Thus Bad Begins

by Javier Marías

  ‘So who is this utter bastard young De Vere has been fraternizing with? This is news to me. Come on, out with it, Dr Vidal, I love hearing about dirty deeds, even contemporary ones. They pale into insignificance beside the classics, of course, but it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, so chocks away and let the dog see the rabbit.’ He had a penchant for idioms, sayings, proverbs and the like; some of which he invented or used in a way that was incomprehensible to me, I couldn’t understand what those chocks, dogs and rabbits were doing there. He topped off his request with one of his indecipherable onomatopoeia: ‘Fúrfaro.’

  ‘Why is he an utter bastard?’ I finally managed to ask. ‘As a doctor? That’s not what people usually say about him. He’s an expert in his field. And everyone says how well he behaved in the 1940s and 50s. I’m sure you’ve heard that too. It’s true, isn’t it, Professor? Isn’t it true that Dr Van Vechten helped people who suffered reprisals after the War? Like your own family, José Manuel, you must know that. There are loads of testimonies to that effect.’

  Vidal drew his chair closer to the table and lowered his voice a little, mainly, I assumed, given what he told us – although I assumed this only once I’d heard what he had to say – because we were in the Salamanca district, which, even now, is heaving with Nationalists nostalgic for the late dictator, even more at that time, when he’d only been dead for five years, which, to nearly all of us, felt more like twenty – so quickly, impatiently and eagerly had he been dispatched and forgotten.

  ‘Yes, I know the story. That’s the official version, the favourable version, the legend that has lingered on and which has suited him perfectly because it’s meant he could be accepted everywhere. He’s always played both sides off against each other, with no preference for either. He’s clever, I can’t deny that.’

  ‘Come on, Dr Vidal, spill the beans. I’m all ears,’ said Rico contentedly and as if the story were intended for him. He didn’t seem to care two hoots or give a fig about his excellent relations with Van Vechten (those absurd idioms are as infectious as swear words, once they come into your mind).

  ‘Look, Juan.’ Fortunately, Vidal was still addressing me, with an expression that seemed genuinely concerned, even reproving. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I now work at the Hospital Anglo-Americano. Dr Naval took me with him when he was asked to take over as director there less than a year ago, and so we both left the Clínica Ruber, where he was the medical director and where I’d set up the ECG unit. Anyway, Naval had spent a lot of time in Chile. He fled after the coup led by Pinochet because he was a prominent supporter of the Socialist Party, and he knows more than any of us about what people got up to here after the War. The people who left Spain after the War have put far more effort into finding out and remembering that kind of thing, whereas here we know almost nothing – well, it’s so much easier to cover up uncomfortable facts. It’s odd that Dr Bergaz, the owner of Clínica Ruber, who was an ardent franquista, should have appointed Naval as medical director, but that will give you some idea of how good he is. Lots of tales were told at the clinic, as happens everywhere, especially with a young man like me asking lots of questions. As you doubtless know, given your apparent friendship, Van Vechten worked as a paediatrician there for nearly twenty years; that’s where he gained his reputation, and he still often drops by and he gets on very well with the staff there.’ – That was the clinic Van Vechten had told Muriel to phone from the Hotel Wellington, because it was the closest one, saying: ‘They all know me, I’ll give any further instructions when I get there.’ – ‘Dr Naval is very discreet, but he couldn’t even stand being in the same room with Van Vechten when he turned up at the clinic, slapping everyone on the back; he knew all about his past and couldn’t resist telling me. Mind, he’s not the only one who’s told me things about him. I corroborated the stories later on, even with some of his biggest fans, who were full of admiration for what he’d done, at least for the first few years. Dr Teigell, for example.’ Another foreign surname, it looked German to me when, later, I saw it written down. Vidal pronounced it Spanish-style: ‘Teihell’.

  ‘Listen, Doctor, I’m expected for lunch with three bores from the Real Academia,’ Rico broke in rudely, looking at his watch. ‘You’ll either have to cut a long story short or I’ll arrive late for my appointment and they’ll have their claws out for me already. Which they tend to do anyway. So get to the point and don’t stuff my head with a load of useless names I can’t retain. So far, you’ve told me nothing new.’

  Luckily, Vidal was a good-humoured fellow. He had instantly cottoned on to the Professor’s style and rather liked it. He didn’t take offence at all, but smiled.

  ‘José Manuel,’ I said, ‘are you sure you don’t mind the Professor hearing all this? I warn you, he’s not known for his discretion.’ This was a way of reclaiming the story, which was in principle intended for my ears only, Rico was merely a kind of stowaway.

  Vidal laughed and happily agreed with him:

  ‘The Professor is quite right, I’ll get straight to the point. And if he hears it and tells other people, I have no problem with that. On the contrary, all the better. Van Vechten’s hypocrisy is enough to rile anyone, as is that of his pal Arranz, another rich and famous paediatrician. There’s not much you can do against such established reputations, but any reputation can be undermined a little, and the more people who know about his lies … well, at least then they’ll have to think twice before boasting in public about their noble behaviour.’

  ‘Arranz? Dr Carlos Arranz?’ I couldn’t help interrupting him, frustrating his promise to get straight to the point. I’d seen that name more than once, next to a doorway, on a plaque, followed by the words ‘Medical Consultant’.

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s a friend of yours too,’ said Vidal. ‘Things are worse than I thought. What are you doing hanging around with people like that? What world are you living in, Juan? Oh, I get it – it was because of their reputation as benefactors. A right pair of crooks, they are. They had everyone fooled, the bastards, I’ll give them that.’

  ‘That Arranz fellow, does he have a consulting room in Plaza del Marqués de Salamanca? At Number 2 to be exact.’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s possible. I’ve never met the man, I only know what Dr Naval told me. And a couple of other people too, his name almost always crops up. He’s not as famous as Van Vechten and he doesn’t rub shoulders with society people, but he does pretty well, I’m sure. Do you go drinking with him as well? Just wait until you hear what I know about those two. Plus they’re both about a thousand years older than you.’ With this he only added fuel to the fire.

  Rico sprang theatrically to his feet, cigarette in hand (he was a chain-smoker) and angrily flicked the ash on to the floor, despite there being two ashtrays on the table, or perhaps precisely because there were.

  ‘Here ends my journey, which feels to me, gentlemen, to have lasted at least a thousand years,’ he said. ‘During the time I’ve been listening, six or seven doctors’ names have emerged, if we include yours, Doctor, and you, to make matters worse, have two.’ I had, it’s true, introduced José Manuel as Vidal Secanell. ‘Now I’ve no idea who Naval is or who Arranz is or Secanell or Vidal or even who Pinochet is or Teihell.’ He pronounced the latter name exactly as he had heard it. He had, contrary to what he had just said, retained all the names perfectly and had made Pinochet a doctor. ‘I’m off. I’m fascinated to find out more about Dr Van Vechten’s dirty deeds, at least I know who he is, for my sins. But if you’re never going to get started and keep going on about more medical nonentities, I can’t allow myself to keep my pack of hounds waiting any longer just for your sake. The envious dimwits have got it in for me as it is. Enough said.’ He pointed his cigarette at me as if it were a pencil and added: ‘Young Vera, take note of everything your friend reveals and send me a detailed report. There’s nothing like a list of crimes committed by a person one knows, whether true or false. Don’t leave out a si
ngle detail.’

  ‘A funny man, Professor Rico, very witty,’ said Vidal once the Professor had departed, mumbling and grumbling. I watched him hail a taxi somewhat indolently despite his supposed haste, rather the way Hitler used to return the Nazi salute, with his hand bent backward instead of forward like the rest of the subordinate German populace. ‘Is he always like that or was it just in my honour?’

  ‘No, he’s not always like that. He has a broad and varied repertoire. But you were telling me about Van Vechten,’ I said, urging him on. ‘Although, just to put your mind at rest, the only reason I’ve been going around with him at all is because I was asked to. He’s a friend of my boss, Eduardo Muriel, the film director, who I’ve been working for lately as personal assistant, or, should I say, secretary. In fact, it was Muriel who asked me to draw Van Vechten out. Apparently, he had suspicions about something ugly in Van Vechten’s past. I say “had” because not long ago, he told me to forget the whole business. He owes him favours old and new and has finally decided not to probe any deeper.’

  ‘The usual story. He’s got him fooled, as he has so many others. If you’re the one who calls the shots and has absolute power, then you can dole out favours to your subjects and they’ll be sure to gratefully kiss the hand of the tyrant for not being as cruel as he could be. So the idea here is that we shouldn’t stir up the past. And that’s probably the sensible, more advisable approach. But these things should at the very least be known, don’t you think? Sure, no one’s going to be taken to court, that would be impossible and maybe it’s just as well. But if I’m asked, I’m not going to keep quiet about what I know, so that at least they don’t dish out the medals quite so easily.’ Vidal was a friendly, rather benign fellow, but he was getting quite heated. Nevertheless, he still kept his voice low. ‘Something ugly in his past, eh? You can’t know for sure, nor can your boss probably, even though they know each other of old. Van Vechten has carefully buried any inconvenient truths, and he did so right from the start too, so he was very far-sighted really; it’s the same with Arranz and so many others. You know that Catalan painter, what’s his name now, the one they make all the fuss about, well, he was another card-carrying, gun-toting Falangist. No one knows that, or those who do keep it to themselves; we don’t want to discredit one of our most acclaimed stars of the Left. People here have gone from being franquista to anti-franquista as if by magic, with the whole population believing them and applauding their sleight of hand, especially journalists. There’s not much you can do about that. I mean, if it hadn’t been for Dr Naval, who should take all the credit really (plus what my own family told me afterwards), I suppose I, too, would consider Van Vechten to be an example of generosity, reconciliation and decency in difficult times, always smiling and friendly whenever he visited the clinic. He used to slap me on the back too, even though I was a mere nobody. Yes, both men used to treat the families of those who, after the War, were stigmatized for having fought on the wrong side, right up until the early 60s, believe it or not, when the dictatorship eased off and those it had already destroyed had slowly been forgotten. Only those who benefitted from this know why and at what price. And of course part of the price was that none of this would ever get out and only the public image would remain, the favourable image, the good reputation of those doctors from the winning side who treated children at home for free, without charging a peseta. The children of the enemy, no less, oh, they were exemplary men, Arranz and Van Vechten; and there must have been many more like them throughout Spain and in all kinds of professions (lawyers, notaries, policemen, judges, mayors, even minor civil servants). How many others must have taken advantage of that situation over the years, over the decades? Most didn’t ask for money, they got paid in kind. Those two did anyway. They did very well out of those home visits. And they’re the ones I’m talking about.’

  ‘What do you mean “in kind”, given that those families had little or nothing?’

  ‘They had a past. They had secrets and they had women, Juan. That was quite enough,’ said Vidal, and when he said this, a mist seemed to wrap about him, a mist of distaste, bitterness and long-postponed resentment, a resentment that would have to continue to be postponed, possibly for ever; he was exhaling that mist now, in private and almost in a whisper, as happens with very personal stories, which are the vast majority, and it’s quite something to hear them at all, even in a whisper: very little is made public, little of what is of any interest, little of what people would like to know, we being so focused on our own lives, our own affairs, without much thought for others. Sometimes we do listen distractedly and with superficial curiosity or out of deference, but the affairs of others are never comparable to our own. Even if what is happening to them is desperate, sheer torment and what is happening to us is a passing petty triviality.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, but that wasn’t really true. I was beginning to understand quite a lot or to piece things together and to imagine. Not only based on what Muriel had said to me before he changed his mind, but also on what Van Vechten himself had let slip on our nocturnal sorties, and the way he had behaved with my girlfriends (I suddenly wondered what he could have used to blackmail them), and on what I’d been told by the high-up civil servant with the glossy legs, Celia, about the time she went to him as a patient.

  ‘Well, Van Vechten enlisted in Franco’s army and stayed there throughout the War. He was very young at the time, he was born in 1918 or 1919, if I’m not mistaken. Apparently, when war broke out, he was at his parents’ summer place in Ávila.’ – Van Vechten’s once-Flemish family, I recalled, came from Arévalo. – ‘When the university was closed, he had already completed the first two years of a medical degree. As a university student, he was rapidly promoted to Acting Second Lieutenant. But I don’t think he ever actually fought in the War. He was very young and thanks to the influence of his family, who were extremely right wing and well connected, he was immediately assigned to an intelligence unit, so he wouldn’t have to risk his skin at the front. I’m not sure if he met Arranz there or later, it doesn’t matter, perhaps they met at the so-called “Patriotic Exams” in 1940.’ He made that awful gesture imported from America that people use to indicate quotation marks. I had no idea what those exams were, but I didn’t want to interrupt him. ‘He began collecting and filing away all the information he was given, some of which was passed to him by fifth columnists in Madrid when they could, or by others taking refuge in embassies and who received news from the outside world, and while some of this information was reliable, some of it was complete fantasy or a distortion of the facts. Much of that information was useless as long as Madrid remained in Republican hands, but would prove invaluable when the capital finally fell. He was one of the people in charge of storing, selecting and ordering this information, and as soon as the city surrendered, he was able to do this unimpeded, all obstacles removed, and there was no shortage of the stuff either, because here, as everywhere, volunteers came crawling out of the woodwork to tell what had happened during the nearly three years of the War, both the true and the false, the population being eager to ingratiate itself and make amends. That’s how he came to find out what numerous individuals had done and said; some had committed atrocities, others were merely sympathetic to the Republic or readers of a certain newspaper. The usual story of indiscriminate accusations. In short, when the War ended, Van Vechten was a man who knew a lot about a lot of people and, besides, it was easy enough to invent facts if you wanted to harm someone. If you could prove your loyalty to the regime, there was no need to provide proof of someone’s misdemeanours; with very rare exceptions, an accusation was all it took. He collaborated with the police as necessary, giving them enough useful tip-offs for them to respect and believe him. Once the most urgent cleansing was done, I suppose he realized he could make use of his knowledge, long-term and for his own benefit, if he rationed it out. He went back to university and decided to specialize in paediatrics, and from then on it was plain sailin
g. In those “Patriotic or State Exams” in 1940’ – Vidal again made the quotation-mark gesture presumably acquired during his time in Houston – ‘after the university reopened in the autumn of 1939, those who had fought on the winning side and had, therefore, supported the Glorious Nationalist Movement, were given the “Patriotic Pass” for any exams they attended wearing their army uniform, some complete with cartridge belt and pistol. I learned all this from Dr Naval, who’s about the same age as Van Vechten, maybe a couple of years younger, and who sat it out in Spain for a while until he was offered a post abroad and could leave thanks to a relative of his in the diplomatic service, who got him a passport. That’s apparently how things worked, although nowadays it sounds like a bad melodrama or a caricature. Naval laughed a bit when he told me, imagining Van Vechten all got up in his second lieutenant’s uniform for the exam, but, he thought, probably without his pistol, Van Vechten was canny enough even then to avoid such swaggering behaviour. Anyway, they gave him his degree, deeming him to have completed his studies.’

  Vidal stopped speaking and took a long drink of his new and as yet untouched beer, and to give him more breathing space, rather than because I had anything to say that he didn’t already know, or so I assumed, I said:

  ‘Yes, I understand he had a brilliant career. I read that when he was only twenty-three, he was appointed Assistant Paediatrician at the Hospital de San Carlos and that, when he was only about thirty-one or so, in 1950, he opened a consulting room at the Clínica Ruber. Such precociousness could hardly have been the norm, not even then. With so many people dead or in exile or imprisoned and so many people like your grandfather, who was banned from practising as an ophthalmologist, they must have had to make do with whoever was available, plus, of course, they had to have a spotlessly franquista record. That would certainly have cut down the number of candidates. But that still can’t be the whole explanation.’