Thus Bad Begins

by Javier Marías

  Time must be very strange for a would-be suicide, because it’s in her hands alone to end it, and she is the one who will decide precisely when, the actual moment, which could be just before or just afterwards, and it can’t be easy to decide or to know why now and not a few seconds ago or a few seconds later, or even why today and not yesterday or tomorrow or the day before yesterday or the day after tomorrow, why today when I’m still only halfway through a book and when they’re about to show a new season of a TV series I’ve been following for years, why decide now that I’m not going to continue and will never find out what happens at the end of either book or TV series; or why stop distractedly watching a film being shown on a channel we happened upon in this hotel room – the transient place chosen for our solitary, unwitnessed death – something is sure to arouse our curiosity when we’re just about to take our leave of all curiosity, along with everything else: our memories and our patiently accumulated knowledge, the anxieties and the hard work that seem now utterly pointless or of little importance; the infinite number of images that passed before our eyes and the words our ears heard, passively or by chance; the carefree laughter and the feelings of elation, the moments of fulfilment and anxiety, of desolation and optimism, as well as the tick-tock that has accompanied us since our birth; it’s in our power to silence that ticking and say to it: ‘Thus far and no further. There have been times when I’ve ignored you completely and others when I could hear nothing else, always hoping that some other noise would be loud enough to block you out and allow me to forget you, a few longed-for words or the sound of passionate, panting, amorous fury, the muttered obscenities that simultaneously repel and attract and hold us hypnotized during the time it takes to say them. Today, I will stop you dead and put an end to your imperturbability, at least as regards myself. I know that nothing will really stop you, that you will continue to exist, but only for other people, not for me; from this moment on, I will have escaped and be beyond your reach, and you will have ceased to measure out my time.’ No, it can’t be easy to decide precisely when our ancient survival instinct will lead us to think: ‘Not yet, not yet, what harm can there be in my lingering for a few more minutes in the world, to watch the rising of the cold, sentinel moon, who, having seen so many leave, will not even blink its somnolent, half-open eye, bored with the unending spectacle of these strange, speaking beings who weep into their pillow before saying goodbye; at least I will be able to see it.’ And our weariness and suffering will lead us to think: ‘Right, this is it, why delay any longer, what’s the point of staying for a few minutes more, or a few days, days that will seem arduous and identical as we unwittingly draw them out and continue to live with our consciousness still fully active, a consciousness that has so often caused us pain; to wonder yet again what will become of our children, who we will not see grow up into adulthood, they will have to get by without me like so many who came before, besides, Eduardo will be there to help them, for in my eyes, he will live eternally, given that he will still be alive when my time is over and who’s to say that he won’t be there for ever, when, as far as I’m concerned, he will never die; on the other hand, it’s asking too much to expect me to help and guide the children indefinitely, I lack the will to live, the pain is too great, and they’re not enough to keep me here. I can’t stand it any more, nothing else matters. I will numb myself so that I can simply drift off as if I wasn’t really dying, and when I’m no longer here and am part of the past, then let others come with their accusations of egotism, with condemnations and reproaches and harsh judgements, because I won’t hear any of them. Then, then, I’ll be beyond caring.’

  It was only a short distance, although it seemed longer, as distances always do when you’re afraid you won’t arrive in time for something, to catch a train, to clear up a misunderstanding, to stop someone passing on a piece of information or to hasten a letter on its way, to withdraw an ultimatum or a threat, or, as was the case then, to avoid a death. The hotel staff were very understanding: since it wasn’t just a young lad and a one-eyed man talking to them, but a renowned doctor, they decided not to consult their superiors or, rather, to take immediate action and then inform the manager, whom one of them rushed off to find, while another came with us to the room and rapped vigorously on the door, Beatriz having signed in under her own name. He knocked three times, pausing in between, three apparently being the obligatory or minimum number of times he could knock before opening the door without permission, while Muriel urged him to make immediate use of the master key or spare key or whatever. The door remained locked, nor was there any reassuring response (although that could have been deceptive, the sound of someone about to kick away a chair and remain hanging in the air) – ‘Just coming’ or ‘Who is it? I can’t answer the door right now. Come back later’ – and so he decided to use his key to open the door; he hadn’t noticed the lady go out, although she might be in the café or in one of the hotel lounges or, indeed, in her room, in which case it looked very bad indeed. Muriel was the first to enter, followed by Van Vechten, both of them at a run, then the member of staff who had accompanied us, infected by the rapid pace of events, with me last of all, afraid of what I might see, especially if she’d hanged herself or if there was a lot of blood, but neither did I want to miss anything once I’d got there, never having seen anyone dead. Before crossing the threshold, I noticed someone hurrying down the long corridor, a man too fat actually to run, but who must have been the manager summoned by the receptionist. I also noticed a smartly dressed couple coming out of their room, and when they saw so many agitated people, they stopped to look.

  It was a large room, a junior suite they’d call it now, although perhaps not then, Beatriz probably wasn’t bothered about the expense if she wasn’t going to leave under her own steam or have to pay the bill. There was no one there, she hadn’t hanged herself nor was she sprawled or curled up on the bed having taken too many pills, but there was still the bathroom, the door of which remained stubbornly shut, bolted from the inside, and no one responded from within or protested at all the noise and fuss.

  ‘Do you have some way of opening this?’ Muriel asked the receptionist, almost at the same time as he hurled himself against the door. His face was contorted with anxiety, although this was perhaps less obvious because of his eyepatch.

  ‘No, not with me. And I’m not sure there is a way of opening bathroom doors.’ By this time, the fat man had arrived, jacket all awry and his very long, wide tie hanging over his waistband, doubtless a feeble attempt to disguise his belly, one that proved totally counterproductive, since one’s eye was inevitably drawn to that dangling bit of cloth. The receptionist said: ‘Is there some way of opening bathroom doors, Don Hernán?’ adding an incongruous introduction: ‘This is the manager, Don Hernán Gómez-Antigüedad.’ I couldn’t help noting that unusual, somewhat pretentious name, although I subsequently learned that it’s not actually that rare. The well-dressed couple, who appeared to be French, were now peering in through the door, and suddenly, absurdly enough, there were seven of us in the room.

  Gómez-Antigüedad made as if to shake someone’s hand and said: ‘I’ve no idea, we’d have to ask the maintenance people,’ but no one took his proffered hand because Muriel and Van Vechten were already trying to kick in the door, while the rest of us looked on, our hearts in our mouths; it looked as though it would take a lot of kicking, but, fortunately, the door wasn’t that sturdy and a crack soon appeared.

  ‘Perhaps we should fit bathroom doors with locks not bolts,’ said Gómez-Antigüedad in his role as hotel manager, observing the mess being made. ‘But changing all of them would mean an awful lot of work. And this sort of thing’s hardly likely to happen that often.’ He was talking rather breathlessly to himself, having still not recovered from his haste.

  The door finally gave way and we all rushed to look inside, but Muriel held us back with a commanding gesture, as if he didn’t want us to see Beatriz in her underwear or the water stained red, which
is what I did manage to glimpse before obeying his command and withdrawing, urging the assembled multitude to do likewise, for other guests, attracted by the raised voices and the sound of banging, had also now gathered – well, no one can resist the chance of having some weird and wonderful tale to tell. Knowing that she would probably be discovered by the hotel staff, Beatriz had not got fully undressed before getting into the bath, on a modest impulse she had kept on her bra and pants, or so I assumed, although I didn’t see the latter, only the upper part of her torso veiled in reddish foam, she must have washed first in order to smell clean, forgetting that blood has its own odour, and that peculiar metallic effluvia had already reached my nostrils, like the smell of iron. Fortunately, she had one elbow resting on the edge of the bath and so had not sunk beneath the water, had not drowned, perhaps the idea of drowning had filled her with a particular dread or revulsion, which would explain that supporting arm. Or she might already have bled to death, and I retreated before I could know if this was so.

  ‘Let the Doctor deal with it, let him take charge,’ I murmured as I pushed the crowd back into the room. Gómez-Antigüedad was happy to help and left the room along with the intruders and remained outside with them, looking dreadful, pasty-faced and faint, and leaving the receptionist in the room as the hotel’s representative or in case he was needed. It was going to be hard to stop the news spreading like wild-fire round the hotel.

  So it had been her veins. I didn’t see him do this, but I assume Van Vechten tried to bind up the cuts with bits of cloth or rags (he told Muriel to bring him a sheet, and with a single violent tug, Muriel pulled the sheet off the rumpled bed – so Beatriz must at some point have been lying down), and if the bleeding continued, I again assume that he would have improvised a tourniquet. I remained stationed at the now closed bedroom door, watching Muriel going in and out of the bathroom and hearing the orders given by Van Vechten, who did not reappear for several minutes, hidden from view, so that I had no idea what his expression would be or his degree of anxiety, or perhaps he felt no anxiety, he would be the only one with any idea as to whether she would survive or not and, besides, he was too busy. I also heard the water drain out of the bath, from which he would have removed the plug, making things easier to manage without all that liquid in the way, apart from the denser, less controllable stuff.

  ‘Eduardo, phone the clinic, the Ruber, which is the closest. Tell them from me to send an ambulance urgently. Ask for Dr Troyano or, if he’s not there, Dr Enciso, and if she’s not there either, it really doesn’t matter, just tell whoever picks up the phone; they all know me. Tell them not to log your call, say it’s a non-residential, they’ll understand what I mean. Tell them to send an ambulance immediately, I’ll go with the patient and give any further instructions when I get there.’ And he gave Muriel a number, which Muriel remembered at once, without noting it down, his memory made keener by the sheer uncertainty of the situation.

  I saw my boss emerge from the bathroom and grab the receiver of the phone on the bedside table. He was already spattered with blood, with numerous watery drops on his shirt along with other darker drops, pure and undiluted. The Doctor would be even more soiled and sodden, and both men were dressed for a quiet supper party. I was glad they hadn’t let me into the bathroom, to have been spared that, I would very likely have had to throw away my clothes afterwards.

  ‘How do I get an outside line?’

  ‘Press zero, wait for the tone and then dial,’ said the sympathetic receptionist.

  After a while, I assumed that the haemorrhaging must have stopped or at least diminished, because Muriel came back out of the bathroom, looking calmer now and said:

  ‘Look, there’s nothing for you to do here, young De Vere.’ The fact that he was once more calling me ‘young De Vere’ meant that he had recovered from his shock and that Beatriz’s life was probably not in danger. ‘Go back to the apartment and send our guests home, those who haven’t already got fed up with waiting, that is.’ He looked at his watch, then briefly tapped the face with his middle finger – a gesture of grim resignation. ‘Yes, tell them all to go home. Send them my apologies and say that I’ll phone them as soon as I can tomorrow.’

  ‘And what if they want to know what happened?’

  ‘Don’t even wait for them to ask, just tell them the truth straight away. As soon as you explain, they’ll see it was an emergency, they’ll understand, they’ll be fine. The world of cinema is accustomed to suicide attempts, even successful ones; no one will be shocked. But don’t go into detail or describe the scene in all its gory drama.’ And he gestured with his head to where Beatriz would still be lying, and where she must have been getting cold unless Van Vechten had covered her with a dressing gown or some towels. ‘If they ask how, just say you don’t know.’

  I remembered that, not long before, when Lom had told us about the events in 1961 at the home of the singer Vic Damone, which had supposedly provoked a failed suicide attempt and caused Kennedy to bolt, Muriel had even made fun of the women Beatriz had just imitated. ‘Oh, I can believe that,’ he had said disdainfully. ‘It’s a classic female ploy – locking themselves in the bathroom and slashing their wrists. The amazing thing is that they can almost never find their veins.’ He probably didn’t even remember saying that. Or perhaps he did – bitterly reproaching himself for being so ingenuous – if Beatriz had missed her veins; after all, you only have to graze your skin to make it bleed.

  ‘OK, but what if the children are there? Do I still say what happened?’

  ‘Take the little one out of the room, if he isn’t already in bed. The girls can hear what you have to say, I mean, they won’t be that surprised.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  I immediately thought that I had again asked too much for my boss’s taste. But it was done now, I couldn’t un-ask the question, that was impossible, and I felt I had a right to know, since Muriel had involved me in something that was beyond my capabilities, if anything was for someone of my age; you’re so pliable then, so biddable, prepared to do whatever you can to please, and there comes a point when anyone can ask or order you to do anything, even commit a crime. Besides, it was high time Muriel answered a few of my questions. Not at that precise moment, of course, but soon. He looked me up and down for a moment with his maritime eye, as if registering my tacit demand and accepting it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, as if what he were about to say was of no importance, ‘with a mother like theirs, they’d better get used to the idea that one day they might lose her. The girls already know this, I’m sure. But off you go now. Towers will be confused if not furious. Not to mention his wife.’

  ‘How is Beatriz?’ I asked before I left. And mimicking him, I gestured with my head towards the bathroom, the interior of which was outside my field of vision. I had seen very little of Beatriz’s calamitous state, only that initial flash when I first entered the room. Nor did I manage to see her only in her underwear (her bra straps slipping off her shoulders) and, to my shame, I realized that I would like to have seen that, even in those dramatic circumstances, or now that the greatest danger seemed to have passed. Seeing a dead woman is not the same as seeing one unconscious or badly injured, or perhaps it’s not so very different if the woman has only just died and remains unchanged, by which I mean that there hasn’t been time for her to lose her attraction. I did what I could to drive away these thoughts or imaginings or whatever, for while I may have been young, I wasn’t completely heartless. Although most young men’s hearts are, so to speak, on hold.