changed his story several times, contradicting himself, he probably doesn’t know what happened either or doesn’t remember because he was too far gone, you’ve seen how fond he is of the bottle, do you remember when he was here, how he immediately bonded with Lord Rymer? He went too far with his impertinence, I imagine, with that crude and to me incomprehensible lexicon he occasionally adopts, apparently it was some compatriots of his, of yours, that is, who beat the living daylights out of him in a toilet in a disco, as if they’d been waiting there to pounce on him, it sounds like something schoolboys would do, which fits of course. But the fact is they beat him to a pulp, and there’s nothing schoolboyish about that, they broke several major bones. And in a handicapped toilet of all places; that doesn’t bode very well, does it?’ Wheeler couldn’t help seeing the comical side of almost everything and he added slightly mischievously (I could imagine the twinkle in his eyes): ‘Apparently he’s completely encased in plaster. When the other patients catch a glimpse of him from the corridor, they mistake him for The Mummy.’ And he immediately moved on to another subject, to do with the peculiar Spanish expression he had used—zurrarle la badana a alguien—to beat the living daylights out of someone: ‘Do you still say that in Spanish or is it very old hat now? By the way, I’ve never known what “badana” means, do you?’ I realized that I hadn’t the faintest idea and felt the same embarrassment I used to feel years ago when my Oxford students would confront me with their malicious questions, and I would find myself having to lie to them in class and to improvise ridiculous, false etymologies which they diligently noted down. ‘It’s quite common in Spanish not to know the actual meaning of what you’re saying, far more so than in English or in other languages,�
� Sir Peter went on, ‘and yet you Spaniards come out with those phrases with such pride and aplomb: for example, what the devil does “joder la marram” mean? Literally. Or “a pie juntillas” (I’ve noticed that some ignorant authors write “a pies juntillas,” and I don’t know about now, but that used to be considered unacceptable)? Or “a pie enjuto” or “a dos velas” or “caérsele los anillos”? Why have an idiom about rings falling off when rings, if they do anything, tend, on the contrary, to get stuck. And why do you call street blocks “manzanas”? Apparently no one knows, I’ve even asked members of the Real Academia Española, but they just shrug unconcernedly and with not a flicker of embarrassment. I mean, why “apples”? It’s absurd. Street blocks don’t look anything like apples, even from above. And why do you make that odd gesture signifying “a dos velas” where you place the index and middle fingers of your right hand on either side of your nose and draw them down towards your upper lip, it’s very strange, I can’t see any connection at all with being down to your last two candles, which is presumably what it means. You use gestures a lot when you talk, but most of them make no sense at all, they’re virtually opaque and often seem to have nothing to do with their meaning—like that one where you rest the fingers of one hand on the upright palm of the other, do you know the one I mean, I’d demonstrate it for you if you could see me, but I never see you, you hardly ever come now, is Tupra exploiting you or have you got a girlfriend? Anyway, I think it’s used to indicate “Stop, don’t go on” or perhaps “Let’s go.’”

  Wheeler was tireless when it came to discussing linguistic matters and idioms, he paused and lingered over them and momentarily forgot about everything else, and, as I knew, from the days when I first taught translation and Spanish at Oxford, I was profoundly ignorant of my own language, not that it mattered much, for it’s an ignorance I share with almost all my compatriots and they couldn’t care less. I was beginning to think that sometimes his mind wavered slightly, rather as he occasionally lost the ability to speak. Not in the same way, he didn’t go blank, not at all, and he didn’t talk nonsense or get confused, but he strayed from the subject more than usual and didn’t listen with his usual alacrity and attention, as if he were less interested in the external, and as if the internal were gaining ground—his disquisitions, his deliberations, his insistent thoughts—and, as is often the case with the old, perhaps his memories too, although he didn’t care to tell or share these, but maybe he did go over them in his mind, put them in order, unfold them to himself, and explain and weigh them up, or perhaps it was simply a matter of putting them straight and contemplating them, like someone taking a few steps back and surveying his library or his paintings or his rows of tin soldiers if he collects them, everything he has accumulated and arranged over a lifetime, probably with no other objective—this does happen—than that of stepping back and looking at them.