Thus Bad Begins

by Javier Marías

  Vidal’s eyes once again fixed on the tabletop, on the ashtrays and the beers the waiter had just brought us.

  ‘Do you know a place called the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Darmstadt?’ I asked suddenly. I could see he knew a lot of things. ‘Not far from here –’

  He looked up and, interrupting me, said:

  ‘Yes, I’ve often walked past it. And wait, I’ve heard Dr Naval mention it, now what did he say exactly? Oh, I know. I think it’s a branch or a replica of another sanctuary of the same name, in Chile. And it was founded by Germans, I believe, who settled there in the 1940s and 50s. Hence the name, I suppose; so the Chilean sanctuary is probably a replica too.’ – I’d seen the name ‘Father Gustavo Hörbiger’ on one of the signs at the sanctuary: a Hispanicized form of an undeniably German name. – ‘And it’s run by some Apostolic Movement …’ Vidal was trying to remember as he spoke. ‘No, I don’t know, I’d have to ask Naval, who mentioned it to me once, but I wasn’t really paying attention and now I can’t recall what he said. However, I’ve an idea that some of Pinochet’s high-ranking officers and even some of his ministers belong to that movement.’ – Pinochet’s dictatorship was still going strong in 1980 and would for a while longer. Five years earlier, Pinochet had turned up in Madrid to attend Franco’s funeral, wrapped in a sinister Dracula cloak and wearing the kind of dark glasses blind men wear, the living image of a humanoid bat in a peaked cap. – ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’ve occasionally seen Van Vechten there.’

  ‘What, as a member of the congregation?’

  ‘No, in one of the outbuildings, as if he had a practice there, or an office. He seemed very at home.’ – Vidal couldn’t know just how at home, and I wasn’t going to tell him.

  He gave a mischievous smile, then let out a faint whistle. He hadn’t once raised his voice, not even when he was at his most vehement.

  ‘Well, I didn’t know that, and Naval may not know it either. If it’s true, then Van Vechten probably hasn’t changed one bit and it’s all a front. Or else he preserves certain old loyalties. The place is, of course, ultra-Catholic and probably ultra-right-wing, the two tend to go hand in hand. He may treat the children of the faithful now and then, as a favour or a contribution to the cause, or to the Virgin: doubtless the children of powerful families, pleased as punch to enjoy the services of the great paediatrician. Who knows? If you like, I can ask Dr Naval and report back. He’ll be pleased to know anyway. He’s interested in anything to do with Chile, for obvious reasons.’

  He again sat staring into space, but this time he was smiling, as if anticipating how much all this would intrigue or amuse his mentor or teacher, who had fled Chile after the coup. Then he gestured to the waiter to bring the bill. It had grown late and his colleagues had left some time before, waving to him from a distance.

  ‘One last thing, José Manuel.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Do you know the name of any of Van Vechten’s victims? If you wouldn’t mind telling me, of course. I might be able to drop it into the conversation one day, as if by chance, spontaneously. Just to see how he reacts.’

  He thought for a moment, but only that.

  ‘I don’t imagine it much matters if you know it now,’ he said. ‘A cousin of my father’s, married to a former anarchist who escaped the firing squad and the purges, she was one of their victims. A very sweet woman, whom I knew really well. Both of them had her, Arranz first and then Van Vechten. Like I said, they passed the women on to each other. They took turns, now you, now me, until they grew bored. Carmen Zapater was her name. Aunt Carmen. She’s dead now. Although her children are still alive, the ones for whom she sacrificed herself with such repugnance. But with relief too, let’s be fair.’

  So that’s how he knows, I thought. And perhaps that’s why he feels so bitter too. His Aunt Carmen.

  I didn’t care about Muriel’s instructions then, didn’t care that he had so vehemently retracted his orders. What Vidal had told me seemed grave enough and coincided sufficiently with my boss’s initial suspicions, and with the accusations he had heard, for me to feel obliged to tell him. And it was interesting enough in itself for me to impose my discovery on him if he showed no interest, if what I said didn’t once again arouse his curiosity and convince him to listen to me. Strictly speaking, and legally speaking too, it was all rumour, but we tend to believe what we are told, and neither Vidal nor Naval had any reason to lie. I was burning to reveal all to Muriel, but in his frenetic activity – his response to being fired by Towers – he distanced himself from the apartment and from me, and so I barely saw him. He had been very generous, allowing me an indefinite period of time in which to find another job; I didn’t want to abuse that generosity, though, nor have him pay my wages when it was clear he wasn’t going to need me, or not very much. It was early July or so and, in August, everything would stop anyway, and so I gave myself until the end of September to dismiss myself. I visited various publishing houses to see if they would take me on in some role, most likely as a translator. Manuel Arroyo Stephens of Turner Books – who was fascinated when he found out who I was working for (he was an ardent admirer, of whom there were still quite a few) – suggested that I put together two bilingual anthologies of short stories by British and American writers, partly for students of English. It was better than nothing, and although it didn’t guarantee a fixed income, it would do to be going on with and would provide me with a way into the world of publishing.

  I held back and decided not to force that conversation with Muriel, but to wait a while. For Vidal to come back with more information if, as promised, he did consult the Spanish Chilean Dr Naval. And to sound out Van Vechten with the facts I now had to hand. He kept urging me to go out with him, almost every other night or indeed every night, he had acquired a taste for the partying ethos of the time and its effervescent bars and clubs. And although he could perfectly well have gone on his own, it wasn’t the same, he said, as when we went together. I put him off for a few days. Until Vidal, true to his word, phoned me.

  ‘Juan,’ he said, ‘I’ve spoken to Dr Naval. He confirmed what I told you about Darmstadt; the movement, whose name was on the tip of my tongue before, is known as El Movimiento Apostólico de Darmstadt. It has its remote roots in Germany, but it’s now very firmly established in Latin America. There are replicas of the famous sanctuary not just in Chile, but in Uruguay, Brazil, Paraguay, Argentina and probably elsewhere. Along with a few in Africa and Asia, as well as in Europe. There are more than a hundred of them scattered round the world, so quite a number. They also run or control a few schools; in fact, there’s one quite near here, in Aravaca or Majadahonda or Pozuelo, one of those wealthy areas, he couldn’t quite remember which. And as I thought, among its so-called “Servants of the Virgin” or its prominent members are a couple of Pinochet’s ministers, Chilean politicians and businessmen, as well as a cardinal and an archbishop; and it has some connections with one of the generals responsible for the “Caravan of Death”, which saw the cold-blooded murder of seventy or more prisoners in October 1973, shortly after the coup; you know, mass executions with no trial or anything, as happened here in 1939, which served them as a distant model. Naval could easily have met with the same fate if he hadn’t managed to get out of the country immediately after the coup. That same “Caravan of Death” general has stated that what helps him sleep peacefully in his bed at night is knowing that the fervent folk in the Sanctuary of Darmstadt are all praying for him. A close relative of Pinochet’s wife – a priest, apparently, who died some time ago – also belonged to the Movimiento Apostólico. Naval was delighted to learn that Van Vechten has an office there or whatever. Well, I don’t know if “delighted” is the word. He thinks, as I do, that Van Vechten holds a more or less symbolic consulting room there, perhaps a couple of hours a week or a fortnight, just to keep in with them. He’s going to investigate further, if he can, just out of curiosity. But you can see the kind of people your friend hangs
out with. It’s not hard to imagine what the faithful Spanish flock must be like, given its Chilean membership. Old loyalties and friendships on the part of your Doctor, if we’re being kind. Old beliefs, if we’re not. Who knows.’

  That was the moment to start going out with Van Vechten again, at least one more time; that whole business weighed on me, for one rarely emerges clean or unscathed from such investigations. And he weighed on me still more: there are some people from whom you want to remove yourself at once, to erase them urgently from your life if possible. Regardless of whether or not it was all true, the stain described by Vidal contaminated everything, and even Beatriz and Muriel began to seem somewhat oppressive, despite my fondness for them both, my veneration for him and my growing affection for her – not just sexual, not at all, but always tinged with pity. They were the people who had got me involved, who had introduced me to the Doctor; Muriel had charged me with unpleasant missions only to relieve me of them subsequently, and Beatriz was having sex with Van Vechten and possibly with Arranz, the other doctor, and with me too, although just that once, and so I was vaguely like those two lechers, to use Celia the civil servant’s word. As a couple, they had spotted me like one of those distant shapes on the ocean that can’t be ignored and had afforded me a glimpse into the long and indissoluble misery that was their marriage. I thought it was no bad thing that Muriel should get rid of me and remove me from the social world in which I had felt welcomed as a fascinated and privileged guest. But I should first inform him, share with him my stroke of luck and reveal or confirm to him the kind of man his friend was, so that he, too, could remove himself from his company and say, ‘I don’t know you’ or ‘I don’t wish to continue to know you’, and perhaps Beatriz would then imitate him, she with far more reason, as the one who went to the Sanctuary and who allowed him to do to her what his former victims, mothers or daughters, had not been able to say No to.

  I arranged to have a drink with Van Vechten at our usual bar, Chicote, as a preamble to a tour of various discos and dives, because some places only started to get lively very late and you had to kill time until gone midnight. However impatient he felt, we had to wait. He inquired briefly about Beatriz, whom he hadn’t seen for days, to ask how she was doing. He inquired about my future and my plans, knowing that I would soon be leaving both the job and the apartment, the house in Calle Velázquez, which is always there in my memory, even after all these years, inhabited by the people who inhabited it then. He inquired after Maru and the sometime waitress Bettina, about García Lorca’s niece and other acquaintances of mine, none of whom he had seen in the places he had gone to on his own or in the reluctant company of Rico and Roy: as if all my friends had disappeared during the few weeks I was keeping careful watch over Beatriz. I allowed him to ask me questions before I asked him anything or mentioned the names of people or places that might embarrass or disconcert him. I didn’t know how to begin, I didn’t dare. I could find no valid reason for leading the conversation in that direction, not at least in any natural way. And so I took advantage of a lull in the conversation to leap in without any preamble and to come straight to the point:

  ‘The other day, a friend mentioned you and your heroic work helping people who, for political reasons, were having a hard time after the War. Apparently, you often visited an aunt of his, or, rather, her children. Her husband had been an anarchist and, by some miracle, had survived the War, but he couldn’t find any work at all. My friend told me that, if it hadn’t been for you, one of his cousins might have died all those years ago, when he was only a baby.’

  Van Vechten broadened his almost fake smile, but I saw no sign of pleasure on his face. He seemed to be gritting his teeth, and his jaw looked even squarer than usual, his chin more protuberant, as if it had grown in size, his whole face flushed as his muscles tensed. He sat looking at me hard with his pale, cold, somewhat defiant eyes, as though he could see where I was going and wasn’t about to fall into my trap. While others may have praised his past behaviour, he himself never mentioned it, or not at least in my presence. He, of course, knew what he had remained silent about and the price paid for each of those visits, and he knew that the families he had visited were the only ones who also knew that this was no rumour. It was only natural that he should be on his guard. Always assuming Vidal’s story was true.

  ‘Oh, please, let’s not talk about that,’ he said modestly, and gestured with his hand as if dismissing the importance of his past actions. His large hand. ‘And there was nothing heroic about it. Others did the same.’

  ‘Very few from what I’ve heard, and at the risk of losing your privileges too,’ I said, and there I saw my chance to slip in the first name. ‘My friend also praised a colleague of yours, with whom you took turns looking after his aunt, I mean, her children, a certain Dr Carlos Arranz. What became of him? You’re really well known as a paediatrician and for what you did after the War, but I’ve never heard of him. Did things go badly for him? Was he punished?’

  ‘Ah, yes, Arranz,’ Van Vechten replied, as if he were travelling far back in time, and without once taking his inquisitive gaze off me. I was sure now that he was beginning to feel genuinely suspicious, that he already was suspicious; at that point, I didn’t care since I had no intention of ever seeing him again on my own. ‘I don’t know, I lost touch with him years ago. But let’s drop the subject, shall we? I don’t care to remember those dark times. You weren’t there, but believe me, they were very dark days indeed.’

  I had decided that once I was on that path, I would keep straight ahead, and I felt it was the right moment to mention the second name I was holding in reserve. Who knows, I might succeed in unnerving him, in jolting him back into the past, or alarming or angering him, and his response, whatever it was, would be sure to betray him. Haste is very much a part of being young – wretched speed, damned haste – as is a lack of planning.

  ‘The aunt’s name was Carmen Zapater. Do you remember her? A very sweet, very pretty woman he said.’ I added ‘pretty’ because I assumed she would have been: if Arranz had told Van Vechten about her and handed her over to him, there must have been a reason. Word spreads quickly among men. As if she had been another Mariella Novotny to those two doctors, but not of her own choosing, against her will. There must have been many such women over a period of many years, when women tended not to earn their own money or to have it, and when they only had themselves. Although, I don’t know why I’m talking in the past tense, because there are still thousands of women for whom the only way of paying their debts is to hire themselves out.

  ‘No, I can’t say that I do,’ said the Doctor. ‘The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t put a face to it. Besides, we tend to know only the husband’s surname, not the wife’s. And though I shouldn’t say it myself, during that period, I did visit a lot of families in very similar circumstances, in my role as paediatrician, and I continued to do so into the early 60s. A lot of people had a really tough time of it.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine. People would have been prepared to do anything just to survive or at least for their children to survive.’

  Van Vechten could have no doubt now as to what I was getting at. Perhaps I was showing my cards too quickly, but by then, I was sick to death of the whole business and didn’t care. I just wanted confirmation from him, or some unmistakable sign, some clear indication, so that I could legitimately go to Muriel with the story. The Doctor’s eyes were now almost colourless, glacial, yes, glacial, although they retained a certain southern intensity – a frightening and repellent combination. They must have looked like that, or worse, when he made his demands of the women he treated as mere objects. He had been in an intelligence unit during the War and had gone on to become an informer. He knew a lot, and he managed or used that information for his own blackmailing purposes, that was the sordid story. Perhaps he had looked at my girlfriends in that way too, certainly one of them, when the two of them were alone in the car after he had dropped off all the other
partygoers.

  ‘What exactly are you insinuating, young De Vere? Don’t tell me someone has come to you with these ancient slanders.’

  ‘Slanders? I don’t know what you mean, Jorge?’ I chose to call him by his first name so as momentarily to calm the situation. Or to assuage his Robert J. Wilke eyes, which were hard to bear.

  ‘Yes, slanders spread by Franco’s real hard-line supporters, who disapproved of what I was doing, I mean, the consideration I showed for my patients and my gradual withdrawal from the regime. They claimed I was being paid in kind for the favours I did. My pound of Red flesh, at least that was the running joke. What surprises me is that you should have heard it in 1980. It seems that nothing in this country ever ends or disappears, especially anything negative or harmful. Not to mention false. I can’t understand why you gave it any credence. You young people are so impressionable.’

  I tried to play the innocent and not give too much away. I hadn’t heard those stories from Franco supporters, but from people whose lives those same supporters had made impossible, sometimes forcing them into exile; or from ordinary people like Celia and a suspicious Muriel or, indirectly, from that sometime actress, the love of Muriel’s life. I didn’t want to expose Vidal, of course, or his mentor Dr Naval, who had fled first Spain and then Chile. Van Vechten and he knew each other and had worked at the same clinic, although at different times.