Your Face Tomorrow

by Javier Marías

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Custardoy placing his order with the waiter, and I walked back down the street as far as Calle Mayor, pondering what to do next, apart, that is, from keeping well out of the way. There was a ridiculous statue there, which Custardoy, showing excellent taste, had not stopped to look at; it was one of the many ‘anonymous’ pieces that fill our cities (in the name of ‘democratizing’ monuments, a contradiction in itself), but the fellow looked suspiciously like Hemingway, patron saint of tourists. And there was another plaque high up on the wall, that said: ‘In this street, Juan Escobedo, secretary to John of Austria, was killed on March 31, 1578, on the night of Easter Monday.’ Again this rang a bell with me, that murky murder; perhaps the Princess of Éboli had been involved, although it would have been very stupid of her to order an enemy to be killed right next to her house. (Later, I checked, and apparently it’s still not known if the murder was carried out on orders from the Princess, from Philip II himself or from Antonio Pérez, his scheming secretary, who ended up being sent into exile; an as yet unsolved crime four and a bit centuries later, there in that narrow street which, at the time, was called Camarín de Nuestra Señora de Almudena. But why do I say ‘still’ or ‘as yet,’ in some cases the passing of time serves no purpose, so much remains unknown, denied, hidden, even as regards ourselves and our own actions.) ‘What a lot of one-eyed, one-handed, hobbling people there have been in these old streets,’ I found myself thinking, ‘what a lot of deaths. They won’t notice one more, should it come to that.’

  I decided to take a few short turns about the surrounding area, so that I could return every so often to a point from which I could keep an eye on Custardoy and his movements from afar, I couldn’t risk missing the moment when he paid his bill, got up and set off again, from El Anciano Rey de los Vinos to what I presumed was his house, just steps away; he would only have to cross two streets. And so I moved a little way off and stopped before another statue in Calle Bailén, this time a rather rough bust of the admirable madrileño writer Larra, who committed suicide in 1837 by shooting himself in the head while standing in front of the mirror, before he was even twenty-eight (another member of the Kennedy-Mansfield fraternity, of which there are so many), perhaps over some unhappy love affair, but who knows; and then I stopped by yet another sculpture, slightly grotesque this time, of a certain Captain Melgar, all medals and curled mustaches—he reminded me somewhat of Tupra’s improbable ancestor in the portrait by Kennington I had seen at his house—and who, according to the inscription, had died in the battle of Barranco del Lobo, in Melilla, during the African War, in 1909; it wasn’t so much the actual bust of the Captain that was grotesque as a second disproportionately small figure—not so small as to be a Lilliputian or Tom Thumb, but certainly a midget—of a soldier dressed like Beau Geste and who was trying to climb up the pedestal or column with his rifle in his hand, whether to worship his Captain or to attack him and finish him off wasn’t clear. And then I walked back the way I had come—although on the other side of the street this time, the same side as the Catholic monstrosity—and studied Custardoy where he sat outside the café. He had been served a beer, some anchovies and some patatas bravas (‘So he treats himself to a proper aperitif, does he?’ I thought. ‘He obviously feels he’s worked hard enough and he’s in no hurry, he’ll certainly be there for a while’), and had unfolded a newspaper, which he was sitting reading, legs crossed, now and then looking around with his huge eyes, which meant I had to be prudent, and so I again moved off, this time going as far as the Palacio Real, only to discover more hideous statues, a constant feature in Madrid: a whole line of Visigothic kings dressed like pseudo-Romans and each bearing a barely comprehensible inscription, especially for a foreigner, and I was feeling rather like a foreigner: ‘Ataúlfo, Mu. A° de 415,’ said the first one, and the same enigmatic inscription (meaning presumably Murió Año de … He died in the year …) accompanied Eurico, ‘de 484,’ Leovigildo, ‘de 585,’ Suintala,‘de 633,’Wamba,‘de 680’… Further on, stood a large monument,‘erected at the instigation of Spanish women to the glory of the soldier Luis Noval,’ who must have been a heroic soldier and obviously the darling of the ladies, for he, too, was dressed like Beau Geste or Beau Saberur or Beau Ideal or all of them put together: ‘Patria, no olvides nunca a los que por ti mueren, MCMXIL, My country, never forget those who died for you, MCMXII’ (that word ‘patria would have to be translated as ‘country,’ the word used by Tupra on the night we first met and which had made me wonder if he might, in spirit, be a fascist in the analogical sense). But my country forgets everyone, both those who die for it and those who don’t, including that fellow Noval—why, no one in Madrid will have the faintest idea who he was or how he distinguished himself or what he did. Every time I retraced my steps, and the café terrace once more came within my field of vision, the more settled the man with the ponytail seemed to be, and so I decided to set off in another direction and walk down Cuesta de la Vega, ‘Near here stood the site of Puerta de la Vega, the main entrance into Muslim Madrid, from the ninth century onwards’ and ‘Image of María Santísima de la Almudena, hidden in this place in the year 712 and miraculously rediscovered in the year 1085’ (‘They hid it in the year following the Moorish invasion,’ I thought, ‘presumably so that it wouldn’t be destroyed.’ But that very white effigy of the Virgin and Child, placed in a niche, didn’t look remotely like something made in the eighth century or even a replica of one, but was a shameless fake; Custardoy would have known), and even got as far as Parque de Atenas, where the inevitable bust, almost hidden this time because of the isolated position in which it had been placed, was of no less a person than the jubilant Boccherini, who lived for twenty or more years in Madrid and died here in penury, never having been honored by this ungrateful city (it’s not even known where his bones lie or if there was a grave to give them shelter); behind him was a stone plaque bearing the words of someone called Cartier which said: ‘If God wanted to talk to mankind through music, He would use the works of Haydn; but if He Himself wanted to listen to music, he would choose Boccherini.’ Yes, his music, like Mancini’s, accompanied me wherever I went.

  I had gone too far and hurried back up Cuesta de la Vega, fearing that I might be left not knowing what I needed to know, by a miscalculation or through carelessness. When I once again reached the point where Calle Mayor and Calle de Bailén meet—I glanced at the door to my right, but there was no sign of Custardoy going in—it occurred to me that the best place to keep watch over the café terrace, or part of it, without being seen, was from the top of the short double flight of steps that led directly to the statue of the Polish, jota-dancing Pope, and so up I went and stood leaning on the balcony, with my back turned on Totus tuus, yes, his really was the ugliest of the statues, but not through incompetence on the part of the sculptor; people would assume I was another devotee, a few of whom were taking photographs of the figure and imitating his invitation-to-the-dance posture. I could see my man from there, he wouldn’t escape me when he got up. I waited. And waited. He was still reading the newspaper, still wearing his hat (he was, after all, in the open air); he had placed his handleless briefcase on the chair beside him, and he seemed to possess special antennae for detecting any good-looking women, because whenever one passed or sat down, he would look up and check her out, perhaps he just had a very good nose. ‘Luisa hasn’t shown much judgment in that respect either,’ I thought. ‘He’s probably the kind of man for whom one woman is never enough.’ I wished I had some binoculars with me so that I could observe him more closely. Even at that distance, there was something about him that reminded me of someone else, an affinity or a resemblance, just as Incompara had immediately brought to mind my old classmate Comendador, now a respectable building contractor in New York or Miami or wherever it was he had gone. But I couldn’t put my finger on it, I couldn’t identify the model, I mean, the first individual of that sort whom I had, at some point, met.

  Finally, I sa
w him hold up his arm and click his fingers twice, a disdainful and now antiquated way of summoning waiters. ‘He can’t be about to order another beer,’ I thought, ‘there are two empty glasses on the table already.’ Fortunately, he was asking for the bill; he took some notes out of his trouser pocket (I carry them like that too, loose, rather than in a wallet) and put one down on the table, as we madrileños always used to do: money should never pass from hand to hand, but via a neutral place. He obviously knew the waiter, which made his previous very classist finger-clicks even ruder; as the waiter put the change down, likewise on the table, Custardoy patted him lightly on the arm, as he had with the booksellers, perhaps he took his prelunch drink in El Anciano Rey de los Vinos every day. He made some comment to the waiter as he left and the latter laughed out loud, as had the people in the bookshop and the young General Custer or Davy Crockett with her fringed jacket; he clearly had a sense of humor. Soon I would know whether he was he or someone else. He didn’t leave that corner café by walking back down the narrow street of the unsolved murder, but via Calle de Bailén, which was a good sign. As he walked along, he looked into the windows of the shop selling musical instruments which occupies that whole corner, strode quickly across Calle Mayor and paused by the traffic lights in Bailén, which were red. At that point, I lost sight of him and hurriedly retreated until I found a position from which I could see him again, to the left of the shop belonging to that ghastly temple, which was to the left of Totus (who on earth would want to buy anything there?). I could see the whole corner from there, from behind some railings, I was right in front of the door to his house—if it was his house—only on higher ground, where he wouldn’t see me, because he was unlikely to look up, I felt like the Düsseldorf vampire lying in wait. Custardoy now only had to cross the street when the light turned green and go through the door towards which I was pushing him and which was, once again, closed. I could see him clearly now, he was unmistakable in his hat, I would see his footsteps too once he started walking. ‘One, two, three, four, five …’ I started counting in my head when the lights changed, he had small feet for a man his height, he followed the correct path, he wouldn’t stop now,‘… forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, and forty-nine.’ And he stopped outside the right door, his key ready in his hand. And then I thought with an ephemeral feeling of triumph: ‘Got you, just where I want you.’

  I waited for a few minutes more to see if a window opened, telling me what floor he lived on and confirming that he was home. There, however, I was out of luck. I walked down the steps, crossed the two streets that Luisa perhaps also often crossed, if, that is, she visited him much—she couldn’t ever spend the night there—wondered briefly whether I should get a taxi back up to the Palace Hotel, but seeing none free, started to walk. When I reached Plaza de la Villa, I stopped to have a better look at the statue he had looked at, Don Álvaro de Bazán or Marques de Santa Cruz, possibly the least ugly of the statues I had encountered. I walked round it and found an inscription at the back of the pedestal: ‘I was the scourge of the Turk at Lepanto, the Frenchman at Terceira, the Englishman o’er all the seas. The King I served and the country I honored know best who I am by the Cross in my name and the cross-hilt of my sword.’ ‘We Spaniards are always such braggarts,’ I thought, still feeling distinctly foreign, ‘I should learn from them and convince myself that my enemies will all flee before me, saying: “I go, victorious Spaniard of lightning and fire, I leave you. I leave you too, sweet lands, I leave Spain and tremble as I go …” Spaniards are always boasting like that, even when confronted by a compatriot who will not be so easily frightened off. And Custardoy and I are compatriots.’ The Admiral had one arm raised and was holding something in his hand. I couldn’t quite see what it was, it could have been a rolled up map or, more likely, a General’s baton. His other hand, the left one, was gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword, rather as the lone Count was in his portrait. ‘What a lot of swords there are in these old streets too,’ I thought.

  7

  Farewell

  Sometimes we know what we want to do or have to do or even what we’re thinking of doing or are almost certain we will do, but we also need it to be spoken about or confirmed or discussed or approved, a maneuver which is, after a fashion, a way of shuffling off a little of the responsibility, of diffusing or sharing it, even if only fictitiously, because what we do we do alone, regardless of who convinces or persuades or encourages or gives us the green light, or even orders or commissions the deed. On occasion, we disguise this maneuver as doubt or perplexity, we go to someone and play a trick on them by asking their opinion or advice—by asking or requesting something of them—and thus, at the very least, we ensure that the next time we speak, that person will enquire about the matter, ask what happened, how it all turned out, what we finally decided to do, whether their advice had been of any help, whether we took notice of their words. That person is then involved, entangled, drawn in. We have forced them to become a participant, even if only as a listener, and to consider the situation and to ask how it ended; we have foisted our story on them and they will never be able to forget or erase it; we have also given them a certain right, or perhaps duty, to question us about it later: ‘So what did you do in the end, how did you resolve the problem?’ they will ask us next time we meet, and it would seem odd, would show a lack of interest or politeness, not to refer to the case we’d laid out before them and to which we’ve obliged them to contribute with words or, if they declined to offer a view or to say anything, to listen to our doubts. ‘I have no idea, I can’t and shouldn’t give an opinion, in fact, I really don’t want to know about it,’ they might well say, and yet they have still said something; with that response they have told us that they find the whole thing distasteful, poisonous or murky, that they want no part in it, even as a passive witness, that they would prefer to remain in the dark, and that they like none of the possible options, that it would be best if we did nothing and simply let it go or removed ourselves from the situation; and that we should certainly spare them the details. Even if you say ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ you’ve already said too much, and when you’re asked that question, there’s no easy way out, not even holding back or keeping silent is safe, because silence is in itself reproving or discouraging, and does not, as the saying goes, mean consent. Let us hope that no one ever asks us for anything, or even inquires, not for advice or a favor or a loan, not even for the loan of our attention. But that never happens, it’s an entirely vain wish. There’s always one almost final question, some laggardly request. Now it was my turn to do the asking, now I was going to make a request, one that would have proved compromising to anyone, except perhaps to the person who was about to hear it. I still had much to learn from him, a fact I found most troubling and that would perhaps bring me misfortune.

  That evening, I phoned Tupra from my hotel room, for only he could advise me and, I hoped, give me instructions, make recommendations and serve as my guide, indeed, he was the ideal man to ask about matters in which talk was not enough; he was also the most suitable person, that is, the one I could rely on to confirm that I should do what I thought I should do or who would at least not dissuade me. I guessed that he would be at home at that hour, even though England was one hour behind, unless it was one of his convivial, festive days and he had recruited everyone, including Branshaw and Jane Treves, to go out together en masse. I dialed his home number and a woman answered, doubtless she of the attractive, old-fashioned silhouette (with her almost hourglass figure), whom I had seen at the end of that night of videos, outlined against the light of a corridor, at the door of his small study; if it was his wife or exwife, if it was Beryl, he would be able to understand my plight even better.

  ‘How are you, Jack? How nice of you to call and keep me posted. Or were you calling to inquire about me and the others? That would be even nicer of you, especially in the middle of your holiday.’

  There was a touch of
irony in his voice, of course, but I noticed too a certain pleasure to hear from me, or was it amusement, for he still found me amusing. After the initial exchange of greetings, I preferred not to pretend or to deceive him.

  ‘I have a matter to resolve here, Bertie. I’d like to know what you think or what, in your view, you think I should do.’ I called him Bertie to please him, to put him in a good mood, even though he was sure to see through this, and then, without further ado, I summarized the situation: ‘There’s a guy here in Madrid,’ I said. ‘I think he’s beating up my wife, or my ex-wife—or whatever—given that we’re still not divorced—anyway, they’ve been going out for a while, I don’t know how long, probably a few months. She denies it, but right now she has a black eye, and this isn’t the first time she’s accidentally—according to her, of course—banged into something. Her sister told me this, and she, quite independently, has reached the same conclusion. I really don’t like the idea of my children running the slightest risk of losing their mother, because you never know how these things will end, so you have to nip them in the bud, don’t you agree? Anyway, I haven’t got many more days in which to sort it out. I’d like to have it all settled before I come back, anxiety is unbearable at a distance and very distracting if you’re working. But neither would I want her to find out about my intervention, whatever form it takes. Mind you, she’s bound to suspect something if—as I hope—the whole scene changes and that change coincides with my stay in Madrid. There would be no point in just talking to him about it, he would simply deny it. Besides, he doesn’t seem the timid pusillanimous type, not at all; he’s certainly no De la Garza. It would be equally pointless my trying to make her admit it, I know how stubborn she is. And even if I did get her to admit it, the situation wouldn’t, in essence, be any different; after all, she’s still with him despite what’s happened.’ I stopped. What I had to say next was more difficult: ‘She must be really crazy about him, although they haven’t been together long enough for that, I mean for her to be really crazy about the guy. That doesn’t happen in a few months, feelings like that need time to take root. I suppose it’s the novelty, the excitement of being with someone else, the first man she’s been with since we split up, and the feeling won’t last. But while it lasts it lasts, if you know what I mean. And it’s lasting now.’