Your Face Tomorrow

by Javier Marías

  Tupra remained silent for a few seconds. Then he said, without irony this time, but not very seriously either, for he still spoke in a slightly frivolous tone of voice, as if my problem didn’t seem that serious or as if he didn’t see it as particularly hard to resolve.

  ‘And you’re asking me what you should do? Or what is it you’re asking? What I would do in your place? Well, you know perfectly well by now, Jack, what I would do. I imagine the question is purely rhetorical and that you merely want me to reassure you. Fine, consider yourself reassured. If you want to get rid of the problem, do so.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand you, Bertie. I’ve already said that talking to him would get me nowhere—’ But he didn’t let me finish my sentence. Perhaps he was in a hurry or irritated by my slowness (he could have said to me as he did once before: ‘Don’t linger or delay, just do it’). Perhaps I had caught him in bed with Beryl, or whoever the woman was by his side, which is why she had answered the phone, because she was nearer, above or below, on her front or her back, I had probably interrupted them while they were screwing, we never know what is going on at the other end, or rather, what was going on just before the phone rang. I wondered how many times when I’d called Luisa from London she would have just got back from seeing Custardoy in his studio or how many times he would have been there in her bedroom, in my home, watching as she sat, half-undressed, talking to me, waiting impatiently for us to finish our conversation. If, that is, he visited her. It might be that he didn’t or only at night because of the children. I hadn’t asked them, but neither had they mentioned it spontaneously, in fact, they hadn’t mentioned anyone new or anyone I didn’t know.

  ‘Look, Jack, just deal with him,’ Tupra said. ‘Just make sure he’s out of the picture.’ Those were his exact words in English, and I deeply regretted then that it wasn’t my first language, because I don’t know how they would strike a native English speaker, but to me they seemed too ambiguous, I couldn’t grasp their meaning as clearly as I would have wanted; if he had said to me ‘Just get rid of him’ or ‘Dispose of him,’ that would have been clearer although, again, not entirely; there are a lot of ways of getting rid of someone, not all of which involve killing; or perhaps it would have been clearer to me if he had said ‘Just make sure you get him off her back’ or ‘off your backs,’ but I would still not have felt able to translate that expression into concrete unequivocal action, because there are also lots of ways of getting someone off your back. If only he had said ‘Just scare him away, scare him to death,’ then I would have understood that he was telling me to do what he’d done with De la Garza, nothing more, and to transform myself into Sir Punishment and Sir Thrashing, but not into Sir Death or Sir Cruelty. However, the words that emerged from his lips were: ‘Just deal with him. Just make sure he’s out of the picture,’ and that word ‘picture’ could mean many things: a painting or a portrait, a panorama or a scene or even a photo or a film, although it was the first meaning of painting that I opted for, I had to remove Custardoy from the picture, to erase or exclude him, just like the Count of San Secondo in the Prado, who was cut off from his family, isolated, and would never ever be close to his wife or his children again. If I had heard that advice as a brief bit of dialogue in an episode of The Sopranos or in The Godfather, I would have understood perfectly that he was urging me to bump him off. But perhaps the mafiosi use pre-established codes, just in case they’re being bugged, allowing them to be very laconic in the orders they issue and yet still be sure that their orders will be interpreted correctly and at once. Besides, this wasn’t a dialogue in a film and we weren’t mafiosi, nor was I receiving an order, as I had on previous occasions from Tupra or Reresby or Ure or Dundas, I was merely being given a little guidance, the advice I’d asked him for. Language, though, is difficult when you’re uncertain as to what to do and need to know exactly what is meant, because language is almost always metaphorical or figurative. There can’t be many people in the world who would say openly ‘Kill him,’ or in Spanish ‘Mátalo.’

  I decided to press him a little, even though this might annoy him. Or rather, I got my question in quickly before he could put the phone down, because those last two utterances of his had sounded distinctly conclusive, dismissive almost, as if, after that, he had nothing more to add. Or as if he were bored with my inquiry, my little story.

  ‘Could you tell me how, Bertie?’ I said. ‘I’m not as used as you are to frightening people.’

  First, I heard his paternalistic laughter, brief and slightly scornful, it wasn’t the sort of laughter we could have shared, it wasn’t the kind that creates a disinterested bond between men or between women or the kind that establishes a bond between women and men that can prove an even stronger, tighter link, a profounder, more complex, more dangerous and more lasting link, or one, at least, with more hope of enduring, perhaps Luisa and Custardoy were joined by the bond of spontaneous, unexpected, simultaneous laughter, given that he seemed to be able to make people laugh so easily. Tupra’s laugh, as I myself had occasion to notice, always sounded slightly disappointed and impatient and revealed small bright teeth. Then he said:

  ‘If you really don’t know how, Jack, that means you can’t do it. Best not to try and just let events take their course—leave it be, don’t try to change things, let your wife sort things out, it’s her business, after all. But I think you do know how. We all know, even if we’re not used to the idea or can’t imagine ourselves doing it. It’s a question of imagination. But I have to leave you now. Good luck.’ And with that he brought to a close a conversation that I had managed to prolong only very slightly.

  I didn’t dare phone him back, I would have to make do with what I had. ‘Let your wife sort things out, it’s her business, after all,’ those words had sounded like a reproach or a veiled criticism, as if what he’d really said was: ‘You’re going to abandon her to her fate, perhaps allow her to be killed one day and leave your children orphans.’ Some other words of his had hit home too: ‘It’s a question of imagination.’ What he probably meant by this was that the only way of imagining yourself doing something you have never imagined yourself doing is to do it, and then you have no trouble at all imagining it.

  Next I called an old friend, well, a Madrid-style friend, namely, a fellow madrileño whom I had known superficially years ago and hadn’t seen since: if there has been no friction or quarrel or dispute between you and such a friend, then, nominally, he can still be considered a friend, even though you might never have had a conversation alone with him, outside of the broad and ever-changing group of people that brought you together in that increasingly remote past. This friend was a bullfighter with a fanatical following, the sort of torero who retires, then returns to the ring every few years only to retire again—it wouldn’t be long now before he would have to cut off his pigtail for good—and whom I had known slightly during one particular period of my life, with Comendador (who moved in all kinds of circles and had introduced me to him) and later on again, too, at the late-night card games that went on into the small hours and which the Maestro held at his house for members of his team, the odd colleague and all kinds of hangers-on like me; some bullfighters never spend a minute alone and will welcome anyone, as long as they come recommended by some trustworthy person, even at third hand: the friend of a friend of the person who really is a friend and not just a Madrid-style friend. He was a very amiable, affectionate fellow, and sentimental about anything to do with his past life, and when I asked if I could come and see him, he not only raised no objections or sounded remotely suspicious after that decade or more of silence between us, he even urged me to visit as soon as possible:

  ‘Come today. There’s a game tonight.’

  ‘Would tomorrow morning suit you?’ I asked. ‘I’m only here for a few days. I live in London now, and I’d arranged to go and see my father today. He’s getting on a bit and hasn’t been too well.’

  ‘Of course, say no more. Tomorrow it is then. But make it
around one o’clock, for a drink before lunch. Tonight’s game is sure to run late.’

  ‘I want to ask you a favor,’ I said, preferring to give him due warning. ‘I need a loan, but not of money, don’t worry. I have no problems in that department.’

  ‘“Don’t worry,” he says,’ he replied, laughing. ‘You would never give me cause to worry, Jacobito.’ He was one of the people who called me Jacobo, I can’t remember why. ‘Ask me for anything you like. As long as it’s not my suit of lights.’ I didn’t really follow the bullfighting scene, certainly not from London, but I assumed from his comment that he was currently active. I had better find out before going to visit him, so as not to seem rude.

  ‘You’re getting warm,’ I said. ‘I’ll explain tomorrow.’

  ‘Just have a look around when you get here and take whatever you want.’ These weren’t mere empty words, he really was a very generous man. His name was Miguel Yanes Troyano, nicknamed ‘Miquelín,’ and he was the son of a banderillero.

  The following morning, up to date now on his latest triumphs, thanks to the Internet, and bearing a gift, I arrived at his vast apartment in the area which, in my childhood, was known as ‘Costa Fleming,’ rather closer to Real Madrid’s Chamartín stadium—which I prefer to call by its old name—than to Las Ventas, the bull ring through whose gates he had often been borne shoulder high. I would have preferred to speak to him alone, but that was impossible since he always had company. However, having been forewarned that I was going to ask him for a favor or a loan, he had been considerate enough not to embarrass me with too many witnesses, apart, that is, from his lifelong manager, who was always there, a discreet taciturn man of about the same age, and whom I scarcely knew at all even though I had known him since forever.

  ‘I hope Señor Cazorla won’t find our conversation too boring, Maestro,’ I said tentatively, just in case.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Miquelín, making a gesture with his hand as if sweeping aside such an idea. He had greeted me with a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek, as if I were his nephew. ‘Eulogio never gets bored, but if he does, he simply thinks, isn’t that so, Eulogio? You can say whatever you like in front of him, because he’ll neither tell on you nor judge you. Anyway, how can I help?’

  I found it hard to begin, because I felt slightly ashamed of what I was about to ask. However, the best way to overcome this was to say what I wanted and get it over with. Everything seems more embarrassing before than it does afterwards and even during.

  ‘I wondered if you could lend me one of your swords. I’d only need it for a couple of days.’

  I saw that my request took them both by surprise and that Cazorla started slightly and tugged at one sleeve. He was wearing a suit, complete with a waistcoat, in rather too pale a shade of grey; he had a handkerchief in his top jacket pocket and wore a flower in his buttonhole; he was, in short, old school. But he would not speak unless Miquelín invited him to do so, and Miquelín managed to conceal his surprise very well and replied at once:

  ‘As many as you want, Jacobo. We’ll go and have a look at them right now and you can choose the one you like best, although they’re all pretty much the same. But forgive me, if you’d wanted to borrow some money, it would never even have occurred to me to ask what you wanted it for, but borrowing a sword is a bit more unusual. Is it for a costume party?’

  I could have lied to him, although a sword on its own wouldn’t be much of a disguise. I could have invented some absurd excuse and said, for example, that I had been invited to a private bullfight, but it didn’t seem right to deceive such a kindly man, and I don’t think I would have succeeded. I felt, too, that he would understand my reasons for borrowing it and wouldn’t judge me either.

  ‘No, Miquelín. I want to give someone a fright. It’s to do with my wife, well, my ex-wife, we’ve been separated for a while now, although we’re not yet divorced.’ I always made a point of saying that, I realized, as if it were important. ‘That’s why I moved to London, so that I wouldn’t be hanging around here while we gradually drifted apart. Given what I’ve found out, though, I’m not sure it was a good idea. We have two kids, a boy and a girl, and I don’t want them to come to any harm. The guy’s no good for anyone, least of all her.’

  Miquelín understood, I didn’t need to say any more, I could see this from the way he listened to me, as if he were in agreement. He didn’t ask any questions, friends were friends and you didn’t poke your nose into their business. Then he gave an affectionate amused chuckle, he was a man much given to laughter, and age had not changed that or made his laughter less frequent.

  ‘And what are you going to do with a sword?’ he said. ‘Did you hear what he wants it for, Eulogio? Are you actually going to use it, Jacobo? Are you going to stick the whole blade in or just the point? Or do you simply want to wave it around a bit and scare the living daylights out of him?’

  ‘I was hoping not to have to use it,’ I replied. I had no idea what I was going to do with it; having heard Tupra on the subject, I had thought only of the effect it would have when I produced the weapon.

  ‘You have to bear in mind two things, my friend. Firstly, the estoque only wounds with the point, by sticking it in, and that’s why you need considerable momentum to drive it in really deep; the bullfighter’s sword has almost no blade at all, so it won’t be any use if you just want to cut someone up a bit. Secondly, if this sword can kill a bull weighing over 1,300 pounds when you stick it in up to the hilt—always assuming you don’t hit a bone of course—just imagine what it could do to a man, one false move on your part and he’d be stone dead. Do you want to take that risk? No, Jacobo, the best way to frighten someone is to pull a gun on them. Preferably a clean one, because you never know.’

  I hadn’t made the connection until I heard Miquelín talking about what a sword could do to a man, but when I did, I felt a shudder of disgust run through me, although, oddly, strangely, not self-disgust; I must still have seen myself as quite separate from what I was planning to do, or felt that my plan was still empty of content, or was it just that one never experiences genuine self-disgust, and it’s that inability that makes us capable of doing almost anything as we grow accustomed to the ideas that rise up in us or take root, little by little, or as we come to terms with the fact that we’re really going to do what we’re going to do. ‘I would be like that vicious malagueño, that nasty piece of work, that bastard,’ I thought, ‘the one who killed Emilio Marés on the outskirts of Ronda some seventy years ago, helped and urged on by his comrades, the one who went in for the kill and cut off Marés’ ears and his tail, held them up in one hand and with the other doffed his red beret as if it were a bullfighter’s hat, there in those sweet lands. The one who brutally murdered my father’s old university friend, who, as my father told me, was rather vain, but in a funny self-consciously frivolous way, a really lovely man, always in a good mood, whom he had very much liked and who had refused to dig his own grave before being shot, thus allowing his executioners to bait him like a bull as well as to kill him. And then they had, literally, baited him with banderillas and pikes and swords. It’s fortunate that Miquelín, all unknowing, has alerted me to that connection.’

  ‘Clean?’ I asked. I didn’t understand the term.

  ‘Yes, a gun that no one knows about, that hasn’t been registered, and, above all, that hasn’t been used in any crime. As I say, you never know.’ Miquelín, like all bullfighters I suppose, was all too aware that one never could know what might happen. ‘What do you mean “you never know,” Miquelín?’

  ‘What do you think I mean, child? Listen to him, Eulogio!’ And he chuckled again, he must have considered me a complete novice, which I was in such matters. ‘Because if you put a gun in your pocket, there’s always a chance you might end up firing it. You just want to give someone a fright, fair enough, but you never know how the other fellow’s going to react. He might not be frightened, and then what will you do?’

  ‘Fine, but where
am I going to get a gun like that?’ I knew that the Maestro owned various weapons, which he used when he went hunting on his estate in Cáceres, where he’d spend longish periods of time. And perhaps other kinds of weapons too, the shorter variety that are of no use for hunting. However, it was likely that he had licences for them all, and therefore no entirely ‘clean’ ones.